THE SONG OF MEDUSA
by Lauren Raine and Duncan Eagleson
PREFACE
And perhaps a tree
standing in the forest
fills its leaves
with the breath
of the World
and we listen
and we are not alone.
-- THE BOOK OF GAIA
(Vezhna MS 2379, trans. w/comm.
Anastasia D'Mitriev, 2030
For the general reader, we hope that this document, fragmentary though it may be, will provide a more human understanding of two figures who are already passing into legend, although they themselves might not have wanted it so.
Clearly, neither Anastasia D'Mitriev, "Ana" to her many admirers, nor Jason Sumner, would have considered themselves intrinsically remarkable. Throughout their careers, both avoided publicity insofar as it was possible. Certainly, their long struggle to decode the Vezhna Manuscript, to publish their extraordinary findings, and to gain credibility, was a heroic task. A task that has contributed not only to archeology, but also to an emerging paradigm with far-reaching implications for the future. The tragic automobile accident that took both their lives was a great loss; and yet, we believe they would be pleased with the world-wide blossoming today of the seeds they planted before leaving this world.
What we offer herein is a collection of materials compiled from the autobiography of Jason Sumner, excerpts from the personal diaries of Ana D'Mitriev, commentaries by other individuals who participated in the project during its inception, and a variety of related materials. And most importantly, we include excerpts from their translation of the Vezhna manuscripts, which have been widely published for the past ten years as The Book of Gaia.
The editors wish to thank Leial D'Mitriev, and members of the Community of Origins, who made available to us excerpts from the unpublished Diaries of Ana D'Mitriev. Without their cooperation and archives this publication would never have been made possible.
Susan Ashley & Mark Delaney
Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 2043
by Lauren Raine and Duncan Eagleson
PREFACE
And perhaps a tree
standing in the forest
fills its leaves
with the breath
of the World
and we listen
and we are not alone.
-- THE BOOK OF GAIA
(Vezhna MS 2379, trans. w/comm.
Anastasia D'Mitriev, 2030
For the general reader, we hope that this document, fragmentary though it may be, will provide a more human understanding of two figures who are already passing into legend, although they themselves might not have wanted it so.
Clearly, neither Anastasia D'Mitriev, "Ana" to her many admirers, nor Jason Sumner, would have considered themselves intrinsically remarkable. Throughout their careers, both avoided publicity insofar as it was possible. Certainly, their long struggle to decode the Vezhna Manuscript, to publish their extraordinary findings, and to gain credibility, was a heroic task. A task that has contributed not only to archeology, but also to an emerging paradigm with far-reaching implications for the future. The tragic automobile accident that took both their lives was a great loss; and yet, we believe they would be pleased with the world-wide blossoming today of the seeds they planted before leaving this world.
What we offer herein is a collection of materials compiled from the autobiography of Jason Sumner, excerpts from the personal diaries of Ana D'Mitriev, commentaries by other individuals who participated in the project during its inception, and a variety of related materials. And most importantly, we include excerpts from their translation of the Vezhna manuscripts, which have been widely published for the past ten years as The Book of Gaia.
The editors wish to thank Leial D'Mitriev, and members of the Community of Origins, who made available to us excerpts from the unpublished Diaries of Ana D'Mitriev. Without their cooperation and archives this publication would never have been made possible.
Susan Ashley & Mark Delaney
Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 2043
LABYRINTH
"And so it was
that Life became complex."
THE BOOK OF GAIA
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Edited by Sandra Herdez
Pub. Harper Collins New York, 2032
March 28, 1993:
Bulgaria can be confusing to an American. The body language, for instance. They shake their heads to mean "yes" and nod them for "no". The place looks very much like most Americans would expect a Balkan country to look - sort of a cross between Mexico and Hollywood's idea of middle Europe. You expect the food and drink to be sharp, but instead it's all loaded with sugar. There are a lot of bad teeth in Bulgaria. The new Bulgarian government was, naturally, highly suspicious of Americans. To the common people, all foreigners were the same, treated with an offhand, almost distant, hospitality. I asked Georgi about this once.
"You are not Bulgar", he said, "So of course you are a bit mad. It's okay, we understand."
Vezhna was no longer expected to yield spectacular finds. A shepherd had found shards of pottery at the mouth of a small animal's den, and they proved to be quite ancient - almost five thousand years old. Initially, this stirred up a great deal of excitement. In the 1970's, one of the world's oldest treasures of gold objects was excavated in several Neolithic gravesites near Varna, on the Black Sea coast. The handiwork of precursors to the marvelous goldsmiths of ancient Thrace, the find was quite extraordinary. The Bulgarian government, hoping for another Varna at the Vezhna site, put together an archeological team made up of their own best people, and scientists from several other countries, myself included.
Within a month, the site seemed to be tapped out. It appeared to be a small settlement, yielding only a few late Bronze age implements, ancient mementoes of any number of nomadic encampments that had passed that way, and bits of pottery. By the end of the second month, the "international team" consisted of myself, my graduate students, D'Mtriev and Hanchrow, a Bulgarian archeologist who was away at his lab in Sophia most of the time, and his graduate student, Geogi. It was a soggy Spring in Vezhna, and I was beginning to wonder why the hell I was still here.
Vezhna can hardly be called a town; I suppose it came close to being a good sized village in earlier days, but, like much of rural Bulgaria, in the last 30 years or so it's lost most of its youthful population to the cities, and the village of Vezhna consists mainly of older folks now. Situated along the Maritsa River, with the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains at their aging backs, mist rolls down from steep, overgrazed pastures, which surround the hilly little village. The red tile roofs and whitewashed houses are an agreeably bright contrast to the gray skies and muted greens of early spring. Scenic? I suppose so. Bells on goats and sheep clank as they're led to pasture in the morning. An old crone snaps firewood to cook her breakfast, windows hang with the ubiquitous red paprika peppers. And alongside practically every house tobacco leaves are drying under tents of plastic.
Bulgaria is one of the largest exporters of cigarettes in the world, particularly to the former Soviet Union. In fact, cigarettes are one of the few products that are not in short supply. Bulgarians smoke so many Shipkas and BT's that it's a wonder any of them survive past 30. Unfortunately, I can't stand Bulgarian tobacco.
EDITOR’S NOTES:
The unpublished personal Diaries of Ana D’Mitriev, written on notebooks while she was in the field with Jason Sumner, are incomplete and fragmentary. Since it is our hope to share in this document a brief, and even intimate look at the personalities of these two people and the processes that led them to later publish THE BOOK OF GAIA, we have selected entries from Ana’s diaries, which were so kindly given to us by her sister, Leial, almost at random. We have done the same with excerpts from Jason Sumner’s autobiography, THE SONG OF MEDUSA, which was edited and published in 2011, shortly after his, and Ana’s, untimely deaths.
"And so it was
that Life became complex."
THE BOOK OF GAIA
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Edited by Sandra Herdez
Pub. Harper Collins New York, 2032
March 28, 1993:
Bulgaria can be confusing to an American. The body language, for instance. They shake their heads to mean "yes" and nod them for "no". The place looks very much like most Americans would expect a Balkan country to look - sort of a cross between Mexico and Hollywood's idea of middle Europe. You expect the food and drink to be sharp, but instead it's all loaded with sugar. There are a lot of bad teeth in Bulgaria. The new Bulgarian government was, naturally, highly suspicious of Americans. To the common people, all foreigners were the same, treated with an offhand, almost distant, hospitality. I asked Georgi about this once.
"You are not Bulgar", he said, "So of course you are a bit mad. It's okay, we understand."
Vezhna was no longer expected to yield spectacular finds. A shepherd had found shards of pottery at the mouth of a small animal's den, and they proved to be quite ancient - almost five thousand years old. Initially, this stirred up a great deal of excitement. In the 1970's, one of the world's oldest treasures of gold objects was excavated in several Neolithic gravesites near Varna, on the Black Sea coast. The handiwork of precursors to the marvelous goldsmiths of ancient Thrace, the find was quite extraordinary. The Bulgarian government, hoping for another Varna at the Vezhna site, put together an archeological team made up of their own best people, and scientists from several other countries, myself included.
Within a month, the site seemed to be tapped out. It appeared to be a small settlement, yielding only a few late Bronze age implements, ancient mementoes of any number of nomadic encampments that had passed that way, and bits of pottery. By the end of the second month, the "international team" consisted of myself, my graduate students, D'Mtriev and Hanchrow, a Bulgarian archeologist who was away at his lab in Sophia most of the time, and his graduate student, Geogi. It was a soggy Spring in Vezhna, and I was beginning to wonder why the hell I was still here.
Vezhna can hardly be called a town; I suppose it came close to being a good sized village in earlier days, but, like much of rural Bulgaria, in the last 30 years or so it's lost most of its youthful population to the cities, and the village of Vezhna consists mainly of older folks now. Situated along the Maritsa River, with the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains at their aging backs, mist rolls down from steep, overgrazed pastures, which surround the hilly little village. The red tile roofs and whitewashed houses are an agreeably bright contrast to the gray skies and muted greens of early spring. Scenic? I suppose so. Bells on goats and sheep clank as they're led to pasture in the morning. An old crone snaps firewood to cook her breakfast, windows hang with the ubiquitous red paprika peppers. And alongside practically every house tobacco leaves are drying under tents of plastic.
Bulgaria is one of the largest exporters of cigarettes in the world, particularly to the former Soviet Union. In fact, cigarettes are one of the few products that are not in short supply. Bulgarians smoke so many Shipkas and BT's that it's a wonder any of them survive past 30. Unfortunately, I can't stand Bulgarian tobacco.
EDITOR’S NOTES:
The unpublished personal Diaries of Ana D’Mitriev, written on notebooks while she was in the field with Jason Sumner, are incomplete and fragmentary. Since it is our hope to share in this document a brief, and even intimate look at the personalities of these two people and the processes that led them to later publish THE BOOK OF GAIA, we have selected entries from Ana’s diaries, which were so kindly given to us by her sister, Leial, almost at random. We have done the same with excerpts from Jason Sumner’s autobiography, THE SONG OF MEDUSA, which was edited and published in 2011, shortly after his, and Ana’s, untimely deaths.
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
May 1, 1993
Sumner's a good sort, underneath that persona. He knows his job, even if he does seem as dense as a granite slab sometimes. I seem to be the envy of my department, if the letters I get from some of the other grad students is any indication. Even Sandy, who's off to warm, tropical Belize to work on a Mayan excavation, writes that she's envious.
"Travel to strange, foreign places, meet fascinating exotic people, dine on spice and intrigue - become an archaeologist". Right, if a can of cold beans as an alternative to lard soup is spicy, and being leered at by a pudgy bureaucrat whose eye level never seems to ascend beyond my chest is exotic. Not to mention the sensual highlight of my day: dry socks. Bulgaria in the spring, or any other season for that matter, is not my idea of the Coconut Isles. Not that I expected it to be.
Still, although I might be willing to commit a felony for a cheeseburger right about now, I cannot say I'm unhappy. My own Slavic roots aside, there is something about this place that feels like home. Not home in a folksy, comfy way ("Ya'all come on in and sit a spell"), but "home" in a much deeper, more mysterious sense. The people here are taciturn, resigned, pragmatic - neither welcoming nor rejecting, simply preoccupied with a hard life. I simply appreciate them, their humility, their sparse pleasures, and their ability to endure above all.
But it's not really this culture that calls to me, that pulls at me from some corner of my psyche I can't put a finger on. Perhaps it's the land itself, the rock beneath my feet, the river murmuring in the distance, the sandy soil - the roots of the place, the roots I can sense, but can't touch. The place hums, it's almost like a song that's familiar, and yet you can't place it.
May Day in Eastern Europe. There's a power here, an energy, a presence.....oh, I don't know what to call it. It seems to infiltrate my dreams sometimes, or feels like a song you find yourself singing, and you can't remember the name of the song, where you first heard it. I certainly couldn't tell Sumner about it, because it's purely subjective, bordering on what he'd call mystical "brou ha ha". I'll never forget the time Sam brought up the subject of dowsing as an aid to archeology. Poor guy.
May 5, 1993
This damn rain just won't quit, which is setting us back considerably. I spend my days in a moldy tent sorting potshards and examining what citizens of the site had for lunch during the Bronze Age. The Prof is becoming more irritable than usual, patience (with people, anyway) not being one of his high points. Or tact, for that matter. Yesterday he nearly eviscerated poor Hanchrow for bringing a ghetto blaster on site, and disturbing his concentration. Admittedly, Hanchrow's taste in music is obscure, to say the least.
After the Prof left, I felt like giving him a hanky and a cookie, if I'd had any. Fortunately, Hanchrow is generally lost in his own little dream world, and quite a lot of abuse seems to just roll over him like water. A half hour later he was tapping out tribal-like rhythms at the specimen table, loosely based upon the falling rain, flowing along to his own peculiar music. I actually found myself humming along, and for a while we had a nice harmony going. Me, Hanchrow, and the rain; I think we just reinvented Bulgarian trance music.
Dr. Sumner is what I would call a one-pointed person; it's not that he is uncaring, it's just that there isn't much room for anything that gets in the way of his work. He's like a coal miner; when he's on a dig, his brain is like a torch that blazes straight forward into the tunnel he's exploring, and everything else is just peripheral darkness.
For me, I suppose, the darkness is never just peripheral.
May 10, 1993
Things move along in the usual sodden fashion. Nothing of record breaking significance to report, except that Hanchrow and I continue to sort our potshards in the rain. Occasionally I take walks through the countryside.
Sofia introduced me to Slivova, a plum brandy I've begun to acquire a taste for. Sofia carries it with her in a small flask hidden under her vest.....Apparently women need to be, for appearances sake, more discrete about their Slivova than men. She calls it her "foot warmer". So it is, let me tell you.
I have not been consistent with recording my dreams lately, a discipline I promised myself I would continue. What was it Shannon used to say in her classes...?"Poetry is the dream made visible"? If so, these are nursery rhymes. I note that last night I dreamed about a quart of Haagan Daz Pecan Praline ice cream (or was that a waking dream?), I dreamed about an erotic encounter with Adam Shepard, and I dreamed I was walking along the cliffs by the Maritsa and began to notice that there were rock paintings and petroglyphs, layers of them, embedded in the rocks. Some of them reminded me of petroplyphs I've seen in the Southwest, Anasazi perhaps, others seemed Pictish. A great many of them seemed to be serpentines.
The first two dreams are rather obvious wish fulfillment. Clearly ice cream is not the only pleasurable thing missing from my life. The last dream is a little more obscure. I went for a walk along the river a few days ago, an hour or so before sunset, when the shadows are long. I remember observing the patterns the water had left in the sand on the bank, and thinking them serpentine. According to the Chinese, "Chi" is the energy of life, and it moves across the Earth like a serpent or a dragon, so when you see the wavy, serpentine shapes in water when wind moves across it, or the patterns water leaves in the sand, you are seeing "Chi" made visible.
They call it "dragon tracks". Dragon tracks....nice concept. Perhaps my "petroglyph dream" had to do with my walk? Maybe it's more literal...I cannot help but childishly wish it required less patience, less possibility of disappointment. Just once, how about a few ancient markers, signs, to make it easier; like an archaic green arrow pointing the way, or an ancient X for "X" marks the spot, dig here!
Right. Wasn't that a movie?
May 1, 1993
Sumner's a good sort, underneath that persona. He knows his job, even if he does seem as dense as a granite slab sometimes. I seem to be the envy of my department, if the letters I get from some of the other grad students is any indication. Even Sandy, who's off to warm, tropical Belize to work on a Mayan excavation, writes that she's envious.
"Travel to strange, foreign places, meet fascinating exotic people, dine on spice and intrigue - become an archaeologist". Right, if a can of cold beans as an alternative to lard soup is spicy, and being leered at by a pudgy bureaucrat whose eye level never seems to ascend beyond my chest is exotic. Not to mention the sensual highlight of my day: dry socks. Bulgaria in the spring, or any other season for that matter, is not my idea of the Coconut Isles. Not that I expected it to be.
Still, although I might be willing to commit a felony for a cheeseburger right about now, I cannot say I'm unhappy. My own Slavic roots aside, there is something about this place that feels like home. Not home in a folksy, comfy way ("Ya'all come on in and sit a spell"), but "home" in a much deeper, more mysterious sense. The people here are taciturn, resigned, pragmatic - neither welcoming nor rejecting, simply preoccupied with a hard life. I simply appreciate them, their humility, their sparse pleasures, and their ability to endure above all.
But it's not really this culture that calls to me, that pulls at me from some corner of my psyche I can't put a finger on. Perhaps it's the land itself, the rock beneath my feet, the river murmuring in the distance, the sandy soil - the roots of the place, the roots I can sense, but can't touch. The place hums, it's almost like a song that's familiar, and yet you can't place it.
May Day in Eastern Europe. There's a power here, an energy, a presence.....oh, I don't know what to call it. It seems to infiltrate my dreams sometimes, or feels like a song you find yourself singing, and you can't remember the name of the song, where you first heard it. I certainly couldn't tell Sumner about it, because it's purely subjective, bordering on what he'd call mystical "brou ha ha". I'll never forget the time Sam brought up the subject of dowsing as an aid to archeology. Poor guy.
May 5, 1993
This damn rain just won't quit, which is setting us back considerably. I spend my days in a moldy tent sorting potshards and examining what citizens of the site had for lunch during the Bronze Age. The Prof is becoming more irritable than usual, patience (with people, anyway) not being one of his high points. Or tact, for that matter. Yesterday he nearly eviscerated poor Hanchrow for bringing a ghetto blaster on site, and disturbing his concentration. Admittedly, Hanchrow's taste in music is obscure, to say the least.
After the Prof left, I felt like giving him a hanky and a cookie, if I'd had any. Fortunately, Hanchrow is generally lost in his own little dream world, and quite a lot of abuse seems to just roll over him like water. A half hour later he was tapping out tribal-like rhythms at the specimen table, loosely based upon the falling rain, flowing along to his own peculiar music. I actually found myself humming along, and for a while we had a nice harmony going. Me, Hanchrow, and the rain; I think we just reinvented Bulgarian trance music.
Dr. Sumner is what I would call a one-pointed person; it's not that he is uncaring, it's just that there isn't much room for anything that gets in the way of his work. He's like a coal miner; when he's on a dig, his brain is like a torch that blazes straight forward into the tunnel he's exploring, and everything else is just peripheral darkness.
For me, I suppose, the darkness is never just peripheral.
May 10, 1993
Things move along in the usual sodden fashion. Nothing of record breaking significance to report, except that Hanchrow and I continue to sort our potshards in the rain. Occasionally I take walks through the countryside.
Sofia introduced me to Slivova, a plum brandy I've begun to acquire a taste for. Sofia carries it with her in a small flask hidden under her vest.....Apparently women need to be, for appearances sake, more discrete about their Slivova than men. She calls it her "foot warmer". So it is, let me tell you.
I have not been consistent with recording my dreams lately, a discipline I promised myself I would continue. What was it Shannon used to say in her classes...?"Poetry is the dream made visible"? If so, these are nursery rhymes. I note that last night I dreamed about a quart of Haagan Daz Pecan Praline ice cream (or was that a waking dream?), I dreamed about an erotic encounter with Adam Shepard, and I dreamed I was walking along the cliffs by the Maritsa and began to notice that there were rock paintings and petroglyphs, layers of them, embedded in the rocks. Some of them reminded me of petroplyphs I've seen in the Southwest, Anasazi perhaps, others seemed Pictish. A great many of them seemed to be serpentines.
The first two dreams are rather obvious wish fulfillment. Clearly ice cream is not the only pleasurable thing missing from my life. The last dream is a little more obscure. I went for a walk along the river a few days ago, an hour or so before sunset, when the shadows are long. I remember observing the patterns the water had left in the sand on the bank, and thinking them serpentine. According to the Chinese, "Chi" is the energy of life, and it moves across the Earth like a serpent or a dragon, so when you see the wavy, serpentine shapes in water when wind moves across it, or the patterns water leaves in the sand, you are seeing "Chi" made visible.
They call it "dragon tracks". Dragon tracks....nice concept. Perhaps my "petroglyph dream" had to do with my walk? Maybe it's more literal...I cannot help but childishly wish it required less patience, less possibility of disappointment. Just once, how about a few ancient markers, signs, to make it easier; like an archaic green arrow pointing the way, or an ancient X for "X" marks the spot, dig here!
Right. Wasn't that a movie?
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
It was, of course, Ana D'Mitriev who found it.
The afternoon Ana made the first find was a gray one, and threatened rain. I was in a foul mood - rain being one of the worst enemies an archeologist has on a dig like this, and instead of working feverishly to get as much as possible accomplished before the deluge, I was preoccupied with babysitting the Bulgarian governmental liaison, trying to keep his weekly visit from interfering too much with the work. I was doing my best to maintain my patience and politeness as I herded him back to his car.
The Bulgarian liaison was a serious young man named Raicho Venedikov. He was an idealist, poised on the edge of becoming a professional bureaucrat, and at the moment, he was balanced between the two rather precariously. He was also rather susceptible to Ana, though he worked hard at not letting it show. This was understandable, as Ana is a striking young woman, even in her habitual faded blue jeans and khaki military vest.
Fortunately, Ana was well out of sight that day, working in the lower quarter of the dig. I hoped she'd stay there until I got rid of Venedikov - if he got sight of her, it would be another two hours before I could get rid of him. For once, her timing was perfect. I was watching Venedkikov's car jouncing away down the badly rutted road that led to the village when I heard her voice behind me.
"Dr. Sumner?"
Her tone was urgent - and usually I was "Doc", or "Professor", or a similar "formal familiarity."
"What is it?"
"I think you'll want to look at this."
It was, of course, Ana D'Mitriev who found it.
The afternoon Ana made the first find was a gray one, and threatened rain. I was in a foul mood - rain being one of the worst enemies an archeologist has on a dig like this, and instead of working feverishly to get as much as possible accomplished before the deluge, I was preoccupied with babysitting the Bulgarian governmental liaison, trying to keep his weekly visit from interfering too much with the work. I was doing my best to maintain my patience and politeness as I herded him back to his car.
The Bulgarian liaison was a serious young man named Raicho Venedikov. He was an idealist, poised on the edge of becoming a professional bureaucrat, and at the moment, he was balanced between the two rather precariously. He was also rather susceptible to Ana, though he worked hard at not letting it show. This was understandable, as Ana is a striking young woman, even in her habitual faded blue jeans and khaki military vest.
Fortunately, Ana was well out of sight that day, working in the lower quarter of the dig. I hoped she'd stay there until I got rid of Venedikov - if he got sight of her, it would be another two hours before I could get rid of him. For once, her timing was perfect. I was watching Venedkikov's car jouncing away down the badly rutted road that led to the village when I heard her voice behind me.
"Dr. Sumner?"
Her tone was urgent - and usually I was "Doc", or "Professor", or a similar "formal familiarity."
"What is it?"
"I think you'll want to look at this."
I followed her down to the deepest excavation, in the southeastern corner of the site. Ana and David Hanchrow had been assiduously working since early that morning in the far corner of the dig. I'd been peripherally aware of their increased activity, but hadn't had the time to find out what they were up to. They were beaming at me like a couple of mud covered kids. What they had uncovered was an Omphallos stone, similar to the one at Delos, but somewhat smaller. This was utterly improbable. My reaction was, understandably, one of surprise, though I suspect it came out sounding more like annoyance.
"What the hell is that doing here?"
Ana D'Mitriev was amused. "Waiting for someone to find it?"
"Don't be poetic. The damn thing shouldn't be here."
"I know that, but there it is." She scowled. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me what it's doing here."
I had no idea. The Omphallos stone represents what most archeologists delicately describe as the "world navel", or center of the Universe, though as its name suggests, it's form seems to reference anatomical parts somewhat south of the navel. Most Omphallos are in the form of a short wide column topped by an egg shape, though in many, the egg shape alone sits on a dais. Almost all have a grid or net design carved on their surfaces. They began appearing in cultures around the world about the middle of the Iron Age.
The level we had excavated here was far more ancient than that. Early Bronze age, probably, possibly earlier, though we hadn't been able to do a thorough workup on it yet. And even if the period had been right, the place was all wrong. Omphallos stones were found at major religious centers - Delphi, Delos, the great temple of Amon. They did not, in my experience, appear in what were small, out-of-the-way villages, as this site appeared to be. I stared at it. It was exquisite, a marvelous example of the style, of which variations exist from Egypt to Babylon to Delphi. The mounting looked almost Minoan. The stone itself, rather than the usual raised grid, had an incised grid, or rather, a honeycomb of octagons.
"Have you ever seen one like that?"
"No. I confess I have not."
I knelt to examine it more closely.
"Send a fax to Evans, location and photos, samples to follow. We need a fission track on this."
"Can we do that?"
"You just send the wire, let me argue with the budget department."
I knew that once Evans saw the photos, he'd do the work first, and we could argue about the funding later. Besides, if this find was as dramatic as it looked, we'd be able to write several grants on it without any trouble. I noticed she hadn't left yet.
"What?"
"There's something else."
"Damn, now what? Painted murals? A marble statue of spacemen? The Rosetta Stone?"
"I think it's a speaking tube."
It was.
I shouldn't have been surprised. If you accepted the Omphallos, the speaking tube was not much more of a stretch. Ancient Neolithic temples often had such tubes, which connected the main part of the temple to another chamber, often underground, where the priest or oracle was secluded, and from which he or she made their oracular pronouncements.
Behind the Omphallos, there was a funnel-shaped hole in the floor. To one side lay the stone, a little bigger than a football, which had clearly plugged the opening, preventing debris from clogging the tube. I wondered whether it had fallen there by chance, or had it been placed there specifically for such a purpose? It certainly appeared so.
"Christ on a pogo stick. Hanchrow, bring the sound kit. Ana, get my backpack."
"Your backpack?"
"Just get it, please, Ms. D'Mitriev."
There was a carton of cigarettes in my backpack. I was going to need them.
"What the hell is that doing here?"
Ana D'Mitriev was amused. "Waiting for someone to find it?"
"Don't be poetic. The damn thing shouldn't be here."
"I know that, but there it is." She scowled. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me what it's doing here."
I had no idea. The Omphallos stone represents what most archeologists delicately describe as the "world navel", or center of the Universe, though as its name suggests, it's form seems to reference anatomical parts somewhat south of the navel. Most Omphallos are in the form of a short wide column topped by an egg shape, though in many, the egg shape alone sits on a dais. Almost all have a grid or net design carved on their surfaces. They began appearing in cultures around the world about the middle of the Iron Age.
The level we had excavated here was far more ancient than that. Early Bronze age, probably, possibly earlier, though we hadn't been able to do a thorough workup on it yet. And even if the period had been right, the place was all wrong. Omphallos stones were found at major religious centers - Delphi, Delos, the great temple of Amon. They did not, in my experience, appear in what were small, out-of-the-way villages, as this site appeared to be. I stared at it. It was exquisite, a marvelous example of the style, of which variations exist from Egypt to Babylon to Delphi. The mounting looked almost Minoan. The stone itself, rather than the usual raised grid, had an incised grid, or rather, a honeycomb of octagons.
"Have you ever seen one like that?"
"No. I confess I have not."
I knelt to examine it more closely.
"Send a fax to Evans, location and photos, samples to follow. We need a fission track on this."
"Can we do that?"
"You just send the wire, let me argue with the budget department."
I knew that once Evans saw the photos, he'd do the work first, and we could argue about the funding later. Besides, if this find was as dramatic as it looked, we'd be able to write several grants on it without any trouble. I noticed she hadn't left yet.
"What?"
"There's something else."
"Damn, now what? Painted murals? A marble statue of spacemen? The Rosetta Stone?"
"I think it's a speaking tube."
It was.
I shouldn't have been surprised. If you accepted the Omphallos, the speaking tube was not much more of a stretch. Ancient Neolithic temples often had such tubes, which connected the main part of the temple to another chamber, often underground, where the priest or oracle was secluded, and from which he or she made their oracular pronouncements.
Behind the Omphallos, there was a funnel-shaped hole in the floor. To one side lay the stone, a little bigger than a football, which had clearly plugged the opening, preventing debris from clogging the tube. I wondered whether it had fallen there by chance, or had it been placed there specifically for such a purpose? It certainly appeared so.
"Christ on a pogo stick. Hanchrow, bring the sound kit. Ana, get my backpack."
"Your backpack?"
"Just get it, please, Ms. D'Mitriev."
There was a carton of cigarettes in my backpack. I was going to need them.
Older yet
and lovelier far
this Mystery
and I will not forget.
Robin Williamson,
FIVE DENIALS ON MERLIN'S GRAVE
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'METRIEV
May 13, 1993
Well, what could be more astonishing than the appearance of the Omphallos stone? I mean, it's kind of like finding a Renoir in the attic. And a remarkable specimen it is too, ornately carved with a peculiar octagonal design; seemed almost to combine, if that were possible, which I doubt, a number of styles, Minoan, Sumerian perhaps. But what is it doing here? As the Prof says, there certainly is no evidence that this was ever a thriving commercial or religious center, or that it ever supported a larger population. An Omphallos stone is, well, kind of like an altar. It's usually associated with a special place, a place of worship. Kind of like the belly button of a sacred place.
There is plenty of evidence that this site has supported layer after layer of agrarian peoples, growing barley, garlic, collecting wild grapes, fishing in the generous rivers and streams, trading, warring, making their pots from red clay found along the river....like all such "unimpressive" archeological sites, it's really a marvelous mosaic, an overlay of lives, artifacts, growth, decay, arising and passing away; an overlay of stories being written upon the land, buried, one on top of another, until there is a spiral that just goes down and down and disappears into some infinite point in prehistory.
and lovelier far
this Mystery
and I will not forget.
Robin Williamson,
FIVE DENIALS ON MERLIN'S GRAVE
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'METRIEV
May 13, 1993
Well, what could be more astonishing than the appearance of the Omphallos stone? I mean, it's kind of like finding a Renoir in the attic. And a remarkable specimen it is too, ornately carved with a peculiar octagonal design; seemed almost to combine, if that were possible, which I doubt, a number of styles, Minoan, Sumerian perhaps. But what is it doing here? As the Prof says, there certainly is no evidence that this was ever a thriving commercial or religious center, or that it ever supported a larger population. An Omphallos stone is, well, kind of like an altar. It's usually associated with a special place, a place of worship. Kind of like the belly button of a sacred place.
There is plenty of evidence that this site has supported layer after layer of agrarian peoples, growing barley, garlic, collecting wild grapes, fishing in the generous rivers and streams, trading, warring, making their pots from red clay found along the river....like all such "unimpressive" archeological sites, it's really a marvelous mosaic, an overlay of lives, artifacts, growth, decay, arising and passing away; an overlay of stories being written upon the land, buried, one on top of another, until there is a spiral that just goes down and down and disappears into some infinite point in prehistory.
And then, of course, along come people like the Prof and me, trying to decipher those stories. Well, I find that thought quite beautiful, when I'm not complaining about the food, or bored out of my mind with how tedious the process can be. I confess I've always had an awe of the unknown hands that once created the pot I so often find myself trying to put back together. Abstraction aside, it was a pair of living hands that pulled that pot, its shape and use, from the moist red Earth, and used it for a while. And then she or he eventually passed away, and the pot went back into the Earth again....until I come along to reclaim it, to try to pull it from the Earth again, to try to understand what it's about.
They're not just "artifacts". They're stories.
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Many creative people have a far more acute perception in one particular sense than in others. I know painters who see far more subtle differences in color than I do. Chefs, or good ones, at least, have a more finely tuned sense of odor and flavor.
Hanchrow had a relationship with sound equipment which bordered on the mystical. I sat and smoked while he sat under the headphones, raptly staring into space, occasionally glancing at the equipment, or adjusting the signal. Twice he consulted his laptop, squinted at the graph, and went back to the headphones. I looked over his shoulder.
"Manmade?"
Ana had to interject, of course. "You mean 'human made'?"
"Shut up, D'Mitriev. Is it manufactured?"
Hanchrow sighed and scrunched up his forehead.
"The end is. But I think it turns into a natural tunnel after about 12 yards. Angles that way, and then inclines about 45 degrees. Opens into a much larger chamber in about.....300 yards."
"It runs to the Maritsa?"
"No sign of that. But that doesn't mean anything. I might not pick it up."
"Water?"
"Possibly."
"If there's water, anything organic maybe gone."
I was trying not to become emotionally invested, but it was difficult.
* * * * *
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
May 17, 1993
4 am, that potent hour before dawn so loved by poets, so despised by insomniacs. I just had a peculiar dream and since it brought me bolt upright and sleep does not feel immanent, I might as well write it down. In the best Freudian manner....or was that Jung?
I dreamed of a face, emerging from layers of rock, or perhaps it was sculpted from the rock.
A Jungian, of course, would say that this is a different aspect of myself emerging from the bottomless pit of my unconscious. Although for what reason, I'm damned if I know - perhaps this endless rain is turning me into a multiple personality, and I will soon find myself unable to remember whole passages of my daily regime? Some of that might be rather welcome, at that. Perhaps "emerging from rock" is about becoming active again, after this long period of dormancy.
May 18, 1993
It seems that war is accelerating in what was once beautiful Yugoslavia. The Serbs and Bosnians have barely declared themselves sovereign nations and they're already thoroughly preoccupied with destroying each other. Modern logic at its best. I read somewhere that there have been more wars within the past century than throughout recorded history; an encouraging thought for our enlightened age.
Rain, rain, rain. Dr. Sumner has pulled us back for the moment because of the weather, and seemingly to consider what the next move is.
Meanwhile, Hanchrow and I are definitely onto something in the sorting room; perhaps we should call it the "Potshard Hootenanny Hour".
They're not just "artifacts". They're stories.
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Many creative people have a far more acute perception in one particular sense than in others. I know painters who see far more subtle differences in color than I do. Chefs, or good ones, at least, have a more finely tuned sense of odor and flavor.
Hanchrow had a relationship with sound equipment which bordered on the mystical. I sat and smoked while he sat under the headphones, raptly staring into space, occasionally glancing at the equipment, or adjusting the signal. Twice he consulted his laptop, squinted at the graph, and went back to the headphones. I looked over his shoulder.
"Manmade?"
Ana had to interject, of course. "You mean 'human made'?"
"Shut up, D'Mitriev. Is it manufactured?"
Hanchrow sighed and scrunched up his forehead.
"The end is. But I think it turns into a natural tunnel after about 12 yards. Angles that way, and then inclines about 45 degrees. Opens into a much larger chamber in about.....300 yards."
"It runs to the Maritsa?"
"No sign of that. But that doesn't mean anything. I might not pick it up."
"Water?"
"Possibly."
"If there's water, anything organic maybe gone."
I was trying not to become emotionally invested, but it was difficult.
* * * * *
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
May 17, 1993
4 am, that potent hour before dawn so loved by poets, so despised by insomniacs. I just had a peculiar dream and since it brought me bolt upright and sleep does not feel immanent, I might as well write it down. In the best Freudian manner....or was that Jung?
I dreamed of a face, emerging from layers of rock, or perhaps it was sculpted from the rock.
A Jungian, of course, would say that this is a different aspect of myself emerging from the bottomless pit of my unconscious. Although for what reason, I'm damned if I know - perhaps this endless rain is turning me into a multiple personality, and I will soon find myself unable to remember whole passages of my daily regime? Some of that might be rather welcome, at that. Perhaps "emerging from rock" is about becoming active again, after this long period of dormancy.
May 18, 1993
It seems that war is accelerating in what was once beautiful Yugoslavia. The Serbs and Bosnians have barely declared themselves sovereign nations and they're already thoroughly preoccupied with destroying each other. Modern logic at its best. I read somewhere that there have been more wars within the past century than throughout recorded history; an encouraging thought for our enlightened age.
Rain, rain, rain. Dr. Sumner has pulled us back for the moment because of the weather, and seemingly to consider what the next move is.
Meanwhile, Hanchrow and I are definitely onto something in the sorting room; perhaps we should call it the "Potshard Hootenanny Hour".
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Most of my American colleagues don't care much for the folk music of Bulgaria, or the other Balkan states. They find it disturbing and alien. Perhaps that's why I enjoy it. I find such music - well, soothing isn't quite the right word. I find its mournful cadences and dissonant melodies conducive to deep and creative thought. Which is why the locals had become used to my regular evening visits to the one tiny village inn.
Generally, I was left to myself at such times. The language barrier was such that idle conversation with the locals was not easy, and my students knew better than to disturb me when I was deep in thought. I have always been, I admit, an overly private man. I love my solitude, my time alone with my own thoughts, where I can explore the possibilities presented to the mind by the vast and endlessly surprising process we call the universe.
Do I sound pretentious? Perhaps I am. My students and colleagues know well that I customarily reserve two periods of the day for solitary reflection: the hour of my morning coffee, and the hour of my evening drink. Those who interrupted me at such times, did so at their peril. Thus I was surprised that evening to have my meditations disturbed, and in English.
"Sophia tells me there are caverns at the edge of the river due west of the site."
I looked up from my abstraction to find Ana looking pleased with herself.
"Who the devil is Sophia?"
"She's the woman who does your laundry, Doc, you ought to know her name at least."
"You didn't tell me you'd developed resources amongst the local population."
"She's not a 'resource', she's a friend. Don't be a prick, Prof."
"And don't you be offensive, D'Mitriev. I allow you the familiarity of 'Prof', don't press your luck by calling me ugly names."
She had a point. The locals usually know far more about the landscape than either the bureaucrats or the academicians. I admit, I felt a sudden excitement. Our speaking tube clearly had to be connected to a network of some kind of underground chambers or caves, but, considering the delicacy of our situation, I had been somewhat unsure of where to begin. This just might be helpful.
"Can Sophia guide us to these caves?"
Looking at the mountains of Bulgaria today, it is easy to forget that these peaks were once islands in the midst of a vast ocean of forest that stretched from the Adriatic to the Black Sea. Long gone now, that forest had begun to recede even by the late Bronze Age. In the ancient village that we were now excavating, the people would probably have experienced the forests as immense woodland tracks, with no way of knowing that what they were seeing were actually small puddles left over from that gigantic ocean of trees. Small pockets of that ancient forest remained here and there until the late nineteenth century, when the ravening maw of the Industrial Revolution did its best to swallow them.
Despite efforts at replanting, what's left of the forests of Bulgaria are small and stunted, a frail echo of what once was. The oaks and pines of the area around Vezhna and nearby Babyak are highly prized, and though they would hardly be impressive by most standards, their harvest is (in theory, at least) regulated by the government. Timber is so scarce in Bulgaria that much of it is imported now from the former Soviet Union.
Ana sometimes refers to Vezhna as the "foothills" of the Rhodopes, but the truth is that on this side of the mountains, there are hardly any "hills" to speak of. On the Maritsa side, the Rhodopes descend to foothiills, and then smaller hills, and the rolling plains and sheep meadows through which the Maritsa meanders. Here, however , the western slopes plunge quickly to the valley where the turbulent waters of the Mestanastos race between the Rhodopes and the Rilas. Villages were perched rather precariously on steep slopes, which threatened half the time to pitch them into the river.
To the northwest, the peak they call Musala towers over all at the the head of the Rila, which runs from northeast to southwest. The source of the Maritsa and the Mestanastos both, at almost 10,000 feet, Musala may only reach to the shoulders of such giants as the Matterhorn and Kanchanjunga, but it is impressive enough in this setting, where its average neighbor is only half that height.
It took a week to organize our party. A days walk along the Mestanastos brought us almost halfway to Babayak, where the river strikes the wall of the Pirins and turns south toward what was once Thrace.
"There!" Sophia declared proudly, pointing, and followed with a blither of Bulgarian, amidst which I was able to pick out something about "half" and "pine tree". My eyes followed her pointing finger.
Here, just before the river began its great arc to the south, the Rhodopes stretch their arms out in a craggy ridge reaching almost to the riverbank, forming a rugged staggered cliff face which looms above the water.
"She says about halfway up, the dark spot, just above the tallest pine." Georgi came to our rescue. "I think I see it," Hanchrow muttered, "but it just looks like a dark smudge to me."
We stared up hopefully, me with some trepidation. Ana D'Metriev, however, had unstrapped her binoculars and was fairly dancing with excitement. "No! It's a cave, alright. Check it out." Although she is often annoying, I admit, her enthusiasm is occasionally infectious.
I took the binoculars and refocused them. Yes, it was a cave, alright, but it was going to be a royal bitch getting up to it.
In the end, we didn't get up to it - we got down to it. Sophia, ever helpful, informed us that when she was a girl, her brother used to come to this area with his friends, and that once he and another boy had actually gotten into the cave by climbing down from above. Sophia had not been up there herself, she said, but her brother had said that the way up was easy, if you backtracked a bit, that the hard part was getting down the cliff face. She thought we could find the way up fairly easily.
Georgi was all for sending back for Sophia's brother, to be sure we found the way with a minimum of bother. He was worried, he said, that it would be easy to get lost in the mountains and die of exposure. Ana laughed and observed that we could hardly get lost with Musala in sight, and our compasses intact. In the end, and as I had hoped, it was decided that I, Ana and Hanchrow would proceed, and we would return to the village in about a week. We were well equipped, of course, and although our food stores were meager, they were adequate.
After an excess of warnings and pleasantries, Georgi agreed quite readily to return to the village with Sophia. He looked relieved that he was not going to be called upon to learn the skills of rock climbing. I do not think he will ever be inclined to athletics.
Sophia herself looked vaguely like one of those wrinkled apple dolls I used to see at country fairs, with her kerchief and inscrutable smile. She had little to say except "God Bless". We all had a slug of Slivova before they took off.
I looked at our area of search. With a little use of practical common sense, we could find a way up, probably before dark, though we would have to camp for the night before attempting a descent to the cave.
We reached the plateau above the cave just after sunset. The view afforded us to the west was well worth the inconvenience of setting up camp in the dark. We dropped our gear, and all of us stared. The Rilas and the Pirins, where they met, were like overlapping layers of torn paper, in deepening shades of blue, the sun a glaring magenta coal, like a dragon's eye peering through a pewter helmet of clouds.
D'Mitriev was enraptured. Hanchrow looked stunned. I have no idea what my own face showed, but I probably looked awestruck as well.
If those people, those long dead people, had used this cave to reach underground chambers below the site we were investigating, then some of them must have stood here once, and had seen the Dragon's eye as well. I thought of the Egyptians, who stood to salute the Bark of the sun, Ra became Kephra, the Beetle who rolled the dark ball of the sun through the twelve houses of the night, and thought that possibly some similar rite was perhaps performed here once.
A cloud drifted, the Eye winked once, and disappeared behind the silhouettes of the mountains. "They stood here and watched this", I thought, in a rare moment of fancy. "I know it." "No you don't you foolish old man, you don't know anything of the sort." You suppose it, you imagine it, and you may even be right, but you still don't know it.
The following morning, we made our descent onto a narrow shelf, and then worked our way along it for about ten yards. They were also obscured by several stunted oak trees, tenaciously clinging to the side of the cliff. Not the sort of spot to drop in for a picnic; I wondered at the audacity of two teenaged boys making that descent, and reflected that I must be forgetting what it was like to be a teenaged boy. For them it was probably fun. At my age, I can still feel a sense of wonder at a sunset, but a descent like this one was just work, and unpleasant, dangerous work at that. A misstep in the average dig means a broken potshard, or at worst, a broken limb. Up here, it could mean a broken life.
One of Sumner's Rules for archeological digs: over-prepare if you possibly can. Never be without: lots of film, emergency rations, American money, local currency, extreme weather gear, and spelunking equipment.
Most of my American colleagues don't care much for the folk music of Bulgaria, or the other Balkan states. They find it disturbing and alien. Perhaps that's why I enjoy it. I find such music - well, soothing isn't quite the right word. I find its mournful cadences and dissonant melodies conducive to deep and creative thought. Which is why the locals had become used to my regular evening visits to the one tiny village inn.
Generally, I was left to myself at such times. The language barrier was such that idle conversation with the locals was not easy, and my students knew better than to disturb me when I was deep in thought. I have always been, I admit, an overly private man. I love my solitude, my time alone with my own thoughts, where I can explore the possibilities presented to the mind by the vast and endlessly surprising process we call the universe.
Do I sound pretentious? Perhaps I am. My students and colleagues know well that I customarily reserve two periods of the day for solitary reflection: the hour of my morning coffee, and the hour of my evening drink. Those who interrupted me at such times, did so at their peril. Thus I was surprised that evening to have my meditations disturbed, and in English.
"Sophia tells me there are caverns at the edge of the river due west of the site."
I looked up from my abstraction to find Ana looking pleased with herself.
"Who the devil is Sophia?"
"She's the woman who does your laundry, Doc, you ought to know her name at least."
"You didn't tell me you'd developed resources amongst the local population."
"She's not a 'resource', she's a friend. Don't be a prick, Prof."
"And don't you be offensive, D'Mitriev. I allow you the familiarity of 'Prof', don't press your luck by calling me ugly names."
She had a point. The locals usually know far more about the landscape than either the bureaucrats or the academicians. I admit, I felt a sudden excitement. Our speaking tube clearly had to be connected to a network of some kind of underground chambers or caves, but, considering the delicacy of our situation, I had been somewhat unsure of where to begin. This just might be helpful.
"Can Sophia guide us to these caves?"
Looking at the mountains of Bulgaria today, it is easy to forget that these peaks were once islands in the midst of a vast ocean of forest that stretched from the Adriatic to the Black Sea. Long gone now, that forest had begun to recede even by the late Bronze Age. In the ancient village that we were now excavating, the people would probably have experienced the forests as immense woodland tracks, with no way of knowing that what they were seeing were actually small puddles left over from that gigantic ocean of trees. Small pockets of that ancient forest remained here and there until the late nineteenth century, when the ravening maw of the Industrial Revolution did its best to swallow them.
Despite efforts at replanting, what's left of the forests of Bulgaria are small and stunted, a frail echo of what once was. The oaks and pines of the area around Vezhna and nearby Babyak are highly prized, and though they would hardly be impressive by most standards, their harvest is (in theory, at least) regulated by the government. Timber is so scarce in Bulgaria that much of it is imported now from the former Soviet Union.
Ana sometimes refers to Vezhna as the "foothills" of the Rhodopes, but the truth is that on this side of the mountains, there are hardly any "hills" to speak of. On the Maritsa side, the Rhodopes descend to foothiills, and then smaller hills, and the rolling plains and sheep meadows through which the Maritsa meanders. Here, however , the western slopes plunge quickly to the valley where the turbulent waters of the Mestanastos race between the Rhodopes and the Rilas. Villages were perched rather precariously on steep slopes, which threatened half the time to pitch them into the river.
To the northwest, the peak they call Musala towers over all at the the head of the Rila, which runs from northeast to southwest. The source of the Maritsa and the Mestanastos both, at almost 10,000 feet, Musala may only reach to the shoulders of such giants as the Matterhorn and Kanchanjunga, but it is impressive enough in this setting, where its average neighbor is only half that height.
It took a week to organize our party. A days walk along the Mestanastos brought us almost halfway to Babayak, where the river strikes the wall of the Pirins and turns south toward what was once Thrace.
"There!" Sophia declared proudly, pointing, and followed with a blither of Bulgarian, amidst which I was able to pick out something about "half" and "pine tree". My eyes followed her pointing finger.
Here, just before the river began its great arc to the south, the Rhodopes stretch their arms out in a craggy ridge reaching almost to the riverbank, forming a rugged staggered cliff face which looms above the water.
"She says about halfway up, the dark spot, just above the tallest pine." Georgi came to our rescue. "I think I see it," Hanchrow muttered, "but it just looks like a dark smudge to me."
We stared up hopefully, me with some trepidation. Ana D'Metriev, however, had unstrapped her binoculars and was fairly dancing with excitement. "No! It's a cave, alright. Check it out." Although she is often annoying, I admit, her enthusiasm is occasionally infectious.
I took the binoculars and refocused them. Yes, it was a cave, alright, but it was going to be a royal bitch getting up to it.
In the end, we didn't get up to it - we got down to it. Sophia, ever helpful, informed us that when she was a girl, her brother used to come to this area with his friends, and that once he and another boy had actually gotten into the cave by climbing down from above. Sophia had not been up there herself, she said, but her brother had said that the way up was easy, if you backtracked a bit, that the hard part was getting down the cliff face. She thought we could find the way up fairly easily.
Georgi was all for sending back for Sophia's brother, to be sure we found the way with a minimum of bother. He was worried, he said, that it would be easy to get lost in the mountains and die of exposure. Ana laughed and observed that we could hardly get lost with Musala in sight, and our compasses intact. In the end, and as I had hoped, it was decided that I, Ana and Hanchrow would proceed, and we would return to the village in about a week. We were well equipped, of course, and although our food stores were meager, they were adequate.
After an excess of warnings and pleasantries, Georgi agreed quite readily to return to the village with Sophia. He looked relieved that he was not going to be called upon to learn the skills of rock climbing. I do not think he will ever be inclined to athletics.
Sophia herself looked vaguely like one of those wrinkled apple dolls I used to see at country fairs, with her kerchief and inscrutable smile. She had little to say except "God Bless". We all had a slug of Slivova before they took off.
I looked at our area of search. With a little use of practical common sense, we could find a way up, probably before dark, though we would have to camp for the night before attempting a descent to the cave.
We reached the plateau above the cave just after sunset. The view afforded us to the west was well worth the inconvenience of setting up camp in the dark. We dropped our gear, and all of us stared. The Rilas and the Pirins, where they met, were like overlapping layers of torn paper, in deepening shades of blue, the sun a glaring magenta coal, like a dragon's eye peering through a pewter helmet of clouds.
D'Mitriev was enraptured. Hanchrow looked stunned. I have no idea what my own face showed, but I probably looked awestruck as well.
If those people, those long dead people, had used this cave to reach underground chambers below the site we were investigating, then some of them must have stood here once, and had seen the Dragon's eye as well. I thought of the Egyptians, who stood to salute the Bark of the sun, Ra became Kephra, the Beetle who rolled the dark ball of the sun through the twelve houses of the night, and thought that possibly some similar rite was perhaps performed here once.
A cloud drifted, the Eye winked once, and disappeared behind the silhouettes of the mountains. "They stood here and watched this", I thought, in a rare moment of fancy. "I know it." "No you don't you foolish old man, you don't know anything of the sort." You suppose it, you imagine it, and you may even be right, but you still don't know it.
The following morning, we made our descent onto a narrow shelf, and then worked our way along it for about ten yards. They were also obscured by several stunted oak trees, tenaciously clinging to the side of the cliff. Not the sort of spot to drop in for a picnic; I wondered at the audacity of two teenaged boys making that descent, and reflected that I must be forgetting what it was like to be a teenaged boy. For them it was probably fun. At my age, I can still feel a sense of wonder at a sunset, but a descent like this one was just work, and unpleasant, dangerous work at that. A misstep in the average dig means a broken potshard, or at worst, a broken limb. Up here, it could mean a broken life.
One of Sumner's Rules for archeological digs: over-prepare if you possibly can. Never be without: lots of film, emergency rations, American money, local currency, extreme weather gear, and spelunking equipment.
When we finally got down to the mouth, we set up a signal at the outlet, and started into the caves with a compass and the tracker.
It took us almost three days to find the chamber; the interior cave network was actually quite extensive, and in other circumstances would have inspired many a spelunker hobbyist. It could have taken us weeks, so I should have been relieved, but I was sweating bullets. If the Bulgarian government got wind of this, it had earlier occurred to me, we could be in for difficult times. I reasoned that if the government became involved in this now, not only would it be out of our hands, it would be out of any hands for quite some time. I wasn't willing to let that happen, yet. The Omphallos stone, even the speaking tube, could be flukes, but then again, this could be important, and after so many disappointing weeks of turning up nothing, I did not want to leave Bulgaria with an unresolved mystery.
It was the afternoon of the third day, and I had stopped to examine something I'd thought might be a shallow carving on the cave wall. It was only visible with the light at a certain angle, and I had just come to the conclusion that it was a natural surface variation in the stone, when I heard Ana's voice echo from further down the tunnel.
"Holy shit!"
"What?"
"This is it! It's gotta be..."
Hanchrow had been right - the chamber had in fact been sealed off by the accretion of limestone. The passage could not have been large to start with, and now there was only a small gap between the accretions on either side. We'd have to divest ourselves of all of our gear in order to squeeze through, and at that, it was likely to be a tight squeeze for me.
Hanchrow, who was diminutive, could slip through with little difficulty. Ana was somewhat larger, and I watched her efforts to crawl through the gap with some trepidation. I didn't fancy finding myself stuck half in and half out of the chamber like an undignified human cork. Ana's feet vanished, and the opening flashed light as she turned, the miner's light on her helmet spilling through the gap.
"Come on, Doc." she called back, "Let's make our descent into the Land of the Dead!"
I grunted something uncomplimentary about her mythos-poetic sensibilities, and started shucking out of my gear. I might risk getting stuck, but I'd be damned if I'd sit out here, listening to her describe what she'd found like a member of that ancient congregation who once listened to the prophecies of their oracle here.
Once I got my shoulders through, I knew I'd make it the rest of the way. We could carefully widen the opening later.
While I struggled through the aperture, Ana was wandering around the chamber.
"Wow!"
I looked around to see what had provoked her wonder. It was just another chamber of the cave, not much different from the others we'd passed through.
"Wow? Humph. Not exactly King Tut's tomb."
"Isn't it? Look at this."
Jesus H. Particular, and his brother Harry, I thought, she's done it again. And she had.
The second chamber was, indeed, a find.
*******
Thomas Edison is supposed to have said that genius is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration, or something to that effect. The basic principle can be applied to almost any area of human endeavor.
The day-to-day reality of archaeological work is not romantic. You sift through tons of dirt looking for tiny shards of pottery or bone. You study reams of records to determine the economic structure of a particular society.
The discovery of a Rosetta Stone, or the Dead Sea Scrolls, is the sort of thing that happens only once in a lifetime. Many scientists have destroyed their reputations and careers jumping to conclusions. When things on a dig are beginning to look like Big Revelations are coming, I tend to slow down and get more careful. I want to proceed at a snail's pace, check and re-check.
Ana D'Mitriev, however, was excited.
The second chamber we entered was a small, naturally occurring room. Chisel marks still showed on the walls, where the room had been enlarged or enhanced. As our torches played across the chamber, I saw that there was a long, deep alcove on the northern wall; a brief glimpse showed there was something in it; it looked like a skeleton.
It took us almost three days to find the chamber; the interior cave network was actually quite extensive, and in other circumstances would have inspired many a spelunker hobbyist. It could have taken us weeks, so I should have been relieved, but I was sweating bullets. If the Bulgarian government got wind of this, it had earlier occurred to me, we could be in for difficult times. I reasoned that if the government became involved in this now, not only would it be out of our hands, it would be out of any hands for quite some time. I wasn't willing to let that happen, yet. The Omphallos stone, even the speaking tube, could be flukes, but then again, this could be important, and after so many disappointing weeks of turning up nothing, I did not want to leave Bulgaria with an unresolved mystery.
It was the afternoon of the third day, and I had stopped to examine something I'd thought might be a shallow carving on the cave wall. It was only visible with the light at a certain angle, and I had just come to the conclusion that it was a natural surface variation in the stone, when I heard Ana's voice echo from further down the tunnel.
"Holy shit!"
"What?"
"This is it! It's gotta be..."
Hanchrow had been right - the chamber had in fact been sealed off by the accretion of limestone. The passage could not have been large to start with, and now there was only a small gap between the accretions on either side. We'd have to divest ourselves of all of our gear in order to squeeze through, and at that, it was likely to be a tight squeeze for me.
Hanchrow, who was diminutive, could slip through with little difficulty. Ana was somewhat larger, and I watched her efforts to crawl through the gap with some trepidation. I didn't fancy finding myself stuck half in and half out of the chamber like an undignified human cork. Ana's feet vanished, and the opening flashed light as she turned, the miner's light on her helmet spilling through the gap.
"Come on, Doc." she called back, "Let's make our descent into the Land of the Dead!"
I grunted something uncomplimentary about her mythos-poetic sensibilities, and started shucking out of my gear. I might risk getting stuck, but I'd be damned if I'd sit out here, listening to her describe what she'd found like a member of that ancient congregation who once listened to the prophecies of their oracle here.
Once I got my shoulders through, I knew I'd make it the rest of the way. We could carefully widen the opening later.
While I struggled through the aperture, Ana was wandering around the chamber.
"Wow!"
I looked around to see what had provoked her wonder. It was just another chamber of the cave, not much different from the others we'd passed through.
"Wow? Humph. Not exactly King Tut's tomb."
"Isn't it? Look at this."
Jesus H. Particular, and his brother Harry, I thought, she's done it again. And she had.
The second chamber was, indeed, a find.
*******
Thomas Edison is supposed to have said that genius is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration, or something to that effect. The basic principle can be applied to almost any area of human endeavor.
The day-to-day reality of archaeological work is not romantic. You sift through tons of dirt looking for tiny shards of pottery or bone. You study reams of records to determine the economic structure of a particular society.
The discovery of a Rosetta Stone, or the Dead Sea Scrolls, is the sort of thing that happens only once in a lifetime. Many scientists have destroyed their reputations and careers jumping to conclusions. When things on a dig are beginning to look like Big Revelations are coming, I tend to slow down and get more careful. I want to proceed at a snail's pace, check and re-check.
Ana D'Mitriev, however, was excited.
The second chamber we entered was a small, naturally occurring room. Chisel marks still showed on the walls, where the room had been enlarged or enhanced. As our torches played across the chamber, I saw that there was a long, deep alcove on the northern wall; a brief glimpse showed there was something in it; it looked like a skeleton.
To my immediate left was a smaller alcove, perhaps three feet by two feet, and about a foot deep. It was cut into the wall at about Ana's eye level; to the right side of the alcove, as I looked more closely, were a number of glyphs crudely incised in the limestone wall. I saw several interlocked spirals, and meandering serpentines, symbols that are ubiquitous to the Neolithic period. There were also a number of inverted triangles and "V" shapes incised on the wall on either side of the alcove, which along with the double spirals, reminded me somewhat of artifacts I had seen from Malta. Additionally, there was a rather mysterious glyph of a triangle within a circle, which I could not place within any context I knew, and several incisions that were unrecognizable; mistakes, or perhaps just ancient graffiti.
It was a small, fundamentally natural chamber in a cave, apparently serving as a burial chamber, probably Neolithic or Bronze Age. Of professional interest, certainly, but nothing to jump up and down about, except for what lay, inexplicably, in the center of the room.
There stood a ceremonial casket - about three feet wide, five feet long, with a depth of about four feet. It was elaborately and intricately carved of pale gray limestone, in a style that was certainly unfamiliar, although here and there it suggested to me styles or motifs form the late Neolithic or early Bronze Age.
A distinctive pattern, often consisting of interlinked spirals, formed a unifying background motif. Panels showed a variety of images - I noticed an unusual solar device repeated several times, as well as what appeared to be shapes identified with the phases of the moon. There were many animals carved in some of the panels, especially horses. On one panel I saw what could only be a man wielding a sword. And throughout the entire casket twined a great snake, which served as a device to separate the panels.
The lid, which fitted neatly into the casket, was covered by a wide-hipped, big-breasted female figure, arms protectively, tenderly cupped around her pregnant belly. Whoever made it, whenever he or she made it, put an incredible amount of work into it. It must have been an enormous amount of work simply to bring it here. And it was beautiful.
My musings were blasted by Hanchrow's excited voice. "Dr. Sumner! Take a look at this!" Reluctant to leave the casket, which I had been contemplating on my knees, I managed to walk to where Hanchrow and Ana had illuminated the alcove on the northern wall.
Ana was unusually quiet, but Hanchrow was bubbling with excitement. "It's clearly male" he babbled, "and quite old! There aren't any ceremonial possessions left with him, or even any burial clothes. But look in his lap! It looks like gold!"
It was a small, fundamentally natural chamber in a cave, apparently serving as a burial chamber, probably Neolithic or Bronze Age. Of professional interest, certainly, but nothing to jump up and down about, except for what lay, inexplicably, in the center of the room.
There stood a ceremonial casket - about three feet wide, five feet long, with a depth of about four feet. It was elaborately and intricately carved of pale gray limestone, in a style that was certainly unfamiliar, although here and there it suggested to me styles or motifs form the late Neolithic or early Bronze Age.
A distinctive pattern, often consisting of interlinked spirals, formed a unifying background motif. Panels showed a variety of images - I noticed an unusual solar device repeated several times, as well as what appeared to be shapes identified with the phases of the moon. There were many animals carved in some of the panels, especially horses. On one panel I saw what could only be a man wielding a sword. And throughout the entire casket twined a great snake, which served as a device to separate the panels.
The lid, which fitted neatly into the casket, was covered by a wide-hipped, big-breasted female figure, arms protectively, tenderly cupped around her pregnant belly. Whoever made it, whenever he or she made it, put an incredible amount of work into it. It must have been an enormous amount of work simply to bring it here. And it was beautiful.
My musings were blasted by Hanchrow's excited voice. "Dr. Sumner! Take a look at this!" Reluctant to leave the casket, which I had been contemplating on my knees, I managed to walk to where Hanchrow and Ana had illuminated the alcove on the northern wall.
Ana was unusually quiet, but Hanchrow was bubbling with excitement. "It's clearly male" he babbled, "and quite old! There aren't any ceremonial possessions left with him, or even any burial clothes. But look in his lap! It looks like gold!"
In the glare of our three lights, I could see the alcove was a niche, an upright lozenge shape, with a flat shelf perhaps three feet off the floor of the chamber, and about three feet deep. It held the skeleton of what must have been, in his day, a mighty man, sitting, his knees brought up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, his head tilted to one side, resting against the wall of his tomb. As I bent to look more closely, I could see that something metallic glinted between his crossed anklebones. It appeared to be a medallion, which had probably once hung from his neck on a cord that had long since decayed.
As Hanchrow set up his camera equipment, I asked Ana to bring us surgical gloves, and to lay out some of the tools we would need; while I waited, I examined the skeleton. I saw no evidence that he had met a violent death, or of any deformities. In fact, it appeared to me that he had lived to a fairly advanced age. I also noticed that the bones of his left hand held some kind of object.
Hanchrow had begun to lose some of his hyperactivity, and Ana seemed to be less awed. "Start here", I told Hanchrow, as he raised his camera.
After Hanchrow had photographed the alcove and the position of the skeleton, using a pair of long clips I very carefully lifted the medallion from its place. It was a beautifully embossed solar design, very similar to the ones I had noticed on the casket. And it was, indeed, gold. I slipped it into a plastic bag, and then into a small specimen case.
I then extracted the object from the hand bones, being very careful not to disturb the lay of the skeleton, and held it up to Ana's light.
It was a shocker. I held a beautiful little goddess or fertility fetish, about 5 inches long, carved in some kind of dark red stone. It showed an abstracted female figure with broad hips and large breasts, her arms wrapped around a large belly. Not so extraordinary in itself; such figurines were fairly common about 14,000 years ago.
What was extraordinary was to find it in the hand of a Neolithic or early Bronze Age man.
Silence became this ancient burial chamber; I found myself almost speaking in a whisper.
"I wonder who he was", Ana mused. "Was he a priest, a guardian, a warrior? Or a sacrifice?"
"Well, if you'll help me to properly wrap this, I suspect the answer is in that casket."
As Hanchrow set up his camera equipment, I asked Ana to bring us surgical gloves, and to lay out some of the tools we would need; while I waited, I examined the skeleton. I saw no evidence that he had met a violent death, or of any deformities. In fact, it appeared to me that he had lived to a fairly advanced age. I also noticed that the bones of his left hand held some kind of object.
Hanchrow had begun to lose some of his hyperactivity, and Ana seemed to be less awed. "Start here", I told Hanchrow, as he raised his camera.
After Hanchrow had photographed the alcove and the position of the skeleton, using a pair of long clips I very carefully lifted the medallion from its place. It was a beautifully embossed solar design, very similar to the ones I had noticed on the casket. And it was, indeed, gold. I slipped it into a plastic bag, and then into a small specimen case.
I then extracted the object from the hand bones, being very careful not to disturb the lay of the skeleton, and held it up to Ana's light.
It was a shocker. I held a beautiful little goddess or fertility fetish, about 5 inches long, carved in some kind of dark red stone. It showed an abstracted female figure with broad hips and large breasts, her arms wrapped around a large belly. Not so extraordinary in itself; such figurines were fairly common about 14,000 years ago.
What was extraordinary was to find it in the hand of a Neolithic or early Bronze Age man.
Silence became this ancient burial chamber; I found myself almost speaking in a whisper.
"I wonder who he was", Ana mused. "Was he a priest, a guardian, a warrior? Or a sacrifice?"
"Well, if you'll help me to properly wrap this, I suspect the answer is in that casket."
SPIRAL
From THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vezhna 3 MS 2379, Linear B, Codex 4
Once upon a time,
he Word for World was Mother.
Mother was the Song, and into Her Song
She wove all things,
the rain falling,
and the serpentine rivers,
the tall barley shining in the meadow
the oak in the glen
the salmon leaping in the stream
and the lives of the people.
And I was Her Singer.
Sibyl they called me in later times, and the Pythoness, but before that I had no name. I was a Singer, and that was enough.
I was called at an early age; I was but a girl, not yet in my bloods. Careless I roamed the forests of my home, singing the songs of the river, and the deer, the blue crab, and the wild honeybee. When the Elders came to me, they asked if I desired to follow the serpent, and become a Singer. Young as I was, I knew I followed a dappled path, walking in the play of both light and shadow. And so I was willing and they took me into the caverns, into the darkness silent and rich with memory and becoming, Her belly pregnant with the voices of the ancestors, and those who were yet to come. Here I learned to listen.
And in time, they gave me to the Serpent, and I lived, although many do not. All my long life I have served Her, and Her serpent has shaped me. We are, at last, one.
My hair is white now, and the Serpent still flows between my fingers, still twines in my hair, still rises in beauty up my spine, still sees the shining world with my eyes, still sings loudest in my blood. For this I am glad, and fulfilled. They gave me to the Serpent, and I lived.
The Mysteries are lost now, and I will take them with me. The Mysteries that were given to me shall pass with me, for a little while in the circle of the world. For I am the last Singer. The Serpent sleeps deep in the Earth, among stones of granite and quartz that sing and are no longer heard.
All that remains of Her Singers now are stories told to frighten children. They have said of us that we beguiled men to their death, or turned them to stone with a glance. Stories to frighten children, and a strange twisting of the truth. The Serpent will wake again when the time is ripe, and those who seek, those who dare, those who can listen to the very bones of the Earth will find the winding path again. But I sense that many generations will flower and diminish first.
Our temple was a deep chamber within the caves of my homeland, with a crevasse that opened to a wide courtyard above, so that when we were within our voices rose resonant from the Earth. When the moon was full, or it was a new moon, when it was the longest day or the longest night, when the Festivals arose, each in its own season, our people gathered to hear the Singers; and we tuned our bodies to the hum of the deep darkness and loosed our spirits with the serpent drought. Then we sang of the planting of wheat, the finding of healing herbs, the coming of storms and the meanings of dreams. And sometimes we sang the Songs of the deep places.
And then She walked among the people
and the animals
and the waters
and Her beating Heart
was the Song of our lives.
And so the years passed, and I grew in the singing, serving the needs of the people and aging but little as is the way among Singers, for we are held by the Song, our discipline, and the power of the Serpent draught. I could not bear children, for the Serpent takes that from us. And in the year that my sister's daughter passed over and was returned to the Womb of the Earth, there came among us a man, a stranger.
From THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vezhna 3 MS 2379, Linear B, Codex 4
Once upon a time,
he Word for World was Mother.
Mother was the Song, and into Her Song
She wove all things,
the rain falling,
and the serpentine rivers,
the tall barley shining in the meadow
the oak in the glen
the salmon leaping in the stream
and the lives of the people.
And I was Her Singer.
Sibyl they called me in later times, and the Pythoness, but before that I had no name. I was a Singer, and that was enough.
I was called at an early age; I was but a girl, not yet in my bloods. Careless I roamed the forests of my home, singing the songs of the river, and the deer, the blue crab, and the wild honeybee. When the Elders came to me, they asked if I desired to follow the serpent, and become a Singer. Young as I was, I knew I followed a dappled path, walking in the play of both light and shadow. And so I was willing and they took me into the caverns, into the darkness silent and rich with memory and becoming, Her belly pregnant with the voices of the ancestors, and those who were yet to come. Here I learned to listen.
And in time, they gave me to the Serpent, and I lived, although many do not. All my long life I have served Her, and Her serpent has shaped me. We are, at last, one.
My hair is white now, and the Serpent still flows between my fingers, still twines in my hair, still rises in beauty up my spine, still sees the shining world with my eyes, still sings loudest in my blood. For this I am glad, and fulfilled. They gave me to the Serpent, and I lived.
The Mysteries are lost now, and I will take them with me. The Mysteries that were given to me shall pass with me, for a little while in the circle of the world. For I am the last Singer. The Serpent sleeps deep in the Earth, among stones of granite and quartz that sing and are no longer heard.
All that remains of Her Singers now are stories told to frighten children. They have said of us that we beguiled men to their death, or turned them to stone with a glance. Stories to frighten children, and a strange twisting of the truth. The Serpent will wake again when the time is ripe, and those who seek, those who dare, those who can listen to the very bones of the Earth will find the winding path again. But I sense that many generations will flower and diminish first.
Our temple was a deep chamber within the caves of my homeland, with a crevasse that opened to a wide courtyard above, so that when we were within our voices rose resonant from the Earth. When the moon was full, or it was a new moon, when it was the longest day or the longest night, when the Festivals arose, each in its own season, our people gathered to hear the Singers; and we tuned our bodies to the hum of the deep darkness and loosed our spirits with the serpent drought. Then we sang of the planting of wheat, the finding of healing herbs, the coming of storms and the meanings of dreams. And sometimes we sang the Songs of the deep places.
And then She walked among the people
and the animals
and the waters
and Her beating Heart
was the Song of our lives.
And so the years passed, and I grew in the singing, serving the needs of the people and aging but little as is the way among Singers, for we are held by the Song, our discipline, and the power of the Serpent draught. I could not bear children, for the Serpent takes that from us. And in the year that my sister's daughter passed over and was returned to the Womb of the Earth, there came among us a man, a stranger.
Stone, speak to me.
What secret waters
that vein and course
the darkness
shaped you? Tell me
of falling years,
of bones and pottery shards,
of fossils, played out
smoothed by waters
past memory or telling -
Stone, you will be my teacher.
From ENDARKENMENT, The Collected Works of Shannon Drake,
pub. 1999, Wren Press
What secret waters
that vein and course
the darkness
shaped you? Tell me
of falling years,
of bones and pottery shards,
of fossils, played out
smoothed by waters
past memory or telling -
Stone, you will be my teacher.
From ENDARKENMENT, The Collected Works of Shannon Drake,
pub. 1999, Wren Press
From ANA - An Informal Biography of Ana D'Mitriev
by Leial D'Mitriev
By the time Jason Sumner, Ana D'Mitriev, and Dan Hanchrow had measured the limestone casket, and created an detailed photo documentation of it from every angle, they were at last ready to open it. They were also utterly exhausted. But no one suggested turning in for the night, if indeed it was night in the world above. Not one of them would have been able to sleep.
Up close, the female figure carved on the lid of the casket was even more striking. In her exhausted state, Ana could swear that the richly patterned snake coiling around the casket undulated from time to time. Fortunately, while the lid fit with ancient precision neatly into the casket, it had a wide lip which allowed them to raise it without too much difficulty. The three of them slowly lifted the heavy limestone lid, and placed it on a padded cotton blanket.
Within the casket were six or seven ceramic urns or vases, stacked horizontally. Unglazed and unadorned, they were made of red clay, and each seemed to be a little under three feet long, with a diameter of about seven inches. Each had a ceramic seal, cemented into the mouth of the urn with unfired clay. There were no other objects.
After Hanchrow had photographed the interior of the casket, and the pottery urns had been carefully tagged and numbered to determine the order in which they were stacked within the casket, Sumner was at last ready to remove the top urn.
Very slowly, he lifted the long vessel with his gloved hands, and carefully placed it on a plastic sheet that lay on a padded mat. Ana was afraid she would forget to breathe. Sumner then very carefully tapped around the edges of the seal with a small chisel, while Ana illuminated the area for him with her flashlight. When it was loose, he gently removed the ceramic seal and placed it in a plastic bag, which then went into a specimen case. Then, as tenderly as he might pull his first born son from the womb, Sumner removed the contents of the urn.
He held a long, narrow bundle wrapped in some kind of oiled skin, probably goatskin. The skin was, amazingly, well preserved. The bundle was placed upon padded plastic sheeting. Sumner was breathing rapidly, and Ana could see he was sweating profusely. He very carefully unrolled the ancient skin, and all three members of the party gasped at what was revealed. It was a rolled parchment. That was utterly impossible, unless all their observations were wrong.
As Sumner gently unrolled a small section to reveal writing, Ana bent forward to get a better look, being careful not to block Sumner's view and provoke his wrath. She had to remind herself to keep breathing. It was too extraordinary to make sense.
"My God! Doc, it looks like Linear B!"
"It is Linear B. Son of a bitch. On parchment, no less."
"They didn't have parchment..."
"No, all the Linear B samples we have are in clay. And this shouldn't be here. Either this is a hoax, or someone placed these documents here about a thousand years after the settlement was abandoned."
"Is that possible?"
"I don't see any other explanations at the moment, do you?"
"Here, get to work with the camera."
by Leial D'Mitriev
By the time Jason Sumner, Ana D'Mitriev, and Dan Hanchrow had measured the limestone casket, and created an detailed photo documentation of it from every angle, they were at last ready to open it. They were also utterly exhausted. But no one suggested turning in for the night, if indeed it was night in the world above. Not one of them would have been able to sleep.
Up close, the female figure carved on the lid of the casket was even more striking. In her exhausted state, Ana could swear that the richly patterned snake coiling around the casket undulated from time to time. Fortunately, while the lid fit with ancient precision neatly into the casket, it had a wide lip which allowed them to raise it without too much difficulty. The three of them slowly lifted the heavy limestone lid, and placed it on a padded cotton blanket.
Within the casket were six or seven ceramic urns or vases, stacked horizontally. Unglazed and unadorned, they were made of red clay, and each seemed to be a little under three feet long, with a diameter of about seven inches. Each had a ceramic seal, cemented into the mouth of the urn with unfired clay. There were no other objects.
After Hanchrow had photographed the interior of the casket, and the pottery urns had been carefully tagged and numbered to determine the order in which they were stacked within the casket, Sumner was at last ready to remove the top urn.
Very slowly, he lifted the long vessel with his gloved hands, and carefully placed it on a plastic sheet that lay on a padded mat. Ana was afraid she would forget to breathe. Sumner then very carefully tapped around the edges of the seal with a small chisel, while Ana illuminated the area for him with her flashlight. When it was loose, he gently removed the ceramic seal and placed it in a plastic bag, which then went into a specimen case. Then, as tenderly as he might pull his first born son from the womb, Sumner removed the contents of the urn.
He held a long, narrow bundle wrapped in some kind of oiled skin, probably goatskin. The skin was, amazingly, well preserved. The bundle was placed upon padded plastic sheeting. Sumner was breathing rapidly, and Ana could see he was sweating profusely. He very carefully unrolled the ancient skin, and all three members of the party gasped at what was revealed. It was a rolled parchment. That was utterly impossible, unless all their observations were wrong.
As Sumner gently unrolled a small section to reveal writing, Ana bent forward to get a better look, being careful not to block Sumner's view and provoke his wrath. She had to remind herself to keep breathing. It was too extraordinary to make sense.
"My God! Doc, it looks like Linear B!"
"It is Linear B. Son of a bitch. On parchment, no less."
"They didn't have parchment..."
"No, all the Linear B samples we have are in clay. And this shouldn't be here. Either this is a hoax, or someone placed these documents here about a thousand years after the settlement was abandoned."
"Is that possible?"
"I don't see any other explanations at the moment, do you?"
"Here, get to work with the camera."
From THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vezhna 3, MS 2397
Trans. Linear B, Codex 4
He was a tall man, and fair of face, although he came to us worn from travel, pale and hungry. He entered our village in the early dawn, riding upon a horse. We had rarely seen horses, and never seen one tamed by a man or woman, and we were amazed. When the stranger came riding into our village, he and his horse barely had strength to walk further, and we saw that he could not speak our language. So we led him to the House of Nine Moons, which is a place of rest and healing, and offered him a bed, wine and water, and called the healers. He was, truly, like some trapped animal, not knowing whether to use his last strength to strike at us, or to accept the kindness it seemed he had openly come seeking.
The stranger bore a cruel wound upon his arm that had not healed. He was a silent man, and it seemed to us there was also a wound within his spirit that had no healing. But when herbs and poultices had been brought, and his belly was filled, many were the maidens who sighed for the beauty of his strange eyes, which were the color of a cloudless sky.
He could not speak in our way. Yet when his strength had returned, and the time came for us to light the fires of Midwinter, he joined in the dancing, as if he wished to speak to us with his body. He was a fine dancer. He made his arms into wings, the hawk's flight as he rises into the storm; and I saw that he danced a tale of deer beyond count running through treeless lands, and of those who follow them to hunt.
The young men admired his grace, and took to making new dances in imitation. And he won the devotion of a young woman named Summer, who undid her hair and danced before him, bearing a gift of dried apples in a red pot, which she placed in his hands. But he did not seem to know the meaning of these things.
Strange were his ways to us, and ours to him! His great horse accompanied him always, and he told us his people were tamers of horses. This amazed us, for most of us had never seen a horse, let alone ride on one. He wore ornaments of gold, among them a medallion with the face of a man and the sun engraved upon it. He wore a cap and breastplate of thick leather, and carried at his side a great knife unlike any we had seen, formed of a hard metal.
Strange and yet elegant were his ways, and we admired and pitied him. His name among his people was Bael, but we called him Hados, which meant "Stranger to the World." For he carried a hungry loneliness in his belly, and he was deaf among us, for he could not hear the Song that sang us. And his songs were strange songs.
Among us was one who wore the flower face of Spring. Bright as the poppies dancing among the cliffs in the season of rain was she! She was young, and newly called to be a Singer. Her name was Persepha, which meant "Fire that Dwells in the Caverns". Fire bright were the songs of Persepha, at the festival of quickening! She sang of the deer and the stag calling to each other among the new grass, and the pleasure of the rose opening to the sun, and Her longing for Him who comes tall and shining from among the trees, with eyes like leaves.
For Persepha was the Singer of Spring, and through her the Mother sang her Songs of love.
Many were the young men who cherished her! She was always laughing, and loved all of them.
But she did not love Hados, for all his beauty, because she felt his sharp hunger like a cavern in his soul, into which she might fall and be extinguished. And Hados followed her with his strange eyes, which were like the empty sky.
* * * * * *
Hados was with us through the plantings, and learned to speak our language, although there was a silence around him, and he often chose not to talk. He told us little of why he had come to us. We did not press him, believing he would speak when he had the need. He was skilled at fishing, and when Summer ended he helped us to gather the barley and wheat, preparing the fields for winter. And then we began the season of the Harvest Festivals.
We made wine especially for these festivals. All night the Singers sang, and the village danced, so that the rhythm of Her heart beat in each heart, and we were one.
As the evening lengthened, the circles of dancers around the fires grew smaller, and often men and women chose each other. Then they went among the moonlit fields, to nourish the weary earth with their pleasure. As the night deepened, Hados drank cup after cup of wine, but he did not dance, and he chose no one, although Summer came to him, and invited him with her eyes.
When morning came the Song had spent me, and I slept within my chamber like an infant in the womb, cradled by the harmonies that were there. Persepha did not sleep, but went to walk beside the river. She was transparent, within the serpent trance still, and went to greet the new sun.
When I woke late in the afternoon, Persepha was not with us. Food had been left for us. We ate like blowfish on the river bottom, because the body and mind are empty after the serpent trance, and must be deeply replenished. When night came, Persepha still had not returned, and I felt a chill, a keening drone that sounded low within the stone walls of our chamber.
We searched for Persepha all the next day, myself and the entire village. And on the morning of the third day, at last we found her, lying at the bottom of a crevasse in the sacred caves. A shaft of sunlight fell through the opening high above, and illuminated her body so that she lay as if sleeping in a pool of bright water, cradled by the darkness of the caverns. The caves will long echo with our lamentations.
We gave Persepha back to the Earth, and sang the songs of return and rebirth. The young men and women placed flowers in her broken hands, and wove them among her hair: for she was the Singer of Spring, the Mother's bright daughter.
Her death at the second Harvest festival, when night was on the ascendant and the breath of Winter whispered in our ears, was an ill omen indeed. Long into the dawn we sang blessing prayers for the harvest as well, to sustain us in the months ahead, but many would not be comforted All wept, and some said in low voices that Spring might never come again.
Hados also was gone. After we had completed the rites for Persepha, we looked for him in the village, and later in the near forest, but to no avail. We found his possessions, his medallion of gold, his cap, tunic, his shield, and his fierce long knife, in the place it was customary for him to put them.
We kept them for him, hoping that he might return, but the days passed and he never came to claim them. And Hados' horse was still corralled in the enclosure he had built for it.
Twelve days after Hados had disappeared, we saw that his horse had broken through a section of his corral, and had gone. No one saw Hados that winter, but in the early Spring a man fishing for salmon saw footprints in the soft mud beside a stream. Then we went occasionally to look for him, and left food or clothing. Although Hados never spoke or showed himself, the food and clothing would be gone when we returned.
Summer rejoiced. She remembered Hados with love, and brought his possessions to the forest and left them there for him. But most within the village sighed. They believed that Hados had become possessed by some unborn ghost within the forest, or had lost his reason at the passing of Persepha. And in this they were not entirely wrong.
I sit alone in the house of memory, in the caverns where I learned to listen long ago.
For those who can hear, each rock, each stone holds memory. Memory of those who have gone, and will come again. All things arise in Her, and all things return to Her, and all are within the Song, threads, voices that rise and diminish, harmony and discord that finally merges into one Song, only one. Now there are none to hear this last Song, my own song. Yet I find I need to tell it, to tell all the secrets I held in silence so long. And among them is the story of Persepha and Hados.
Within these sacred caves, my tale is like a song within a song. For Hados carried Persepha into the caverns of night, from which she did not return. Not in this age and time.
And Persepha led Hados into the caverns of his soul, and dark and long was his journey home.
What is myth?
What is memory?
These are the Mythic Times,
and we are the Gods of tommorrow
Shannon Drake, ENDARKENMENT - The Collected Works
Pub. 1999, Wren Press
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Alden Keye's fingers fluttered about the edges of his huge ginger mustache. He'd cultivated the 'stache in the seventies because he thought it made him resemble his ancient Celtic forbears, but with the western clothes and native American jewelry he now affected, I thought it made him look like a weak-minded General Custer, which couldn't be very good for promoting trust with his Native American informants.
If it had been turn of the century India, they'd have said he'd "gone native"....Keyes had clearly assimilated and internalized a world view from the native cultures he studied. His academic papers retained the pose of objectivity and scientific detachment, and he had a minor following. But anyone who knew him knew he thought of himself as the conjur-man on campus, the shaman/showman of the Academic Tribe, fresh from his training in the field.
Keyes had once undergone an apprenticeship with a curandero in Central Mexico, which no doubt afforded him the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of Castaneda. A publisher was ready to mass market a pop novelized version of Keye's experiences. Keyes shied away at the last moment. He submitted a straight, scientific account, and buried the novelized version somewhere. I admired him for it.
I watched Keyes fidget, and wondered if the man would have been happier if he had gone for the money.
"Scholars more thorough than you and I" he remarked, "have worked on the problem of 'Soma' for a century or more, and we still don't know what it was, or even if it existed outside of myth. Your ancient priestess's 'Serpent Draught' could be almost anything."
"You must have some ideas."
"I have some ideas, but I shouldn't make a guess, there are too many variables."
"Save that rigmarole for the Dean, Keyes, and tell me what you think. Look, I'm not asking for a final conclusion here, I'm asking your opinion, preliminary, tentative and speculative. That's all."
"My opinion", he said, "is that I just don't know. Hell - I could name things that might produce similar effects today, but they aren't snake venoms. I don't even know what kind of snakes were around Bulgaria at the end of the Copper Age..."
"And we don't even know for certain that it was venom-based. 'Serpent' could have been a metaphor for anything, including some kind of physical/psychological yoga or discipline. Even if it were venom-based - purification, trance practices, perhaps an additive to fine-tune certain perceptual circuits.... but she doesn't give us any clue as to what they might be. And the question of longevity is, well, beyond reckoning. And yet here you are with this improbable manuscript."
Keyes got that familiar "otherworldly" look in his eyes for a moment. I hoped he was not going to sidetrack me with another of his excursions into mysticism.
"There are, you know, things that we simply aren't prepared to deal with" he said. "You can't always approach this in as a strictly scientific problem. Some of it is experiential."
I looked at him with what I hoped was a patient expression. He laughed. It could be said we knew each other well enough to read each other's faces.
"Oh, well....are there any existing tribal shamanic cults in Bulgaria?"
"Not that I know of."
"Look into it. If there is any surviving tradition they could be of enormous help. And personally, I would suggest that you explore this from a few new angles."
And that was the best I could get from our resident expert in these matters. I went home, made myself a vodka tonic, and stared out my window at a saguaro in my back yard, silvery by moonlight, and a problem I wished I could begin to approach, or at least dismiss as some kind of archaic joke, and then get on with my life.
No such luck, of course.
As the weeks after we returned became months, and we began to decipher the manuscripts and review again and again our findings, I didn't know what else to believe but the impossible. I convinced the department to reduce my teaching load, and we quietly set up our research program at the University of Arizona, very quietly.
It was insane, of course, but as the translations proceeded laboriously, I had to believe that I was hearing the story of a Neolithic priestess who had, somehow, lived long enough to watch her world pass into antiquity, and had returned to tell her tale. Ana, with her own mystical bent, was at least receptive to the possibility. I began to feel I was going crazy in small, concise, daily increments.
This was not supposed to happen to me.
What is memory?
These are the Mythic Times,
and we are the Gods of tommorrow
Shannon Drake, ENDARKENMENT - The Collected Works
Pub. 1999, Wren Press
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Alden Keye's fingers fluttered about the edges of his huge ginger mustache. He'd cultivated the 'stache in the seventies because he thought it made him resemble his ancient Celtic forbears, but with the western clothes and native American jewelry he now affected, I thought it made him look like a weak-minded General Custer, which couldn't be very good for promoting trust with his Native American informants.
If it had been turn of the century India, they'd have said he'd "gone native"....Keyes had clearly assimilated and internalized a world view from the native cultures he studied. His academic papers retained the pose of objectivity and scientific detachment, and he had a minor following. But anyone who knew him knew he thought of himself as the conjur-man on campus, the shaman/showman of the Academic Tribe, fresh from his training in the field.
Keyes had once undergone an apprenticeship with a curandero in Central Mexico, which no doubt afforded him the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of Castaneda. A publisher was ready to mass market a pop novelized version of Keye's experiences. Keyes shied away at the last moment. He submitted a straight, scientific account, and buried the novelized version somewhere. I admired him for it.
I watched Keyes fidget, and wondered if the man would have been happier if he had gone for the money.
"Scholars more thorough than you and I" he remarked, "have worked on the problem of 'Soma' for a century or more, and we still don't know what it was, or even if it existed outside of myth. Your ancient priestess's 'Serpent Draught' could be almost anything."
"You must have some ideas."
"I have some ideas, but I shouldn't make a guess, there are too many variables."
"Save that rigmarole for the Dean, Keyes, and tell me what you think. Look, I'm not asking for a final conclusion here, I'm asking your opinion, preliminary, tentative and speculative. That's all."
"My opinion", he said, "is that I just don't know. Hell - I could name things that might produce similar effects today, but they aren't snake venoms. I don't even know what kind of snakes were around Bulgaria at the end of the Copper Age..."
"And we don't even know for certain that it was venom-based. 'Serpent' could have been a metaphor for anything, including some kind of physical/psychological yoga or discipline. Even if it were venom-based - purification, trance practices, perhaps an additive to fine-tune certain perceptual circuits.... but she doesn't give us any clue as to what they might be. And the question of longevity is, well, beyond reckoning. And yet here you are with this improbable manuscript."
Keyes got that familiar "otherworldly" look in his eyes for a moment. I hoped he was not going to sidetrack me with another of his excursions into mysticism.
"There are, you know, things that we simply aren't prepared to deal with" he said. "You can't always approach this in as a strictly scientific problem. Some of it is experiential."
I looked at him with what I hoped was a patient expression. He laughed. It could be said we knew each other well enough to read each other's faces.
"Oh, well....are there any existing tribal shamanic cults in Bulgaria?"
"Not that I know of."
"Look into it. If there is any surviving tradition they could be of enormous help. And personally, I would suggest that you explore this from a few new angles."
And that was the best I could get from our resident expert in these matters. I went home, made myself a vodka tonic, and stared out my window at a saguaro in my back yard, silvery by moonlight, and a problem I wished I could begin to approach, or at least dismiss as some kind of archaic joke, and then get on with my life.
No such luck, of course.
As the weeks after we returned became months, and we began to decipher the manuscripts and review again and again our findings, I didn't know what else to believe but the impossible. I convinced the department to reduce my teaching load, and we quietly set up our research program at the University of Arizona, very quietly.
It was insane, of course, but as the translations proceeded laboriously, I had to believe that I was hearing the story of a Neolithic priestess who had, somehow, lived long enough to watch her world pass into antiquity, and had returned to tell her tale. Ana, with her own mystical bent, was at least receptive to the possibility. I began to feel I was going crazy in small, concise, daily increments.
This was not supposed to happen to me.
From THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 4, MS 3737
After the ceremonies for Persepha, I was troubled by more than my grief. I felt a disharmony that manifested as a sharp chord in the harmonies of the stone, a dull red color, a painful throbbing in the palms of my hands, at the center of my chest. I prepared myself, and I took the serpent draught, and went to the deep Caverns. I pressed my hands, my breasts and my naked belly against a powerful stone of granite and white quartz, and asking for Her grace, and the help of those spirits who dwell in that place, I let the song of Persepha come into me. And this is what I saw.
After the long night of celebration, Hados went walking beside the river. When Hados saw Persepha on the beach, he followed her. He called to her, but she did nor hear him, she could not hear him.
Because Persepha was a fox, running in the yellow meadow. Still held within the trance, she was a finch, building his nest; and an artist named Yarrow searching for white clay beside the river three hundred years before; and a laural tree with great roots that reached down into the deep earth, thirsty, and drank, and pulled forth the Song in leaf and flower.
Hados came close to her, and touched her shoulder. She smiled at him, but did not speak and walked on. He spoke to her again, and again she did not hear him. This infuriated Hados, and he seized Persepha. Perhaps, to at last touch her flesh ignited a desire and violence that had possessed him for long before he came to us; I have struggled many years to find compassion for his act. He embraced her, and pushed her into the sand, and throwing himself upon her, forced himself into her while Persepha lay half in this world and half in that other one. And then the harmonies within her pierced and shattered, and she screamed with terror.
When Persepha at last truly saw Hados, she screamed from her depths, and something in both of them shattered like broken pottery. Hados rose speechless, touched her lips and forehead almost tenderly with his fingertips, and then made a soft sound, as if he would speak but could not. Then he ran quickly along the beach, moving this way and that, as if he were blind, and disappeared into the forest.
Persepha lay curled upon the sand like an infant. She was violated in body and spirit. She could not come fully into the world of sunlight and substance, and she was broken into fragments in that timeless land. She was bleeding, and wept, lost, feeling only the black vortex of Hados rage that had emptied into her. When she finally rose, Persepha walked without purpose toward the cliffs, climbing without feeling her feet upon the ground. Healing spirits led her to trace her way back toward the places of power. But Persepha stumbled upon a precipice, and fell into the depths below, and sang among us never again.
What Hados had done was, at that time, beyond my understanding. The world has changed, and I have seen this violence, this distortion many times since. But not at that time.
We were not without violence. The Bone Goddess lives in each of us, we had our rites to her. But we met violence most within the dream and the dream's telling, in council, and we gave it to the dance, where the rites of destruction in each of us could be sung and known, released. We knew also that no food can come from the life of an animal that is not taken in gratitude, and even an apple will poison us unless it is honored for its sacrifice. How could we poison each other?
These were questions I could not answer. I mourned Persepha. I pitied Hados. And I told no one what I knew. .
Vehzna 4, MS 3737
After the ceremonies for Persepha, I was troubled by more than my grief. I felt a disharmony that manifested as a sharp chord in the harmonies of the stone, a dull red color, a painful throbbing in the palms of my hands, at the center of my chest. I prepared myself, and I took the serpent draught, and went to the deep Caverns. I pressed my hands, my breasts and my naked belly against a powerful stone of granite and white quartz, and asking for Her grace, and the help of those spirits who dwell in that place, I let the song of Persepha come into me. And this is what I saw.
After the long night of celebration, Hados went walking beside the river. When Hados saw Persepha on the beach, he followed her. He called to her, but she did nor hear him, she could not hear him.
Because Persepha was a fox, running in the yellow meadow. Still held within the trance, she was a finch, building his nest; and an artist named Yarrow searching for white clay beside the river three hundred years before; and a laural tree with great roots that reached down into the deep earth, thirsty, and drank, and pulled forth the Song in leaf and flower.
Hados came close to her, and touched her shoulder. She smiled at him, but did not speak and walked on. He spoke to her again, and again she did not hear him. This infuriated Hados, and he seized Persepha. Perhaps, to at last touch her flesh ignited a desire and violence that had possessed him for long before he came to us; I have struggled many years to find compassion for his act. He embraced her, and pushed her into the sand, and throwing himself upon her, forced himself into her while Persepha lay half in this world and half in that other one. And then the harmonies within her pierced and shattered, and she screamed with terror.
When Persepha at last truly saw Hados, she screamed from her depths, and something in both of them shattered like broken pottery. Hados rose speechless, touched her lips and forehead almost tenderly with his fingertips, and then made a soft sound, as if he would speak but could not. Then he ran quickly along the beach, moving this way and that, as if he were blind, and disappeared into the forest.
Persepha lay curled upon the sand like an infant. She was violated in body and spirit. She could not come fully into the world of sunlight and substance, and she was broken into fragments in that timeless land. She was bleeding, and wept, lost, feeling only the black vortex of Hados rage that had emptied into her. When she finally rose, Persepha walked without purpose toward the cliffs, climbing without feeling her feet upon the ground. Healing spirits led her to trace her way back toward the places of power. But Persepha stumbled upon a precipice, and fell into the depths below, and sang among us never again.
What Hados had done was, at that time, beyond my understanding. The world has changed, and I have seen this violence, this distortion many times since. But not at that time.
We were not without violence. The Bone Goddess lives in each of us, we had our rites to her. But we met violence most within the dream and the dream's telling, in council, and we gave it to the dance, where the rites of destruction in each of us could be sung and known, released. We knew also that no food can come from the life of an animal that is not taken in gratitude, and even an apple will poison us unless it is honored for its sacrifice. How could we poison each other?
These were questions I could not answer. I mourned Persepha. I pitied Hados. And I told no one what I knew. .
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
January 27, 1995
I opened my window this morning, looked out on the foothills of the Catalinas, smelt those wonderful herbal odors the desert releases after a rain.....and it was all overlaid in my mind's eye with the foothills of the Rhodopes, the colors and smells of a place halfway around the world, the hum of a landscape I felt more at home with, in some ways, than Tucson. Which is crazy. I feel so "out of time and place", unsure of where I am....this is "home", as familiar as my pajamas.....
I suppose I feel like Ulysses, returning after the Odyssey, after encountering Gorgons and Sirens and hostile suitors, and now Penelope comes in with my slippers and a nice cup of tea. Huh? Where have I been.....
This is too incredible to believe, all of it. And yet as the project continues, and the narrative is literally unearthed day by exhausting day, and it becomes more impossible, I have no choice but to accept that it's happening.
I find it still incredible, in fact, that we're here doing this work at all, that we actually managed to smuggle our films out of Bulgaria and keep the documentation intact enough to be translating the Manuscripts. It's rather remarkable that the powers that be are supporting our work as well, considering....I suppose the Prof's reputation is stretched to the limit here, but buys us just a little time.
I have to give the Prof credit. Lots of it. I remember him pointing out, after our excitement had calmed a bit, that we could not under any circumstances expect the Bulgarian government to be helpful with a find such as we had found. In fact, as he said in no uncertain terms, the nature of the find was so extraordinary, inexplicable, and improbable, that we could almost certainly expect them to hush it up, hush us up, and close the door to any further research. We weren't dealing with jewelry and painted pottery here. We were dealing with a profound mystery that would take years to unravel, if ever. Something that was either a hoax, which would completely embarrass all concerned, and particularly the Bulgarian Government, (not to mention decimate our careers)....or something that could alter the way we view history.
Beaurocracies aren't fond of altering history, or taking risks. At best, the scrolls might be lost for decades, perhaps permanently lost in some hidden archive. At worst, they might be destroyed as fraudulent.
Clearly, we had to document the discovery comprehensively and in every way we could, leave the scrolls and casket exactly where they were, and, for now at least, keep quiet about it.
Georgi encountered a non-committal, tired three-some of spelunkers when we came back to camp. I still feel bad about lying to him, but it was clear that getting our films and samples out of Bulgaria was founded upon not revealing, yet, what we had found. And, in effect, we were going to have to become smugglers.
I came to appreciate a side the Doc has to him that is, well, just plain devious. James Bond may have more style, but I think we might just be in his league. The future will tell. For now, we're keeping a low profile here at the University as well. Each day brings a revelation. I've come to call the author of the manuscripts "The Sibyl" (actually, Hanchrow came up with that.) Well, she was an oracle; that certainly seems to be one of the functions she had as a "singer" or priestess. I suppose she was also a master storyteller.
I can only say that I've come to feel almost close to her, this woman who speaks to us across the millennia.
January 27, 1995
I opened my window this morning, looked out on the foothills of the Catalinas, smelt those wonderful herbal odors the desert releases after a rain.....and it was all overlaid in my mind's eye with the foothills of the Rhodopes, the colors and smells of a place halfway around the world, the hum of a landscape I felt more at home with, in some ways, than Tucson. Which is crazy. I feel so "out of time and place", unsure of where I am....this is "home", as familiar as my pajamas.....
I suppose I feel like Ulysses, returning after the Odyssey, after encountering Gorgons and Sirens and hostile suitors, and now Penelope comes in with my slippers and a nice cup of tea. Huh? Where have I been.....
This is too incredible to believe, all of it. And yet as the project continues, and the narrative is literally unearthed day by exhausting day, and it becomes more impossible, I have no choice but to accept that it's happening.
I find it still incredible, in fact, that we're here doing this work at all, that we actually managed to smuggle our films out of Bulgaria and keep the documentation intact enough to be translating the Manuscripts. It's rather remarkable that the powers that be are supporting our work as well, considering....I suppose the Prof's reputation is stretched to the limit here, but buys us just a little time.
I have to give the Prof credit. Lots of it. I remember him pointing out, after our excitement had calmed a bit, that we could not under any circumstances expect the Bulgarian government to be helpful with a find such as we had found. In fact, as he said in no uncertain terms, the nature of the find was so extraordinary, inexplicable, and improbable, that we could almost certainly expect them to hush it up, hush us up, and close the door to any further research. We weren't dealing with jewelry and painted pottery here. We were dealing with a profound mystery that would take years to unravel, if ever. Something that was either a hoax, which would completely embarrass all concerned, and particularly the Bulgarian Government, (not to mention decimate our careers)....or something that could alter the way we view history.
Beaurocracies aren't fond of altering history, or taking risks. At best, the scrolls might be lost for decades, perhaps permanently lost in some hidden archive. At worst, they might be destroyed as fraudulent.
Clearly, we had to document the discovery comprehensively and in every way we could, leave the scrolls and casket exactly where they were, and, for now at least, keep quiet about it.
Georgi encountered a non-committal, tired three-some of spelunkers when we came back to camp. I still feel bad about lying to him, but it was clear that getting our films and samples out of Bulgaria was founded upon not revealing, yet, what we had found. And, in effect, we were going to have to become smugglers.
I came to appreciate a side the Doc has to him that is, well, just plain devious. James Bond may have more style, but I think we might just be in his league. The future will tell. For now, we're keeping a low profile here at the University as well. Each day brings a revelation. I've come to call the author of the manuscripts "The Sibyl" (actually, Hanchrow came up with that.) Well, she was an oracle; that certainly seems to be one of the functions she had as a "singer" or priestess. I suppose she was also a master storyteller.
I can only say that I've come to feel almost close to her, this woman who speaks to us across the millennia.
And the man spoke
and broke the rhythm
of the World's Song
into many pieces
with the words he made:
and the people took his words
upon their tongues
and bitter was the taste.
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 3, MS 2475
Linear B, Codex 5
Two years passed. Our harvests those years were poor. It seemed to us as if a discord had come among us, which affected the plantings. I spoke of the deep harmonies within the Earth, but I heard fear within the silence, sounding like a dry wind, quietly gathering the leaves of autumn before it.
It was the first moon after the last harvest, at the time when She is the Mother of Bones. Then She prepares for sleep and Her vultures fly, bearing the old year into the caverns of Night and new becoming. There came to us then 20 men and women from the village we called Weavers-of-Blue-Cloth, because they wove a fine cloth which they dyed with indigo berries, and into which they wove images of the blue waters. Once a year we traded with them, for they were a journey of many days.
When they came to us they were worn, and hungry. They brought no cloth, but carried in their arms children, famished and hollow eyed. And they told us of men on horses who came to their village, with great knives of cold metal and eyes that held winter without ending, blowing from the far North. These men came neither for council nor trade, only to kill and take what they wanted: the harvest, ornaments of gold or copper; and many of the young women and some of the children were also taken captive. They said that no weavers remained, for the horsemen had cut them down. And there were no Elders to guide them, for they were all dead. Although our granaries were not full, we took them among us; but we were were frightened, and knew not what to do.
At last, the Elders called the village to council. And it was decided to seek Hados in the forest, and ask him about these men.
* * * * * * * * * *
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Eisler and Gimbutas called them "Kurgans", the so-called Indo-Europeans, warlike nomads that supposedly thundered out of the Russian Steppes on their horses, descending upon Old Europe and India in successive waves. I say "supposedly" - evidence of long periods of change and destruction as the result of waves of invaders moving into older cultures and conquering them over several millenia is a sound theory, but not entirely authenticated.
I simply dislike ultimatums, presumed facts. In my observation and opinion as an archeologist, the past is no more "fixed" than the future.
As they say, history is written by the victors. Or, at least until recently.
They were undoubtedly racially different as well, many of them larger and fairer than the peoples they gradually overwhelmed and sometimes assimilated. Certainly, that appears to be the original basis of the caste system in India. Blue eyed, fair-haired some of them no doubt. The forefathers of the "Aryans". The tatooed, squabbling, warring, adventurous, brilliant fathers of the Greeks, the so-called Celts........so many restless peoples.
A tenatious and contentious bunch, and there I sat, one of their frustrated descendants, squabbling and warring at the computer in my office at the University of Arizona, barbarically stacking trophies of filthy paper coffee cups and beer bottles on my desk. Some racial memory of head collecting? The stress of an enormous endeavor with seemingly no end in sight?
Yes, something was beginning to happen to me - perhaps I was, as Ana so eloquently put it, beginning to "lose it". The long months of painstaking and often frustrating labor as we slowly proceeded (and slowly is a key word here - I will NOT permit any part of any project I'm engaged in to be hurried or sloppy. And with the Vehzna Manuscripts this was especially important, because gaining credibility of any kind would be hard enough.)
Not to mention the rather hair-raising (but thank God successful) effort to smuggle our films and other documentation out of Bulgaria and into the United States. And finally, the emotional strain of translating something that strained my own credibility daily and stretched my boundaries beyond the breaking point on occasion. Something I knew perfectly well was also jeopardizing my career.
As the work continued (and thank God as well that Harper and Guerrero became involved in the project, good scientists both of them, and discrete).........as the work continued the truth is I began to feel uncomfortable. I began to feel that some fundamental aspect of my personal paradigm was beginning to change.
I was being forced to examine cultural history from another perspective, one utterly outside of my training. I began to look at the processes of civilizations as rising and falling not only in human terms, but also as they were being evolved by the land itself, by the Earth.
Obvious, of course. Well, yes and no. What I began to look at was not simply a matter of a particular culture being affected by how many rivers ran through it, or how many salmon they harvested in the course of a decade, or whether a draught made them all decide to migrate east. Something more fundamental. Something even more basic, literal, and ultimately mysterious.
When Lovelock postulated in 1979 that the Earth was one ecologically interdependant system - in effect, one living, sentient Being, I was skeptical. It seemed like the sort of thing that suited Star Trek, rather than a scientific journal. But now, with global warming, the depletion of the ozone layer, and the rest of the mess we've gotten ourselves into, his hypothesis is being taken very seriously indeed.
The point is, to our ancestors, the landscape was alive - a great Mother with a lot of unruly children. Coyote was an informant, Bear a protector, and every rock and tree had something to say. In essence, the world was conversant. And there were a number of ways to get the dialog going. Archaic peoples entered the "Dreamtime" to "speak with the Earth", or they visited the "Underworld", which they often entered quite literally by crawling into kivas, caves, or cairns. These mythic realms were experienced as altered states of consciousness.
I have an old friend from graduate school, John Steele, who wrote a book about it in the '80's - I remember he called this so-called visionary ability to bring back information from these "other spheres" (which he apparently believed in) "Cross-state communication." What it amounts to is this....according to John, they spoke to the Earth in whatever form they symbolically conceived of it. And in return, the Earth, the land, remembered and gave identity to them.
Five years ago, such ideas were amusing to toss around at a bar when we ran into each other at a convention, but nothing I would take at all seriously. Now, as the translations continue week after week, these ideas will not let me go.
And it's become rather uncomfortable, because it opens a whole other dimension to the process.
and broke the rhythm
of the World's Song
into many pieces
with the words he made:
and the people took his words
upon their tongues
and bitter was the taste.
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 3, MS 2475
Linear B, Codex 5
Two years passed. Our harvests those years were poor. It seemed to us as if a discord had come among us, which affected the plantings. I spoke of the deep harmonies within the Earth, but I heard fear within the silence, sounding like a dry wind, quietly gathering the leaves of autumn before it.
It was the first moon after the last harvest, at the time when She is the Mother of Bones. Then She prepares for sleep and Her vultures fly, bearing the old year into the caverns of Night and new becoming. There came to us then 20 men and women from the village we called Weavers-of-Blue-Cloth, because they wove a fine cloth which they dyed with indigo berries, and into which they wove images of the blue waters. Once a year we traded with them, for they were a journey of many days.
When they came to us they were worn, and hungry. They brought no cloth, but carried in their arms children, famished and hollow eyed. And they told us of men on horses who came to their village, with great knives of cold metal and eyes that held winter without ending, blowing from the far North. These men came neither for council nor trade, only to kill and take what they wanted: the harvest, ornaments of gold or copper; and many of the young women and some of the children were also taken captive. They said that no weavers remained, for the horsemen had cut them down. And there were no Elders to guide them, for they were all dead. Although our granaries were not full, we took them among us; but we were were frightened, and knew not what to do.
At last, the Elders called the village to council. And it was decided to seek Hados in the forest, and ask him about these men.
* * * * * * * * * *
From THE SONG OF MEDUSA - An Autobiography of Jason Sumner
Eisler and Gimbutas called them "Kurgans", the so-called Indo-Europeans, warlike nomads that supposedly thundered out of the Russian Steppes on their horses, descending upon Old Europe and India in successive waves. I say "supposedly" - evidence of long periods of change and destruction as the result of waves of invaders moving into older cultures and conquering them over several millenia is a sound theory, but not entirely authenticated.
I simply dislike ultimatums, presumed facts. In my observation and opinion as an archeologist, the past is no more "fixed" than the future.
As they say, history is written by the victors. Or, at least until recently.
They were undoubtedly racially different as well, many of them larger and fairer than the peoples they gradually overwhelmed and sometimes assimilated. Certainly, that appears to be the original basis of the caste system in India. Blue eyed, fair-haired some of them no doubt. The forefathers of the "Aryans". The tatooed, squabbling, warring, adventurous, brilliant fathers of the Greeks, the so-called Celts........so many restless peoples.
A tenatious and contentious bunch, and there I sat, one of their frustrated descendants, squabbling and warring at the computer in my office at the University of Arizona, barbarically stacking trophies of filthy paper coffee cups and beer bottles on my desk. Some racial memory of head collecting? The stress of an enormous endeavor with seemingly no end in sight?
Yes, something was beginning to happen to me - perhaps I was, as Ana so eloquently put it, beginning to "lose it". The long months of painstaking and often frustrating labor as we slowly proceeded (and slowly is a key word here - I will NOT permit any part of any project I'm engaged in to be hurried or sloppy. And with the Vehzna Manuscripts this was especially important, because gaining credibility of any kind would be hard enough.)
Not to mention the rather hair-raising (but thank God successful) effort to smuggle our films and other documentation out of Bulgaria and into the United States. And finally, the emotional strain of translating something that strained my own credibility daily and stretched my boundaries beyond the breaking point on occasion. Something I knew perfectly well was also jeopardizing my career.
As the work continued (and thank God as well that Harper and Guerrero became involved in the project, good scientists both of them, and discrete).........as the work continued the truth is I began to feel uncomfortable. I began to feel that some fundamental aspect of my personal paradigm was beginning to change.
I was being forced to examine cultural history from another perspective, one utterly outside of my training. I began to look at the processes of civilizations as rising and falling not only in human terms, but also as they were being evolved by the land itself, by the Earth.
Obvious, of course. Well, yes and no. What I began to look at was not simply a matter of a particular culture being affected by how many rivers ran through it, or how many salmon they harvested in the course of a decade, or whether a draught made them all decide to migrate east. Something more fundamental. Something even more basic, literal, and ultimately mysterious.
When Lovelock postulated in 1979 that the Earth was one ecologically interdependant system - in effect, one living, sentient Being, I was skeptical. It seemed like the sort of thing that suited Star Trek, rather than a scientific journal. But now, with global warming, the depletion of the ozone layer, and the rest of the mess we've gotten ourselves into, his hypothesis is being taken very seriously indeed.
The point is, to our ancestors, the landscape was alive - a great Mother with a lot of unruly children. Coyote was an informant, Bear a protector, and every rock and tree had something to say. In essence, the world was conversant. And there were a number of ways to get the dialog going. Archaic peoples entered the "Dreamtime" to "speak with the Earth", or they visited the "Underworld", which they often entered quite literally by crawling into kivas, caves, or cairns. These mythic realms were experienced as altered states of consciousness.
I have an old friend from graduate school, John Steele, who wrote a book about it in the '80's - I remember he called this so-called visionary ability to bring back information from these "other spheres" (which he apparently believed in) "Cross-state communication." What it amounts to is this....according to John, they spoke to the Earth in whatever form they symbolically conceived of it. And in return, the Earth, the land, remembered and gave identity to them.
Five years ago, such ideas were amusing to toss around at a bar when we ran into each other at a convention, but nothing I would take at all seriously. Now, as the translations continue week after week, these ideas will not let me go.
And it's become rather uncomfortable, because it opens a whole other dimension to the process.
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 5, MS 3347
Linear B, Codex 3
It was the girl Summer who offered to find Hados, because she had often gone into the forest seeking him, and occasionally glimpsed him from a distance. Her girlish devotion to him had not diminished.
On the occasions Summer saw Hados, he never spoke to her, or acknowledged her presence; still, he also did not threaten her or drive her away. And so during the milder weather, Summer would go to the edge of a grove she knew he frequented, hoping perhaps to see him, hoping in her simple innocence that at last he would offer her the smile he never once gave her, or any other member of the village for that matter, and look with his blue eyes upon her with desire.
But she rarely saw him, and when she did, it was from a distance. And so she would leave her offerings; bread, a carved wooden bowl, wine in an urn, and once, because she was young and fanciful, and did not know whether to conceive of Hados as a lover or a God, she left flowers - chamomile, poppies, and rowan berries.
Within two days, Summer returned from the forest, and a group of women and men went with her then to seek Hados. And at last they came to a low hill deep in the forest, where the trees were cleared somewhat, and a cave was set back into the side of the hill, with rowan and oak masking its entrance.
The remains of a fire smoked before the cave, and Hados horse stood by the entrance, as if guarding it. The entrance to the cave was covered with the skins of animals - a wolf and a wild dog, and the antlers of deer were placed at the sides of the entrance, and white stones, as if they had been placed there to warn away hungry spirits of the forest. Hados did not come forth, although they called many times, and at last our people left, except for Summer, who gathered wood to build a fire, resolved to remain there that night.
When the people returned the following day, they found Hados before the fire. Summer sat across from him, singing a foolish song that children sing at festivals, and they knew that he listened to not the song, but Summer, as if he was warming himself before her simple gaiety.
He was much changed from when we had last seen him. His hair was still carefully plaited and tied, and he wore a deerskin kilt and tunic, and his gold medallion hung around his neck. But his face was gaunt and gray, and much aged. Gone was the pale beauty that had fascinated us.
Although Hados was aware of our presence, he did not move, but sat quietly, with his eyes downcast. At last we gathered in a circle before him, and sat down. Then Hados spoke without lifting his eyes.
"It is taught amongst my people that the path of the Warrior is an honorable one. That the greatest honor a man can have is to kill well and bravely, and to die well and bravely."
Hados' statement hung in the air. The whole circle sat in grave silence for a long time, as we considered this.
"They are half-right."
All waited for Hados to speak again.
When he did finally speak, it was at some length. Few of us understood much of what he said. Some of us would live long enough to understand it a little better - but I alone have lived long enough, and seen enough to truly comprehend the implications of his speech.
"Those who come against you now are my people," he told us, "or others like my people. They will slaughter you as easily as you cut down grain in the field."
"But not like that, either. Not so simply. They will ask no pardon, give no thanks, and they will not pay homage to your spirits as you do to the grain, the deer you take."
"They will not bid your souls safe passage to the breast of the Goddess. They will shout your souls to the Underworld of their Gods, to be their slaves."
"You must flee, all of you. When a fire rages through the forest, all the animals flee before it. These men are like lightening, like a forest fire - flee before them."
"I am Ba-el, son of Das, who is Chief of my Clan, born a warrior all my life, called among you Hados, and this is my say. I will stand in your councils and say the same, and that is all."
I don't know what we expected, but it was not this.
Then spoke Ti-Ami, Grandmother of Singers: "We take you true, Hados."
Hados nodded.
Among us was a man from the village of the Weavers-of-Blue-Cloth, a small man, who had spoken little since his arrival. His family, it was said, had been destroyed by the invaders. All eyes turned when he spoke, for his voice was unfamiliar to most of us.
"Many of us ran before them, little good it did us. They are not spirits or gods. They are just men like us, who know other skills." The man stopped and looked into the fire. "Skills of killing people."
He looked around the circle, as if to challenge any there. He began to speak again, his voice at first halting. And then his voice became firm, although tears welled in his eyes and poured down his cheeks as he spoke.
"I say they are not gods or demons, just men, and they can be killed. We can learn those skills. This man knows their ways. He can teach us."
With a roar, Hados lunged across the circle and dragged the man to his feet by the front of his tunic, bellowing his rage in the man's race:
"Do not do this! I will not teach them! No!"
At first, we were all too stunned to react. Never had we heard Hados even raise his voice. Arrca the Hunter rose, and separated the two men, and as he did so, Hados struck him. The three fell to the ground, scuffling and cursing. And I noticed then a metallic taste in my mouth. Something had come to live with us I could not name.
As all stood, Gov the Smith held Hados' arm, but it was clear that Hados would offer no further threat. He, too, began to shed tears, as he faced the little man.
"You have proven your point. I have already betrayed them."
Hados looked slowly around the circle of faces.
"Among my people, there is no Silence wherein all may speak. A man of power can challenge the words of any who would speak against him. And a woman may not speak."
"You can journey into the realms of the ancestors. My people have not your strength in those realms, but they did not lose that strength - they paid it as a sacrifice. What they bought with it was another kind of power, great power in this world."
With this, Hados took a handful of dirt, lifted it up for us to see, and then let it sift through his fingers. "In this world, the world of flesh, they are supreme. They will destroy you."
"But this world is the flesh of the Mother" growled Gov.
"You look at the world through only one eye, Smith. Listen to me: the powers they have work. If I had but frightened this man into silence, I might have frightened all of you into flight. You might then survive, at least a while longer. But now, you believe you can stand against them with the strength of your Goddesses and your Gods, and you ask me to teach you the ways of war. And because, in my soul, I am one of them, a Warrior bred, I will teach you what I can. And I will use you to fight against them with their own weapons. Such is my circle, my atonement." Hados snorted. "But even if we should win, even if we could drive them back - my people will still be the victors. And you will still be destroyed, what you are will still die."
Hados turned and pulled aside the flap of his hut.
"I ask you again, pack your belongings and flee, now, for in the Spring, or at Harvest time, they will come." And he entered his hut, and pulled the flap closed. And it seemed to me I saw the wings of a raven lift, and close on Hados shoulders, and for a moment I wondered if, indeed, he was some dark god.
Vehzna 5, MS 3347
Linear B, Codex 3
It was the girl Summer who offered to find Hados, because she had often gone into the forest seeking him, and occasionally glimpsed him from a distance. Her girlish devotion to him had not diminished.
On the occasions Summer saw Hados, he never spoke to her, or acknowledged her presence; still, he also did not threaten her or drive her away. And so during the milder weather, Summer would go to the edge of a grove she knew he frequented, hoping perhaps to see him, hoping in her simple innocence that at last he would offer her the smile he never once gave her, or any other member of the village for that matter, and look with his blue eyes upon her with desire.
But she rarely saw him, and when she did, it was from a distance. And so she would leave her offerings; bread, a carved wooden bowl, wine in an urn, and once, because she was young and fanciful, and did not know whether to conceive of Hados as a lover or a God, she left flowers - chamomile, poppies, and rowan berries.
Within two days, Summer returned from the forest, and a group of women and men went with her then to seek Hados. And at last they came to a low hill deep in the forest, where the trees were cleared somewhat, and a cave was set back into the side of the hill, with rowan and oak masking its entrance.
The remains of a fire smoked before the cave, and Hados horse stood by the entrance, as if guarding it. The entrance to the cave was covered with the skins of animals - a wolf and a wild dog, and the antlers of deer were placed at the sides of the entrance, and white stones, as if they had been placed there to warn away hungry spirits of the forest. Hados did not come forth, although they called many times, and at last our people left, except for Summer, who gathered wood to build a fire, resolved to remain there that night.
When the people returned the following day, they found Hados before the fire. Summer sat across from him, singing a foolish song that children sing at festivals, and they knew that he listened to not the song, but Summer, as if he was warming himself before her simple gaiety.
He was much changed from when we had last seen him. His hair was still carefully plaited and tied, and he wore a deerskin kilt and tunic, and his gold medallion hung around his neck. But his face was gaunt and gray, and much aged. Gone was the pale beauty that had fascinated us.
Although Hados was aware of our presence, he did not move, but sat quietly, with his eyes downcast. At last we gathered in a circle before him, and sat down. Then Hados spoke without lifting his eyes.
"It is taught amongst my people that the path of the Warrior is an honorable one. That the greatest honor a man can have is to kill well and bravely, and to die well and bravely."
Hados' statement hung in the air. The whole circle sat in grave silence for a long time, as we considered this.
"They are half-right."
All waited for Hados to speak again.
When he did finally speak, it was at some length. Few of us understood much of what he said. Some of us would live long enough to understand it a little better - but I alone have lived long enough, and seen enough to truly comprehend the implications of his speech.
"Those who come against you now are my people," he told us, "or others like my people. They will slaughter you as easily as you cut down grain in the field."
"But not like that, either. Not so simply. They will ask no pardon, give no thanks, and they will not pay homage to your spirits as you do to the grain, the deer you take."
"They will not bid your souls safe passage to the breast of the Goddess. They will shout your souls to the Underworld of their Gods, to be their slaves."
"You must flee, all of you. When a fire rages through the forest, all the animals flee before it. These men are like lightening, like a forest fire - flee before them."
"I am Ba-el, son of Das, who is Chief of my Clan, born a warrior all my life, called among you Hados, and this is my say. I will stand in your councils and say the same, and that is all."
I don't know what we expected, but it was not this.
Then spoke Ti-Ami, Grandmother of Singers: "We take you true, Hados."
Hados nodded.
Among us was a man from the village of the Weavers-of-Blue-Cloth, a small man, who had spoken little since his arrival. His family, it was said, had been destroyed by the invaders. All eyes turned when he spoke, for his voice was unfamiliar to most of us.
"Many of us ran before them, little good it did us. They are not spirits or gods. They are just men like us, who know other skills." The man stopped and looked into the fire. "Skills of killing people."
He looked around the circle, as if to challenge any there. He began to speak again, his voice at first halting. And then his voice became firm, although tears welled in his eyes and poured down his cheeks as he spoke.
"I say they are not gods or demons, just men, and they can be killed. We can learn those skills. This man knows their ways. He can teach us."
With a roar, Hados lunged across the circle and dragged the man to his feet by the front of his tunic, bellowing his rage in the man's race:
"Do not do this! I will not teach them! No!"
At first, we were all too stunned to react. Never had we heard Hados even raise his voice. Arrca the Hunter rose, and separated the two men, and as he did so, Hados struck him. The three fell to the ground, scuffling and cursing. And I noticed then a metallic taste in my mouth. Something had come to live with us I could not name.
As all stood, Gov the Smith held Hados' arm, but it was clear that Hados would offer no further threat. He, too, began to shed tears, as he faced the little man.
"You have proven your point. I have already betrayed them."
Hados looked slowly around the circle of faces.
"Among my people, there is no Silence wherein all may speak. A man of power can challenge the words of any who would speak against him. And a woman may not speak."
"You can journey into the realms of the ancestors. My people have not your strength in those realms, but they did not lose that strength - they paid it as a sacrifice. What they bought with it was another kind of power, great power in this world."
With this, Hados took a handful of dirt, lifted it up for us to see, and then let it sift through his fingers. "In this world, the world of flesh, they are supreme. They will destroy you."
"But this world is the flesh of the Mother" growled Gov.
"You look at the world through only one eye, Smith. Listen to me: the powers they have work. If I had but frightened this man into silence, I might have frightened all of you into flight. You might then survive, at least a while longer. But now, you believe you can stand against them with the strength of your Goddesses and your Gods, and you ask me to teach you the ways of war. And because, in my soul, I am one of them, a Warrior bred, I will teach you what I can. And I will use you to fight against them with their own weapons. Such is my circle, my atonement." Hados snorted. "But even if we should win, even if we could drive them back - my people will still be the victors. And you will still be destroyed, what you are will still die."
Hados turned and pulled aside the flap of his hut.
"I ask you again, pack your belongings and flee, now, for in the Spring, or at Harvest time, they will come." And he entered his hut, and pulled the flap closed. And it seemed to me I saw the wings of a raven lift, and close on Hados shoulders, and for a moment I wondered if, indeed, he was some dark god.
A great Council was held, which lasted the better part of a day and a night, and in the end, it was decided that the elderly, infirm, and the children would soon be sent to the high caves with what food could be spared. They were few - all wished to remain to protect our village, and not many could be persuaded to leave. Certain sacred objects were sent with them. The rest, those who were healthy and strong, and even most of the Elders, chose to remain in the village. All would ask Hados to train them in the use of weapons and what he called "the arts of war".
A messenger was sent requesting Hados' presence, and shortly he appeared, out of the moonless night, blinking in the firelight.
As I sat in council and the night wore on, I saw that this was no song I knew. This was the Song of Hados. And although I tried, I could not truly hear, I could not see what was before me; I, a Singer, I was blind, I was deaf. It was the same for all of us.
I held my hand upon the Earth, upon Her warm breast. I could feel the hum of new life, the eager trees, the quickening seed. Although it was almost spring, and soon we would call the Festival of Awakening, my heart felt no Awakening. I felt only sorrow.
I remembered laughing Persepha, plaiting daisies in my braids with her clever, gentle fingers. "Perhaps", I thought secretly, "It is true what they said. Spring passed away with Persepha, and now winter has truly come to us, never to leave."
At this, I felt shame, and came back into the present moment. "Very well" I heard Hados say. "I will do as you ask, as best as I can. But understand this: we have one chance of survival, and only one. On the field of war, my word is law. Unquestioned, uncontested, and final. If this condition is accepted, some of us may survive."
Only I saw the sadness in Hados eyes, and this was where I began to find compassion for him.
A messenger was sent requesting Hados' presence, and shortly he appeared, out of the moonless night, blinking in the firelight.
As I sat in council and the night wore on, I saw that this was no song I knew. This was the Song of Hados. And although I tried, I could not truly hear, I could not see what was before me; I, a Singer, I was blind, I was deaf. It was the same for all of us.
I held my hand upon the Earth, upon Her warm breast. I could feel the hum of new life, the eager trees, the quickening seed. Although it was almost spring, and soon we would call the Festival of Awakening, my heart felt no Awakening. I felt only sorrow.
I remembered laughing Persepha, plaiting daisies in my braids with her clever, gentle fingers. "Perhaps", I thought secretly, "It is true what they said. Spring passed away with Persepha, and now winter has truly come to us, never to leave."
At this, I felt shame, and came back into the present moment. "Very well" I heard Hados say. "I will do as you ask, as best as I can. But understand this: we have one chance of survival, and only one. On the field of war, my word is law. Unquestioned, uncontested, and final. If this condition is accepted, some of us may survive."
Only I saw the sadness in Hados eyes, and this was where I began to find compassion for him.
Hados was proven right in almost every way, except for one. None, none survived. They took our stores, our wealth, and they spared not a child, not a goat. None, except for Hados, and I.
They came upon us shortly before the Midsummer - not by night, but in the early light of morning. We had seen then coming for several days with the watchers that Hados set on the roads, and in the high places. Hados prepared us well with weapons, the barriers we made, our training and vigilance. What he could not have prepared us for was their numbers, their relentless ferocity as they descended upon us on their horses, the coldness in their eyes. We were no match for them. Although we surprised them, and took many down, more came, and more, and at last we were like beasts, like children before them.
Ah, the horror of it! I will not speak, even now, of what I saw, of the bravery, the death of all those I loved, the violence, the burning. I will not speak of it. I will remember those I loved, and my home, as they were in life, and not in their dying. I will not speak of it.
I had been, at the insistence of Hados, and as our destruction became certain, hidden with several Elders in caves near the village. When I could no longer bear it, I crept out of the caves, and walked toward what remained of the healing houses, the House of Nine Moons, to see if I could, perhaps, be of some help. It was in flames, and the bodies of several people lay before it, their blood seeping into the earth. I stood there numb, unbelieving, and a tall man with a black leather shield and reddish plaits of hair appeared, his sword drawn and his eyes deadly.
As he approached me with his bloody sword, I thought, "Good, let me die. Let me join the others. I do not want to bear this."
And I heard a voice, like the voice of my own grandfather, that spoke softly in my ear, saying, "No. You must stand for yet awhile."
And then time slowed. I saw the man raise his sword to strike me, and I saw his arm descend infinitely slowly, and I found myself entering the trance with no effort on my part.
Then I did something I had never done before. I reached down into the Earth, sent my being down into the rocks, the deep waters, and reached for the fire I knew bloomed there, imperishable. I brought that fire into my belly, into the wheel of my own will-to-be. I saw the man before me with new eyes - a spinning violence of locked energies: and I sent a flame out of me, into his chest, his solar plexus, piercing him.
As I watched, the man froze. His eyes met mine, and then rolled up, showing the whites, and he screamed, and dropped his weapon; he doubled over, and held his belly in pain. I saw fear break over him in waves of gray and greenish streams; but his energies calmed, ceased their violence.
As time expanded again, the air became dense, and I saw that several men had heard him, and were regarding us. He screamed something again in his own language, and pointed to me, and then began to fall. Another man, with a thick corselet on his upper body and a gold medallion at his neck, ran to him, seizing him before he could hit the ground. This man looked at me in fear, and called to his comrades as he laid the now unconscious man down. Then he drew his long knife, and came toward me.
I was exhausted, stunned. I knew I could not do this thing again - it had taken great reservoirs of body strength from me, to paralyze this man, to intrude my own essence into his spirit body in violence - this is a thing considered among initiated Singers a great evil. It was a link with that man I would not gladly accept, but a linking nevertheless. A part of me was within him - not in love, not in generation, not in creation, but in hate, in the dance of hate. We would know each other, we would meet again, for good or for ill.
My own eyes closed, and I became unconscious.
They came upon us shortly before the Midsummer - not by night, but in the early light of morning. We had seen then coming for several days with the watchers that Hados set on the roads, and in the high places. Hados prepared us well with weapons, the barriers we made, our training and vigilance. What he could not have prepared us for was their numbers, their relentless ferocity as they descended upon us on their horses, the coldness in their eyes. We were no match for them. Although we surprised them, and took many down, more came, and more, and at last we were like beasts, like children before them.
Ah, the horror of it! I will not speak, even now, of what I saw, of the bravery, the death of all those I loved, the violence, the burning. I will not speak of it. I will remember those I loved, and my home, as they were in life, and not in their dying. I will not speak of it.
I had been, at the insistence of Hados, and as our destruction became certain, hidden with several Elders in caves near the village. When I could no longer bear it, I crept out of the caves, and walked toward what remained of the healing houses, the House of Nine Moons, to see if I could, perhaps, be of some help. It was in flames, and the bodies of several people lay before it, their blood seeping into the earth. I stood there numb, unbelieving, and a tall man with a black leather shield and reddish plaits of hair appeared, his sword drawn and his eyes deadly.
As he approached me with his bloody sword, I thought, "Good, let me die. Let me join the others. I do not want to bear this."
And I heard a voice, like the voice of my own grandfather, that spoke softly in my ear, saying, "No. You must stand for yet awhile."
And then time slowed. I saw the man raise his sword to strike me, and I saw his arm descend infinitely slowly, and I found myself entering the trance with no effort on my part.
Then I did something I had never done before. I reached down into the Earth, sent my being down into the rocks, the deep waters, and reached for the fire I knew bloomed there, imperishable. I brought that fire into my belly, into the wheel of my own will-to-be. I saw the man before me with new eyes - a spinning violence of locked energies: and I sent a flame out of me, into his chest, his solar plexus, piercing him.
As I watched, the man froze. His eyes met mine, and then rolled up, showing the whites, and he screamed, and dropped his weapon; he doubled over, and held his belly in pain. I saw fear break over him in waves of gray and greenish streams; but his energies calmed, ceased their violence.
As time expanded again, the air became dense, and I saw that several men had heard him, and were regarding us. He screamed something again in his own language, and pointed to me, and then began to fall. Another man, with a thick corselet on his upper body and a gold medallion at his neck, ran to him, seizing him before he could hit the ground. This man looked at me in fear, and called to his comrades as he laid the now unconscious man down. Then he drew his long knife, and came toward me.
I was exhausted, stunned. I knew I could not do this thing again - it had taken great reservoirs of body strength from me, to paralyze this man, to intrude my own essence into his spirit body in violence - this is a thing considered among initiated Singers a great evil. It was a link with that man I would not gladly accept, but a linking nevertheless. A part of me was within him - not in love, not in generation, not in creation, but in hate, in the dance of hate. We would know each other, we would meet again, for good or for ill.
My own eyes closed, and I became unconscious.
When I awoke, I found my legs and arms were bound with leather ties, which cut cruelly into my flesh, numbing my feet and hands. I was gagged, and my eyes were covered with a thick cloth, so that I could not see. All I could do was listen.
I heard the sounds of shouting, of muted cries, and I realized I had been brought into a tent. The smell of burning was everywhere, from outside, and nearer, the sharp smell of sweat, and blood. Close by me, on my right side, I heard the sound of breathing, and once a low moan, and I knew someone lay beside me, sleeping or unconscious, a wounded man.
I heard a flap open, and then several male voices; I felt them regarding me, and my skin prickled as anger and fear flooded over me. One of them spoke in a deep voice in a language I did not understand. I understood the threat in his voice nevertheless.
Then all three left, and I remained in the darkness. I grew very thirsty, and I slept. When I again became conscious, I sensed that the man lying beside me was also awake. I made a slight gasping sound through my gag, and he rolled closer to me, I felt his leg against my leg, his lips near my ear.
"Singer", he whispered, with effort. I knew then that Hados lay beside me. "Singer, I see that you are awake. Listen to me."
"Singer, there are none left but you and I. They have taken us captive, and mean to bring us to their summer encampment, many miles from here in the north. Their homeland is yet another great span of distance from here. I know these people; they are Da-Sidaya, the Clan of the Grey Wolf. They know my own people, speak my own language. They hope to gain ransom from my people with me, which is why they will not kill me. "
"They will not kill you yet, Singer. They will take you to their Conjur-man. They fear you, they call you witch. You must see to it that they continue to fear you."
Hados breath came fast, and I could hear that he was in pain. He paused, and then slowly, at my ear, tried to speak again in a low whisper.
"I cannot say more, I must try to gather my strength. But hear me; make them fear you. Do not show any weakness, and we will stay alive."
Then Hados rolled away from me, breathing heavily in the thick darkness. "Mother", I prayed, "I do not wish to live. But if it is Your will that I live, then come into me, be with me."
Then I lay blind, longing for water, and spoke the prayers for the dead in silence, which began, "Return, wanderers, go now home, the Gates of the West are open now, they are surely open, hear the drum like a heartbeat, listen, She welcomes you...."
After what seemed like days, a man came into the hut where we lay and removed the gag, and poured water into my mouth, choking me. But my thirst was so great that I swallowed gladly. Then he spoke to Hados, who did not reply, and I heard the sounds of water being given to him as well.
As several other men entered the hut, one spoke with a voice that carried authority and he said something to Hados. When Hados did not answer, one of the men kicked him, and he gasped, and then spoke in that language I did not understand. An exchange followed, with the deep-voiced one doing most of the speaking. Then Hados said to me "He says, you will be given food and water, and your gag removed, but you must not speak or they will kill you. He wants you to nod to let him know that you will obey."
I nodded, and then felt hands roughly remove my gag. I was given more water and a piece of dried meat was put into my mouth. Then I was lifted from where I lay, still blinded, carried outside, and placed onto a litter of some kind. I heard the sound of many voices, all men, and of horses, their hooves stamping into the Earth, and of heavy things being moved.
Days passed on that journey, days of hunger, and thirst, of blindness, of excruciating motion as the litter on which I lay was dragged behind the great horse. I strove to compose myself, to go inside as refuge from my sorrow, and the pain of my body. I feared, at first, that these men would abuse me as I had seen them do with some of the women, with Azhira, and Shioha the weaver, and little Summer, before she died - ah, ah, No! Cried my very being, no, I cannot bear to remember these things - but I did, I held the memory of their deaths, their agonies, I let it all burn into me as is the duty of Singers, and I forced myself to say the prayers of Returning for them, the prayers of Release, the prayers of Forgiveness. And I forced myself not to hate.
The men did not touch me, except to give me water or food. I came to see that they were, indeed, truly afraid of me. At times during this journey, my spirit left my body, in my dreams , in times of waking. Voices came to me, ancestors bringing memories spun into Songs that I did not know, fragments.
And sometimes it seemed that my people came to me, those who I knew could not be there - I heard the husky voice of Gov the Smith speak in my ear, and he said, "Hold fast, Singer, hold to us". Another time, it seemed I felt his laughter, gusting like a breeze on my cheek, his musky breath, and I saw him in one of our Backward Dancer masks, making snorting sounds, and belching.
Ah, terrible those days were! And yet, it is a truth known to all that those ordeals that bring us close to death can also cast our spirits adrift, and bring us close to those other worlds, those other lands outside of time. As I lay in great pain and fear, I also passed within, and saw things that I still do not understand the meaning of, yet I know them to be true.
I heard the sounds of shouting, of muted cries, and I realized I had been brought into a tent. The smell of burning was everywhere, from outside, and nearer, the sharp smell of sweat, and blood. Close by me, on my right side, I heard the sound of breathing, and once a low moan, and I knew someone lay beside me, sleeping or unconscious, a wounded man.
I heard a flap open, and then several male voices; I felt them regarding me, and my skin prickled as anger and fear flooded over me. One of them spoke in a deep voice in a language I did not understand. I understood the threat in his voice nevertheless.
Then all three left, and I remained in the darkness. I grew very thirsty, and I slept. When I again became conscious, I sensed that the man lying beside me was also awake. I made a slight gasping sound through my gag, and he rolled closer to me, I felt his leg against my leg, his lips near my ear.
"Singer", he whispered, with effort. I knew then that Hados lay beside me. "Singer, I see that you are awake. Listen to me."
"Singer, there are none left but you and I. They have taken us captive, and mean to bring us to their summer encampment, many miles from here in the north. Their homeland is yet another great span of distance from here. I know these people; they are Da-Sidaya, the Clan of the Grey Wolf. They know my own people, speak my own language. They hope to gain ransom from my people with me, which is why they will not kill me. "
"They will not kill you yet, Singer. They will take you to their Conjur-man. They fear you, they call you witch. You must see to it that they continue to fear you."
Hados breath came fast, and I could hear that he was in pain. He paused, and then slowly, at my ear, tried to speak again in a low whisper.
"I cannot say more, I must try to gather my strength. But hear me; make them fear you. Do not show any weakness, and we will stay alive."
Then Hados rolled away from me, breathing heavily in the thick darkness. "Mother", I prayed, "I do not wish to live. But if it is Your will that I live, then come into me, be with me."
Then I lay blind, longing for water, and spoke the prayers for the dead in silence, which began, "Return, wanderers, go now home, the Gates of the West are open now, they are surely open, hear the drum like a heartbeat, listen, She welcomes you...."
After what seemed like days, a man came into the hut where we lay and removed the gag, and poured water into my mouth, choking me. But my thirst was so great that I swallowed gladly. Then he spoke to Hados, who did not reply, and I heard the sounds of water being given to him as well.
As several other men entered the hut, one spoke with a voice that carried authority and he said something to Hados. When Hados did not answer, one of the men kicked him, and he gasped, and then spoke in that language I did not understand. An exchange followed, with the deep-voiced one doing most of the speaking. Then Hados said to me "He says, you will be given food and water, and your gag removed, but you must not speak or they will kill you. He wants you to nod to let him know that you will obey."
I nodded, and then felt hands roughly remove my gag. I was given more water and a piece of dried meat was put into my mouth. Then I was lifted from where I lay, still blinded, carried outside, and placed onto a litter of some kind. I heard the sound of many voices, all men, and of horses, their hooves stamping into the Earth, and of heavy things being moved.
Days passed on that journey, days of hunger, and thirst, of blindness, of excruciating motion as the litter on which I lay was dragged behind the great horse. I strove to compose myself, to go inside as refuge from my sorrow, and the pain of my body. I feared, at first, that these men would abuse me as I had seen them do with some of the women, with Azhira, and Shioha the weaver, and little Summer, before she died - ah, ah, No! Cried my very being, no, I cannot bear to remember these things - but I did, I held the memory of their deaths, their agonies, I let it all burn into me as is the duty of Singers, and I forced myself to say the prayers of Returning for them, the prayers of Release, the prayers of Forgiveness. And I forced myself not to hate.
The men did not touch me, except to give me water or food. I came to see that they were, indeed, truly afraid of me. At times during this journey, my spirit left my body, in my dreams , in times of waking. Voices came to me, ancestors bringing memories spun into Songs that I did not know, fragments.
And sometimes it seemed that my people came to me, those who I knew could not be there - I heard the husky voice of Gov the Smith speak in my ear, and he said, "Hold fast, Singer, hold to us". Another time, it seemed I felt his laughter, gusting like a breeze on my cheek, his musky breath, and I saw him in one of our Backward Dancer masks, making snorting sounds, and belching.
Ah, terrible those days were! And yet, it is a truth known to all that those ordeals that bring us close to death can also cast our spirits adrift, and bring us close to those other worlds, those other lands outside of time. As I lay in great pain and fear, I also passed within, and saw things that I still do not understand the meaning of, yet I know them to be true.
Once, I saw a Mystery as I lay in the darkness, the sounds of sleeping men and impatient horses surrounding me. I seemed to be flying like a bird, looking down upon the land from a great distance. I was over an expanse of land that was shrouded in mist, brilliant with green, dew-laden grass. And below me was a spiral laid upon the Earth, created of great lichen covered standing stones - a snake of stones woven into the land and mist of this place. And people came there bearing flowers, in reverence, people with pale skin, and beautifully woven garments.
I flew again, to a dry land of tremendous expanse, the country of a fierce sun. I contemplated a cliff of red and ochre stone, sharp against the clear blue sky. And upon this cliff were spirals also, and layers of patterns, patterns that receded into each other endlessly, patterns of the stone, and countless drawings of those who had lived in that place for generations - spirals and waves engraved into the rock - here leapt a deer, a goat, a snake, a dancing figure with a flute, each overlaid upon each.
And then I saw an extraordinary thing - I flew again high over yet another land, a land crossed and crossed by great black lines, roads that wound about each other like snakes, overlaid. Immense buildings could be seen in the distance - and upon those roads, upon their very backs, moved beasts of various colors that were fast, incredibly fast. And here is the wonder - although they flowed upon the back of this great coiled serpent, they were not alive!
I do not know the meaning of such a vision; perhaps it belongs to some distant past or future beyond imagining. But I do believe this: the Song of Her purposes is written upon the land in all places, and in all times.
* * * * * *
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 5, MS 6438
Linear B, Codex 5
After how many days I cannot remember, we at last stopped. At last, my eyes were freed, and I could see. I found myself in a large clearing, an encampment that had perhaps 300 people. Here, for the first time, I saw women, and a few children. I was not given much time to observe them, for I was quickly shoved into a small tent, my hands and feet still bound.
Although I was frightened, and did not know what Hados fate was, it was good, even in pain and captivity, to stop, to lie in the soft darkness of that tent, to rest. A frightened woman, her brown hair tied in long plaits, came into the tent after a while, to give me water and food. She would not meet my eyes, but lifted my head to feed me with a timid hand, and she cleaned away the soiled straw I lay upon.
Hados, I later learned, had been tied to a tree in the encampment for all to view, to curse and to ridicule. He was a traitor, and would have been put to a painful death were it not that he was also the captive son of a rival chieftain - worth, they believed, a rich exchange. They would not harm him, but they despised him.
Three days passed, three days of blessed isolation, save for the woman who came to minister to me. On the third morning, as she offered water, she lifted her head and looked me in the eyes for the first time. I smiled at her, trying to express my gratitude for her gentleness - for she could have been more harsh. It was then I noticed a vivid bruise at her mouth. I also saw that she had suffered some earlier blow. Her nose was broken and her lip slightly deformed. I tried to express my sympathy with my eyes, but she quickly looked away, completed her service, and left me.
I wondered what her fate was, if she was a servant or a captured slave. I could not know then that she was neither, but rather one of the neglected and abused wives of a warrior who did not love her. And the Mother wove Her ways through this desperate and angry woman! For she was, I learned, also a distant cousin of Hados, once proud and privileged within her clan, and wed to her husband with honor. When she saw Hados, she knew him. And through him, she had her silent revenge upon the people she had come to hate for her dishonor - for she contrived to slide a small bronze knife into his bound hands as she brought water to him. And then he recognized her, although no words were exchanged.
That night I woke in the utter darkness with a hand upon my mouth. Lips were pressed to my ear, and I heard Hados voice, whispering: "Singer, be quiet and follow if you can". I felt him cut the leather ties that bound my hands and my feet. I could not rise or walk, having been bound for so long. Hados took my hand, rubbed it hard to restore some circulation, and then quietly pulled me forward a little. And I crawled after him, crawled forward until I crawled between the flaps of the tent into the night.
I could smell blood, and dimly saw the shape of a man lying on the ground beside the tent - the guard Hados had struck. I crawled further away from the tent, still almost blind on that night of the new moon, and heard the restless sounds of horses, sensing our movement. Hados covered me with a cloak he had taken from the guard, and lifted me onto his back. In silence he carried me through the sleeping encampment, appearing like a man burdened with some heavy bundle at his back. And so he quietly disappeared into the forest. For all his suffering and captivity, Hados was still a powerful man, with great reserves of strength - for it was still a long time before I could walk.
Terrifying was that night, and the nights and days that followed! Hados soon found a deep stream, which we followed, walking in it waist deep for what seemed an unbearable distance before passing into the woods again, and finding yet another stream, following it as well, wading and swimming in its waters that were bitterly cold. This, I learned, Hados did for fear they would send dogs after us, dogs that could find us by our scent.
Four full days and nights passed before Hados stopped for longer than a short time. We ate berries we found, and a raw fish Hados caught with his hands. At last we found a sheltering cave, into which we crawled and slept against each other for warmth. And we slept as if we were dead.
* * * * * *
That journey lasted many turnings of the moon. Between Hados and I grew a bond - not passion, but certainly respect, and affection. And after almost 7 moons had risen, our bodies were healed, and spring was drawing near. We had come to a cliff that overlooked the brilliant blue waters of the ocean, dancing in the lengthening sun. In the distance I saw a fishing village. Its people were a small, dark people not unlike my own, whose language I could understand. And in their bay, unlike any of their simple craft, rested a great ship, from I knew not where, with many sailors tending and preparing her. Her sails were beautiful, a bright yellow, and her prow was carved. I felt drawn to that lovely ship. I wanted to go to her, to hear the stories of those who had traveled unknown seas on her, perhaps to seek passage upon her. I longed to walk on the deck of that ship, to leave far behind me the death of my home. I asked Hados to come with me, but he would not.
And so we said farewell. Hados turned away from the sea, and took the sandy road that went back into the highlands. Not even in our parting would he let me touch him with affection, but a slight smile he offered me, a nod. And I blessed him, and watched him disappear among the cliffs.
I flew again, to a dry land of tremendous expanse, the country of a fierce sun. I contemplated a cliff of red and ochre stone, sharp against the clear blue sky. And upon this cliff were spirals also, and layers of patterns, patterns that receded into each other endlessly, patterns of the stone, and countless drawings of those who had lived in that place for generations - spirals and waves engraved into the rock - here leapt a deer, a goat, a snake, a dancing figure with a flute, each overlaid upon each.
And then I saw an extraordinary thing - I flew again high over yet another land, a land crossed and crossed by great black lines, roads that wound about each other like snakes, overlaid. Immense buildings could be seen in the distance - and upon those roads, upon their very backs, moved beasts of various colors that were fast, incredibly fast. And here is the wonder - although they flowed upon the back of this great coiled serpent, they were not alive!
I do not know the meaning of such a vision; perhaps it belongs to some distant past or future beyond imagining. But I do believe this: the Song of Her purposes is written upon the land in all places, and in all times.
* * * * * *
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 5, MS 6438
Linear B, Codex 5
After how many days I cannot remember, we at last stopped. At last, my eyes were freed, and I could see. I found myself in a large clearing, an encampment that had perhaps 300 people. Here, for the first time, I saw women, and a few children. I was not given much time to observe them, for I was quickly shoved into a small tent, my hands and feet still bound.
Although I was frightened, and did not know what Hados fate was, it was good, even in pain and captivity, to stop, to lie in the soft darkness of that tent, to rest. A frightened woman, her brown hair tied in long plaits, came into the tent after a while, to give me water and food. She would not meet my eyes, but lifted my head to feed me with a timid hand, and she cleaned away the soiled straw I lay upon.
Hados, I later learned, had been tied to a tree in the encampment for all to view, to curse and to ridicule. He was a traitor, and would have been put to a painful death were it not that he was also the captive son of a rival chieftain - worth, they believed, a rich exchange. They would not harm him, but they despised him.
Three days passed, three days of blessed isolation, save for the woman who came to minister to me. On the third morning, as she offered water, she lifted her head and looked me in the eyes for the first time. I smiled at her, trying to express my gratitude for her gentleness - for she could have been more harsh. It was then I noticed a vivid bruise at her mouth. I also saw that she had suffered some earlier blow. Her nose was broken and her lip slightly deformed. I tried to express my sympathy with my eyes, but she quickly looked away, completed her service, and left me.
I wondered what her fate was, if she was a servant or a captured slave. I could not know then that she was neither, but rather one of the neglected and abused wives of a warrior who did not love her. And the Mother wove Her ways through this desperate and angry woman! For she was, I learned, also a distant cousin of Hados, once proud and privileged within her clan, and wed to her husband with honor. When she saw Hados, she knew him. And through him, she had her silent revenge upon the people she had come to hate for her dishonor - for she contrived to slide a small bronze knife into his bound hands as she brought water to him. And then he recognized her, although no words were exchanged.
That night I woke in the utter darkness with a hand upon my mouth. Lips were pressed to my ear, and I heard Hados voice, whispering: "Singer, be quiet and follow if you can". I felt him cut the leather ties that bound my hands and my feet. I could not rise or walk, having been bound for so long. Hados took my hand, rubbed it hard to restore some circulation, and then quietly pulled me forward a little. And I crawled after him, crawled forward until I crawled between the flaps of the tent into the night.
I could smell blood, and dimly saw the shape of a man lying on the ground beside the tent - the guard Hados had struck. I crawled further away from the tent, still almost blind on that night of the new moon, and heard the restless sounds of horses, sensing our movement. Hados covered me with a cloak he had taken from the guard, and lifted me onto his back. In silence he carried me through the sleeping encampment, appearing like a man burdened with some heavy bundle at his back. And so he quietly disappeared into the forest. For all his suffering and captivity, Hados was still a powerful man, with great reserves of strength - for it was still a long time before I could walk.
Terrifying was that night, and the nights and days that followed! Hados soon found a deep stream, which we followed, walking in it waist deep for what seemed an unbearable distance before passing into the woods again, and finding yet another stream, following it as well, wading and swimming in its waters that were bitterly cold. This, I learned, Hados did for fear they would send dogs after us, dogs that could find us by our scent.
Four full days and nights passed before Hados stopped for longer than a short time. We ate berries we found, and a raw fish Hados caught with his hands. At last we found a sheltering cave, into which we crawled and slept against each other for warmth. And we slept as if we were dead.
* * * * * *
That journey lasted many turnings of the moon. Between Hados and I grew a bond - not passion, but certainly respect, and affection. And after almost 7 moons had risen, our bodies were healed, and spring was drawing near. We had come to a cliff that overlooked the brilliant blue waters of the ocean, dancing in the lengthening sun. In the distance I saw a fishing village. Its people were a small, dark people not unlike my own, whose language I could understand. And in their bay, unlike any of their simple craft, rested a great ship, from I knew not where, with many sailors tending and preparing her. Her sails were beautiful, a bright yellow, and her prow was carved. I felt drawn to that lovely ship. I wanted to go to her, to hear the stories of those who had traveled unknown seas on her, perhaps to seek passage upon her. I longed to walk on the deck of that ship, to leave far behind me the death of my home. I asked Hados to come with me, but he would not.
And so we said farewell. Hados turned away from the sea, and took the sandy road that went back into the highlands. Not even in our parting would he let me touch him with affection, but a slight smile he offered me, a nod. And I blessed him, and watched him disappear among the cliffs.
CIRCLE
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
October 7, 2000
At last, almost finished. I was looking at a photo album with Paul and Jason yesterday - damn, so many unbelievable years have passed since Hanchrow took that snapshot of me sitting at a beat up wooden table, drinking Slivova with Sofia. And what a long, strange trip it's been for all of us. Jason came back from Mexico the day before yesterday, and we'll be going back to the last passages of the Manuscript tomorrow. We're so close now to completion, we're both almost afraid to admit it. It's hard to imagine what our lives will be like without the Work. Maybe we're both afraid to take inventory of what we've become, to ask ourselves where we're going now.
He's so different....I guess it's been going on for a long time, but seeing him yesterday really brought it home. He was tanned, and almost gaunt. He's lost a lot of weight - that nervous energy is still there, but the beer belly is long gone. I want to talk with him about his excursion into Mexico when he's more, well, grounded. He wasn't exactly "all the way back" when I saw him. He participated, I understand, in a number of ceremonies that included mind-altering substances. He was even wearing what looked to me like a Medicine Bag. I could see it around his neck, before he quickly pushed it under his tee shirt.
We've all changed. And me...I look forward to finishing the Manuscript, and I'm full of regret. The Sibyl has become so much more to me than a long dead author, a collection of frustrating ciphers. She's become a mentor, a friend, a presence in my dreams, a part of myself. I don't even try to imagine where I'll go from here. I find it increasingly hard to live more than one day into the future at a time. And I have no dreams to write about today. Sometimes I feel like my waking life is a dream, and my dreams are as lucid as my waking life....in fact, to tell you the truth, dear little spiral bound book, I don't see any real distinction these days between the dream, and my life, and my work. It's all rather seamless, a wonderful journey, a mythological journey. Increasingly, my life has become an act of myth.
And I'm grateful to be here. There's something re-surfacing, something coming back into the world at last.....magic, enchantment......
Enchantment. I love that word, because it suggests chanting, singing. I remember that among the Aborigines of Australia, the land is so often personified as a rhythm, a chant, songlines. The Great Spirit walks across the land.....What was that Dakota poem? "I, the Song, I Walk Here". The Song, again. There's something coming back, a creative force, a Song we desperately need - I'm going to do my best to help it emerge, to sing it in my own way.
Because we're running out of time. Too much is lost, irretrievably, every day. Environmental statistics aren't enough. We need to experience it. We need to know, in our hearts, in our feet, and all the way down to our roots in the Earth, that we're living in the body of our Mother. Not on the Body, but in the Body.
And what we do to Her, we're doing to ourselves.
* * * * *
We are a Circle within a Circle,
forever turning and returning,
whether we know it or not,
to where we came from.
Ana D'Mitriev
In an article for
Green Egg, 2002.
AUTHORS' NOTES:
Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of the Vezhna manuscripts are the last few
pages, what poet Shannon Drake, in her popular Commentary for a Community of Origins coined the "Sibylline Passage". A great deal of controversy has developed over the years about this passage. Yet, the actual parchments and other archeological objects have at last been recovered (currently they are at the Bulgarian State University in Sofia, although it is anticipated they will be part of another traveling museum exhibition within the next year), and have been carefully researched and evaluated by a number of international teams. They were also carbon-dated within the past three years. They are authentic. We leave the controversy to the reader's speculation.
The authors again wish to thank all of those who participated in this project. May the "Peace of the Goddess" go with you.
Susan Ashley and Mark Delaney
Summer Solstice, Cambridge, 2031
From THE DIARY OF ANA D'MITRIEV
October 7, 2000
At last, almost finished. I was looking at a photo album with Paul and Jason yesterday - damn, so many unbelievable years have passed since Hanchrow took that snapshot of me sitting at a beat up wooden table, drinking Slivova with Sofia. And what a long, strange trip it's been for all of us. Jason came back from Mexico the day before yesterday, and we'll be going back to the last passages of the Manuscript tomorrow. We're so close now to completion, we're both almost afraid to admit it. It's hard to imagine what our lives will be like without the Work. Maybe we're both afraid to take inventory of what we've become, to ask ourselves where we're going now.
He's so different....I guess it's been going on for a long time, but seeing him yesterday really brought it home. He was tanned, and almost gaunt. He's lost a lot of weight - that nervous energy is still there, but the beer belly is long gone. I want to talk with him about his excursion into Mexico when he's more, well, grounded. He wasn't exactly "all the way back" when I saw him. He participated, I understand, in a number of ceremonies that included mind-altering substances. He was even wearing what looked to me like a Medicine Bag. I could see it around his neck, before he quickly pushed it under his tee shirt.
We've all changed. And me...I look forward to finishing the Manuscript, and I'm full of regret. The Sibyl has become so much more to me than a long dead author, a collection of frustrating ciphers. She's become a mentor, a friend, a presence in my dreams, a part of myself. I don't even try to imagine where I'll go from here. I find it increasingly hard to live more than one day into the future at a time. And I have no dreams to write about today. Sometimes I feel like my waking life is a dream, and my dreams are as lucid as my waking life....in fact, to tell you the truth, dear little spiral bound book, I don't see any real distinction these days between the dream, and my life, and my work. It's all rather seamless, a wonderful journey, a mythological journey. Increasingly, my life has become an act of myth.
And I'm grateful to be here. There's something re-surfacing, something coming back into the world at last.....magic, enchantment......
Enchantment. I love that word, because it suggests chanting, singing. I remember that among the Aborigines of Australia, the land is so often personified as a rhythm, a chant, songlines. The Great Spirit walks across the land.....What was that Dakota poem? "I, the Song, I Walk Here". The Song, again. There's something coming back, a creative force, a Song we desperately need - I'm going to do my best to help it emerge, to sing it in my own way.
Because we're running out of time. Too much is lost, irretrievably, every day. Environmental statistics aren't enough. We need to experience it. We need to know, in our hearts, in our feet, and all the way down to our roots in the Earth, that we're living in the body of our Mother. Not on the Body, but in the Body.
And what we do to Her, we're doing to ourselves.
* * * * *
We are a Circle within a Circle,
forever turning and returning,
whether we know it or not,
to where we came from.
Ana D'Mitriev
In an article for
Green Egg, 2002.
AUTHORS' NOTES:
Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of the Vezhna manuscripts are the last few
pages, what poet Shannon Drake, in her popular Commentary for a Community of Origins coined the "Sibylline Passage". A great deal of controversy has developed over the years about this passage. Yet, the actual parchments and other archeological objects have at last been recovered (currently they are at the Bulgarian State University in Sofia, although it is anticipated they will be part of another traveling museum exhibition within the next year), and have been carefully researched and evaluated by a number of international teams. They were also carbon-dated within the past three years. They are authentic. We leave the controversy to the reader's speculation.
The authors again wish to thank all of those who participated in this project. May the "Peace of the Goddess" go with you.
Susan Ashley and Mark Delaney
Summer Solstice, Cambridge, 2031
from THE BOOK OF GAIA
Vehzna 7, MS 3375
Linear B, Codex 5
Many, many years have passed. My life has been long, indeed, longer than any Singer before me. And now at last that span is finished. I have returned after a very long journey indeed, accompanied only by my two old servants, who at last have left on their own journeys home. No trace of my village is left now. Only the silent grass remembers those who lived here once.
I easily found the secret ways, and entered after so many years the inner chambers, our sacred caverns. This is a place of such power, it still stops my breath to enter here, to feel again the beat of Her Heart, the voices of my people, of all our ancestors, held here. Nothing is lost.
As I entered the last chamber, I was struck to see, by the light of my torch, that one other had also once dwelt here. Here I found the long dead body of Hados. I saw that he had returned here, long ago, and attended these chambers, growing old in his solitude, his long exile. And I saw that he had left behind a marvelous work of his own hands - many years he must have labored here, to create this beautiful casket, his homage and atonement to One he was not born to, but came to serve.
Within it, I found his sword, his shield, and his gold medallion. Those tokens of war I will give to the river, to be dissipated by the compassionate waters. Hados' war is over, and his spirit is free.
His Sun medallion I have placed about his neck, for he was the son of a Chieftain.
And his gift, this I will use to leave my own offering to the future.
I have come home. The Mother of Bones called me, and I have come to return to Her depths, to rest, to give my Song to this holy place, this deep resonance, to become stone at last, to go Home. I leave you my story as a love token, a spark.
I am old. I have seen the passing of my time, and I have seen the ways of my people lost to memory, lost to themselves.
Hados was the first, a messenger, a reluctant God of Death. And after him came a wave with no ending.
And here in the Underworld, Hados sleeps in the arms of the Mother. Here lies the Song of Hados and Persepha, until their Circle shall close again, and new Songs arise in the world. Then, they may meet again, and clasp loving hands at last, and lead us back into Spring.
I alone remain, a white-haired ghost woman, the last Singer. My life has been long beyond my own imagining. I have seen wonders beyond my own imagining.
I have seen my people diminish, as tall riders came from the north in waves without number; I have seen them kill and love, and raise stones, and raise cities, and I have seen even a few of those cities diminish. I have seen the ships of Phoenicia vanish into the west, never to return, leaving behind only shards of blue glass, glittering in the sun. I have walked among the laughing, dark-eyed people of the islands, gathering black olives in sun-washed groves, learning to press the oil, drinking sweet wine and beholding dolphins dancing within the golden sea, calling us to delight. And I have seen them swallowed by the waves.
And I have walked in the high, holy lands, in Delphi when it was young, and I have been their Oracle, their Pythoness. I lived among strangers, and yet I did not fail Her Voice. I did not forget what I was born to. But these are other stories. Now I have come home, with my mementoes, my regrets, my praise.
I leave this for you, my friends. I see you, here, a man with gray hair and careful hands, a tall woman with a black braid falling down your back.
I see you. I see you.
You will bring blinding light into this chamber, so long sealed by darkness.
I see your wonder, I hear you speak into this long silence in a tongue that is not yet conceived. I greet you.
This is your Song now.
Vehzna 7, MS 3375
Linear B, Codex 5
Many, many years have passed. My life has been long, indeed, longer than any Singer before me. And now at last that span is finished. I have returned after a very long journey indeed, accompanied only by my two old servants, who at last have left on their own journeys home. No trace of my village is left now. Only the silent grass remembers those who lived here once.
I easily found the secret ways, and entered after so many years the inner chambers, our sacred caverns. This is a place of such power, it still stops my breath to enter here, to feel again the beat of Her Heart, the voices of my people, of all our ancestors, held here. Nothing is lost.
As I entered the last chamber, I was struck to see, by the light of my torch, that one other had also once dwelt here. Here I found the long dead body of Hados. I saw that he had returned here, long ago, and attended these chambers, growing old in his solitude, his long exile. And I saw that he had left behind a marvelous work of his own hands - many years he must have labored here, to create this beautiful casket, his homage and atonement to One he was not born to, but came to serve.
Within it, I found his sword, his shield, and his gold medallion. Those tokens of war I will give to the river, to be dissipated by the compassionate waters. Hados' war is over, and his spirit is free.
His Sun medallion I have placed about his neck, for he was the son of a Chieftain.
And his gift, this I will use to leave my own offering to the future.
I have come home. The Mother of Bones called me, and I have come to return to Her depths, to rest, to give my Song to this holy place, this deep resonance, to become stone at last, to go Home. I leave you my story as a love token, a spark.
I am old. I have seen the passing of my time, and I have seen the ways of my people lost to memory, lost to themselves.
Hados was the first, a messenger, a reluctant God of Death. And after him came a wave with no ending.
And here in the Underworld, Hados sleeps in the arms of the Mother. Here lies the Song of Hados and Persepha, until their Circle shall close again, and new Songs arise in the world. Then, they may meet again, and clasp loving hands at last, and lead us back into Spring.
I alone remain, a white-haired ghost woman, the last Singer. My life has been long beyond my own imagining. I have seen wonders beyond my own imagining.
I have seen my people diminish, as tall riders came from the north in waves without number; I have seen them kill and love, and raise stones, and raise cities, and I have seen even a few of those cities diminish. I have seen the ships of Phoenicia vanish into the west, never to return, leaving behind only shards of blue glass, glittering in the sun. I have walked among the laughing, dark-eyed people of the islands, gathering black olives in sun-washed groves, learning to press the oil, drinking sweet wine and beholding dolphins dancing within the golden sea, calling us to delight. And I have seen them swallowed by the waves.
And I have walked in the high, holy lands, in Delphi when it was young, and I have been their Oracle, their Pythoness. I lived among strangers, and yet I did not fail Her Voice. I did not forget what I was born to. But these are other stories. Now I have come home, with my mementoes, my regrets, my praise.
I leave this for you, my friends. I see you, here, a man with gray hair and careful hands, a tall woman with a black braid falling down your back.
I see you. I see you.
You will bring blinding light into this chamber, so long sealed by darkness.
I see your wonder, I hear you speak into this long silence in a tongue that is not yet conceived. I greet you.
This is your Song now.
