Lemurian City of Ladies

Gaia was calling,

walking to the Mouseion,

telling the tale of Apollo and Daphne -

the same way the sun chased the moon.

The Bay Laurel whispered in the

warm breeze, of salt and sea

and wild lavender and olive hills, -

- as the books in the

Mouseion spoke the

tale, ancient of myth and song.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

The sign said “Closed for Lunch”,

and stopping at the iron grilled gate leading

down to the Catacombs in the City of Ladies,

brought a sigh.

There was another sigh from the shadows…

“Why are you here again?  Your mother has been

looking for you.”

The shadow near the gate rippled with a gesture of

agitation.

“I don’t know.  I am listening to the stories, on my walking

tour with the other travellers…”

“We have your itinerary, and it all checks out.  We’re closed for

lunch, and there’s no need to go back in.”

The sun beamed off the white buildings of the City

and I stepped out of the shadows of the gate which

led downward.

A raven flew down and squawked, with a note in its beak

for me.  It read:

“Seven black seeds and a pomegranate.  Paid in full.”

I looked up from the note to the shadow, which

had gone quiet in reserve.

This sense of reserve seemed to translate into the

solution to a puzzle, as if a final word in a crossword

or similar mind game, within.

It was like a settling, something had settled.

“You know all you need to know,” said the shadow.

“I admit I have been coming here for months, in one way or

another.  It’s good to see the pomegranate…”

My mother was calling me, wanting me to

go to the Mouseion, to gather more wisdom and

apply it, it was right to suppose.

Surrendering the dark cloak, now dusty and dry

with age, I walked away from the Catacombs,

following the map to the Mouseion.

The shadow by the gate receded.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

It was cold and dark in the catacombs, quiet except for my own footsteps and the skittering of small creatures across the rough stone below. The walls were slightly damp, the smell of must strong. As I walked further into the shadows, cobwebs snagged at my face and I pulled them off. I looked down and saw the remains of what might have been an ancient mosaic floor. Black, red, and white tiles made up a design, but it was hard to tell what the picture might have been.

I did not like it here and wondered what Enchanteur expected me to find. What is this place? I whispered.

“It is the Slush Pile, where rejected stories go to die,” said a small voice.

“Who – who are you?”

“I am a were-pen. See the shining point of light on that wall? That’s me.”

“You can speak?”

“I am a voice in your head, but you are not mad. It’s a Lemurian magic. Call it your inner voice, the writer within, seeking expression.”

“I knew writers were crazy; this confirms it,” I admitted. “But we’re mostly harmless. So if I have a talking were-pen as my guide, I guess that’s OK.”

The were pen bobbed in agreement. “It is a deep, dark magic, like bibbety-bobbity-boo. Toss some basil in the air, and presto-chango, we can advance the plot!”

It made a funny, clicky noise. I didn’t know were-pens could snicker. “You’re kind of sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“I am *your* inner voice, afterall.” The pen top clicked mischievously and I swear the were-pen was winking at me. “Call me 86.”

“Let’s recap, 86. I am talking to a were-pen in the dead stories file. So the contents of these catacombs are what, unpublished stories?”

“Not even that. They are half-finished stories. Plots that twisted and turned up their toes too early. Characters only half fleshed out. Mummified mixed metaphors. Paragraphs piled up like bodies for the charnel house. Adjectives tossed overboard. Ransacked rhymes. Transitions that never made it from one paragraph to the next. Half-done hooks. Wasted words. These are the stories of the damned, that have no voices, until a writer tells them.”

“I thought this was a ladies’ literary walking tour. Where’s Enchanteur? What does this creepy place have to do with me?

The were pen swung above my head like an inky sword of Damocles. “Once upon a time…”

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Seasons come and seasons go,

Nature’s song,

wheeling cosmically,

unrelenting,

time spent with the Dame

washes a lot,

(with her humming song),

of the past away.

To greet Imogen and Orlando,

anew,

free of travel disarray and dirt,

to occupy new places,

is surprising -

to say the least.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

E caught at Dame Washalot’s Bath-house
Enjoying a quiet contemplative moment.

Heather Blakey June 16th 2008

Enchanteur is receiving ladies who have a unique voice and special projects that will enhance the aims of this ancient Lemurian City.

Heather Blakey June 14 08

“The joy you give me is such that a thousand doleful people

would be made merry by my joy.”  – Beatritz de Dia, trobairitz.

Further exploration on the theme of the Trobairitz

and what she traditionally did,

brings inspiration in the following link

from Wikipedia,

detailing sample music from the mysterious

Comtessa de Dia, whose rare ancient composition can

be heard here, interpreted by modern singers.  Usually

the Trobairitz was of noble birth,

as opposed to her male

counterpart.  No doubt she took her role seriously, and

delighted many a court with her

finely schooled voice and

composing skills.  To be able to witness such a grand evening

would be a treat, with the beautiful

lamenting tune echoing

off the walls of ancient abbeys or castle halls.  There is a coloured

icon medieval image of her in the attached link,

and she certainly

gives all the appearance of an accomplished noble woman at work.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

Expanding more on the theme of women’s work, and lesser known roles in medieval times,

brings to mind the Troubairitzes, the female version of the male medieval Troubadours.

Often, the work of these women was secondary

only in fame to their male counterparts, and not in quality.  The women’s works

had a lightness and intelligence of emotion which men might not

convey through their sung tales.  These songs often contained wise instruction

on courtly love, or served as laments, or tales of woe in song.  The style

came from the south of France, at a time when much was changing in women’s

lives, and more freedoms were gained,

as discussed in the article on women and the Crusades below.

Here is some interesting material in lyric form, on these works,

which have been reproduced for modern CD listening,

  Early Women Masters. 

The lyrics are quite fascinating, even by today’s standards,

showing how little has changed with the passage of time.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

(Linked material is copyright to their respective authors.)

“Jerusalem, you do me a great wrong by taking from me that which I loved best.
Know this to be true: I’ll never love you, for this is the reason for my unhappiness…

Fair, sweet lover, how will you endure your great ache for me out on the salty sea,
When nothing that exists could ever tell the deep grief that has come into my heart?
When I think of your gentle, sparkling face that I used to kiss and caress,
It is a great miracle that I am not deranged….”

(by Anonymous singer of women’s songs)

Thanks to a brilliant essay from The Women’s World Curriculum,

“Women and the Crusades”,

at Medieval Sources Online, detailing women’s work and roles

at the time, more can be learned about the lesser known

phenomenon of men leaving their wives to tend to their

estates at the time of the Crusades.  The excerpt above from a French

song of lament, though anonymous, gives a voice to the feelings of

women at the mercy of the nature of those times.  Often, these

men did not return, communication would have been scant and

difficult, and absences could last years.  Before the real danger of

these crusades was known, women sometimes accompanied their

men, but after the devastating cost was known, there was a ban on

anyone but men attending the ravaging travels of crusades.

The linked essay also contains some great revelations, and details of

a noble lady, making her stand and “do or die choice” in the name of

protecting her estate when her noble husband was away.  Accounts of

women finding their administrative powers over their home and land

flourish in a time of great hardship, and present an odd boon to this troubled

age, which was the stretch in the reach of women’s perceived limits, showing

their full capabilities, at women’s work.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)