Chapter 12: A Guide

18 September 1974, The Metéora

EVEN WITH THE INFLUX of visitors drawn to the historic monasteries, The Metéora remained relatively unscathed and unchanged. The roads were all paved now with wide spots for parking near the monasteries open to visitors. Automobile traffic squeezed past the buses that brought tourists to the staging areas. After a half-mile walk from the tour bus to the entry area, tourists were given a rundown of the rules. It was a working monastery with thirty monks in residence. Women were directed to wear skirts that hung below their knees and a covering over their heads. A convenient vendor nearby sold drab bits of cloth that could be wrapped as a skirt or pulled up over a woman’s head. When they were suitably attired, the visitors were directed down the two hundred steps to the foot of Great Meteoron. Then they began the ascent up even more stairs and through a narrow passage, carved in the rock and just wide enough for two people to squeeze past each other if they were not large.

At last, they were admitted to the massive structure itself. Metamorfosis Sotiros Monastery (Monastery of the Transfiguration of Christ) covered the entire top of the pinnacle, with its stone walls rising from the sheer cliffs themselves. They walked past the historic but now unused kitchens and wine cellars, the reliquary of skulls of the monastery’s founders, the church, museums, and chapels. At last, Rebecca found herself in a walled courtyard of the monastery, not knowing exactly why she had chosen this day to search a pinnacle for answers. The courtyard was empty. She had arrived early and those tourists who had begun arriving were still far behind in the chapel or museums. The courtyard was terraced and the upper levels allowed a view over the wall to the vast field of rock pinnacles.

She sat in an alcove, her back wedged against the ancient rock, and let her mind drift. She had spent the previous day resting and eating—regaining her strength from the fast she had endured before her vision of the strange monk. This morning, without a plan, she had set out on a walk, her stick, Pele, firmly grasped in her hand. She had ended up here where her spirit could soar among the clouds.

And in the clouds, she met another.

Not human and not divine, yet on a mission directed to her. She joined the flight of a great Golden Eagle. This bird was not like the brass finish of the boiler she had seen in her vision twenty years ago, but rather a strong bird that bore her spirit far above the spires.

And as Rebecca let her spirit fly, she found a solid memory on which she could fix. A well in a courtyard where she looked up into the eyes of the Golden Eagle who summoned them to their fate.

But it was not through her eyes that she looked.

The eagle bore the memory that was filling her mind. The well. And beside it, herself. A flash of understanding filled Rebecca and then the vision was gone as the eagle released her and she fell back to earth to inhabit her body. With her eyes remaining closed, Rebecca held to the vision and began a slow and almost subvocal chant.

Eastern guardian of the air, grant me your power and your strength.
Uplift me with your breath and bear me on your wings.
Protect me from evil and guard me with your watchfulness.

Southern guardian of the fire, grant me your power and your strength.
Uplift me with your warmth and bear me on your flames.
Protect me from evil and guard me with your watchfulness.

Western guardian of the water, grant me your power and your strength.
Uplift me with your flow and bear me on your waves.
Protect me from evil and guard me with your watchfulness.

Northern guardian of the earth, grant me your power and your strength.
Uplift me with your stability and bear me to your peaks.
Protect me from evil and guard me with your watchfulness.

Now may all bear witness.

Guardian of the Spirit, the æther surrounding, grant me your power and your strength.
Uplift me with your otherness and bear me to my soul.
Protect me from evil and guard me with your watchfulness.

On this holy mount I call forth this summoning.

Sadb, the transformation whose name I have taken as my own,
I call you forth, my soul, my inner being.

I summon you to the well of tears,
There to join with my body, to become one with me:
Huntress and Prey.
I summon my Self to the well.

It was daring. She had seen herself through the eyes and memory of the eagle, standing by the well prepared to follow. She had summoned herself to that spot. She was Sadb—the Transformation. And she left the Monastery of Transfiguration to let her soul guide her.

Rebecca let the summoning go as she hiked down from the monastery to the village where she was staying. She had created the visualization. It could not escape, but had to come to her. But if she held it too tightly, it would struggle against her, possibly finding some other form for its manifestation.

She stopped at the taverna early in the evening and ordered a salad. The thick slab of white cheese served on a bed of lettuce, tomatoes, olives, and onion, doused with olive oil and vinegar, called for a glass of wine. She ordered a small carafe of the house red wine and settled in to read her book as she ate at the outdoor table.