I traveled south. There is a lake made in the crater of a volcano, surrounded by a fertile grove. Lago d’Averno, a doorway to the center of the world enclosed by the Garden of Eden. I spent the night camped upon the bank. Though it was cold on my journey, this secluded place was warm and sleep took me easily. I dreamt of a woman walking along the banks. Her hair was long and dark but elaborately braided and the long twist of it hung down her back. She wore a white dress that shimmered like the moonlight above and only just showed her bare feet. She turned toward me just a fraction showing her profile and my mind called out for Cybilla.
I woke with a start. It had been more than a month since my journey began and I ached for her though I knew she would not return to me. The darkness was still thick in the sky, but I needed comfort. I took the flute from my bag and played as softly as the wind. Light laughing came form the direction of the water and I could see the Nymphs frolic out under the setting moon. But the Lady I sought was not in sight. Again I lay my head upon the ground, I did not think rest would find me again, but it must have.
There came a small push at my shoulder. “You must wake now, Oren Gale, the Lady has come to the lake!” she whispered urgently.
I opened my eyes to see Dia kneeling beside me. “You help me even here?”
“I have felt your heart, and you have given us music,” she answered, delicately stroking the flute.
“You may have it, take it as my thanks to you. I will hope the next man who plays it will have only you in his heart.”
She lifted it and pressed it tight to her. “Do you think there is such a man out there? Do you think there is a man like you who would call for me?”
I reached out and stroked her cheek. “If I live to make a life beyond this journey, I will write your name into song. I will tell the one who hears it what he must do.”
“You must see the Lady now. Your words are a gift beyond any price I could dream of asking.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and blew her kiss to me as she disappeared into the dark water.
And there in the distance, with the sun’s first rays behind her was the Lady Carmenta, the voice of the Goddess.
I approached her slowly. So like Cybilla was she that tears leaked from my eyes as they looked upon her.
“I have heard your name, Oren Gale. All the world beyond seems to be speaking of you.”
“How can this be?” I asked. “How can you be so alike that my eyes are fooled but my heart is not?”
She turned and stepped close to me. She took my face into her hands and looked deep into my eyes, so deep she seemed to look directly into my memories. Then she slid her hand down and pressed it to my heart. Words my mind could not seem to translate whispered within me until the moment she pulled away. But she looked away out toward the water and brushed heavy tears from her eyes.
“It is my daughter you seek. I, Carmenta, wife of Mercury, mother of Evander, founder of the letters of Roma, bore just one daughter. The greatest love of my heart. Oh, but how could she not be what she is, given her lineage? I am speaker of the oracle, her father, carrier of dreams, it was clear from the moment she breathed with life that she was a muse,” the Lady sniffed. “And I hid her. I hid my darling child beneath my skirts so the Mother might overlook what was plain to see. I kept her close to me at all times always hoping she might escape that life of torment where love can never be fulfilled.”
“My Lady, I did not know.”
“You could not know, Oren Gale. For I was punished harshly. The Oracle was one day meant for me and the Mother claimed my beloved and chastised my desire to keep her for my own. Cybilla was cleansed in the pure spring where her memory was washed away and my love long forgotten. While my son went on to fame and power, even in mortality, my only daughter has been made to live an eternal half-life, and I have not seen her face since the day she was torn from my own arms.”
I knew what I must offer her. My heart would be heavy with loss, but she bore that loss as well. I took the picture from my bag carefully. I stroked the lines of her face and brushed the hair from her brow one last time and then I made my offer to the Sibyl. “This is she, My Lady. This is Cybilla.”
Carmenta took the picture in her hands, tears of loss and joy and thanks fell all at once as she looked upon the face we both treasured. “She is beautiful.”
“As beautiful as the one who bore her.”
She looked at me and then into me it seemed. Some judgment was made, and she said: “Give me silence and I shall listen to the words of the Goddess and tell you plainly what they mean.”
Carmenta closed her eyes and swayed a bit in the gentle breeze that danced through the early hour. The sun was peering over the rim of the crater and I knew my time must be getting short. But a man cannot rush the words of a Goddess, so I breathed deeply, pushing away the anxiousness.
At last she walked away from me, but she returned quickly carrying a small basin. “Kneel, Oren Gale,” she commanded as she dipped the basin into the dark water. “You must find the one who has made his way through the gate. A man of Genoese blood, a troubadour, who left behind a life of plenty to go where the chords live longer than any other place in this world.” She poured the water over my head and ran her gentle fingers through my wet hair. “I give you the protection of the lake, for the gift you have given me is far greater than the words I have to offer in return. Fill your flask here and carry the fertile water with you. Drink only sparingly, if your need is great, as the water in this place is the blood of the earth, that from which all life sprung.
“My Lady, how do I find a man who has gone beyond this temporal world?”
“The same way you have found each of us. You must find his gate.”
She bid me to stand and again she ran her hand over my cheek and down to my heart. Words sprang to my mind; a memory drawn back so vividly that I could see every detail as I heard the brief words:
“Do you love me, Cybilla?”
“More than I have loved anything in this world.”
Carmenta took her hand away slowly, the melancholy upon her face was clear. “Love her with all you are, Oren Gale.”
“I have loved her that much since the moment she first came to my dream. I feel the pain of every day she is not with me.”
“Sweet Mercury, please grant him the peace of Morpheus’ dream once more, here in this sacred place!” she called out to the sky, her arms spread wide in the face of the morning sun. Then she kissed my forehead.
I must have crumpled to the ground. Sleep took me instantly, but whether it was Carmenta’s kiss or fleet Mercury sending me to my dream I did not know. I relived that first night; the night Cybilla lay across my bed. The night I first leaned into her touch. The night she first called me ‘My Love’. I could still hear the echo of the music in my mind.
The sun was already red with the waning of day when at last I woke. For a moment I feared that loss of time. Had it just been one day or had a slept a lifetime in this sacred place? But the answer did not matter because which ever it was, it was the will of the Goddess. And my journey still awaited me. I filled my flask as Carmenta instructed, I whispered my thanks and I walked on.
VIII:
I found a place to stay and rest that night. But as I lay in bed I tossed and turned. For the first time, I felt the vile fear of failure. I wondered at the cruelty of this Mother Goddess who would take a child from her mother’s arms and wash away the love that was. What chance had the love of a mortal man’s heart against the will of such a goddess? I had to quash those thoughts immediately so they would not be branded on my heart. I told myself that the power of love was the greatest force in all of creation. My love was for Cybilla alone and nothing was going to discourage me from this task.
. . .
It was many weeks of research before I found my answer. I think it was the name that tricked me the most.
The Oracle s
aid I needed to find a man of Genoese blood, and a place where chords lived. I was expecting an amphitheater or at least a theater of some sort. I thought this task might even take me into Greece as theater was so important to that culture. My research found ninety-six amphitheaters in Italy alone, and that was not the entirety of the list of theaters built by the Roman Empire. There were an additional eighty Greek theaters significant enough to warrant a look. I cross referenced them with fountains and sacred springs, whittling my list. I researched renowned troubadours and tried to place them at the theaters that made my list. There was failure after failure. But in researching troubadours, one name kept coming back to my papers: Folquet de Marselha. I pushed him aside. He was quite obviously a man of Marseille, France, but his popularity as a singer of love songs kept pushing him back into my view. At last frustration got the better of me. I needed a break from my notes and the noise in my mind so I looked up this Frenchman just to see what made him so popular.
Imagine my surprise when the very first bit of information I found was that he was the son of a Genoese merchant. I probably should have known by the Oracle’s use of the word troubadour that the one I sought was French, after all she did not say rhapsodist or virtuoso. Yes, certainly the hand of the otherworld was as work here. I began to laugh out loud as I read it, and the stern librarian reprimanded me.
I took in his short biography eagerly.
He’d lived a life of luxury and popularity. He’d had promiscuous affairs and sired sons. Until one day he abruptly gave up all he had and became a monk. In my mind, this transformation could only be the beginning of his quest for his muse. His story led to the place of his seclusion: Le Thoronet Abbey, a place so austere it was made of just three elements, earth, water and light. It was a place of absolute purity and commune with nature. It was also home to an ancient spring. So while this place may have been made in the name of a Saint, it was most assuredly a gateway to The Goddess.
And that as where I had to go.
My journey to Var en Provence was far longer than I’d expected. The days were growing quite warm as the month of May marched on. I could have traveled more quickly, maybe rented a car or sought out a train, but this seemed like a journey that needed to be made on the land, naturally, I guess. I suppose that sounds silly or superstitious, but claiming my muse seemed to have a lot to do with knowing myself and I’d never lived in any sort of hardship conditions, so knowing what I was capable of was a reward in itself.
Le Thoronet had become a museum, so the form of learning associated with the place had changed a bit. I stood at the entrance awaiting my chance to go inside. I was directed by a sign and a donation box that my charity was appreciated. I dug one of the coins from my bag again hoping the currency of the ancients would be acceptable payment.
The structures themselves were simple and unadorned and yet grand in what it must have taken to build such a place without modern machines. The stonework, the arches, the clever plumbing, were all remarkable achievements for their time. While there were many things to marvel over in this place, I had to find the fountain. Unlike every other site upon my journey, I could not access the grounds to this place in the pre-dawn hours. I could not be at the fountain as the sun rose. My plan now was to be there as the sun set. I assumed that a gate from day into night worked roughly the same way as its opposite, but it was more complicated as there was not as much privacy; the light was dimming so instead of making my meeting with the cover of darkness, I had to be wary of watching eyes and frankly, I did not know if he would come.
The fountain was a simple structure. There was an arch in the wall, a small pool and a simple pedestal basin at the center. My desire to run my fingers through the water was very strong, but I did not want to be disrespectful so I sat and waited. I took the manuscript from my bag and I read.
‘If only you could have seen her.’
My heart ached. Like Gallagher, I made my vow and Cybilla was lost to me unless I could find a way to convince The Mother that I was worthy of her. Or maybe that wasn’t what I needed to convince her of at all. Maybe it was a test of strength or will. Perhaps she would simply look upon me and make a judgment, but still I had to find the way to speak to the Goddess and I hoped this Abbot, this troubadour, this singer of love songs would be able to tell me how he did it.
The sun had begun its slow descent, but it moved more slowly than I had ever seen. I took my guitar from its case and let my mind get lost in the music for a while. Without realizing what I was doing, I closed my eyes and sang.
“Well, even if I had not been expecting you, hearing that song I would have known why you were here.”
I startled. There beside me sat a man of middle years, perhaps fifty-five. He wore loose fitting black pants and a simple ivory shirt in the style one might imagine a poet of old wearing, with ties at the cuffs. His hair was silvered at his temples, but his eyes shone with an eternal light. So though I’d seen no pictures, I was certain this was the man I sought.
“You were expecting me?”
“Oh yes, Oren Gale. From the moment you sang your intention I knew you would seek me.”
“So it is true then, Sir, that you are the one man who completed the task.”
“You may call me Folquet or Foy, that is what she calls me.”
“Would you share your story with me?” I asked him.
He smiled. “Would you give me yours?” he asked indicating the manuscript still sitting beside me.
I gingerly lifted the papers. It might have seemed like I did not want to give them away, and in my heart, I knew that I did not want to while I also knew that I must. But the truth was that I was afraid they would not be sufficient payment since I did not write the words. I held the story out to him and told him honestly that the work was not mine, but how I came to possess it and why it was so meaningful to me.
“You still give me something that has great meaning to you.” He looked around and then back toward the fountain. “Perhaps we should not speak so close to the gate. Come, there are many things here that are quite interesting to see.” He walked casually in the dim light as though he would know this place even blind.
“Do you need to go back through the gate before night falls?”
“No. I am not the same as they are, so I can walk this realm as I wish. The crossings are easiest at the dawn and dusk, but not impossible at other times. Well, at least not for me. I think, though, that I shall stay until the dawn. Did you know that a single note played in the church here can last up to three minutes? Come, you should hear it. It can be either perfection or chaos, like Heaven or the underworld,” he smiled.
I followed along in his confident wake. “May I ask you something, Folquet?”
“Anything,” he said. “Don’t hesitate.”
“Well, I know what it is that I want to know, I’m just not sure how to ask the question.”
“Plainly would be best. Monks are very simple people.”
“Are you immortal?”
“Have you seen accounts of my death?” he grinned.
“No, not your death, but only that your grave is near Toulouse.”
He took a pitch pipe from his pocket, pushed open a large unadorned door. His eyes swept the small church and the pride showed upon his face. “Remarkable, isn’t it.”
Even the soft words echoed and reverberated back upon us. “Yes. The simplicity itself is art.”
“Ah, pleasing to the eye for sure, but listen!” he said as he breathed into the pipe and hung a single note in the air for so long its vibration was nearly visible.”
“Remarkable.”
He inhaled in deeply and sang out a stanza of a canto in a dialect of French I couldn’t decipher, but could feel in both the depth of the notes and the emotion. His voice was strong and deep, his words slow. We both listened to the last notes linger and fade then he motioned for me to try. While I was accustomed to singi
ng in front of an audience and in an acoustically sound studio, nothing could have prepared me for the sound of my own voice in this place of God. My song for Cybilla was alive and every bit of me wished she could hear it.
At last the sound died away and we left that place in its sacred silence.
“I am, as you said, immortal, Oren Gale,” he started. “You know what I miss the most? The bread. Every morning the sun rose and the aroma of the hearth bread greeted me. That’s the thing I miss.”
We entered a small room that had clearly been made into some sort of employee lounge for the people who took care of the museum.
“I was not like you. I would not say I was good man. I lived a luxurious youth, my father was a wealthy man and I was a privileged son. I traveled and sang, and sometimes my romantic words landed me in the beds of ladies above my station, occasionally they were married. Then one day I saw a painting in a Lord’s house of a woman so beautiful I felt I had to write about her. Many days I sat in seclusion in a small grove practicing the lyrics, the cadences, the pitches. Until the day I thought I had it perfected. The sun was setting and the sky burned with clouds streaked like flames, but I closed my eyes and sang. I felt every word in my heart, and though I had been a singer of cantatas amorosos for many years, none had such impact on me. I opened my eyes and there she was.”
“Your muse.”
“No. My Goddess. I devoted myself to her. Like you, I knew I would have to sacrifice things I held dear, but it was more than that, I had to understand her world. I had to understand her place in it. I had to be one with nature. This place gave me that chance. But you see, I couldn’t bring her into this world. She could never live a mortal life. So when the gate opened...”
“She brought you to her,” I finished. “What was your task?”
“My task was simply knowing with all my heart what I wanted. But then I had to be worthy of her, I had to cleanse myself of my past life and I had to serve the Earth, serve mankind in someway. For me it was a penance,” he said, reaching out and putting his hand over my heart. “I don’t think it will be the same for you. You already know with conviction what it is you want and that has made your journey quite short. What remains is finding your gate.”