The SS Vulcania is berthing in the harbour of Carmentia, the old, original city of the Temple People, named in honor of Carmenta, ancient Sibyl and Oracle.
Carmentia has long been an important centre for Lemurian Merchants who traverse the Soul Food Silk Way in their caravans filled with fascinating wares. It is a city filled with history, a melting pot, inhabited by people from all parts of Lemuria.
Reporters from the Vulcanian Times managed to catch a glimpse of Enchanteur, incognito, heading to partake of some serious retail therapy.
The departure date for the SS Vulcania is February 1.
Enjoy your days on the island. There is plenty to see and rich festivals to engage in. The two main festivals are the Festival of Carmentia, held in the Temple of Carmenta and Feriae Sementivae, the time when creative seeds are sown.
Carmenta was the goddess of childbirth and prophecy, associated with technological innovation as well as the protection of mothers and children, and a patron of midwives. The Camenae were originally goddesses of springs, wells and fountains, or water nymphs of Venus . They were wise deities similar to the muses and sometimes gave prophecies of the future. Carmenta bears much in common with Themis, the Greek Goddess of divine law and wisdom.
Carmenta, the Triple Muse gave oracles to Hercules and taught Evander and is said to have lived until 110. “Mercury, or Hermes, or Car, or Palamedes, or Thoth, or whatever his original name was was given poetic sight by the the Shrouded Ones (his mother Carmenta, or Maia, or Danae, or Phorcis, or Medusa, or whatever her original name was.)”
Carmenta was famous for chanting her prophecies in verse. Her Greek name was Nicostrate, but when she arrived in Italy, the locals called the singing woman Carmenta, for the Latin ‘carmina’, or ’song’. That the Gorgons, of which Carmenta was, by another name, lived in a grove at Tartessus can mean only that they had an alphabetic secret to guard.
The Vulcania will berth at the Island of the Temple People, in time for the Carmentalia festival on the 15th of January. The journey on the Vulcania is a time of birthing of creative ideas and so many passengers will want to participate and make offerings to Carmenta in the Temple of Carmenta.
In the grove of the Temple of Carmenta nymphs await instructions and are ready to respond to wishes.
Participants are to enter her grove barefoot, as no leather is permitted in a templum dedicated to Carmentis. No immolationes (blood sacrifices) are to be performed for Carmentis. Milk, rather than wine, is poured as a libation for Carmentis. She may also be offered water with which to wash, olive oil, salt, honey, course meal, and flowers. Soothing herbs, especially those associated with Roman practices of childbirth and breast-feeding, would also be appropriate offerings – rue, malva, and salvia. Offerings of special dishes of cheese and herbs, called popana, may also be made.
Some people who visit the grove of Carmenta learn the songs of Carmentalia, the art of healing herbs and experience a contentment they have not known before.
Reference: The White Goddess by Robert Graves
AT THE SEA DRAGON TAVERN
by Gail Kavanagh
It’s a tavern like many others – dim and smoky, with wooden tables and benches and a bar overflowing with flagons of ale. A Buxom wench takes charge of me as soon as I enter and steers me to a quiet table with a cheery, “don’t want to hang out with that scum, Ducks, I’ll look after you.”
She bustles off to get my order of ale and stew, and I sit back and look around. This may be an Island of Temples, but the worshippers in this particular temple are as scurvy a bunch as you can imagine. I am sure I hear AM’s laughter rising from the general hub bub.Scurvy knaves or not, they’d better watch their step with her!
I have wrapped my cards and placed them in a fold of my skirt, and I finger the medicine bag around my neck,wit E’s walnut safe inside.Wll I need it here, I wonder? But for all the noise and the free flowing ale, thee is no sign of violence or disrepect toward the few women. Perhaps its the presence of those buxom wenches, who look like they could beak a head or two.
Still, I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. Is someone watching me, concealed in the tavern shadows?
The wench brings my meal and slaps it on the table. Her name is Alys, she says and if I want to stay the night she will see I get a clean room. I gratefully accept and fish out a few coins from the ship’s exchange from my purse. Alys is painstakingly honest, counting out the exact amount for the meal and board, refusing a tip.
“Doesnt go down well with the Goddess,” she explains, and then leans closer to whisper in my ear. “There’s a man been asking about you – he wants to join you at your table.”
“Is he all right?” I ask, trusting her judgement.
“Well, he’s a bit of all right, if you see what I mean,” she chuckles. “But as to the other way – he’s a blackhearted pirate, they say, but I’d trust him with me rent money.”
“And your virtue?”
“If I had any? As sure as eggs.” She chuckles again. “For all his piratical ways, he’s a gentleman -but a strange one. His name’s Sinbad.”
I catch my breath. “But I’m looking for him! Call him over.”
She bustles away and leaves me to savor my stew. A few moments later I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and look up.
“I’m Sinbad,” he said. “You must be the Gypsy.”
He takes the seat across from me and whistles for the wench, who materialises quickly out of the crowd.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, and laughs.
“Are you – or did you used to be – Farakh Sinbar?”
“That was my name in another life,” he agrees. “I understand you are interested in my paintings?”
Lucky Enchanteur, I think, to count this vivid,exciting man as one of her former lovers – but not surprising either. They would have been well matched.
“Your art is so amazing, so miraculous,” I say. “How could you give it up?”
“It wasn’t that hard. I entered one of my own portals, but I did not make the same mistake as poor Bunty. I can come and go as I wish. I have many identities, in many places. Here I am now a pirate, because its one of the best things to be in Lemuria. Back in Atlantis, I am still Farakh, the name I was born wth. It was there I learned the secret of painting portals from a great master.”
“Atlantis,” I breathe. “I would love to go there – they say my people came from there. Is it true?”
“Do you really want to find out?” He asks teasingly. Then his meal is delivered and he raises his glass of ale to me. “Perhaps I wil show you how – but you must promise to do exactly as I say, or you will not be able to return.”
“I will,” I promise, and raise my glass. We are having a fine time over the meal. He is amusing company, and very easy on the eye. He points out various pirates to me in the Tavern, and tells uproariously funny stories of his life at sea. I can see why he loves it so, and why he has become a legend.
The time flies by, and then he says – with genuine regret, it seems – that he has to go. But first he asks the wench for pen and parchment.
“These are exact instructions for going through the portals and coming back again. You must not miss any step, especially the meditation. Bunty was too impatient as always. But you have learned the value of patience, I think.” He pushes the parchment across to me. “Remember, do exactly as it says, or you may not be able to come back”
As he rises to leave, he takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “We will meet again, Gypsy,” he says..
And now he’s gone, and I stare after him, the piece of parchment clutched in my hands. When I can tear my eyes back to it, the first words I see are…”Go to the Mirror Lake, and know who you are.”
TROPICAL DELIGHT
Sipping sweet nectar
tracing soft spots with fingertips
peering in the pulpit
at this petal-sized universe
by Kerry Vincent (2009)
AN ISLAND EXPERIENCE
I find myself facing rather an unusual set of circumstances. I am sequestered alone in a small room whose cleanliness leaves much to be desired. There is just one grimy window and a splintered oak table on which I now lean to write. I do not appear to be locked in, but feel compelled to wait as instructed.
Perhaps I ought to start from the very beginning. I set foot upon dry land some time after elevenses. One cannot explore islands unknown on an empty stomach after all! I ventured just a short way from the harbour and found myself among a variety of market stalls selling all manner of trinkets and delights. Some claimed to heal and others are to be worn merely as decoration. I purchased for myself an amulet on a leather string which I am now wearing around my neck. This amulet gives strength and protection to the wearer. The price for such a piece was merely the telling of a secret. Such a strange request. I told the secret of the shell, the game we played as children.
I discovered a long and brightly striped, scarf. Some may describe it as gaudy, but I know that our Mother will love it so.
In the near distance, the pounding of drums and a chorus of voices lured me further along the island’s cobbled streets. The sweet and spicy aromas of vendors selling tasty treats assaulted my senses. I shall have to sample their wares later. The marketplace receded and the streets and alleys began to teem with celebration. I was drawn along by the dancers and spectators honouring the Goddess Carmentia. This must be the Fertility Ritual that E spoke of!
I was so thoroughly engrossed in this marvellous spectacle when I felt a tugging at my waist. A young girl, no more than 5 years of age, though I am by no means a sound judge, stood by my side.
‘Come, Lady,’ said she, ‘I shall show you something special.’
Of course, I was naive as always and followed on. I am rather beginning to regret the decision to go on ahead of Teddy. The young girl beckoned me forth and I had the sudden unshakeable feeling that matters were no longer within my control and I must trust this small and fearless guide ahead of me.
Masked figures thrust themselves in my path, the celebration raging all around me. Vibrant masks with grotesque features and bodies leaping and cavorting in a rather vulgar fashion. I side-stepped the surge of spectators, into a narrow alleyway. The girl opened the blue door before us and led me up the stairs. She led me to the very room where I now write. I can see the crowd in the streets below is beginning to thin out. I grow more nervous with each passing moment.
‘Wait here,’ she said, ‘he come soon.’
‘Who comes, who is he?’ I asked of her, rather more frightened now that the sounds of the celebration outside began to drift away.
‘Lady, you are far from home but there is a man here who say he know you – he say fetch the lady with the golden hair. Bring her to me.’
And so, dear sister, I wait. I clutch my amulet tightly and I wait..
from Elizabeth’s Journal
