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With little warning, and even less explanation, Cybele had been chosen as leader to represent the Goddess on Earth, an honour which no Priestess had held for generations. She was still asking herself why. She carried the mark of Ceres, to be sure, a deep blood-red crescent on her thigh, but that was not what had carried her to the position of esteem in which she was now held by all on the Isle of the Moon. During her ceremony of Initiation, when the new moon of Ceres was at its most powerful, the Goddess herself had taken over proceedings from the mere mortals who served her. She had swept through Cybele like a springtime storm tossing a willow. Firstly, she had spun Cybele in a frenzied dance of the Circle of Life. Then, as Cybele had been led to the Temple, Ceres had shaken the very Isle beneath their feet to command the obedience of all who walked upon her. Cybele was never to spend the years of trials and training endured by those who wore the cream and copper of the Unsworn. Her Initiation had been late in coming, however, so there were other full Priestesses of her age. But how strange it seemed that the elder Priestesses and even the grey-haired Old Ones now bent their knee to her, so recently a Novice. When the moon had finally set on the long night of ceremony and ritual, she had been led not to the Hall of Priestesses to sleep, but to a bed behind the very altar in the Temple itself, in a small room hidden behind a tapestry. Ria had explained that this was a temporary measure only, that the hut of the Chosen One which had for so many years lay empty and unattended was to be restored as soon as possible. 'We were foolish not to foresee that you were Ceres' child,' she said, shaking her head. 'We should have had all in readiness for you on this night. But the Goddess sends us only whispers, and sometimes we cannot know all that she intends.' Cybele smiled at her friend, 'Must she shake the earth beneath your feet to command your attention?' Ria gaped, but then realised that Cybele spoke only in jest. Yes, Cybele was the child of Ceres, impulsive and sharp. She would be like a clean breeze sweeping the Isle of the Moon. A worthy leader indeed after these fifty years of rule by secret council. 'Do they all support me?' Cybele asked, sure that there would be some dissent among the hierarchy of the Temple. 'We all felt the Goddess's touch this evening. Even the Priests and the layfolk of the villages all over the Isle could not have failed to feel her power, and her intention was clear. She has chosen you as her instrument, and any who would question her would have no more sense than the pebbles on the beach.' 'Who knows if the pebbles are not more wise than we?' she asked mischievously. Ria slapped her lightly on the hand in mock reproach, and was again the elder Priestess putting the Novice to bed. Cybele mused on how much had changed this evening, and yet how little. Ria extinguished the scented flames of the altar lamps, and slipped away into the darkness of the now moonless night. It would soon be daylight, but Cybele felt that she could sleep until the very Spring. As she reluctantly slipped into sleep, an image filled her mind. The young Priest who had sung with such a glorious voice at her ceremony. How slight his shoulder and slim his waist, like a girl's, but his voice had been that of a man, almost. The depth of a man's, but with the fluid grace that only the voice of a youth can have. She imagined his slight young body disrobed, as she had been that evening in front of all who served the Temple. She imagined his brown cassock falling from his shoulders, over the jutting bones and hairless chest. She felt drawn into his deep dark eyes with the eyelashes which seemed too long to really be. She saw him smile, a glowing, inviting smile as he reached his hand out to her. No, not to her, but to Dreeana, who had also been made Priestess this evening. She angrily half-thought that this was her dream, could she not be the one to enjoy his touch? Dreeana came to him, though, not as a woman but as the Goddess. Her nakedness was adorned with the thick blue woad stain which had been painted onto her breasts and belly that evening for her Vows. But he was no god, he was just a boy. What right had he to take the place of Priapus, the place of the Herm who signified the Goddess's Consort? But then perhaps Priapus chose for his instrument a candidate as unlikely as she herself had been when the Goddess had raised her above the eyes of all. Like the Herm, the boy's own shaft seemed disproportionate for that of a youth of fourteen. He wore no marks of ritual, no woad stain, nor even that of the mulberry. He looked purely mortal, like a beast of the field. As Dreeana sank to her knees before him, Cybele awoke with an angry start. Yes, it was her dream, and she would not have it stolen away by a lowly new Priestess. She laughed at herself - as though she could blame her friend for appearing in her own fantasy. After all, it was only a dream. The boy was no god, he was nothing. Nothing but a voice and the body of a youth. He was of no importance. Why, she didn't even know his name. She slipped back into half-slumber. The image returned, but she was closer to him. It was now she kneeling in front of him, or had she merged with Dreeana? She anointed his erection with sweet almond oil, and he closed his heavy-lidded eyes. He made no sound, but the heavy breath of raw desire. Were he the Consort, he would not be so eager, she thought. But then, she had not seen the Consort. Only a Herm had been used in the ritual couplings of that evening, a small glazed clay Herm, warmed in a pot of water and oils, then smeared with mulberry and woad on its life-sized member. She returned to the image of the youth before her. She imagined that they were sharing the dream, that in his own bed in the Hall of Priests, he was now thinking of her, the most high of all Priestesses, kneeling before him like a servant, and perhaps he was unconsciously touching his own swollen phallus, thinking it was her lips around him. She thought it ironic that she, probably the only virgin of nearly sixteen on the Isle of the Moon, had been chosen by the Goddess of Fertility to lead. How little she really knew of men. Thomias, the Priest who gave the Novices their lessons, was a man, she supposed, but somehow she could not imagine that lame and greying Priest performing the Great Marriage, or even coupling in the darkness with a dairymaid. As all men on the Isle were Priests, it was accepted that they would perform this service even for the laygirls of the farms and villages. Not that most of the villagers wanted to get with child, but she knew that one of the many potions supplied by Jenna the Healer was to prevent such things. The image of the boy came to her again, even more clearly. He seemed almost to flinch at her touch, as though it were too much for him to bear. Would it really be like this, she thought. She thought of the other Priests that she knew, and tried to imagine each of them unclad and erect like a Herm. Thomias, no, but Ioin, yes. He was tall and powerfully built. She had seen him one day by a farmhouse, as she had wandered the island alone. He was cutting wood with his gown around his waist. Probably he had just coupled with the woman who ran the farm. His back rippled as he swung the axe, and his dark curled hair had glistened with the exertion. He was like a young bull, strong and still eager for the chase. Yes, she could well imagine him as the god. Or Oannes, the wily one with the darting eyes. He was no taller than herself, but he certainly seemed to be of interest to the village girls. He had an air of knowing what a woman wanted most to hear. He had even complimented Cybele herself recently, but then she had been a mere Novice then, and he would not dare to address her in that way now. What had he said? That she looked like the Goddess Leda of the Swans and Elaine the Lily Maid combined in one tall and beautiful body. She had blushed and hurried away from his gaze then, but perhaps now she would be more receptive to such an approach. She no longer felt like the timid girl of only days before. Yes, she could command him to perform for her whatever acts she desired. And what did she desire? Cabirius would know. For one so young, he seemed to know all that you could ever want to know of the world and its wonders. Sometimes, he stood for Thomias in their lessons when Thomias was ill. From the giggling and tittering of the Novices when Cabirius was present, it was clear why he was not given to instruction more often - nothing would ever get done! He was a tall and willowy young man of about eighteen, with a seriousness that made him all the more maddeningly attractive to the girls. In their Hall in the evening after he had given a class, each girl would tell tales of how she would like to take Cabirius to the Grove and teach him more than he could find in all his books. Cybele listened to these tales without ever joining in, but she felt sure that Cabirius knew even more than the older men of how to pleasure a woman. It seemed strange, though, that none of the girls had ever successfully seduced him. Perhaps he restricted himself to the laygirls, so as not to complicate matters when he was required to teach the Novices. Cybele felt a deep swelling thrill run through her body, starting from her thighs and sweeping up and down over her like a tide. As she imagined Cabirius stripped of his robes and seriousness, lying naked on the floor of their classroom, rubbing his own oiled erection, she felt the sharp peak of her passion. She gasped sharply, then slowly went limp. As it subsided, she felt a pleasant throbbing between her legs, and she slowly fell asleep thinking that she was truly ready, even impatient for the Great Marriage.
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