The Firebrand (19 page)

“She who is the Mother of All was never born; and so She can never be slain,” Evadne said, making a reverent gesture. “As for the Sun Lord, the Immortals understand one another, and They do not see these things the way we might. Earth Mother, so they say, first had Her shrine where Apollo built His Oracle; and they say that while the shrine was abuilding, a great serpent or dragon came out of the very navel of the earth, and the Sun Lord—or perhaps His priest, it makes no difference—slew the beast with His arrows. And so, I think, some ignorant folk put it about that He had had a quarrel with Serpent Mother; but the Sun Lord, like all other created beings, is Her child.”

“Then, although it is the Sun Lord who has called me, I may answer the call of the Mother?”

“All created beings owe service to Her,” said the priestess, repeating her reverent gesture, “and more than that I may not say to the uninitiated. Now, I think, you should wash and make yourself ready to join the others who will make this journey with you. Later, if you wish, I can tell you some tales of the Goddess as She is worshiped here.”

Kassandra hastened to obey, neatly arranging the gown she had so quickly thrown on. Andromache’s robe was too long for her, and hung loose about her ankles; she tucked it up through her girdle so that she could walk easily. Then she combed her dark hair and left it unbound, as she had been told was seemly for virgins in this city, though it was troublesome to feel it hanging loose and blowing in the wind instead of being neatly braided.

She could hear, outside in the street, the sounds of the festival; women were coming out of the houses and were running about carrying green branches and bunches of flowers. Evadne came and led her into the throne room, where a number of girls about her own age were gathered; the throne was empty today, covered with a cloth of woven gold, on which coiled Imandra’s great snake.

“Look,” whispered one of the girls. “They say the Queen is also a priestess who can transform herself into a snake.”

“What nonsense,” Kassandra said. “The Queen is elsewhere and has left her serpent on the throne as a symbol of her power.”

Penthesilea was among the women waiting. Kassandra stole to her kinswoman’s side, and the Amazon Queen took her hand and held it tight; although Kassandra was not exactly frightened, she was glad of the reassurance of the touch. Imandra was there among them too, but at first Kassandra had not recognized her, for the Queen wore the ordinary dress of a priestess. This seemed reasonable to Kassandra—it was also the custom in Troy that the Queen should be the mortal representative of the Great Goddess.

She was surprised not to find Andromache also among them; if her cousin had been initiated last year, why did she not join the other priestesses? Still, it seemed Andromache was not particularly involved in religion; was this, she wondered, another reason Imandra hesitated to have her daughter succeed her as Queen? She had not known this was how Imandra felt till now; but she was growing accustomed to knowing or hearing the unspoken and seeing the invisible.

Imandra gestured the chattering girls to silence; the women who were already initiated priestesses gathered around her. Kassandra realized that she was the eldest of the candidates remaining; probably it was the custom in this city to initiate women somewhat younger. She wondered whether all these girls were to dedicate their lives to the Goddess, or only to “offer service when it was asked of them,” which was the alternative Evadne had suggested. Either way, this was a preliminary initiation and taken for granted, it seemed, as a first step to service to the Immortals.

The older women gathered the uninitiated girls into a circle in their midst, with Imandra at their center. Behind them Kassandra heard from somewhere the beating of a drum, a soft, incessant sound like a heartbeat.

“At this time of the year,” Imandra intoned, “we celebrate the return of Earth’s Daughter from the underground where She has been imprisoned during the chill of the winter season. We see Her coming as the green of spring spreads over the barren lands, clothing the meadows and woods with the brightness of leaves and flowers.”

Silence, except for the unending thrumming of the drums beaten by the women behind them.

“Here we sit in darkness, awaiting the return of Light; here we shall descend, each of us, to seek Earth’s Daughter, into the realms of darkness. Each of us shall be purified and learn the ways of Truth.”

The story went on in a monotone, telling the tale of Earth’s Daughter, and how She had been lured into the underground realms, and how the serpents had comforted Her and sworn that no one of them would ever harm Her. Kassandra had heard only scraps of the story before this, because it either was not known to the uninitiated, or was not considered suitable hearing for outsiders. She listened intently, fascinated, her head aching with the sound of the drums that went on and on, never ceasing, behind the voices.

It began to seem that she was caught in a dream that went on and on for many days, knowing she was awake, but never fully conscious. Some time later she became aware, without the slightest idea how or where it had happened, that they were no longer in the throne room, but in a great dark cave, with water trickling from damp walls that rose far overhead into great echoing spaces which made the voices ring hollow and drowned even the sound of the drums.

Somewhere there was a reed flute whispering thin music and calling to her in a voice she almost knew.Then she felt—for it was too dim for her to see anything—a flat pottery bowl with raised design being passed from hand to hand, each girl in turn raising the bowl to her lips, drinking and passing it on. She could never remember afterward what they had said when she was bidden to drink. She thought, till she touched her lips to the brew, that it was wine.

She tasted a curious slimy bitterness which made her think of the smell of the blighted rye Penthesilea had bidden her remember; as she drank she thought her stomach would rebel, but with a fierce effort she controlled the queasiness and brought her attention back to the drums. The story had ended; for the life of her she could not remember how it had ended, or what had been the fate of Earth’s Daughter.

After a time her disorientation became so great that it seemed she was no longer within the circle of women in the cave; she had no idea where she was, but she did not wonder about it. It did cross her mind that perhaps the brew had been some kind of drug, but she did not wonder about that either. She touched the chilly damp ground and was surprised that it felt like ordinary paving stone; had she moved at all? Strange colors crawled before her eyes, and it seemed for a moment that she was walking through a great dark tunnel.

Share with Earth’s Daughter the descent into darkness,
a voice guided her from afar; whether a real voice or not she never knew.
One by one you must leave behind all the things of this world which are dear to you, for now you have no part in them.

She discovered that she was wearing her weapons; she would willingly have taken an oath that she had left them behind this morning. Through the sound of the drums the guiding voice came again:

Kassandra fumbled with the unfamiliar girdle of the robe she was wearing and unfastened the jeweled belt which held her sword and spear. She remembered Hecuba admonishing her to wear them always with honor; but that had been very far away and had nothing to do with this dark chamber. Had Penthesilea too come to this dark doorway and yielded up her weapons? She heard the sword and spear slide to the floor and strike there with a metallic sound within the noise of the drums.

Why did her hands move so slowly—or had she moved them at all? Was it all an illusion of the drums, or was she still crouched motionless in the dark circle, even while she strode boldly down the dark tunnel, clad in Andromache’s long ungirt robe, which somehow did not trip her up at all?

Somewhere there was an eye of fire. Flames below her? Or was she looking into the slitted eye of the serpent?

It surveyed her unblinking, and a voice demanded:

The serpent’s eye was close now; it moved, caressing her, and in a flicker of memory—centuries ago, in another life perhaps?—she remembered how she had caressed the serpents in the Sun Lord’s House, and embraced them without fear. It was as if she embraced them again, and the eye came closer and closer; the world narrowed further till there was nothing in the dark with her except the serpent’s embrace. Pain stabbed through her until she was certain she was dying, and she sank into death almost with relief.

But she was not dead; she was still moving through the fiery darkness alone; but there was a voice heard through the thrumming of the drums which went on until her whole head was ringing with it.

Kassandra thought madly,
I can’t imagine what good my life would be to Her, but I’ve come so far, I won’t turn back now.
She thought that she spoke aloud, but a part of her mind insisted that she made no sound, that speech was an illusion, like everything else which had happened to her on this journey—if it was indeed a journey and not a curious dream.

She hung senseless in the darkness, shot through with fire, surrounded by the rushing sound of wings.

There was a little lightening of the darkness; before her eyes she saw a swirling paleness, from which gradually emerged a pair of dark eyes, a pallid face. She had seen the face before, reflected in a stream . . . it was her own. A voice very close to her whispered through the drumming and the whining flutes:

Then the rushing wings took her, blotting out everything. Wings and dark hurricane winds, thrusting her upward, upward toward the light, protesting,
But there is so much more to know . . .

The winds were ripping her asunder; a lightning-flash revealed cruel eyes and beaks, rending, tearing—it was as if something alien flowed through her, filling her up like deep dark water, crowding out all thought and awareness. She looked down from a great height on someone who was and at the same time was not herself, and knew she looked on the face of the Goddess. Then her tenuous hold on consciousness surrendered, and still protesting, she fell into an endless silent chasm of blinding light.

SOMEONE WAS gently touching her face.

“Open your eyes, my child.”

Kassandra felt sick and weak, but she opened her eyes to silence and cool damp air. She was back in the cavern . . . had she ever left it? Her head was pillowed in Penthesilea’s lap; the older woman’s face was blurred with such a halo of light that Kassandra shielded her eyes with her hands and blurted out, “But you—
you
are the Goddess . . .” then fell silent in awe before her kinswoman. Her eyes hurt, and she closed them.

“Of course,” the older woman whispered; “and so are you, my child. Never forget that.”

“But what happened? Where am I? I was—”

Penthesilea quickly covered Kassandra’s lips with a warning hand.

“Hush; it is forbidden to speak of the Mystery,” she said. “But you have come far indeed; most candidates go no farther than the First Gate. Come,” Penthesilea murmured. “Come.”

Kassandra rose, stumbling, and her kinswoman steadied her.

The drums were silent, only the fire and a thin wailing. Now she could see the flute player, a thin woman hunched behind the fire. Her eyes were vacant, and she swayed faintly as if in ecstasy; but the fire and the flute at least had been real. In a circle around them, about half the maidens still lay entranced, each watched over by one of the older priestesses. There were vacant spaces in the circle. Penthesilea urged her to make her way carefully, touching no one, toward the entrance of the cavern. Outside, it was raining, but from the dim twilight she could tell that the day was almost over. The drops of rain felt icy and clean on her face. She felt sick and fiercely thirsty; she tried to catch rain in her hands and sip the drops, but Penthesilea led her through a door she vaguely remembered seeing, and then she was in Imandra’s lamp-lit throne room, where the magical journey had begun. She still walked carefully, as if she were a fragile jar filled to the brim with alien wine which would spill if she made a careless movement. Queen Imandra came from somewhere and embraced her, clasping her tightly in her arms.

“Welcome back, little sister, from the realms where the Dark One walked with you. Your journey was long, but I rejoice for your safe return,” said the Queen. “Now you are one with all of us who belong to Her.”

Penthesilea said, “She passed all three Gates.”

“I know,” Imandra answered. “But this initiation was long delayed. She is priestess born, and it is late for her.”

She stood back and took Kassandra by the shoulders as her mother might have done. “You look pale, child; how are you feeling?”

“Please,” said Kassandra, “I am so thirsty.” But when Penthesilea would have poured her some wine, the smell sickened her, and she asked for water instead. It was clear and cold and relieved her thirst, but like everything she would eat or drink for many days, it had a pervasive slimy-fishy taste.

Imandra said, “Be sure to notice what you dream this night; it will be a special message from Earth’s Daughter.” Then she asked Penthesilea, “You will be returning south soon, now you have Her word?”