“I’m okay,” I said hoarsely. “Just dizzy…”
Chanting voices joined with the sound of bones and flutes. Women’s voices—
And now with them chimed the sweet piercing tones of boys or
High overhead the vaulted dome arched, like a hand cupped above us. I knew its mosaic of semiprecious stones as well as I knew the lines of my palm: the sad somber face of Christ, haloed with chips of gold and jade, hands raised to display the stigmata.
That image was gone. Instead there was the sleeping visage of Othiym—her heavy-lidded eyes, her upturned mouth like the moon’s spar. Within the streaming radiance of her hair a silver crescent was netted. The smell of sandalwood grew overpowering, the sweet odor of oranges so strong my mouth watered.
But I could not tear my eyes from the dreaming goddess. As I stared I realized this was no mosaic, no archaic fresco painted upon a crumbling facade. This was Othiym, and that was the Moon she held. Behind her I could glimpse the smoking towers and edifices of the city, the long shimmering stretch of turbid water that was the Potomac. As I stared the moon began to grow, swelling like a milky bubble that would burst and shower us all with bitter rain.
And then what would there be? When the moon goes black and cold, when Her fire is quenched and her hunger appeased: what becomes of us then?
An icy hand grabbed mine. In a daze I turned and saw Annie. She looked as dreamy as I felt, but I saw that she was pinching the inside of her arm, so hard that it bled.
“L-look,” she said through gritted teeth. Her eyes teared with pain as she cocked her head. “I think we’ve found her.”
In front of us was the altar. Its crimson carpeting was lost beneath the crushed pods and calyxes of fragrant plants. A life-size statue of a woman was there. She wore a pleated flounced skirt of many colors. Her broad hips narrowed to a small waist, cinched with a bodice that opened upon her breasts. Full and round and creamy as some lush fruit, her aureolae and nipples flushed red. Her hair was the color of amber, and fell in loose curls across her shoulders. Upon her brow was a silver crescent, and upon her breast. Her hands were raised. Clutched within them were two serpents that writhed and coiled. This was not a statue. It was a woman, a priestess. It was Angelica.
Her voice rang through the Shrine. Immediately those other voices answered—
With a wordless cry Angelica brought her hands together. The snakes braided themselves around each other, their tails lashing at her wrists. And suddenly she no longer held them but instead an axe, a great double- bladed scythe of hammered bronze; but then that too was gone. Her hands were empty. With great reverence she let her fingers slide across the twin spars of the lunula upon her breast. Then she stepped forward and clapped, once.
Her voice rose as she raised her hands to the vast face floating above us.
A clattering noise. From the eastern transept stepped an ungainly form, its hooves cleaving flowers to strike at the marble below. A bull. About its neck loops of ivy were twined, and withered blossoms. It walked haltingly, as though it were exhausted, or drugged, its dark head hanging between its legs. In a low voice Angelica called out to it, in words I could not understand. The bull gave a soft moan, then walked toward her. Those same hidden voices sang out once more, their words counterpointed with the dry rattle of a tambour.
With a soft laugh Angelica raised her hand, then struck the bull upon the muzzle. It shook its head distractedly, as though she were no more than a fly. She struck it again, harder, and yet again, with such force that I could hear the blows, as though she had struck a drum. The bull snorted, then bellowed loudly.
“Come now!” cried Angelica. She struck at the bull again and darted away, beckoning at the shadows. “Children!—”
The chanting voices grew louder. From the darkness of the western transept figures came, a slow procession of men and women—boys and girls, really, scarcely more than children. A sandy-haired boy and one blond as the sun; a girl with shaven head and a frayed pigtail running down her back. Seven and seven; and I remembered then the old story of Theseus sent to slay the minotaur, the monster given tribute every one hundred moons, of Athens’s fairest children. Seven boys and seven girls, sacrificed to the bull…
But there was an older tale beneath that one: of a time when there were no gods, only men and children and bulls, and She who gave birth to all of them. She who must be worshiped and fed, She who must be appeased. The oldest tale of all, perhaps, and here it was now, before me.
