Читать книгу The Passion of Mary Magdalen - Elizabeth Cunningham - Страница 28

On your own, on your own, I repeated the words over and over to myself as we trudged through the quiet streets. It was the first time since my capture that I’d had no one watching me, guarding me. I felt dizzy with the illusion of freedom. I knew it was illusion, but I was having difficulty remembering. The air tasted different; my body felt light and unfamiliar.

Gradually more and more people joined us, in little streams and tributaries, until we all merged with the festival procession in the Via Sacra. The priestesses and priests led the way, sustaining a hypnotic rhythm with frame drum and sistrum as we danced through the heart of the Forum, past Capitoline Hill and out through the Flumentana gate. There we walked along the Tiber River with its thick dawn fog floating and swirling above it until we came to Campus Martius—broad, flat fields where games were held and military formations practiced.

During the Isia a festival city had mushroomed with the usual vendors and side entertainments. The priests and priestesses went directly towards a central pavilion—a large golden tent on a raised platform. The laity fell back as the priesthood entered the makeshift temple. It is a very strange thing to stand in a large, silent crowd. Even more so in the half-light before sunrise in a field full of ground mist with the last stars faint but still there. Then the priestesses emerged from the tent and began to sing a song full of piercing, sweet dissonance—the way stars might sound if we could hear them.

Look how the sky’s doors open to your beauty

Look how the goddess waits to receive you

This is death. This is life beyond life.

Look how the day is breaking in the east.

Look how the goddess awakens you.

Listen to us singing to you, there among the stars.

I closed my eyes, and I was somewhere else, somewhere I had never been, standing in a high place overlooking wide water, wide sky, full of those star voices—no it was my voice, my voice singing to my Beloved.

I opened my eyes again when the singing stopped. Two priestesses stepped forward, one robed in gold, wearing a horned headdress and a lotus crown. She sang the part of Isis, the other of her sister Nepthys. As they sang a call and response lamentation, they descended the steps. The crowd parted as the priestesses, followed by the rest of the priesthood, led the procession to the river, which was no longer the Tiber, but the River, the river of life, the river of sorrow, the river of re-membering.

“Come on,” I urged my friends. “Let’s fall in with the priestesses. We’ll get a better view.”

“I don’t know, Red,” Succula hung back, but I grabbed her hand and dragged her along, trusting that Berta and Dido were right behind us.

When we reached the water’s edge the whole crowd began to sing while the priestesses boarded the waiting moon-shaped boats.

You are the mother of the living

You are the lover of the dead

From the womb you knew your lover

Now you seek him in the riverbed.

All at once I knew exactly why I’d had the dream, why old Nona had provided the priestess robes. There was a purpose here. Everything had been prepared. All I had to do was act. I dropped Succula’s hand and made for the nearest empty boat. Before anyone could stop me, I was launched, the fog shrouding me, the black water sliding beneath the smooth curve of the boat. The sound of the singing came through the mist, clear, disembodied, but not loud enough to cover the sound of Succula crying my name.

“Row.” I hardened my heart and turned to the oarsman. “By Isis, mistress of the living and the dead, ruler of wind and water, row for all you’re worth to Ostia.”

“Ostia?” He sounded confused, but he did not question my authority. “I thought we was only going to Tiber Island. I never heard nothing about no Ostia.”

“It is the goddess’s command.”

Well, it was. Wasn’t it?

“But domina, what about the rapids?”

The rapids?

“And with the rain we’ve had this autumn, the river is running swift.”

“The goddess will protect us,” I said with more assurance than I felt, and then I thought to add, “And you will be well-rewarded.”

Through the mist I could just see the other boats; the priestesses singing a high, wordless lament as they trailed their arms and hair in the water searching for the scattered god. Around a bend in the river, Tiber Island hove into view, and the other boats veered toward it. My oarsman was looking frightened; I thought I saw him surreptitiously pulling us to the right out of the current.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said.

“But, domina—”

“You are more afraid of the rapids than the goddess’s wrath?”

And then, in a flash, we passed the point of no return. The current became stronger as the river narrowed and divided. Just before we hit the rapids the sun shot up and turned the mist golden. I had just time to think, how beautiful, and then the river took the little boat into the foaming torrent as if it were no more than a stick a child had tossed into the water. The oarsman screamed as we hit a rock, and he lost his oar. He lunged after it, and the boat capsized, pitching us into the water right where the Venus of the Sewer, Cloacina Maxima, relieved herself of her tribute.

In other words, we were in deep shit.

The rapids swiftly took us to a deeper part of the river where the current was still strong. The water was frigid and foul, but I could swim; one glance at the oarsman told me he could not. He flailed and sank, flailed and sank, so I made for him as fast as I could. After a struggle that nearly finished us both, I managed to get him in a classic lifesaver’s hold and pull him out of the current and then onto the bank of river where he promptly passed out.

Now what? I looked around me, dazed. It was a beautiful morning, too beautiful to make sense of what was happening. What had happened to the divine plan? How did I come to be standing here on the riverbank stinking of sewage in bedraggled priestess garb with a half drowned man at my feet? The small bag of coins that I’d worn under my clothes was gone, forever lost like Osiris’s prick. I had no idea how far it was to Ostia or how to get back to Esquiline Hill from here.

My oarsman was lying awfully still. Since I did not know what else to do, I knelt beside him, checked his breathing and his pulse, then I searched his head to make sure he hadn’t hit it on a rock. I found no injury, but the man groaned and then began to shiver convulsively. In a flash, the fire of the stars ignited in my crown and flowed into my hands. I followed its lead, touching the man’s face, throat, lungs, legs, feet.

“Isis,” he sighed. “Sweet Isis.”

I looked up and saw that the man had raised himself on his elbows. He was gazing at me with awe and adoration, which made no sense considering I was soaking wet, stinking of sewage and had nearly cost him his life by forcing him over the rapids.

“So it’s all true.” His plain diffident face had been transformed. “You do save us. You welcome us in the Land of the Dead.”

I held on to the man’s feet, trying to bring him to earth. But I wasn’t about to contradict him.

“My son,” I spoke the words that came to me. “You are saved indeed, but you are still in the land of the living. Go home now. Get into dry clothes. Drink hot wine.”

“I obey, my goddess and my queen.”

He bowed before me; then obediently went his way, his step young and sprightly.

Then the fire that had filled me died away. I felt cold all over. I knew I had to do something, make a decision, but my mind felt numb as my feet. Get up, get moving was the best I could do, but when I tried to stand, my legs buckled under me. Where is Isis when I need her was my last conscious thought.

I can smell the river, the mud banks baking in the sun. I can hear the sound of water and wind moving through the reeds. And there is the black coffin carrying my beloved away from me. I rush towards the box but the water weeds bind my legs. The current flows past me and I float helpless, my arms streaming towards him.

“You must become the river,” a voice says.

Yes. I begin to dissolve, turn into water, but someone is pulling at me, slapping me, forcing me back into solid form.

“I was right,” a voice spoke, a different voice, voluptuous with satisfaction. “I do know this woman. She is a whore, not a priestess, a whore and a slave, a runaway slave.”

I kept my eyes shut. I was dreaming, I decided. I’d had that dream of the river. Now I was simply having a nightmare. Nothing more.

Another blow; half my face exploded in pain. My ears rang, and my eyes opened against my will. Two large breasts blotted out the sky. Then the face above them leaned over me. A young, beautiful face, empty except for malice. I had seen it somewhere before. I didn’t care to see it again.

“I am a priestess,” I managed to say. “A priestess of Isis.”

Then another blow fell, and I got my wish. Everything went black.

“She’s burning up with fever.”

I felt the touch of a woman’s hand kindly and competent on my forehead. I made an effort to sit up. That’s when I discovered my hands and feet were shackled to the floor. I had no idea where I was, except that I was inside, and it was damp and chill and stank of piss. I focused on the woman kneeling beside me. She was dressed in priestess’s robes, and after a moment I recognized her as the priestess from the Temple Venus Obsequens.

“She’s lying in her own urine,” the woman went on. “And no one has given her dry clothes. This woman is a priestess. Do you not fear the gods, man?”

“If the woman is a priestess of yours, you can take her and welcome.”

“Very well,” said the woman. “Call for a litter at once.”

“Not yet, domina,” said the aedile, a bored looking low-level bureaucrat. “We have a witness who says she’s a runaway slave from the Vine and Fig Tree. We can’t settle anything till Domitia Tertia gets here.”

“But I told you. I know who she is,” another woman spoke. Oh shit. The bitch was here. “How dare you doubt my word, dog! She should be publicly flogged and branded at once. And when I tell my father about the disrespect you have shown me, you’ll be next.”

I turned my head and saw the black-haired beauty pushing the aedile aside. I had the urge to vomit but was too weak to roll on my side, not to mention I was chained.

“By your own account, domina, she belongs to Domitia Tertia who must claim ownership and make the accusation against her,” the aedile said wearily.

“If we wait much longer, she’ll die unpunished.” My nemesis sulked.

Death, I mused. Not a bad idea. And I was seized with a chill so violent my chains rattled.

“Get her a blanket, fool!” snapped the priestess.

If I hadn’t been debating the merits of dying in a puddle of my own piss or living to be flogged in the Forum, I might almost have felt sorry for the man caught between these two furious women. Then the third fury made her entrance.

“Ah, Domitia Tertia.” The man sounded terribly relieved. “I am sorry to disturb you. Thank you for coming so promptly. Domina Paulina Claudii has identified this woman as your property. She believes her to be a runaway. We await your confirmation.”

The three women stood over me. In my fevered state it looked to me as if they floated. Or maybe I floated, suspended, in suspense, as they deliberated over my fate. I could see it, held in their hands, a red thread, a crackle of green lightning. The malicious beauty tugged at it. The priestess held her end lightly and serenely. Domitia Tertia was in the middle. She held the thread taut.

“Paulina Claudii is mistaken.” The thread snapped. “No woman of my house would make a public spectacle of herself.”

She turned away, and I felt, to my horror, as if I had lost my last mother all over again, as if I were some exposed girl child Domitia had tossed back on the refuse heap. I tried to cry out, but no sound came. My persecutor was shrieking, but I couldn’t follow the words. I closed my eyes as if I could block out the sound that made everything red and throbbing. Then someone was handling me, taking off the cold shackles, pulling me to my feet. Stars fell all around me like burning rain.

Somehow I have escaped them all. I don’t know where I am; it is dusk or dawn, half-light. I am on some sort of an island; three rivers wind away into the hills. No, they are roads. Or strands of light cast by a lantern. A whispering begins; at first I think it’s only the wind blowing dead leaves over the hard bare ground. Then I hear the words.

Tri-via, tri-via, tri-via

Three roads, three rivers, three worlds.

Leave a message on the post

Tell us where you choose to go.

Each way leads towards and away

from the others.

To the country of life

you can go, you can go.

To the country of death

you can go, you can go.

To the place between

to the crack in time

you can go, you can go.

Tri-via, tri-via, tri-via.

I look around for the singers of this strange song. All I see is a pillar.

Look look look

And I see that the pillar is a statue with three heads, each looking down one road. But I know these faces; it’s not a statue. This one is old Nona. There is Anna of Jerusalem whom I met in a dream, and the other is the Cailleach, grey as the rocks of Tir na mBan, the island of women, my home. They are all here, and yet they are not. They are guiding me, and I am alone.

To the country of life

you can go, you can go

to the country of death

you can go, you can go

to the place between

to the crack in time

you can go, you can go.

each road leads toward and away

from the others.

Find what you seek

seek what you find

go go go.

“I want the one that leads to him.”

My own voice startles me; the air shimmers with it.

“Come look, then,” the voices answer so softly now; it’s less than a whisper. It is my own breath. Now I am the three-headed one. I can see in all directions at once. At the same time, I can hone my vision. Each distinct road opens to me or I open to it. Each world has its own force, its own crosswind that propels me toward it.

The country of death is quiet. The light there does not come from the sky but from inside each thing—that huge boulder, that stand of copper beech, the stream winding, without sound, through the landscape. And the light comes from my father, too. He is there resting after his long, long time in the sea. I am curious. Now will he know me? Will he speak to me? His eyes are so bright in his fox face. He is looking at me. I try to take a step forward, but I can’t seem to move.

I look down and see someone’s brown, dusty, bare feet. Beautiful feet. When I look up, he is there, my beloved, standing before me. So this is the road! I guessed right the first time. He is holding his arms out straight from his sides, but not to reach for me and gather me into an embrace. He is blocking the way.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice as gentle as the words are harsh.

The road to this world thins to a thread.

“Not yet,” he whispers, though I can’t see him anymore. “Not yet.”

The Otherworld opens to me. My true home, my birthright. Here there is always sound, wind and waves, women’s voices singing, loose lines of poetry flapping across the sky on cranes’ or ravens’ wings. Dwynwyn is here, the old witch from the druid isle, with whom I once changed shapes. She is putting something into her cooking pot. My mother is there combing light into hair or hair into light. And on the sandy shore, playing with pebbles, there is a small, fiery-headed child. Myself as a child? No. I suddenly know. She’s my daughter, my daughter. I will go back to the Otherworld, to Tir na mBan, the Land of Women. I will never, ever leave again.

Someone is crying.

Not my daughter who plays happily, oblivious of me.

I will stay here.

The weeping goes on.

No.

“Maeve.”

It’s his voice. With huge sorrow I know I can’t find him in the Otherworld.

“Come back.”

The country of life makes me weep. The stones here are so hard. They cut my feet. It takes so much time to walk this road. Yet I know the other worlds are here, too, at the edges of my vision. There is the silent stream that will cool my feet. There is sea spray shimmering gold around the island. But I am tired, and I hurt. Someone keeps crying.

Then, for an instant I am in a garden; the dew is cold; the earth smells spicy, sweet. Where am I? The joy is unbearable. Which world is this one? I want this one, no matter what it costs. This one.

And then he is with me.

“Don’t die, Red. Please don’t die.”

“Choose,” he says, and he is gone.

I wake in the country of life with Succula’s tears on my face.