She settles in the big chair, sits there wrapped in layers of wool and silk, leaning back, relaxed, amused, her face obscured, her once-beautiful hands curled over the worn finials, a jewel on her thumb shimmering blue and green and crimson, a black opal that echoes the bright lights in her black eyes.
She opens her mouth and declaims:
The wheel is turning, the change is near
One by one the signs come clear:
Salagaum flower
Through the nights and the days
High Kasso seeks power
In odd little ways
In the Beehouse’s Bower
The Honeychild plays.
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She laughs, a soft growly sound like the earth shifting.
To be a sibyl, she says, it is necessary to cultivate a talent for bad verse. The seekers demand it. They will not believe you if you speak them plain.
If you want me, she says, come. I am waiting for you.
You will find this cave on the slopes of Mount Fogomalin not far below the high terrace where the Temple is, the Camuctarr of Bairroa Pili. To reach it, climb the steps and steeps of the Jiko Sagrado until you reach an ancient olive tree. It is no bigger than a bent old woman, but it has been making olives since the world began. The path begins there. Go along it, holding your clothes tight against you so the firethorn won’t catch you and the boutra birds won’t eat your livers. If it’s Spring when you’re coming, bring silk to breathe through when you pass the grove of Enyamata trees lest the pollen beguile you and keep you till you starve. Follow the cairns of black lava around the bulge of the mountain until you reach a cave mouth. Enter and I will be there.
Come with your puzzlements, come with your needs, come in the daylight or hidden by night.