I had been sitting with Aniti and Juro among a crowd of Toors. Now, Sah’ray materialised at my side from out of the dark and urged me to accompany her. I grabbed hold of Aniti, because I wanted her to be with me. She was still so furious with herself, I feared that, alone at this potent occasion, she would be vulnerable to soulscape intrusions.
The women had begun to creep through the trees. Sah’ray told us there was a special ritual place hidden in the forest, used by all the tribes and rich in power. The elder women of the tribes had assumed a kind of leadership over the rest of us. They glided ahead with the authority of priestesses; their tiered skirts swirling round their ankles, their heads held high, long braids loosed down their backs.
The excitement of the nomad women was infectious. We acknowledged our own feminine power as we hurried through the dark; we had our own mysteries that no male would ever penetrate. Anything could have watched us from the thick undergrowth; I would not have been surprised to see manifestations of imps or sylphs. Gradually, the happy excitement of the women mutated to controlled hysteria; soon, I sensed, it would erupt.
Eventually, we came to a wide clearing, where there was short, springy grass underfoot. Above us, queen of the rite, the pregnant moon shone down fiercely through the gap in the trees. I wondered if the men were conducting their own rite nearby, but could hear no sounds other than the natural music of animals and birds going about their nocturnal business around us. Nobody seemed to want to venture out into the naked arena beyond the trees, where the grass had been bleached to bone whiteness beneath the moon’s colourless radiance. Sah’ray tapped my arm and gestured. She had begun to unlace her bodice. I understood. The women must be unclothed to endure the painful, white light. Clothes might shrivel and burn to blackness beneath its touch, but flesh would only absorb it and glow. In the world of the night, all is black and white, and we were there to celebrate its colours. I disrobed myself, telling Aniti to do likewise and we folded our clothes and placed them in a neat pile beneath one of the trees. Then we felt brave enough to bathe in the shower of light.
Cautiously, the women stepped out onto the grass, feeling with their hands for the cold rays, slowly turning their bodies, stretching their spines, reaching up to the sky. Aniti and I hovered on the edge, unsure of the movements. I noticed she flicked a glance at my body; I felt absurdly tall and masculine beside her. Aniti was a voluptuous creature, whereas as I am mainly skin-covered bone.
I had noticed that some of the women had carried large objects wrapped in cloth, which I thought might be poles to support a canopy, or something similar. Now, I could see that these objects were actually enormous wooden horns. Four of the elder women stationed themselves at equal distances around the roughly circular glade, each in possession of a horn, which they supported on the grass. At some unseen signal, they placed their lips against the mouthpieces of these horns, and began to blow. Aniti and I moved into the gathering of women; we could no longer observe from outside.
At first, the sound felt like a wind passing over the flesh, below the threshold of human hearing. Then the ground began to vibrate with the sound and a deep belling could be heard. This was the voice of the earth herself, calling out to her white sister of the skies. We, in the centre of the glade, were filled with the vibration of this sound. Our hair crackled with the power of lightning, our ears popped with the pressure of it. Every pore of our being, (and we were one being), was filled with the sound. I felt as if I had lost all my identity to it; all I could do was move to its monotonous note. Then the drums began, and we found we were free to dance.
I have never heard music as eerie or compelling as that of the nomad women’s rituals. In any other circumstances, I am sure, it would have sounded hideous. But at that time, in that space, it was the only permissible sound; our sound, that of the blood flowing in our veins, the throb of womb-power, the invisible potency of the female spirit.
Then, as the moon travelled across her kingdom, a new secret was revealed. At the edge of the clearing, an immense statue appeared. I had not noticed it before and, for a superstitious moment or two, actually considered whether it was a living, breathing thing that had slipped out of the soulscape and into reality. Common sense rebuked me. It had been in shadow and had only been revealed by the gradual movement of the moon; more time must have passed than I thought.
The statue represented Helat. Its serene face beamed mysteriously down at the dancing women, sensual lips curved into a perfect smile. Its body was slim, lacking voluptuous female shape around the hips, but possessed of three large breasts, that looked as if they were bursting with nourishment. The statue was seated, its hands upon its thighs, its knees apart. An erect phallus pointed to the belly, straining up from a dark crevice, where the stone was stained by a thin trickle of what I took to be water. Maybe it was a natural spring, incorporated into the carving. I could not imagine the nomads ever having been able to carve this monstrous idol themselves but, as far as I knew, no other races worshipped the androgyne Gardling, Helat. Perhaps, they had adopted this god-form from an earlier race of the plains. It looked incredibly ancient, as if it possessed the innate wisdom of an idol that has been worshipped for centuries. Whoever had built it, Helat knew who its people were now; it smiled down benevolently on the dancing women, impassive and pregnant with potential. On its brow, the symbol of the moon. On the backs of its hands, that of the sun.
I became dizzy with the dancing, and was almost in trance, watching Aniti’s swift dark shape flitting among those of the paler nomads. Then, I noticed that one of the women was approaching the idol. She climbed up the few shallow steps between its legs, so that she could reach the pool that had formed in its lap. She dipped a cup into the liquid, only a small cup, which she brought back to the dancing women. There must have been nearly a hundred of us, swaying there in the glade, but there was a sip for every one of us from that cup. I expected it to taste of something rank and stagnant but, although there was an earthy flavour to it, the water was pure and indeed earth-born. I knew I had tasted the life fluid of Helat.
After this, the drumbeat faded away, and all the women began to sit down upon the grass, everyone panting a little and wiping sweat from their eyes.
Aniti sat down beside me. ‘What now?’ she mouthed.
I shrugged.
We soon found out. It was time for rites of passage to be conducted; young virgins being brought, for the first time, into the mysteries. The nomad women did not trust men to deflower their children. Following the symbolism of Helat, each girl must deflower herself. To the unsuspecting, these rites might seem alarmingly primitive and barbaric, yet I who had been privy to the ceremonies of many religions and cults upon my travels, simply prepared myself, with interest, to spectate.
Perhaps though I was too complacent and underestimated the potent emotion being invoked. Aniti and I observed - Aniti, with a rising sense of unease, for she took hold of my arm - as the first girl was led to the lap of the god by two old women. She placed a garland of small, woodland flowers over Helat’s stone phallus.
‘They can’t!’ Aniti hissed into my ear. ‘Surely...’
I put my finger to my lips, trying to signal that we were only guests and must not show any discontent.
The girl bowed to the idol and then sat in the cold water of its lap, facing outwards, raising her knees so that her feet were planted firmly on each thigh. I felt rather relieved at that point, having been convinced she had been about to spear herself on the statue; I was unsure whether Aniti would have been able to contain her disgust at that. Chanting softly but insistently, the old women blessed the girl. Then, they summoned a younger woman, though fully-bloomed and mature, who walked up the shallow steps, carrying some object wrapped in a dark cloth. The old women unwrapped this object and handed it to the girl. I could see it was a carved phallus, perhaps of wood or bone. One of the old women nodded at the girl and led the others back down the steps. The significance of this object was obvious. Aniti made a
muffled sound at my side.
At first, the girl seemed reluctant to pierce herself and my heart went out to her. She must have been horribly conscious of how everyone was watching her intently. Did she feel humiliation, shame, or fear? And yet, she must have been aware of how she had no choice but to complete the ritual; there was no other way she could become a fully-fledged member of the tribe.
I saw her close her eyes, screw up her face with the fear of pain, and press the tip of the phallus against herself. To me, a man of flesh and blood would have been less of trial. All the women began to sing, swaying slowly, building up a rhythm of power. I realised they were actually invoking Helat, calling down the spirit of their god into the flesh of the girl before them. The rite was symbolic of the androgyne; Helat impregnating itself. The girl had also adopted the traditional position of giving birth among these people. I was quite moved, despite the barbaric aspects of the rite. The girl’s face was changing, becoming enraptured. The support of her people entered into her and she took the plunge, abandoning nervous pokings, and thrust the phallus inside her. It must have hurt her horribly, but I could see she was beyond pain. She slithered upwards into a standing position, barely shaking, and I could almost feel the thunder of her heart. So mystical a thing is sexuality; it made me realise that we Taps, with our scientific cool, sometimes missed the intention of its power. Before me, stood a trembling girl who had been deflowered by a god, and the god was herself. Maybe I would be able to use this symbolism during my work sometime. Not all of my commissions involving expunging Fear or mental sickness. Sometimes, I am called upon for lesser maladies - anxiety about sexuality can be one of them.
The following rites - eight girls in all - did not seem as powerful to me. The initial image was the one that stayed with me. I was looking forward to discussing it all with Aniti later; I was glad that another of my kind was present.
The rite was ended by a circle dance; all the newly initiated girls skipping around in the centre, joyous because the trial was passed. Their blood had mingled in the sacred waters of Helat. The over-spilling pool would eventually instil their essence into the earth beneath, flowing over the damp steps. All the women had become excited, laughing shrilly. When the circle broke, I noticed most of them only gathered up their clothes in their arms before running off between the trees. Aniti and I, left alone because Sah’ray had scampered away somewhere, solemnly began to dress ourselves.
‘It was very powerful,’ Aniti said lamely.
I nodded. ‘Yes, very.’ I realised I had become quite aroused by the rituals and, thinking Aniti must feel the same, asked her if she would like to slip off somewhere and make love with me. ‘I do not feel this is a time for men,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘No, it is not. Why don’t we stay here? Everyone else seems to have gone.’
We sat down beneath one of the trees and I began to undo her fastenings once more. She giggled, complaining of being tickled. I was thinking of the impassive idol at the other end of the glade; at that moment, I envied Helat’s androgynous form. I would have liked to have had a phallus myself, to plunge into this young and willing body and, in turn, would have appreciated Aniti being similarly blessed. The strength of the rite was insidious. I was quite surprised at how it had affected me. I think Aniti must have felt the same for we didn’t even bother to undress fully; we simply groped for each other. I squeezed Aniti’s breast with my free hand. ‘Not so fast, lovely. Let’s take our time.’
‘I feel so strange,’ she said, wistfully. ‘So hungry.’
‘I’m glad we witnessed their mysteries,’ I said. ‘It will be useful.’
Aniti laughed. ‘Rayojini, you seem so cold, so analytical all the time. Can’t you just feel what has happened and accept it?’ She made a scoffing sound. ‘Useful! Really!’
Her skin looked like dark, polished wood in the dappled moonlight; I stroked the smooth planes of her generous hips. Her pubic hair was a shadowed, impudent bush. Perhaps she was right about me; perhaps I was too cynical.
‘Do you still want us to enter the tribal soulscape?’ Aniti asked.
I really didn’t feel like discussing it. ‘To be honest, I wonder whether there is any point,’ I said.
‘You have changed your mind, then.’
‘I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t care!’ I lowered my lips to her breast. This was not a time to worry about work. Aniti moaned sweetly and ran her nails lightly over my back. It felt exquisite.
Then, she tensed. ‘What was that?’ she hissed.
‘What?’
‘Listen!’
There was a sound among the trees behind us; just a slight sound, but enough to alert us that it wasn’t an animal. I sat up and tried to peer into the darkness. ‘Is someone there?’ Aniti asked nervously.
‘I don’t...’ Before I could finish speaking, a man stumbled out of the shadows. He looked like a hunted animal; his naked flesh was scratched and bleeding, and his eyes were wild and round. Matted hair fell onto his chest, tangled with twigs and leaves. It was Q’orveh.
I guessed his condition must be the aftermath of the men’s ritual and that he had not intended to come across any women. I had a feeling someone was chasing him, but perhaps I was wrong. He leaned down, panting, his hands braced on his knees. Then, he looked up and seemed to see us for the first time.
‘Soulscapers,’ he said. I could not interpret the emotionless tone of that single word.
I became aware of my dishevelled condition, my shirt hanging open, my trousers unlaced. ‘What do you want?’ I demanded, expecting him to flee.
He did not speak, however, but limped over and squatted down beside us. Aniti was still lying down, her breasts exposed, her trousers round her knees, lips all full with passion. She was looking at Q’orveh with hooded eyes. Aniti, little wild thing; so easy for her to let go, become one with these people.
‘We are busy, shaman,’ I said. ‘I thought men respected the women’s rites.’
‘The women’s, and the men’s, rites are over,’ he replied. ’Don’t you know that?’
‘Well...’
He flopped down and lay on his side, supporting his head on his hand. I felt a familiar longing flash through my mind. Q’orveh: beauty; the words were really inseparable. Had he been looking for me?
‘Rayo, he’s ours,’ Aniti said. ‘Lay him down.’
I was amused, more than shocked, by her words. Perhaps, at that moment, I wished she wasn’t there. ‘Do we need this?’ I asked, rather sharply.
‘Need it? No. But he needs us, I’m sure. This is still part of it, Rayo. He’s lying; the rites haven’t ended.’
She sat up and Q’orveh rolled onto his back. Aniti looked splendid; a satiny black spirit, her braids lovingly accentuating the curve of her full breasts. What a little goddess she was! Her eyes were those of the primeval huntress; she slithered towards the shaman like an oiled serpent, kicking off her trousers, intent on seizing what she considered to be her prey. I was older than Aniti; sometimes it is necessary to claim the privilege of age. The older huntress would have to take prevalence.
I playfully pushed her away. ‘Mine first,’ I said.
Aniti grunted and then laughed a little. Q’orveh had closed his eyes; his arms were spread out in the wiry grass. He knew what to expect. As he was both priest and priestess, he knew all about submission. I kissed his body, tasting salt and clay, and ran my hands over the ripple of his ribs. Just to let him know I understood more about him than he thought, I used my hands in a way he probably didn’t expect. An androgynous deity has many ways of manifesting. He arched his back in pleasure, and my ministrations made him ready for us.
So much for Keea’s words, I thought, as I took Q’orveh inside me. Little creeping liar. Jealous snake.
Tomorrow, I might be wryly appalled at my behaviour, but for now... It felt too glorious for words. Q’orveh was a sacrificed king beneath me; I couldn’t stop looking at his face. I realise now we really should have had those mome
nts to ourselves.
Then, Aniti became impatient, and threw herself on my back, her nails digging into my shoulders. We fought over the slippery phallus, passing it between us, a tangle of fingers and moist folds. Once, I looked down, almost oblivious of the man but for his sex, and it seemed the face of Keea was looking back at me, smiling triumphantly. Why had my mind projected him in this way? Who, or what, was this boy? Perhaps my own soulscape was trying to give me a message, but the illusion made me uncomfortable, and I closed my eyes to banish it. For a while, at least, Keea did not exist.
Section Seven
Rayojini
‘Roaming to seek their prey on earth… And when night darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons of Belial…’
Paradise Lost, Book I
We awoke, lying in the dew, with mellow autumn sunlight coming down through the trees. By daylight, it was possible to see how the leaves were turning, all nourishment seeping back into the branches, so that energy would be conserved until the spring. There was little chill, however, although we shivered because our clothes were damp.
Q’orveh had left us during the night, a fact which surprised neither Aniti nor me. ‘I thought he was a eunuch,’ she said to me, and then laughed. ‘Perhaps he is - normally!’
Although we were hungry and wanted to bathe, we sat for a few moments in the privacy of the trees, feeling meditative and weary. ‘I feel better today,’ Aniti said. ‘Not so apprehensive. What an experience! It feels like a dream.’
‘Most primitive cultures involve sexuality in their rites,’ I said.
Aniti scoffed. ‘There you go again! Rayo, these people aren’t primitive. In a sense, I feel we are underdeveloped in comparison.’
I shrugged. In truth, I was feeling edgy because the power of the previous night’s rituals had affected me so deeply. I hate to lose control of myself, and the abandonment of our communion with Q’orveh had been nothing if uncontrolled. I believed the act of love should be a measured and gentle practice.
Burying the Shadow Page 23