The Last Sibyl

The Last Sibyl.

An ADULT story of Female Domination in the long lost times of the Mycenaean Greeks.


By
Miss Irene Clearmont











The Last Sibyl.

Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?
Robert Graves.

*****

1500 BC

The Pythoness of Delphi, oldest of all of the priestesses of the shrine, relaxed as the drug took her imagination to a deep inner place. The Ambrosia of the Goddess, distilled from mushrooms and bitter roots, dragged her consciousness along a dark road until at last she began to prophesise and speak the will of her governing mistress:

“The way to Delphi is hard for all men. They travel from distant Argos, Mycenae, Iolcos and Gla to come back into their mother’s womb.

It is strange that men should wish to venture here, into the heart of our groves, down to the cracks of the earth. A place alien to their hearts.”

There was a pause, a moment of reflection as if the idea had provoked a new vision, a new fork on her road of thought.

“They come here to hear of the future, to listen to the enigmas that are posed by women and they do not understand our precious secret, the one that binds them to us.

They do not understand that it is not the cooling breeze between a woman’s legs, not spring’s caress of Hera nor the touch of the pollen of spring. It is not the lapwing’s broken wing, it is a man’s spilled seed that makes another man!

They are like children in their understanding, these men.”

She sighed and looked at her chief priestess with blank black eyes. They were full of wisdom and vacant of understanding, they saw another world, the world of revelation and prophesy.

“When men finally discover this mystery they will forsake the goddess and raise male gods in her place. Petty spirits of water and air will rule us all. Zeus, insignificant sparrow of the skies; Apollo, timid mouse-man and Poseidon, the offspring of a fish!

I can sense the approach of the sacrificial goat. A man comes to hear the foretelling, a king of the Hellenes, a bringer of our doom.

Go now to the open sky and welcome him as you have been trained, while I wait for our nemesis to attend the mystery that he takes so casually.”

The priestess slipped into a trance, a state of almost-sleep that presaged the coming of the goddess that would possess her, her lips moved in almost silent whisper and Pelopia, her servant, leaned forward to catch those words that dripped like poison.

“We shall teach him otherwise… We shall possess him and sacrifice him. Lead him to me!”

The words faded from her lips and a terrible smile crossed her features as finally the Ambrosia gripped her senses and took her to a world where death stalked souls on the other side of the Styx, the river of death.

*****

Pelopia gathered her robe and bowed to her mistress, the Pythoness of Delphi who had spoken the words of the Mother. The older woman sat on the lightning split oak of the throne seeing the world with other eyes than her own.

The rope hung ready and the stone knife of the sacrifice lay on a ledge.

The fifty five steps that led from the depths of the sanctuary to the inner court of the temple were worn with the tread of priestesses, victims, supplicants and martyrs that had trodden their ledges.

Pelopia smelled the sweet smoke of sacrifice, it penetrated her senses and lifted her into a world of shadows and dream. As she climbed those stairs she pondered what the old priestess had revealed to her.