Thrice Born

by Jon Jacks

  For isn’t that the way of the world: that the moral man will always be compensated, the immoral one punished? That the breaking of taboos can only ever result in a vengeful nature obliterating everything you have so assiduously worked for?

  The children of men seek, above all things, the Sôsipolis, the Sôtêr; the Saviour.

  *

  For a while, Iakkhos shunned the scruples of these children of men.

  He lived, rather, by the rules of his mother, his own moral effort focused on bringing himself into full accordance with the ways of nature, of becoming a part of its natural flow rather than foolishly attempting to resist it.

  Yet even he wasn’t wholly immune to the promises of the dying Saviour who, dying along with the world, rises again, triumphant over Death.

  His mother had told him as much as she dared of his lineage, of the death of the pitiful Zemele, who in effect had died so that he might later live.

  Naturally, Cybela had told him of these histories in pure good faith, recounting the most important points; for even she, of course, was incapable of informing him of every singe detail.

  And there lies the major problem of any retelling of our histories.

  For where details are lacking, the eager listener to the tale will always fill in the gaps with idealistic constructions of his own making; imaginings dragged up from his own, particular well of experiences.

  Within this new version of the tale, poor, sad Zemele still remained trapped deep within the underworld.

  She required saving.

  Iakkhos could, at the very least, be her saviour.

  *

  Chapter 21

  Of all the many histories recalled by Cybela, Iakkhos had found the story of Apollonious’ appearance in the underworld particularly tantalising.

  Apollonious had hung upon a cross until unconscious, then had been laid within a tomb for three days; his initiation into the Arcanum of Egypt, all of which had taken place within the Great Pyramid.

  Cybela had also read within Apollonious’ own histories of his experiences within the Oracle of Trophonios.

  Following in Apollonious’ footsteps, Iakkhos believed it wise to visit this oracle first, to ensure that the gods weren’t entirely incensed by his ambitions.

  He bathed in the river.

  He was anointed with oil.

  He slaked his thirst with a drink from the Spring of Lethe, the Water of Forgetfulness; such that he would forget everything he had intended to ask and do here, for fear of offending the oracle in his presumption.

  Dressed in a tunic of purest white linen, Iakkhos lay down on the ground, at first slipping nothing but his feet into the opening to the oracle, its entrance so narrow, so low – two spans wide, only one span high – it was only just large enough to squeeze a body through.

  He clung nervously to the honey cakes he had brought with him, for they were required to appease the Sacred Serpents who guard the oracle.

  Next, young attendants eased him a little along the ground, his knees now following his feet and disappearing into the dark, minute hole; and then, as if he had been abruptly caught up in the powerful whirlings of a mighty and swift stream, the rest of his body was immediately pulled in through the gap.

  In an instant, he was being rapidly dragged along in an irresistible swirl of purest darkness.

  *

  The cave seemed impossibly deep, endlessly dark.

  It could have been the dark womb of the earth itself.

  Iakkhos believed he could hear it throbbing with life; but it was only the heavy beating of his own troubled heart.

  When his feet at last struck what could be firm ground, there was a snap, a hiss, as the guardian serpents that he had felt coiling around his limbs now released him, their retreat caught only as glimpses of what could be snaking ropes.

  ‘I have sunk beneath the bosom of Despoina, Queen of the Underworld,’ Iakkhos prayed fearfully. ‘Each and all must be born anew with the New Birth of the world. Such is the Way.’

  *

  As the serpents withdrew, mingling once more with the darkness, Iakkhos realised with relief that the air here was cool and pure.

  After his cramped confinement for so long, this cave appeared to be far larger, and at least offered him freedom of movement.

  Now, too, instead of the writhings of the serpents he could hear instead the more musically calming whir of something revolving overhead, perhaps even the whistles of birds.

  In the darkness, he saw floating everywhere around him what could have been innumerable, perfectly circular islands, each lit with the soft glow of minute flames.

  There was a snap. A hiss. A flickering, a tumbling, of fire,

  Something rushed at him from out of the darkness.

  There was an ear-splitting crash as it struck him hard about the head.

  The sutures parted; and his soul was released.

  *

  Chapter 22

  Iakkhos recognised the scene that opened up before him; he had seem it similarly portrayed upon vases, on temple walls.

  This was the palace of Polynomos of The Darkness of Lower Earth.

  There was Persephone, holding her torch, her casket containing seeds.

  To her right was her sister, holding two blazing torches.

  And the third sister, the Ever-Maiden Kore; where was she?

  She wouldn’t be here of course, would she? Her domain wasn’t the underworld.

  She was the young, green Earth. The waxing Moon.

  Orpheus stood before the two implacable, stern-faced sisters. He was playing his lyre to them, placating them with his words and music, pleading for the release of his beloved Eurydike.

  To his left, there is a door, left tantalisingly open; but it is guarded by a third woman, one holding the Judgement Scales in one hand, the Vengeful Sword of Aesa in her other.

  And at her feet, their twirls a wheel.

  It isn’t the four-spoked wheel of the zodiac, however, the wheel of the chariot that ensures Helios can transverse the heavens. This is one of three parts, such that it could be three legs, keeping it all endlessly revolving, with the aid of nothing or no one.

  Keeping everything endlessly revolving.

  It was this guardian of the eternally whirling wheel who at last spoke to the bemused and terrified Iakkhos.

  ‘You seek Zemele,’ she said coolly, immediately sensing and understanding Iakkhos’ reasons for coming here. ‘But Zemele is already resurrected; she made her own way out of here long go, needing the aid of no man, no son or lover, to help her return to the surface.’

  Iakkhos gawped at her in disbelief. He turned slightly to stare at Orpheus, who still played on.

  ‘But Eurydike–’

  ‘Is free to leave whenever she wishes; for I am Eury-Dike, She of The Wide-Way.’

  *

  ‘Don't worry Iakkhos: in the way men wish to rule the world, they will ensure that it is told that it is you who rescued Zemele from the Darkness of Lower Earth,’ Eury-Dike pronounced sternly. ‘They will claim that you led the way out by the light of a torch, thus gaining for yourself the epithet Eubouleus, “of good counsel”.’

  ‘But I have no right to such honours if – as you claim – Zemele already left long ago.’ There was still a hint of doubt underlying his apparently modest statement, particularly when he added, ‘If she is indeed resurrected, as you say, then why haven’t I seen her?’

  ‘Still, she has been warmly embraced by those closest to you,’ Eury-Dike said, explaining further, ‘Others will come closer to the truth, when they say that it was your twin, your feminine aspect Melinoe, who lights the way for lost souls stranded in the all-pervading darkness: which is why she is also called Telete, or consecration.’

  ‘If you say you’re free to leave,’ Iakkhos petulantly demanded, ‘then why do you remain here, rather than returning to the light?’

  ‘My name is of Eurysternos, and Dike; Earth Goddesses both. This is the Gate of The Wa
ys, the Paths, the Goings of Day and Night, to which I hold the key. My Way is the true order of living, the eternally revolving cycle of life.’

  The hall was suddenly plunged into an eerie silence as Orpheus set his lyre down.

  Before he could speak, Persephone irately chastised him.

  ‘You quite obviously regard me as some sullen terror of the underworld; why do you not see me instead as the wealth that rises up from the earth?’

  The maiden holding the two torches spoke with equal fury.

  ‘Neither should we be regarded by you as some fearful spectre of the night; can’t you see us instead as the life-giving moon, that waxes and wanes, but will always return?’

  ‘But I appeal to the goodness of your–’

  Orpheus’ pleading was cut short once more.

  ‘There is no “goodness” in our nature.’

  ‘You seek it within us only because you place such vast importance upon it.’

  ‘Such morality appears only in the very last of our creations: yet, obviously, it is not something that we ourselves feel ethically bound by.’

  ‘It is a strange mystery indeed to us that, within our omnipotent yet relatively blind revolutions, we have created a child gifted with knowledge of good and evil; and yet he too often remains either deliberately or unconsciously blind to its true workings.’

  ‘You search in vain for Secret Knowledge, hoping this will be your saviour…’

  ‘You search in vain for that which cannot be found.’

  ‘For the Secret is; there is no secret.’

  *

  Iakkhos woke up in the immeasurable darkness of the womb.

  The whirlings of the swirling, overhead islands had ceased.

  Their flames had been doused.

  Naturally, Iakkhos briefly wondered if had been merely knocked unconscious by some accidentally falling rock; that he had merely imagined everything that had appeared to take place deep within the underworld.

  Then he realised he was no longer holding his honey cakes.

  He was holding in their place a wheel of three spokes.

  *

  Chapter 23

  He didn’t have to wander very far in the darkness before realising, with a mix of surprise and relief, that the earth had quite naturally brought him up close to the surface once more.

  He exited the cave, where his young attendants were waiting for him.

  He had heard that, sometimes, the supplicant returns the way he had entered the cave, only in reverse, with his feet pointing towards the daylight.

  He slaked his thirst once more, this time from the Spring of Mnemosyne, the Water of Memory.

  His attendants urged him to follow them, to sit upon the Throne of Mnemosyne, where they would help him interpret the messages he had received while wandering around deep within the oracle.

  He realised at last, however, that he no longer had any need for such false interpretations.

  He remembered enough of his experience to know that he held in his hands a route to a much truer answer: the Wheel of The Universe, which would sympathetically link him to the rotating of the regular courses of the heavenly bodies.

  *

  Iakkhos suspended the wheel upon three silken purple threads.

  He had decided to draw down the Moon herself.

  He twirled the three-spoked wheel around in his hands, entwining the three supporting threads.

  He stopped only when the entwined threads appeared to be rising up from the opened beak of the iynx rising up in the wheel’s centre: such that the threads could be its serpentine tongue, carrying messages to the gods.

  On releasing the wheel, it twirled as it descended, the nine birds on its rim singing as air rushed through the carefully positioned holes in their beaks.

  Iakkhos knelt before the whirling wheel, letting his mind think only of the wheeling, singing birds; the ten that become twelve.

  For the tenth is the Three That Are One.

  The sacrificial firebird, who melts like a puppet of wax.

  The phoenix, who rises up from the ashes.

  Like Zemele.

  The incantation he must recite came naturally to Iakkhos.

  ‘Iynx, iynx, draw her hither….’

  *

  Chapter 24

  Cybela sensed that the blushing Moon was being called upon.

  She quietly approached her son as he knelt before the whirling wheel.

  Iakkhos appeared to be mesmerised by the wheel’s spinning, its rising, its falling.

  He turned and rose up from the earth as he heard his mother’s almost silent approach.

  She blushed, ashamed that she had unintentionally interrupted his incantations.

  ‘You were calling upon Phoebe?’ she asked.

  He nodded ashamedly, embarrassed that he’d been discovered involving himself in such nonsense; that, worse still, it hadn’t worked for him.

  ‘Yet she didn’t respond?’

  Cybela stared up into the darkening sky.

  The stars were out. But Phoebe remained veiled.

  Iakkhos shook his head, again ashamedly.

  ‘Strange,’ Cybela murmured bemusedly, ‘I’ve always found her most helpful.’

  *

  ‘Zemele…I believe Zemele has somehow been resurrected,’ Iakkhos told his mother uncertainly, now doubting the truth of his own words as he spoke them out loud; doubting even that his experience had been real, fearing that it had been at best a vision.

  The twisted cords of the wheel still caused it to fall then rise again, fall and rise; but its power was waning.

  ‘To rise up from death?’ Cybela appeared more bemused than ever, recalling that even her sister remained trapped in the underworld for most of the year. ‘Is this possible?’

  The whirlings of the wheel came to a halt.

  It no longer revolved.

  The singing of the birds was also stilled.

  The breathing of the air, too, was no more.

  With the stilling of the wheel, even the stars seemed to have come to an abrupt halt in their own wheelings about the dark sky.

  The only light now was that passing dimly about Cybela, throwing a shadowed likeness of her upon the ground.

  The shadow shivered.

  It began to burgeon upward, a growth of pure darkness.

  It could have been the pitiful Zemele rising up from her own ashes.

  *

  Chapter 25

  Cybela happily embraced this resurrected Zemele, recognising her at last as her sister Persephone.

  ‘Sister!’ they both cried out happily together, as one.

  ‘Sister?’ repeated Iakkhos fearfully.

  It dawned on him that there were huge gaps in his knowledge of even his own lineage. Yet he was reassured to see that Cybela had no fear of this supposed sullen underworld queen.

  Even so, Persephone realised that she should put the youth at ease.

  ‘Don't fear, Iakkhos,’ she said. ‘Man needs his tales of reassurance. And those tales will revolve around three youthful gods.’

  She approached him, holding him tenderly. Her embrace was nowhere near as cold as he had feared it might be.

  ‘There will be Dionysus, Child of The Darkness of Lower Earth,’ Persephone continued. ‘As it were, the Yolk of an Egg.’

  The shadows that gave form to her face, her body, rippled, flowed: and she now exactly fitted Cybela’s description of Zemele.

  ‘There will also be Bromios, Child of Heavenly Fire,’ Zemele said. ‘As it were, the Shell of an Egg.’

  Now Iakkhos’ own mother approached him, embracing him tenderly.

  ‘Then there is Iakkhos, Child of All That Flows Beneath The Moon,’ Cybela pronounced happily. ‘As it were, the White of an Egg.’

  As she spoke these words, a glow that could have been the silken white of an egg began to suffuse Cybela’s shoulder, until it shone as brightly as if made of the most finely polished ivory.

  On this side of Cybe
la, on the opposite side to where her shadow sister Persephone stood once more, a glittering Leucophryne appeared.

  ‘Yet these three gods serve as nothing more than the three entwined, silken threads,’ the White Goddess declared, ‘that some say cause the Great Wheel to whirl.’

  The wheel was spinning once more, in no need at all of the twisted threads to power it. Instead, the three spokes could have been three legs, setting it spinning in endless motion.

  ‘The Great Wheel that calls down the Moon whenever we need her most,’ Cybela breathed excitedly.

  ‘For the Moon is She Who has Many Names,’ added Persephone.

  *

  ‘It will be you, too, Iakkhos,’ the White Goddess kindly assured him, ‘who will be said to have raised Zemele to be goddess once more; naming her Thyone, as the ancients named the Earth Thuonê.’

  ‘Goddess? But–’

  ‘It is time my sister returned to her rightful position,’ Persephone interrupted Iakkhos adamantly.

  A bewildered Iakkhos looked from one to the other of the three maidens standing before him, unable to tell them apart but for the way the light either emanated, suffused, or was drawn into them.

  ‘I can’t leave–’ Cybela began to protest, holding her son tighter to her than ever, reluctant to let him go.

  ‘Every child must at some point be left free to make his own way in the world,’ Leucophryne assured her, her glow now so concentrated that her form was no longer clear, her edges dissolving in the blazing radiance.

  The light was so intensely bright that all boundaries within it became diffused, senseless – useless, and entirely insignificant.

  On Cybela’s other side, the deep shadows had similarly become seamless, the darkness taking on no form, no borders.

  All Protective Phoebe had returned, at no one’s bidding but her own.