God Meets Goddess

By TM White

A brutal army conquers the Verdure Steppe in the name of God, until they run out of enemies and patience. Goddess-worshipping seafarers from the Crescent Isles off the coast are running out of tribute to hold them back. A tidal wave hits both races like a divine warning, and casts three unlikely saviors into the net of the mystic teacher Jagathe. To avert direr catastrophe these would-be heroes of the mortal world must face the divine world where God Meets Goddess.

Jagathe bestows on them the power of divine desire, offers them supernal abilities, and charges them with impossible tasks. What chance has the pleasure slave Corovayas to suppress the Caballary warriors and defend the successors in the Verdure Steppe? Can the humble gaoler Freoman reform the corrupted Scryer sect and repair the damage of their false prescience? Must the maiden Syrameda, daughter of the rulers of the Crescent Isles, denounce her father’s treacherous pact with the brigand Pelaguards and face them alone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483427881

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Copyright © 2015 TM White.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2789-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2788-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903892

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/21/2015

CONTENTS

EPISODE 1

EPISODE 2

EPISODE 3

EPISODE 4

EPISODE 5

EPISODE 6

EPISODE 7

EPISODE 8

EPISODE 9

God Meets Goddess

is

dedicated to Ava Park, founder of the Goddess Temple of Orange County.

Based on the themes of my Goddess Trilogy, an author friend invited me to see the temple. I was impressed by the palpable and profound spirituality and fascinated by the authenticity Ava has achieved. I sat with my eyes closed, my voice silent—mind and body filled with the presence of the Divine Mother.

To my knowledge there is no temple like this anywhere else, and soon her Museum of Goddess History and Culture will add another dimension to discover and enjoy. Take a look at www.GoddessTempleOC.org

I have returned to enjoy many conversations with Ava. Much of what I have learned from her found its way into this novel. My gratitude has no limit.

CHARACTERS AND PLACES

In Bayangoa and the Verdure Steppe

Corovayas, roué of the Sovran’s zenana

Freoman, a gaoler

Ganjhan, Caballary Master and Quinary Governor of the Setting Sun Territory

Carensa, daughter of Ganjhan and wife of the Sovran

Panlao, son of Carensa and successor to the Sovran

Degranas, Caballary Master and Quinary Governor of the High Sun Territory

Massaylle, daughter of Degranas and wife of the Sovran

Bynram, son of Massaylle and successor to the Sovran

Albarrando, Caballary Master and Quinary Governor of the Southern Sun Territory

Rastana, daughter of Albarrando and wife of the Sovran

Laron, son of Rastana and successor to the Sovran

Tyrgali, Caballary Master and Quinary Governor of the Northern Sun Territory

Oshani, daughter of Tyrgali and wife of the Sovran

Charak, Caballary Master and Quinary Governor of the Rising Sun Territory

Jhessari, daughter of Charak and wife of the Sovran

Anarone, leader of the Setting Sun Scryers

Stasos, a Setting Sun Scryer

In Pocarrael and the Crescent Isles

Satome, Sacrist of the Eternal Enate of the Crescent Isles

Tantalais, husband of Satome and leader of Pocarrael trade

Lesharol, son of Satome and Tantalais

Racaiso, son of Satome and Tantalais

Syrameda, daughter of Satome and Tantalais

Jagathe, a teacher

Among the Pelaguards

Zalomar, leader of the guild protecting the sea trade routes

Kubadon and Makhua, Zalomar’s seconds

EPISODE 1

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Y oung Corovayas served as a pleasure slave to five witches—the wives of the Sovran of Bayangoa.

A prisoner in the zenana wing of the palace, seldom did a moment of a day or night go by without the arms of one of them surrounding him. He ate with them, bathed with them, slept with them, massaged their bodies and their minds, nuzzled their soft breasts and the arc of their hips. He relished the touch of dark scented hair curling upon his face when they kissed him. His veins flowed with gratitude. He forgot he was a prisoner and just a tribute boy.

No more. Now he languished in the soiled sand of a pitcell on a desolate island far off the mainland and the palace. Here he was a prisoner because of his love for them. Or, more precisely, for his attempted murder of the Sovran, their hated husband. Here he felt gratitude only for his head remaining attached to his body. Among a people that had severed heads by the thousands in their conquest of the Verdure Steppe that was a rare benefit.

In the small circle of sky above his pitcell, two of the three moons shone on him as he awaited sleep. Sleep meant dreams—the only variation to his life—but most were frustrating nonsense. He was interested in the only one worth believing. It had come to him the previous night, leaving without an end. He needed to see the end.

A woman had come to him. Her hair, silver with age, flowed like smoke in the moonlight, yet her skin was luminous with youth. In the pit she faced him with a calming, knowing visage. She urged him in a whisper to be ready. He saw himself rising from the pit, passing through the grate above him, with the freedom of the sea in front of him. Then he awoke, angry to be tempted and then abandoned.

This night when he closed his eyes, his mind tried everything to force her return. Yet for all his concentration she would not be summoned, let alone converted from dream to reality.

Disappointed and resigned, he let go of the fancy and his expectation and listened to the rhythm of small waves on the shore. His nostrils took in the sharp odor of the sargasso stranded on the beach until his senses gave way to disconnected thoughts, and then these finally wandered beyond his reach or his care. He was left in the gap between consciousness and sleep. Nothing but silence—until something deeper inside broke the stillness.

A warm wet fog rose through his body, expanding, spilling into the space around him, lifting him off the sand. He became the fog and easily passed through the tightly lashed poles that were always beyond reach. He made it to the beach and felt the soft waves push the sand away from his feet. He could walk into the sea and leave this island behind.

The woman had returned after all. She was alive in the fog—but his eyes could not quite see her and his fingers could not quite touch her. She was beyond even his thoughts. She simply filled the night sky above and yet the smallest grains of sand below contained her. He could float away with her—in the fog, in the water, in the clear air above. He did not care as long as…

He suddenly felt no use for this dream or these divine sensations. He wanted off this island in the mortal world not the aether. He wanted out of this pitcell as if it never existed. But that was not all he wanted—along with it forgetting the Bayangoa mainland and the palace and the Sovran he crippled, the Scryers who tortured him, and even the five wives who adored and fostered him.

He wanted to dissolve his past as a ten-year-old boy cramped and simpering in the hold of the tribute ship bound for Bayangoa from his people in Pocarrael. And the repulsion of his next three years serving the depraved tastes of the Sovran. Yes, the long interlude of the wives’ affection gave relief and compensation, but it led to the poisoning, the torture, the pitcell.

None of these events was divine, so what good was divine escape? What good was this silver phantom woman to him?

He awoke breathless—his question answered. It was not divine escape. Suddenly he understood her. She was not divine, not from a dream. She was a mortal truth—only not now, but in the future.

Prescience! The Scryers’ pretended power. I cannot forget this! The old woman. The escape. The wave pulling me away from the island. Freedom. This is going to happen—when the future becomes now.

He lay in pit, waiting—pretending how easily now could actually be now.

Dawn was breaking, and his black circle of sky faded to gray. He stood up. The bars were still intact above. The sandstone walls were still unclimbable. The waves breaking on the shore were still an impossible short walk away.

Soon, down would come the rope with a bowl of half-spilt bison broth and rice, mainland leftovers soured with age, sent on a supply boat every few days. Very likely the gaoler would pause the rope just out of reach to add a tiresome jest. And if the gaoler felt to urinate—or worse—he would climb out on the grate and let it go with glee.

But Corovayas felt certain—at least more than hopeful—that today would be different. The aetheric lady told him to be ready. It was as good as a promise. His chest was pounding.

The air was pounding. A rumble rose in the distance, growing stronger, silencing the waves, the wind, the gulls, the shouted complaints of other prisoners, the gaoler’s taunts. Everyone and everything listened to this growl on the move. Now as if mighty rocks were tumbling down the mountain—except this island had no mountain.

To his astonishment a huge rushing tide flushed his pit. He rose in the whirlpool, twisting and tumbling in the cold liquid violence, only to be pinned against the wooden grate above. The bars would not break, and the water would not stop churning. He was not free. He was drowning. He cursed a bubble loose from his mouth—cursed his dream savior for killing him.

He could not imagine holding his breath any longer—but neither was he willing to die. He kicked furiously at bars, but the water absorbed all his force and denied his escape. He scrambled to the outer edge, thinking the sandstone walls could collapse, but no. So where was the damn fog that was supposed to carry him out?

He felt a hand gripping his own from the other side of the grate. A gaoler was spinning in the water above and clutched Corovayas so the wave would not sweep him off the island.

At last the grate broke free and the two of them sailed upward on this wheel, rolling with the wave. They shot into pure air. Corovayas gasped with his partner. They had only a moment to acknowledge each other before they plunged back in the water, still holding on face-to-face with the grate between them, like two pebbles stuck in a cart wheel rolling across the Verdure Steppe.

Corovayas could breathe and again believed his prescience true. Mortal world true. Nothing to worry about, nothing to fight against or to strive for. This was all decided and set irrevocably in motion—wild motion, too fast to do anything else anyway. The only thing fixed was his belief that the spectral silver-haired woman made it happen. He would never curse her again.

Once more the grate surged over the surface, shooting high and then plunging back, leaving Corovayas on top with the gaoler struggling just below the surface. The wave had finally passed and headed off to the east toward the mainland where he hoped it would wash the near-dead Sovran and the Scryers away.

As the water leveled, the grate slid into another full pitcell, including a floating body. Now the gaoler had just enough airspace to breathe and shout.

Get up! Let me out! Get this corpse away from me.

Corovayas had the presence of mind to enjoy the position he was in. He smiled and raised his brows and shook his head. Why would I?

Because I saved your life!

"I think you saved your life. Without my hand you would be on your way to Bayangoa as dead as this prisoner next to you.

It’s the same thing. Your hand or my hand, get off. Let me free.

But—right now I am recalling how many times you pissed and crapped in my cell.

What? That was the other gaolers! He coughed and shuddered. The wave might come back! This is our only chance to survive! He shook the bars, cursing and wailing.

Corovayas quickly scanned the damage. Some bodies sprawled atop piles of debris. A grove of palms uprooted. But one thing looked just right. Resting atop the fronds of a fallen tree was the supply boat. His heart jumped. Here was freedom.

Ever sail a boat? he asked the gaoler.

The man shook his head in panic and cried out again to be loosed from the pit. He tried craning his neck to see what Corovayas had discovered, but he found only the sun’s glare. Is it the supply boat? Yes! I meant to say, yes, I’ve sailed it! I have sailed many boats.

Oh, right. I suppose you were once commodore of the Caballary navy. Corovayas gave a sarcastic laugh.

The Caballary were perfect horsemen—Bayangoa’s warrior caste, conquerors of the Verdure Steppe, breaking every city, rolling over the vast distances between, decapitators and rapists of uncountable victims. Yet when they reached the end of the conquest they had no backbone to venture into the sea. Not like his own race of mariners—at least what he remembered of Pocarrael.

He slid off the grate and edged it away from the pit opening, allowing the gaoler to crawl out. The man collapsed and mumbled his thanks. When he sat up a few moments later he was elated.

We are fantastically lucky the boat came last night—even luckier that the crew was swept away, though sad to say, of course. We can fix the boat, I’m certain. You can see the mainland—less than a day away.

Corovayas grabbed the man’s neck. I don’t need you. And I sure-as-death don’t intend to sail to the mainland.

The gaoler freed himself. "Good. Makes no difference to me. I will serve you. Take me with you wherever you want to go. Sure-as-death I have no life in Bayangoa, if I am blamed for your escape."

Right. Here’s what I will do—

They both turned their eyes to the sea. A second wave was coming.

This surge was weaker, but it lifted the boat off the wreckage and left it near the shore, as if waiting for them.

They found a rope, secured it against following waves, and inspected the damage. The roof of the tiny cabin was gone, but the mast, sail, rowing oars, and steering oar were intact.

Making no alliance Corovayas and the gaoler went to work in silence. The gaoler scrounged tools, while Corovayas inspected leaks, and together they patched them. Next they artlessly wove fronds for cover from the sun and gutted scores of small stranded fish to boil for the journey. Finally, they discovered sealed water casks and dry clothes in the gaolers’ quarters.

The midday sun felt blazing, and the work drained them. Without consultation they tacitly agreed to defer launching the boat until they gained more energy for the voyage.

The island had few prisoners to begin with and most were swept off the flat island, while the rest died in pits or under a tree. So the two were alone. In Bayangoa crimes were separated as forgivable and unforgivable, making punishment either humiliation or death. Apart from those transgressions, this prison island was reserved for corrupted Caballary—to endure long stretches of extreme hardship without tainting their brothers’ reputation.

You don’t seem worried to share a boat with one of your prisoners, said Corovayas. You think I need you that much?

Well, I think you are prudent. No point in being alone. And you would have to kill me if you left now. Were you Caballary, I would have been swimming on my own. They were not friendly with gaolers.

Corovayas snorted. They would have cut you up for bait.

The gaoler shrugged. You know we all envied you—prisoners and gaolers.

For what?

Well, you were the roué of the Sovran’s zenana. He winked. The Sovran’s wives—I mean they are no doubt all beautiful, dressed in the finest silk from the Rising Sun Territory. Starved for pleasure by the Sovran who was said to be fond of a different indulgence. He spread his hands as if excusing his impudence. You must have had them all to yourself. A sound of satisfaction rumbled up from his chest.

Corovayas snorted softly. "And before all that? A ten-year-old orphan boy forced to have the Sovran poke me anytime he felt indulgent?"

I’m not a judge, only a gaoler. Some men are like that. Three years, sure, but then you were shifted to the zenana.

Do you know why?

No.

It was when he saw the first hair on my body. You would think he saw a spitting snake. He cried and had the Scryers remove me. They didn’t know what to do with me, but they hate his wives as much as the Sovran does, so they dragged me across the palace and dumped me in the zenana.

The gaoler counted his fingers quickly. Then you were with the Brujas for six years—twice as long as the Sovran had you. You have nothing to complain about in my opinion. He cooed. I cannot imagine the zenana. What was your life like? He waited a moment for a story that did not come, so he prompted. Was it the witches that wanted the Sovran dead? Did they send spells that made you do it?

Corovayas gave a disgusted sigh. They are called Brujas by ignorant people like you and the Scryers and the Sovran. They try to send spells, but they are no more successful than the Scryers with prescience. Witches. He shook his head. They were great. And let me enlighten you. I didn’t try to murder him. I tried to make his life as long and miserable as possible. I achieved exactly what I sought to do. My poison crippled him and blinded him and left him mute. I hope he lives forever, unable to ever enjoy the young skin of a tribute child again.

The gaoler seemed confused. Are you saying the wives had nothing to do with it? Just your revenge? And the Scryers let you stay alive after that?

Corovayas shook his head and looked around. I am going to tell you something I have told no one else—even though tortured to admit it. An ironic smile spread across Corovayas’ lips. If we are going to sail together you should know it. But believe me, gaoler, I have no intention of becoming your lifelong friend. I just don’t want you pestering me about everything. There was a better reason for what I did than my revenge.

What’s that?

The successors.

What about them? Who are they? I know nothing. I get no word of anything out here.

Three young boys, each from a different Sovran wife. The Sovran ignored them luckily for the successors and unlike tribute boys. He was as bad a father as the one I had in Pocarrael. But all the wives treasure the boys and keep them in the zenana away from the Scryers. That angers the Scryers, who think they alone should educate the successors—certainly not the Caballary Masters.

Why not?

When the Sovran dies the successor would be under the control of the Scryers."

I see. And the Quinary Governors, in addition to being Caballary Masters are the fathers of the Brujas. So naturally they want to train and control the successors instead of the Scryers. What a mess. You make this prison seem safer than the palace. How did you get stuck in the middle?

The Scryers played stupid tricks—convincing each of the successors’ mothers separately and in secret that her son was their choice to succeed the Sovran. And the longer the Sovran lived the less chance of her son having the throne.

The Scryers wanted the Sovran killed? The gaoler shook his head in disbelief. They serve him. What kind of people are these leaders of ours?

Everyone despises the Sovran. Don’t blame the Scryers for that. But because they serve him, they could not be suspected of the deed, so they played at corrupting the wives hoping it would bring down the Quinary Governors as well. For that you can condemn them—that’s how they choose to serve the Sovran.

How could they get away with it?

The Scryers could claim they had prescience that this would happen, but had no authority in the zenana. Then deny any accusations, and what’s left are three wives of the Sovran who shamed their Caballary Master fathers. The Quinary Governors lose all their authority. The Scryers save one of the successors and have control of him for life. Only, the wives would never have been so stupid or selfish. The Scryers are completely ignorant of life in the zenana. Their trick was as useless as their prescience.

So, I ask again, how did you come to do the deed?

Corovayas gestured to slow the gaoler down. I admit the Scryer plan awoke some thoughts in the successor mothers. Enough that all three kept it secret from each other for a while. But when I was alone with them they each told me everything.

The gaoler’s mouth opened as he thought it through. You mean, you did it and claimed it was your revenge just to protect the Brujas. He stopped. What’s more, you left the Sovran in his horrible condition, making the Quinary Governors in control of succession and everything else. The Scryers got nothing. That’s why they tortured you.

Their eyes met.

Corovayas gave a dismissive wave They thought if I confessed one of the wives forced me to do it, they could recover something from their plan. But all it accomplished was to make Governor Ganjhan suspicious. So instead of taking my head, he sent me here as if I was Caballary. He couldn’t investigate the Scryers without endangering the mothers and their sons—his own and his comrades’. Maybe my head owes its place to Caballary honor. Corovayas laughed darkly.

So I have been gaoler to a saint for the last year. I hope you forgive me for any trouble I caused you, Saint Corovayas. He smiled and looked around contemplatively. As long as we are thrown together now, I have my own confession. I was not always a gaoler. I was born in a wagon early in the conquest of the Verdure Steppe. My father was Caballary. Not high rank, but as cruel and brutal as a warrior could be. I didn’t want his life and broke with him to take the Scryer training. I liked the idea of prescience—to learn the future from God’s own lips.

Corovayas swore. I am escaping with a Scryer?

No, a fallen Scryer. I couldn’t make the prescience work—nor could anyone else I met. We complained to our tutor until he got angry. He told us that if we wanted to be enlightened to God’s word, we could earn it by walking two days ahead of the Caballary and back—right into the enemy. God would show us what would happen and we would come back and report it. We would be heroes to the Caballary, just like the great Scryer Bekhanas, whose prescience launched the conquest of the Verdure Steppe. And if we were captured instead, we were assured our sacrifice would be honored by God. It was good either way—experience the power of prescience or join God in death.

Corovayas laughed. Scryers—either frauds or fools.

Well, we novices debated it among ourselves. Half thought it was worth a chance—including me. Those who stayed back were beaten for being so lazy about God’s word. My group returned with nothing to report and were beaten for believing God’s word could be so cheaply bought by a short hike. I quit then, which left me back with the Caballary in disgrace. I did every dirty job until the conquest reached the end of the steppe. Then I was made a gaoler and never left this island. It doesn’t pay to cross the Scryers or the Caballary. He took a long breath. So, now I can see if trusting you pays any better. What is our destination?

I am going back to Pocarrael to extract my revenge from those who sold me and so many others into this life.

The gaoler shrugged. Forgive me, but you are free man. So am I. Surely there must be something better out there.

Corovayas bristled to hear his own doubts spoken. The image of the spectral woman came back to him. Why had she bothered? Why the two of them? What was the meaning of this escape?

Not your concern. It’s either Bayangoa or Pocarrael. That’s as far as provisions and this boat are likely to last.

Right, replied the gaoler, Pocarrael.

What is your name? For a year I only called you Gaoler.

The man shifted. That is all I have been called for a long time. But now I want a name that is not what I do but what I am. He paused. Call me Freoman. That is what I am.

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In a cleft midway up the forested mountain peak of the Great Isle of Pocarrael the temple devoted to the Eternal Enate was carved out generations ago to venerate the first mother and mortal form of the divine Goddess.

From its courtyard the vast sea was open to view in both directions. Every sunrise and sunset shone directly through and each solstice and equinox perfectly aligned with natural pillars of ancient volcanic rock.

Only at midday when the conebearers towered over the temple was the sunlight blocked. Then shadows played soothingly across the floor as the wind from the sea climbed the slopes and swayed the branches.

Over those dappled patterns a striking man paced energetically. No piety showed on his face, in contrast to the reverence of the Enate Sisters silently sweeping by him on their errands. Even in his impatience his features were refined—dark eyes, tight skin on narrow bones. His face was cracked slightly by the years of sea and sun, and black hair was fringed with gray around the edges, but his lean and straight body had not changed since youth.

His name was Tantalais. His wife Satome was Sacrist of the temple, anointed as the interpreter between the Eternal Enate and the people of sixty-three Crescent Isles of Pocarrael. His own domain was a temple in the harbor below—the docks and warehouses devoted to the material wealth of Pocarrael—for he was Trademaster, builder of ships, mariner.

Of the two titles he knew his to be the more relevant, the more appreciated. But while the Enate was eternal, wealth was by comparison newly born to the Crescent Isles. It began when Tantalais was a youth with the arrival of a fleet of ships sailing boldly into the then-small harbor of the Great Isle. The fleet was commanded by one Satmandaro of Gretana, the great trading power of the Malatoris Sea. The commander approached Tantalais’ elders with decorum and sensitivity, inquiring with mild interest about the tea and rice crops and fishing boats he had observed as he scouted the Crescent Isles. He showed interest as well in the spice forests on the islands to the south. However, when this commander learned of the seagems and minerals his estimation of Pocarrael peaked. He saw a trade victory for his masters in Gretana.

The seagem vents rose in caverns and coastal rock formations throughout the Crescent Isles. They were so common, few Pocarraelis ever bothered to harvest them, let alone cut and polish. But since that day of the fleet’s arrival, they became famous throughout the Gretanan world. The same for the gold and silver deposits that striped the islands’ ancient rock, although not unique in the trading world.

When compacts were struck in the harbor, nothing changed for the Sacrist and the Enate Sisters, nor for the fishing villages spotting every island in the Crescent. But slowly as he grew to manhood Tantalais devoted his energy to organizing the harvesting of the seagem vents and the mining of the minerals and the farming of the terraces to fill the ships that arrived. In return he amassed mariners’ knowledge of other peoples sharing the Malatoris Sea and purchased the labor of craftsmen who expanded the harbor and the city. From then wealth accumulated effortlessly for years.

Tantalais’ first setback was the apparent decline of Gretana and with it the loss of trust among trading cities. Foreign flags eventually adorned the trade vessels and deals had to be made with greater care and greater expectation of failure.

But he also saw in the withdrawal of Gretanan power from the seas the rise of Pocarrael’s power. With the northern isles so ripe with old forests, he could build ships of his own—a first step to setting standards across the sea as Gretana had done generations before.

Then came news of the conquest of the Verdure Steppe by a race called Bayangoans—a setback that could be imagined but not measured. The stories of the conquest were appalling for their violence and destruction. The steppe was said to be unbelievably vast, but its western edge was only a few days’ sail from Pocarrael. Who could say the Bayangoans and their fearful Caballary horsemen would stop there?

It was a risk too great to wait out. He sailed to their new capital bearing gifts and met them in the new palace of their new Sovran. The Caballary Masters worried him, but the Sovran was a soft and foolish man who drooled over the seagems and gold and silver. Tantalais realized as long as this man ruled Bayangoa and controlled its Caballary, yearly tribute would buy peace and dampen any interest in building ships for greater conquest.

But he badly calculated the tastes and greed of the Sovran. Each year required higher tribute, and Tantalais’ dream of replacing Gretana’s power drifted away on a one-way tide.

Now frustration had turned to crisis. The tenth yearly tribute ship was promised for a short time hence. When the massive wave struck the islands, it took the promise with it. He could not hide the facts from the Sacrist. He expected her reaction would make everything worse. His temple of commerce could react and adapt and even cozen, but the temple of the Eternal Enate was as rigid as the mountain it sat upon.

His eye suddenly caught movement