Second Day of Waning Moon, Spirit Moon of my 44th year, Grotto del Sybilla
I arrived here late yesterday. It was a day long trek by mule through the forests of the Sibillini Mountains. David picked me up at the convent at 7:00 AM as he said. I had eaten breakfast with the nuns in their dining room. Hot bread spread with ricotta cheese and apricot preserves. They were gracious and caring. All I could say was ‘Si’ and ‘Grazie’, but many spoke a little English, and we could make our selves understood to each other. They wished me good journey to the Sybilla. When David teased and laughed familiarly with them, I felt all my apprehensions dissolve. This adventure was unorthodox, true, but there was no latent evil lurking to exploit me.
I mailed a post card to my family, as we walked to the Piazza San Benedetto. There the car from yesterday was waiting. We drove into the National forest where a young man was waiting with donkeys. David took charge of a dark grey male and introduced me to an almost white little jenny. Across her back was a darker grey marking of a cross.
“It is a marking all donkeys have since they bore the Christ into Jerusalem on the day of Palms,” David informed me.
“Does everything in Italy have a legend?” I asked, half teasing and half serious.
“Everything,” answered David, smiling.
I stroked the cheek of the little donkey. Her black eyes were those of a friend. She nuzzled into my hand as I laid my face against hers.
“What will you call your donkey?” David asked.
“I get to name her?”
“She will be yours throughout your stay. Naming her will make her more so.”
I thought for a moment. “I can not think of anything better than ‘Jenny’.”
“Jenny it is,” affirmed David.
We rode and walked through the forest. We started on the marked trails. At a small stream, we left the trail and followed the flow of water up stream. David showed me our route on a topographical map. Besides being written in Italian, it might have been ancient Chinese for all I understood. David patiently explained where we were and where we had come from. He tied a leather sack to my saddle.
“I have lived here all my life. Summers between college I worked as a guide here. I know every rock and tree, but you do not. Should we become separated, go down hill until you find water, the Jenny she find water, let her lead. Then sit, make a fire. In your pack is a fire kit and a flare. Send up the flare. Either myself or the park salvare, the rescue, will come.”
We continued to follow the stream until we reached where it came out of the rock through wintergreen. David plucked a leaf of wintergreen, chewed it , cupped his hands and drank, inviting me to do the same. The taste was amazing, cold and fresh. I felt renewed.
“This must be the fountain of youth!” I exclaimed.
“Perhaps it is,” answered David with a grin.
From the source of the steam we followed a trail only David could discern. It wove around and up the mountain, almost to snow line, then down again. In the valley was a larger stream.
Here we made a fire and had a lunch. Rather, I made a fire using the materials David had given me in the sack. I had never made a fire using flint and steel before, after a few awkward swipes I was able to direct the spark into the tinder. David had directed me in collecting bit of dry twigs and sticks. He was satisfied I could do this independently if need arose.
David made a satisfying lunch of good panini from the convent, chevre montrachat, prosciutto, fresh pears, wine. The fire was for comfort. It felt good to stretch my hands over the tongues of flame.
I had continued mulling over the saints. There were so many similarities between them, they overlapped areas of patronage. I did not think it was coincidental. I shared this thought with David.
“I think that is astute.”
“David, what deities were here before the Christians?” Christianity is plagued with the ghosts of paganism. I know the early church blended the customs of the paganini, the peasants, with Christianity. Gods and goddesses were given new histories and became saints. Festivals were kept in form, but changed in substance. Winter Solstice became Christmas. Hallow Even became All Saint’s Day, though it has stubbornly retained its druidic roots despite the attempt to convert it to Christianity. Halloween is divisive among Christians, some who abhor it as Satanic, others see it as a benign childhood holiday.
“Before the Estrucans, I cannot say. All early peoples believed in a spirit world. Estrucans came from somewhere over the sea. Where? No one knows. Perhaps Atlantis? But they came, and settled the west of Italy into these mountains. This land is called Etruria when the scholarii talk about that time. “
“How long ago?”
“About nine hundred to a thousand years before the Christ. They bring their civilization with them, their way of life, which is better than the people here. They bring gods that are like people, not simply the spirit of this, the spirit of that. Nortia is one goddess they bring. She is a dark goddess, of fate, healing and time passing. Nortia drives the nails of fate, she is also called Nortia of the hammer. Nail, hammer, they are death symbols. In her temple at Vulsinii, every year the priest drove a nail into the door. The tarfuti, truffles, are called ‘nails’ by the plain people. They look like nails. Like St. Anthony she is patron of truffles, but because of nails, not the pig. There is a song to her when the truffle hunt is not good –
“ di Norcia va ti à raccomodare
Che i tartufi ti faccia ritrovare,
E cosi io lo potro tanto ringraziare,
Che la fortuna mi voglia ridare!”
‘To Norcia go and pray;
For if her favour we implore,
She’ll grant us truffles in such store,
Fortune will smile for ever more.’”*
“Perhaps, Saint Benedict, Saint Anthony, Saint Scholastica are Christian faces for Nortia?”
“Perhaps. The Greek and Romans break her up into many goddesses, Tyche, Nemesis, Fortuna, who knows how many others?”
I thought on these things as we traveled downstream this time, crossing the stream to follow its eastern bank as it flowed southeast. We forded five small streams flowing into the one we were following. The stream, birds and wind created music for our pleasure. The woods were deep, every log and stone coated with velvety moss. At the fifth stream we turned north east to follow the water upstream. The climb was steep, but little Jenny was sure-footed as she followed David’s donkey. The way was blessed with many waterfalls, leaping joyfully on their journey to the sea.
After about an hour, David turned west to follow a trickle. About a kilometer from the stream the trickle led to a wall of rock, its face covered with heavy brush. David began to pull back the brush from the wall, holding away with bungee cords to trunks and branches of nearby trees, exposing the entrance to a cave.
The entrance was just a hair taller than I am, but wide enough for Jenny and I to walk abreast. David opened a pack on his donkey and handed me a candle lantern. He tied another leather sack to my saddle pommel. Taking a lighter from his pocket he lit the lantern, handing me the lighter as well.
“From here Signora, you will find your own way.”
“Through a cave! Alone!”
“Jenny will be with you. The way, it is easy to follow, When you are in doubt, go right! The path is well worn under your feet and marked also with soot along the wall. In the bag are more candles, the lighter is better than flint and steel in the cave.” He smiled at my shocked face. “Let us take a little refreshment before you go, give you a chance to get acquainted with the idea, si?”
David built the little fire this time. I stood stupidly holding the lantern. A cave. I thought of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher and Injun Jim lost in the cave. I remembered caves I had visited, one in Wisconsin with my father, Mystery Cave with my husband and sons, a cave in Tennessee with my husband. It amazed me, the stark beauty hidden in darkness. The ancientness, the millennia each inch of rock formation needed for creation, and how fragile, how easy to shatter. Caves were the earliest shelters of human beings. Caves are mysterious, their darkness hides secret rooms of exquisite beauty. They have provided safety from marauders, but they are dangerous too – to be lost in the labyrinthine bowels of earth, lost in darkness until you die, are terrifying thoughts.
When I read Tom Sawyer, I envied his and Becky’s adventure in the cave. I wished I was Becky Thatcher. Thirty odd years later my wish was coming true.
David was reassuring as we ate more bread, toasted over the fire with sticks, cheese, prosciutto, pears. The wine was warm going down.
“You will not get lost. Pilgrims have used this cave even before Etruscans. It will take you through the mountain. You will come out on a clear path to Sybilla’s casa. “
How long will it take to get through the cave?” I asked, trying hard not to let my fear show.
“Four, maybe six hours, depending on how fast you go. Do not hurry, Signora. She is beautiful, this Grotto del Sybilla.”
David added the sack of leftover food to the other sacks on my saddle. “You can go back with me, if you like. If you become afraid to go on in the grotto, come back. I will wait here for six hours. If you change your mind at any time, the trail is clear through the cave. Follow the path of water, use your flare, someone will find you, bring you out.”
“Thank you.” I was afraid, but I would try.
“You will be fine. You can do this.” David kissed me on the cheek, and embraced me in a tender hug.
I blushed furiously, and stepped boldly into the cave- more to hide my discomfort than to begin the trek through the dark. I held Jenny’s bridle in one hand and the lantern in the other. Before me the cave opened a little. The little trickle of water flowed down the far right wall, over stones that looked like puddled satin. Toward the left the floor rose gradually, making shallow, broad steps. The wall curled toward the back of the falling water, making another door way just big enough for Jenny to follow me through.
David had stepped back from the entrance, allowing as much light as possible to illuminate my way. I looked back, he was not there. Taking a deep breathe I turned the corner. The way was narrow, but wide enough. The walls flared open toward a open roof, bats hung drowsing between stalactites. My lantern threw golden light illuminating the way. David was right, the floor bore the imprint of hooves and the wall wore a smudged line of soot. I was no longer afraid, just curious. I trust him. That thought brought relief to my spirit. I live in an anxious world, a world where trust is infrequent. Believing, trusting David was leading me truly, set me free to enjoy my first solo walk through a cave.
I don’t know how long it took Jenny and I to traverse through the mountain. There is no time under the earth. Time belongs to the sun and moon. These chambers had never seen their light. One chamber opened into another. Sometimes the path twisted among columns of shimmering white stone, so tall they disappeared into black emptiness of the ceiling. One corridor was narrow, its walls lined with crystals shaped like roses, swans, stars, castles. They sparkled in my lantern light. One wall looked like the pipes of an organ, another rock formation shed a shadow like a maiden dancing. We crossed a small burbling stream, and skirted the shore of a lake. Its waters mirror smooth in the dark, a shelf of rock rolling over it, thousands of stalactites dipping down into the still water. Sometimes my lantern would illuminate a room except for the black openings of other pathways. Those made me shiver. I could almost hear siren voices whispering promises to lure me from the path and be lost forever. Fear bound me me safe, safer than Odysseus lashed to the mast to save him from his siren’s song.
I longed to touch the lustrous formations. I was held back by the warning echoes of the cave guides from the past. The oil on my hands, even a single fingerprint, will alter the flow of water, changing the formation to be. Even these rocks, deep in the belly of the earth, are ever-changing. What I do, or do not do, makes an impact in the eternal scheme of things.
Knowledge can be such a burden! I wish I could be as unthinking as the innocent Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher, able to reach out and touch the smooth stone.
What difference will my touch make? The warnings of the cave guides imply my touch will cause irreparable harm. If I carved my name in the stone, that is destructive. It I broke off one of the stalactites, or crystal rosettes, that is destructive. But is it destructive to stroke the wall , like I stroke the soft hair of my child’s head as she lies in my lap? My caress has molded my children as the smooth flow of water has shaped these caverns. The oil of my hand will create a change, just as my life has created a world that is different from what it would have been without me.
I believe I am responsible to leave this world a better place because I exited. My grandfather taught me his life verse, which became my own, without my really thinking about it. It is just me, like my face and oily fingerprints.
‘He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. Micah 6:8.’
Touching the wall will make a change in the formation. Whether that change is good or bad, who can say? I believe that when I meet God I will be shown what difference my life made for good or ill, what would have been different if I made different choices. I believe I will feel shame. I believe my shame will be removed when God opens his arms to me, in His embrace I am whole. Though my choices are in ignorance of their impact on eternity, my choices are not ignorant of my heart’s intent. Perhaps that is why the Psalmist prayed, “Create in me a clean heart!”
Why do I want to touch this wall? Because it is ancient, and beautiful and I want to connect with it. Is this a good reason, a pure reason? Who can say? Only the creator of this holy place. I believe touching this wall is touching its creator.
So I touched, I stroked the cold, smooth surface of the stone. I laid my cheek against it, as if to a mother’s breast. The silence of the cave was absolute, as absolute as the darkness but for my candle lamp. The sounds I heard were my own heart beat, the surging of my blood through my veins, the soft sound of my own breath, of my jenny’s breath. I stayed pressed against the stone for a long time. When I pulled away I felt a bit dizzy, disoriented in my head, but deeply peaceful in my heart. I have left a mark in the Grotto del Sybilla. I have made a change.
The sun was slipping on the western side of the mountain when Jenny and I emerged into its shadow on the eastern side. The air was evening cool, but warm compared to the what I am used to. The path from the cave meandered down to the banks of a river, placid as the eventide. I rode Jenny up the path as it curved west from the river to go up a gradual hill. The sun was enough over the horizon to glare into our eyes, keeping us from seeing the the plastered stone wall at it’s crest until we were almost up to it.
The gate was an intrically carved moon gate, without doors to shut any out. It opened into a lush garden, filled with trees in bud, bloom and fruitation. Smooth stones paved a way between the trees, thyme growing rampant between them, giving off a healing fragrance as we stepped on it. Flowers dotted the grasses under the trees, birds and bees still made music in the waning day. Before long we found ourselves entering the arched entry to a courtyard of the same smooth stone. Urns overspilling with abundant flowers lined the covered walk ways. A fountain sprayed water into the air, the drops tinkling over bright colored stones in its basin. Attracted by the colors, I looked closer, the stones were polished gemstones, lapis lazuli, turquoise, opals, bloodstones, moonstones, agate…
When I looked up a young woman was coming toward me. She wore a gown of yellow, embroidered with gold. The gown was sleeveless, showing the golden armbands on her brown arms and bangles on her slim wrists. She wore red slippers on her feet, and ankle bracelets of tinkling bells. Her face was veiled with a scarlet veil. she bowed as she approached me and gestured me to follow. She did not say a word as she led me through another archway to another courtyard, where there were stables. An old man in white, embroidered in blue and silver bowed to both of us and took Jenny’s bridle from me. His smile was gentle in his wizened face, his eyes twinkled kindness. I had no qualms leaving my companion in his care. Had it only been this morning that Jenny had been entrusted to me? It seemed like she had always been a dear friend.
The young woman took my hand, I could see a quietly smiling face behind the veil. Her eyes were also kind, though a little sad too. She led me through yet another arched gate into yet another courtyard, this one huge, with one garden after another, rather than urns. There were several fountains, each in a flower garden devoted to a single color – white, yellow, orange, red, purple and blue, pink. At the end was a sparkling white marble verandah, tall pillars supporting an overhanging roof, centered over a tall arch shaped door. The marble was carved with everything, In the time it took to cross the verandah and the threshold, I saw monkeys in trees, kittens chasing butterflies, mermaids cavorting with dolphins, coral castles under the sea, dragon castles in the clouds, sheep and ivy, grapes and fauns, all in merry occupation. The door was carved as well, the floor and walls inlaid with mosaic stones in sumptuous colors – the same gemstones a in the fountain. The mosaic was geometric in design, intricate. my eyes wanted to follow the design, study it, until it was arrested by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
She was not tall, just my height, but seemed taller because of the intricately arranged silver hair on her head. She was a little plump, dimples in her elbows. A veil the color of the sea fell from her hair down her back, the corners bound to pearl bracelets at each wrist. Her gown was the same color, belted with a silver girdle at her waist. Pearl drops hung from her ears, encircled her throat. She was at once regal, but you felt as if you were welcome lay your head on her bosom to be comforted. Her face was old and young at once, the face of one who has tasted deep grief, but risen through its fire refined. There were wrinkles, but they were smile lines. Her cheeks bloomed rosy and her grey eyes were bright. Her smile was genuine and gentle.
I fell to my knee and bowed. “Sybilla.”
She came to me, gently lifted my chin, smiled into my eyes with her own, helped me to help me rise. “Do not bow to me, child. We are all equal here. And welcome. I am glad you are here. “
She turned and I followed her into a dining room. The table was low to the floor, set with fresh bread, fruit and wine. Divans heaped with cushions of every color upon them circled the table. She reclined at her place at the head, patting the cushions next to her for me to do the same.
“I know it has been awhile since you have eaten. And you have traveled long. You will be tired, and stiff. We will eat, and then Lucia,” she gestured to the young woman who was gracefully taking her place at table, “will take you to the baths and to your room. I want you to be comfortable during your stay here. If there is anything you want, no matter how improbable, please ask.”
“Thank you. You are most kind.”
Sybilla smiled, “It is nothing, really. I have more wealth than can be spent in a thousand life times.” She leaned toward me, talking in an impish whisper. “Good wealth is like good manure, when you spread it around it makes things grow.”
“It is hard to accept…”
Sybilla nodded. “Yes, it is hard to be indebted. Who know what price might be exacted? Like Persephone, losing six months of the year to Hades, the price of six pomegranate seeds! Be at peace, Daughter, I will not ask anything you do not want to give wholeheartedly. That you are here is more important to me than anything. You come from a self serving world, so this is hard to accept. In time, you will understand. Now, eat, drink and be merry!”
I nodded, glancing at the young woman, who had pulled aside her veil to eat. Her face bore the scars of a badly repaired cleft lip and palate. Still, her face was beautiful. Sybilla noticed my glance.
“You have met Lucia, but have not been introduced. Lucia know who you are, she has read our correspondence. She has difficulty speaking, so chooses to be silent, unless she has something that must be said. She will be your guide while you are here, to help you. The Casa is quite confusing. She will always be nearby you, like you she likes a companion who doesn’t expect long conversations! Serving you will not impose on her, it is her wish.”
Lucia smiled at me as Sybilla was talking. Sybilla caressed her cheek. There was love between the two women. I felt a stab of longing, wanting to belong in their circle of affection.
The meal over, Sybilla rose. She embraced Lucia and I both, kissing me on the cheek, Lucia delicately on the mouth.
Lucia took my hand and led me up snowy marble steps, white marble halls that could be made of snow for their bright whiteness. She opened a marble door, simply by giving it a gentle nudge with her finger. It opened into a bath. The mosaic in the floor depicted the swirling blue waters and citizenry of the sea. Steps led down to a steaming pool, a sulfuric smell rising with the steam. Through the supporting columns, carved in the shape of trees so realistic they looked like frosted birch in a forest, I could see the room opened up into a garden. Lucia smiled as she took a handful of something from a basket and scattered it on the marble floor. Birdseed! Immediately a flurry of colorful little birds descended in a chirping scrabble. After eating, many birds perched in the stone branches of the columns and sang.
Lucia helped me out of my clothes and into the water. It was hot! I felt myself melting into relaxation. Lucia sat on the steps, her yellow gown billowing in the water. She lay my head in her lap, and taking something from an alabaster jar, lathered my hair. The smell was beautiful, flowery and musky. As she washed she hummed, her music was beautiful, soothing. She rinsed the foam away with cold, fresh water. The contrast between hot and cold made me tingle. Then she combed my hair until it was smooth. Helping me rise from the water, she wrapped me in a thick robe, and gave me soft slippers. She led me to a low table, and massaged my weary limbs.
Leading me through the columns, along a verandah, through tall French doors Lucia brought me into my room. The room was both plain and luxurious. Walls, floor and ceiling were fashioned of snowy marble, intrically carved as those at the entrance. A deep window seat was enclosed by windows as tall as the door, curtained by sheer drapes, and pillowed with cushions of many textures of white. Under another window was a desk and chair. A tall amoire stood against one wall, my back pack contents already stowed neatly away. The bed was in its own alcove, also curtained with billowy drapes and laden with blankets and more pillows of downy comfort. There was an adjacent sitting room, and water closet.
Twilight bathed the room in a sleepy blue light. Lucia turned back the covers as I stumbled groggily to the bed. I was asleep before my head met the pillows.
* www.luckymojo.com/esoteric/occultism/magic/folk/031.html
Unable to get permission to use as the domain had expired and there was no link to author Gregory S. Van Etten
