I reread the statements of Plutarch in which he told of the Germanic holy women reading the eddies and currents of the streams about 2,000 years ago, studying both the sounds and the movement and, from what they found, warned against engaging in a battle until the time of the new moon. The more cynical of us might say that the women believed that by the time of the new moon it would be warmer, or colder, or even just darker, but, according to Plutarch, the advice was given—and taken. I reread the passages on the prophecy of the Sibyl who claimed that the twelve-year-long Punic War would not come to an end until the sacred stone of the goddess Kybele was brought to Rome from the city of Pessinus in Turkey, and added that a great temple must be built to house the stone, and to honor the Anatolian goddess Kybele, in the heart of Rome. Incidentally, although the advice of the Germanic holy women was given as the reason that the Germanic tribes lost a battle to Caesar’s advancing army, the Sibylline oracle was honored. Not only did the twelve-year-long war end shortly after the black meteorite arrived in Rome, a year of exceptional prosperity following, but a great temple to the Anatolian goddess Kybele was completed thirteen years later in the area now known as Vatican City. Tablets found in 1603 AD suggested it was not far from, and possibly directly beneath, where St. Peter’s stands today.
As I continue to go through the pages of the manuscript, I locate passages on the many women who were consulted not by royalty or leaders of armies, but by poorer folk who wanted to hear about the future of a child still in the womb, or of the best time to plant seeds, so that the family harvest would be plentiful enough to last through the dry season. In our own language, we might use the word “prophetess” to describe an individual woman who foretells the future. The Babylonians referred to such women as “Sha’iltu” or “Apiltu.” The Celts of Ireland called them “Banfathi” and the Scandinavians knew them as “Voolvah.” It is obvious that not everyone had access to such famed and wealthy oracular temples as the Grecian Delphi, Roman Cumae, or Babylonian Arbela, but there are records of women counted upon for their foresight into the future, and their wise counsel on it, from cultures all over the world.
The voice, which had been silent as I had been reading and typing all this time, suddenly says, “Don’t you see? It is the evidence of these mortal women having been regarded as authorities and counselors on the future that must be shared with the women at the conference. It is this information that will assure women that it was for so long considered to be the natural role of women to look into the future, not just predict it but to provide advice and counsel on how to proceed. It seems to me that denying this natural role of woman is what led the world into the confusion it is in today. This image of mortal women, though often viewed as speaking the messages of the Goddess, will offer strength and certainty to women, not only to consider and speak out about what is going to happen but to expect and, if necessary, demand that women’s voices be heard again in all planning of the future of the world.”
Suddenly, a “vision” begins to reel across the visual screen of my mind. It is of a woman addressing a large audience of women and men. As she speaks, her age, her face, and her size keep changing. She is tall, short, heavy, thin, young, old, black, white, brown, gold, but all the while her voice continues, her words filled with both logic and compassion—while everyone present listens in respectful concentration to what she is saying. I especially check to see if the men are making any snide remarks, but they appear to be just as anxious not to miss a word of what she is saying as the women are. The “vision” makes me smile, though I am sitting alone, and I feel as if a reserve supply of energy just entered my body. With this heightened energy I continue to read through my material on women and prophecy and realize that I will speak on women and prophets of the past. Intuition has won the argument and I hear her sigh with relief as I type this. Then she suggests that I include this play-by-play description of how and why I decided to change the topic of my talk—as part of it. “Did I not initially say I was planning to discuss ‘process’?” she reminds me. I reserve the right to put off my decision on this until I read over what I have written.
I start to reread the records of the oracles from the Ishtar temple at Arbela. I notice how many start with the priestess announcing, “I am the Goddess Ishtar of Arbela,” so that there is no doubt that the voices of the priestesses of Arbela were understood to be conveying messages from the Goddess Herself. As I am reading, the voice of Intuition nudges me again gently. I wince a bit at the prospect of even more advice, but what she asks of me this time is more easily done.
“Tell them the names of the priestesses who spoke the oracles at Arbela,” she says, “the ones whose names are recorded at the end of each ancient temple tablet. How many women today know the names that were buried on those clay tablets all these years—or even that the names are there to be known?” As I look over the names on the translations from the tablets discovered in excavations of the Ishtar temple in Arbela, I hear Intuition’s voice reading along with me, lingering nostalgically over each name as if over the names of old friends one has not heard mentioned for a long time. It is as if there is a deep, cavernous echo in my head as I hear her read the names aloud: “Belitabisha, Sinkisha-Amur, Ishtar-bel-daini, Ishtar Latashyat, Urkittu Sharrat, Baja, and Rimute-allate.” Perhaps to ease the intensity of still hearing the names echoing in my mind—as if in a long time tunnel—I find myself trying to regain my balance by a somewhat facetious query about whether or not any of these women saw far enough into the future to know that their names would be recited at a women’s conference in California almost three thousand years after these records were inscribed.
Intuition ignores my question and instead suggests that I add the fact that the titles that were carved along with the images of Ishtar reflected her role as the actual source of the words and advice conveyed by the priestesses: Goddess of Oracles, Lady of Vision of Kissuru, Prophetess of Kua. “Also,” she points out, “include the lines of the prayer to the Goddess who used the voices of women to speak, ‘With Ishtar there is counsel and wisdom, the fate of everything she holds in Her hands.’” Writing down these lines of this ancient Babylonian prayer helps to remind me that the planet we call Venus was sacred to Ishtar and that, in Babylon, Venus was known as Masat, Prophetess. In turn, I recall that the earliest charts of the movements of astral bodies made in Babylon—which most scholars believe to be the place of origin of the concept of the zodiac—were charts of the appearance and positions of the planet Venus, Masat.
I look through the pages on Sumer, only to hear Intuition once again pointing the way. “Dreams,” she says. “Dreams, just as I told you.” Of course, she is right again. All the information I have so far found on prophecy in Sumer is connected to the interpretations of dreams. I located the inscriptions to the Sumerian goddess Nina, as Prophetess of Deities, Mother Interpreter of Dreams. But these same documents reveal that the goddess Nina was also revered as the one who actually arranged destiny. The Sumerian goddess known as Nanshe is also mentioned in various texts as the Interpreter of Dreams. Nanshe may actually be a later image of Nina, for although the temple in the city of Lagash was dedicated to the goddess Nanshe, the sacred section of the city where the temple stood was known as Nina. Both Nina and Nanshe are recorded as Goddess names rather than names of mortal priestesses, but in the Sumerian accounts they did interpret the dreams of mortal people. This use of the name of the goddess as the interpreter may be the result of the Sumerian belief that the high priestess was actually the incarnation of the Goddess on Earth. In the hymn of the high priestess Enheduanna, from about 2400 BC, Enheduanna told of her sorrow at a time when she had been forced to flee from the temple “like a swallow from its nest.” In the hymn, she wrote, “No longer am I able to interpret the commands of Ningal to the people.” The goddess name of Ningal was specifically associated with the Sumerian city of Ur, as Nanshe was specifically associated with Lagash. The name of Nina seems to have first been known fro
m the town of Eridu, the earliest settlement of the Sumerians. The name of Ninsun occurs in a few Sumerian texts as a goddess name, but in the Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh went to a mortal, Ninsun, at the temple in the city of Erech, addressed her as “mother,” and asked her to interpret his dreams—which she did. It was perhaps from this more ancient culture of Sumer, in which the priestess was so closely identified with the Goddess, that the later Babylonian custom of each oracular priestess announcing herself as speaking as the Goddess, had been derived.
I go through the pages on ancient Canaan, the land along the Mediterranean that now contains both Israel and Lebanon. I locate the lines in which the Goddess, known there as Asherah, is described as having given the oracle with the “pointing of Her finger.” The line was found on a badly cracked fragment of a tablet and there is nothing to clarify whether the finger belonged to a priestess or a priest. Intuition comments that she has heard so much lately about how important it is for the clergy to be of the same gender as the deity, and that surely something as specific as a female finger, as compared to a male’s, would have been an important consideration. I have the feeling that she is being a bit sarcastic, but I do remember that the goddess Asherah was described in the more plentiful and detailed tablets of the Canaanite city of Ugarit as the Mother of All Deities and, as the contemporary translation puts it, Patroness of Diviners. I feel on firmer ground when I reach the passages on the temple in the southern Canaanite city of Ascalon where priestesses gave prophecies based upon the flight patterns and sounds of specially tended doves. It was this same method of foretelling the future that was also used at the Greek shrine of Dodona where the Peliades, the Dove Priestesses, spoke the oracles. This use of doves in oracular divination was probably the source of the numerous dove images that accompanied goddess figures and reliefs found in the goddess temples of Cyprus, Crete, and Greece. Doves were an especially important symbol in the artifacts of the worship of the Goddess as Aphrodite, and it is not surprising that, on the islands of Cyprus and Cythera, the Greek shrines of Aphrodite were closely linked with the Canaanite goddess Asherah or Ashtoreth. Though the Greek shrine at Dodona eventually came under the control of priests of Zeus, it was said to have once been the shrine of the goddess Dione, often described as the Mother of Aphrodite. To confuse the matter even further, the priestesses who prophesied at Dodona about 2,500 years ago, Promenia, Timarete, and Nicandra, spoke of the first dove flying to Dodona from Thebes in Egypt.
In the pages on the Goddess in Anatolia (Turkey), I locate a few lines based on some quite early fragments, possibly of pre-Hittite origin. They describe two heavenly sisters, Istustaya and Papaya, as holding “filled mirrors,” possibly bowls of liquid that cast reflections, bringing to mind images of a crystal ball. While keeping their eyes upon these filled mirrors, Istustaya held the spindle, while Papaya wove the years of life. The Anatolian women, known simply as the Elderly Women, were not only regarded as healers, and worth having present at times of birth and death, but for those who would not think to venture into the wealthy official oracular temples, the Anatolian Elderly Women were there to consult for advice upon the future. It was not just the advice of their years of experience that was asked of them, though surely that was valuable and inherent in what was said, but, according to ancient Anatolian tablets, the Elderly Women looked into the future by using a method described as “drawing lots.”
The prophecy of the Sibyl, as I mentioned earlier in connection with the end of the Punic War, suggests a link between the Sibyl of the Romans and the worship of the Anatolian goddess Kybele in the city of Pessinus. I have not yet found evidence of oracular priestesses in Pessinus, but the Sibyl’s familiarity with, and respect for, the sacred stone suggests that prophecy may have been an aspect of the worship of Kybele in Pessinus as well. The stone itself may be significant in light of the documents from Byblos, in Canaan. These state that the sacred stone of the goddess Baalat, in the temple of Byblos, had “fallen from heaven,” suggesting that the stone was a meteorite, as was the sacred stone from Pessinus. The stone of Byblos was said to contain the essence of the Goddess and was able to heal upon contact. It was also described as “breathing with the knowledge of the future.” There is the possibility that the Anatolian name Kybele, at times spelled with a “C” rather than a “K,” and pronounced Cybele outside of Turkey just as Kyprus becomes Cyprus, may even be the origin of the name of the prophetesses known as Sibyls. Heraclitus wrote that the word “Sibyl” had been derived from a famed prophetess known as Sybella who lived on the western coast of Anatolia.
When I turn from the pages on the Ancient Near and Middle East to the Goddess reverences in Central America, I find the passage explaining that, among members of the Cuna tribe of Panama, rituals enacted for a young woman as she first began her menses, included the cutting down of a single saptur tree from a special grove sacred to the Cuna goddess Mu Olo Kurtilisop, or Giant Blue Butterfly Lady. The pattern of the grain of the cross section where the tree was cut was then read by the elderly women of the tribe to foretell the future life of the young woman. I next locate the lines about the goddess Teteu Innan, known among the Aztecs of Mexico but thought to be a survivor of the earlier Tula people. Teteu Innan, known as a goddess of birth and healing, was associated with a method of prophecy accomplished by reading the patterns of the kernels of corn. This method of prophesying the future may have been similar to one mentioned in accounts of Dahomey in Africa. In the Dahomey account, the woman Minona was said to have taught the reading of palm kernels to the people of Dahomey. Minona was described as a daughter of the woman Gbadu, who, in turn, was described as a messenger and helper of the Dahomey creator goddess Mawu.
Among the Teutonic peoples of Scandinavia, the three women known as the Norns—Urth, Skuld, and Verthandi—were portrayed not only as the ones who watered the roots of the Tree of Life but as the weavers of all destiny. In other Teutonic accounts it was the Goddess as Frigga who sat high upon a stool in her Palace Fensalir and spun the golden thread of fate. Though this might sound as if the Teutonic people considered fate to be absolute, it was also said that Frigga relied upon the divine woman Gna to ride about on her horse, Hofvarpnir, to gather information about what was happening on Earth and to bring this to Frigga as she wove. Evidence of Teutonic women being associated with prophecy is found in descriptions of the rite of the mystic Seydur. The women who participated in this directly as prophets of the future were known as Voolvah. The Voolvah would chant for hours in a deep trance and, in this state, would tell the villagers who gathered about them what was to come.
The use of signs from springs and streams that I mentioned earlier, though attributed by Plutarch to the holy Germanic (Teutonic) women, may have been the result of influence by the Celtic tribes who, at that time, were still living in areas throughout France and Germany, as well as in northern Italy. The worship of the Goddess among the Celts was especially linked to sacred springs and rivers. The area in which Plutarch described the incident as having occurred was not far from the territory of the Celtic Sequani, who revered the goddess Sequana as their Divine Ancestress. When the Sequani moved further west to an area near Dijon, France, a shrine was built to the goddess Sequana at the source of a great river that was then named in her honor. Though there is definite evidence that the shrine was a noted place of healing, we might guess that it was also a shrine of prophecy based on the currents and sounds of the waters, so filled with Sequana’s spirit that they bore her name, the River Sequana, eventually known as the River Seine.
Celtic accounts include images of women as combined prophetesses and poetesses. For example, the woman Fedelm, in the stories of Queen Maeve, is described as having three irises in each eye. Fedelm, it is explained to Queen Maeve as they chanced to meet upon the road, just returned from studying “vision and verse in Alba.” This idea of linking vision and verse—prophesy and poetry—is one that occurs throughout Celtic texts, where such women are referred to as Ban
fathi. But the material I find most fascinating is that pertaining to the male Taliesin, who claims not only knowledge of both past and future but the position of being the greatest poet of the Celts while, at the same time, admitting that he stole his powers of genius and insight from the cauldron of the goddess/sorceress Cerridwen.
Another figure in Celtic legend also reveals woman’s image as the voice of the future. This is the rarely discussed Morgan le Fée. The Celtic evidence on Morgan le Fée is so complicated, and composed of so many fragments, that it took several pages to cover in the book. Perhaps the simplest way to explain the core of the image of Morgan Le Fée is to trace her connection to Morgana La Fee of France, who, in turn, was associated with Fata Morgana of Italy. The road goes further yet, as Fata Morgana was, in turn, linked with the Roman goddess Fortuna. The names alone—Fay and Fata—cognate with both Faerie and Fate. And Fortuna and Fortune, meaning chance or destiny, reveal this image of woman to once again be that of Arranger of Events and Life, whether as Nina, Mawu, Frigga, Teteu Innan, Ishtar, or even the pale survival of Lady Luck to some fervent gambler of today. The Roman goddess Fortuna was revered in her temple at the city of Praeneste, modern Palestrina, and in Cerveteri (both in Italy), not far from the more noted shrine of the Sibyl of Cumae. In Cerveteri the priestesses provided information about the future from “lots that rose from the hot springs there.”
The image of Fortuna was, in turn, closely associated with the Roman image of the Three Fates, who, like the Three Norns, wove the threads of future events—Clotho holding the distaff, Lachesis spinning, while Atropos stood by to clip the thread. The Fates, known in Greece as the Moirae (or in Rome as the Parcae), were said to be the daughters of the goddess Themis, she who owned the scale of justice, acting as both judge and counselor. Some accounts describe Themis as sitting on Olympus directly next to Zeus, her nephew, and providing him with advice and counsel. One gathers from the Greek myths that Zeus did not pay much attention to her, but at least Themis fared better than another, probably earlier image of the Goddess of “Wisdom and Counsel,” Metis. Metis was described as having been swallowed by Zeus and forced to give him advice from inside his bloated belly.
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