Priestesses and visions
She gets a name! I had fun writing this part; when the big lady gets up on the steps, think of the Witch of the Waste from Howl's Moving Castle when she's lost a lot of her power. That's how doughy she is ^_^
The chamber was filled with novices and priestesses of every rank and function. Tonight they had all turned out in their best ceremonial garb; white novice robes, blue robes the colour of night falling for those newly qualified, black for those who had given enough of their life in service that they would give the rest of it. Around most waists hung a fine silver chain. The lunar charms began round the back, with the tiny slivers of the waxing and waning moons. Only the High Priestess of any temple could wear the full moon, having completed all training, and having serene and superior knowledge of their Mistress. The chamber was decorated with garlands of roses and ivy, and heavy incense brewed from the jasmine that bloomed in Vistara’s Quarter in spring and autumn hung heavily in the air. Warda found it quite cloying at first. It was so rich and thick that it seemed to stick to her throat, but she simply had to get to the girl before something went horribly wrong.
“Hey!” she hissed under the soft chanting that was already beginning around them, “wait a minute!”
“What is it?” said the girl, barely turning to speak with her.
“Well, it’s just, if I’m supposed to be your guardian, I need to know what to call you when we’re done and it’s time to leave!”
“You’ll know when it’s time to leave,” said the girl, matter-of-factly, “but in case it becomes necessary, my name is Sammi.”
It was such a mundane name that Warda was almost disappointed. She’d almost expected “Ani-Vistari”, the daughter of Vistara, or something similar, but no. Sammi. Well, a name is a name. Whilst Sammi pushed forwards to join the ranks of hopeful Oracles, Warda tried to find somewhere from which she could watch comfortably yet remain fairly unseen.
The murmuring died down and the High Priestess stepped up onto a raised platform against one wall of the chamber.
“Daughters of Vistara,” she began, “we are here, on our most holy of nights, to hear the words of the Oracles. Some are known to us, and their predictions have proven true. Tiffel’s predictions of a low harvest caused there to be twice the crops laid down at the Planting Eid, and even so we know this will be a lean winter. The Shar scoffed at Atfa’ali’s vision of his illness, and yet was he not ill? This year we are held in high esteem by those who matter. If there was to be a vision of Vistara’s return, would this not be it, sisters? Now, when we are believed and looked to, can you not feel the auspiciousness of this night?”
A rustling of skirts and tinkling of charms was as good as a cheer in this sacred place, and the Grandmother of Jahenya smiled an indulging and encouraging smile.
“So, step forward, oh Oracles of Vistara, those who have found the ways and the means, guided here by her own hand. Gaze into the Depths of Forever, and tell us what you see.”
There was a queue of some fifteen girls and women, all in various shades of blue and purple, fidgeting and looking anxious. One or two seemed confident, and as they exchanged smiles or winks with their sisters Warda looked carefully at their official robes and gathered they were devotees, too, probably the qualified Oracles on which so much depended. With so many gifted women having a turn, Warda was surprised that the city didn’t have all its trials and tribulations mapped out for the next ten sets of cycles, let alone the one that was coming.
However, seeing the future didn’t seem as easy as she had previously assumed. Each woman had to climb three steps and lean as far over the Depths of Forever as she could, then stare with all her might. The first girl looked for a while, then her tense body sagged and she walked away, shaking her head. The second achieved a serene expression, saw something, blushed profusely, and whispered something to the black-robed priestess to her left. Warda crept forward enough to hear the old sister say, “then you’d better get back to him with all speed, my dear,” and this is precisely what the girl did.
With a nod, a wave and encouragement from the throng, Atfa’ali mounted the steps and slowly, dramatically placed her hands on the large stones which brought the water above floor level. Her eyes glassed over and she didn’t blink for some minutes. When she brought her head up, she said in a clear, ringing voice, “The rose will carry the moon. There is a place in the desert where the lion knows whom he serves, and the serpents must never be trusted.”
“So cryptic!” muttered the scribe excitedly, as she wrote down every word. The phrases were passed around the room until they became like a song. Only Atfa’ali and the High Priestess seemed disappointed, but it was better than nothing, their shrugs seemed to say.
It was so good, in fact, to those listening that the next three girls and women all repeated the same verse, even though Warda could see that their eyes didn’t change at all. They looked far from serene, but the priestesses were kind and gave them a good murmur as well, before kindly showing them the door. The next half a dozen, however seemed to sense that this was enough and they should be more honest. A couple had more personal visions, the sort you might get from a Bedouin tea-drinker bartering for scraps. Someone was likely to die, this family seemed as though they would have a good year, a tall, dark stranger would soon call. A good hint that they may make Oracles yet, but nothing in the grand scheme of things.
With a flourish, the Oracle Tiffel stepped up to take her turn. Her eyes became distant as well, and she was so still she could have stopped breathing. She was very beautiful, in a slightly too thin, slightly too serious sort of way. Her dark hair had been braided up with ivy for the occasion, keeping it out of the water, and her dark eyes looked huge, even bigger in their vacant, veil-piercing staring. When she raised her head, it was like someone coming up from under the river. She threw it back with a deep gasp and blinked several times, clearing her sight and bringing herself back to where she was.
“She comes, and even as she comes she does not know it, and we do not know it, and no one shall know it until she has realised she is here.”
The priestess in black rushed over to ask her more questions, and even the High Priestess looked as though she might rush down from her podium to try and glean more from the swooning Oracle, but it seemed that really was all she had brought back with her, and again the words got passed around the room and repeated and lapped up and cradled. Warda didn’t have a clue what it meant, but she knew those were just the sort of words that would keep an Oracle in her position. She chided herself for being such a sceptic, especially as the stare had looked so convincing, but the incense was getting to her and she really had had a good meal and should have been in bed hours ago.
The next woman to get up was a huge madam, the sort who had not had to walk anywhere unless she wished to, and it seemed she didn’t care much for walking. Warda wondered how long it had taken her to get up the temple stairs that night, and who had gone out and located her token for her. She jangled loudly with a cache of silver moons and charms around her neck and wrists, but she was certainly not a priestess of the temple. She tried to flourish and nod too, and although it seemed many of those assembled did recognise her, they didn’t want to make eye contact with her. Everyone was already starting to look quite uncomfortable.
Warda tried not to laugh as this great hulk of a woman tried to lean gracefully out over the Depths of Forever. She got into position, and opened her eyes into that slightly-strained wideness that the other girls had achieved, and they did look a little glassy. But as lifeless as she tried to appear, her arms began to shake and sweat beaded on her brow. The kindly priestess in black took her arm and tried to coax her down.
“No!” the woman shouted, in a very un-trance-like voice, “no! I can see it! The coming of Vistara! She will come and take hold of one of us! Oh, oh let me see if it is me!”
The stronger priestesses had joined in the effort to remove Madam from the stairs. It was not so serious that she was making false prophecy. She wasn’t the first to want to be an Oracle so badly, and at least she was adapting, not just repeating the closest verses to anything ethereal that had been heard tonight. What worried the Daughters and their Grandmother most was that Madam might drip sweat into the most holy well, or worse, that in all her straining and efforts she would pitch her whole grand self in, and who knew what repercussions that could have, through the depths of the night, on this of all nights?
Vistara bless her, but how she fought! Someone caught her heel and tumbled her into the waiting arms of the priestess, but with her kicking and struggling it took dozens of them grabbing at limbs, skirts and chains to get her out into the corridor. The rest just followed and watched, Grandmother with them, saying loving, calm words to calm the near-hysterical woman, and assure that one day, surely one day she would see the truth, but that for this year she must calm herself and go home. A benefactor, then, thought Warda as she leant on the door jam, watching them go. She turned around, expecting to see and empty hall, but no. Sammi was still there, no longer back near the wall as she had been, deliberately at the back of the queue, but at the top of the steps. Warda walked down slowly, not wanting to disturb the child, and quietly smiling to herself to think what tall tales the quick, resourceful Sammi would tell when she put her head up again.
In other news out Arabic tutor (in Greece) is running on Arabic time :( *hoping for a lesson*
The chamber was filled with novices and priestesses of every rank and function. Tonight they had all turned out in their best ceremonial garb; white novice robes, blue robes the colour of night falling for those newly qualified, black for those who had given enough of their life in service that they would give the rest of it. Around most waists hung a fine silver chain. The lunar charms began round the back, with the tiny slivers of the waxing and waning moons. Only the High Priestess of any temple could wear the full moon, having completed all training, and having serene and superior knowledge of their Mistress. The chamber was decorated with garlands of roses and ivy, and heavy incense brewed from the jasmine that bloomed in Vistara’s Quarter in spring and autumn hung heavily in the air. Warda found it quite cloying at first. It was so rich and thick that it seemed to stick to her throat, but she simply had to get to the girl before something went horribly wrong.
“Hey!” she hissed under the soft chanting that was already beginning around them, “wait a minute!”
“What is it?” said the girl, barely turning to speak with her.
“Well, it’s just, if I’m supposed to be your guardian, I need to know what to call you when we’re done and it’s time to leave!”
“You’ll know when it’s time to leave,” said the girl, matter-of-factly, “but in case it becomes necessary, my name is Sammi.”
It was such a mundane name that Warda was almost disappointed. She’d almost expected “Ani-Vistari”, the daughter of Vistara, or something similar, but no. Sammi. Well, a name is a name. Whilst Sammi pushed forwards to join the ranks of hopeful Oracles, Warda tried to find somewhere from which she could watch comfortably yet remain fairly unseen.
The murmuring died down and the High Priestess stepped up onto a raised platform against one wall of the chamber.
“Daughters of Vistara,” she began, “we are here, on our most holy of nights, to hear the words of the Oracles. Some are known to us, and their predictions have proven true. Tiffel’s predictions of a low harvest caused there to be twice the crops laid down at the Planting Eid, and even so we know this will be a lean winter. The Shar scoffed at Atfa’ali’s vision of his illness, and yet was he not ill? This year we are held in high esteem by those who matter. If there was to be a vision of Vistara’s return, would this not be it, sisters? Now, when we are believed and looked to, can you not feel the auspiciousness of this night?”
A rustling of skirts and tinkling of charms was as good as a cheer in this sacred place, and the Grandmother of Jahenya smiled an indulging and encouraging smile.
“So, step forward, oh Oracles of Vistara, those who have found the ways and the means, guided here by her own hand. Gaze into the Depths of Forever, and tell us what you see.”
There was a queue of some fifteen girls and women, all in various shades of blue and purple, fidgeting and looking anxious. One or two seemed confident, and as they exchanged smiles or winks with their sisters Warda looked carefully at their official robes and gathered they were devotees, too, probably the qualified Oracles on which so much depended. With so many gifted women having a turn, Warda was surprised that the city didn’t have all its trials and tribulations mapped out for the next ten sets of cycles, let alone the one that was coming.
However, seeing the future didn’t seem as easy as she had previously assumed. Each woman had to climb three steps and lean as far over the Depths of Forever as she could, then stare with all her might. The first girl looked for a while, then her tense body sagged and she walked away, shaking her head. The second achieved a serene expression, saw something, blushed profusely, and whispered something to the black-robed priestess to her left. Warda crept forward enough to hear the old sister say, “then you’d better get back to him with all speed, my dear,” and this is precisely what the girl did.
With a nod, a wave and encouragement from the throng, Atfa’ali mounted the steps and slowly, dramatically placed her hands on the large stones which brought the water above floor level. Her eyes glassed over and she didn’t blink for some minutes. When she brought her head up, she said in a clear, ringing voice, “The rose will carry the moon. There is a place in the desert where the lion knows whom he serves, and the serpents must never be trusted.”
“So cryptic!” muttered the scribe excitedly, as she wrote down every word. The phrases were passed around the room until they became like a song. Only Atfa’ali and the High Priestess seemed disappointed, but it was better than nothing, their shrugs seemed to say.
It was so good, in fact, to those listening that the next three girls and women all repeated the same verse, even though Warda could see that their eyes didn’t change at all. They looked far from serene, but the priestesses were kind and gave them a good murmur as well, before kindly showing them the door. The next half a dozen, however seemed to sense that this was enough and they should be more honest. A couple had more personal visions, the sort you might get from a Bedouin tea-drinker bartering for scraps. Someone was likely to die, this family seemed as though they would have a good year, a tall, dark stranger would soon call. A good hint that they may make Oracles yet, but nothing in the grand scheme of things.
With a flourish, the Oracle Tiffel stepped up to take her turn. Her eyes became distant as well, and she was so still she could have stopped breathing. She was very beautiful, in a slightly too thin, slightly too serious sort of way. Her dark hair had been braided up with ivy for the occasion, keeping it out of the water, and her dark eyes looked huge, even bigger in their vacant, veil-piercing staring. When she raised her head, it was like someone coming up from under the river. She threw it back with a deep gasp and blinked several times, clearing her sight and bringing herself back to where she was.
“She comes, and even as she comes she does not know it, and we do not know it, and no one shall know it until she has realised she is here.”
The priestess in black rushed over to ask her more questions, and even the High Priestess looked as though she might rush down from her podium to try and glean more from the swooning Oracle, but it seemed that really was all she had brought back with her, and again the words got passed around the room and repeated and lapped up and cradled. Warda didn’t have a clue what it meant, but she knew those were just the sort of words that would keep an Oracle in her position. She chided herself for being such a sceptic, especially as the stare had looked so convincing, but the incense was getting to her and she really had had a good meal and should have been in bed hours ago.
The next woman to get up was a huge madam, the sort who had not had to walk anywhere unless she wished to, and it seemed she didn’t care much for walking. Warda wondered how long it had taken her to get up the temple stairs that night, and who had gone out and located her token for her. She jangled loudly with a cache of silver moons and charms around her neck and wrists, but she was certainly not a priestess of the temple. She tried to flourish and nod too, and although it seemed many of those assembled did recognise her, they didn’t want to make eye contact with her. Everyone was already starting to look quite uncomfortable.
Warda tried not to laugh as this great hulk of a woman tried to lean gracefully out over the Depths of Forever. She got into position, and opened her eyes into that slightly-strained wideness that the other girls had achieved, and they did look a little glassy. But as lifeless as she tried to appear, her arms began to shake and sweat beaded on her brow. The kindly priestess in black took her arm and tried to coax her down.
“No!” the woman shouted, in a very un-trance-like voice, “no! I can see it! The coming of Vistara! She will come and take hold of one of us! Oh, oh let me see if it is me!”
The stronger priestesses had joined in the effort to remove Madam from the stairs. It was not so serious that she was making false prophecy. She wasn’t the first to want to be an Oracle so badly, and at least she was adapting, not just repeating the closest verses to anything ethereal that had been heard tonight. What worried the Daughters and their Grandmother most was that Madam might drip sweat into the most holy well, or worse, that in all her straining and efforts she would pitch her whole grand self in, and who knew what repercussions that could have, through the depths of the night, on this of all nights?
Vistara bless her, but how she fought! Someone caught her heel and tumbled her into the waiting arms of the priestess, but with her kicking and struggling it took dozens of them grabbing at limbs, skirts and chains to get her out into the corridor. The rest just followed and watched, Grandmother with them, saying loving, calm words to calm the near-hysterical woman, and assure that one day, surely one day she would see the truth, but that for this year she must calm herself and go home. A benefactor, then, thought Warda as she leant on the door jam, watching them go. She turned around, expecting to see and empty hall, but no. Sammi was still there, no longer back near the wall as she had been, deliberately at the back of the queue, but at the top of the steps. Warda walked down slowly, not wanting to disturb the child, and quietly smiling to herself to think what tall tales the quick, resourceful Sammi would tell when she put her head up again.
In other news out Arabic tutor (in Greece) is running on Arabic time :( *hoping for a lesson*