My speculative/historical novel DAUGHTERS OF TIME traces a line of daughters from ancient Sumer to the present day. The idea was to explore a lineage of women who carry the way of Goddess even as Abraham becomes the “father” of the sky god religions. This excerpt describes a scene in which Makeda, the “Queen of Sheba”, is visiting King Solomon in Ursalimmu (Jerusalem). She encounters the “daughters of time”, women in the line of Mir-ri, priestess of ancient Sumer.
“Ah,” sighed Makeda. “Your words are strangely familiar to me. Like ritual words I have heard spoken in the temple of Astarte.” She looked from Harika to Mir-ri, and then to Mehtap and Inna. “Is this also the way of women in the North?”
The question hovered in the room.
Mehtap sensed the new mood that had entered and moved closer to Inna.
Grandmother Mir-ri shook her head, white hair falling free of the blue cloth she used to wrap it for the day. “Once it was so, in Urim, the city of our ancestors. But now the words are almost lost.”
“But not quite,” added Makeda, looking thoughtful.
“Not quite,” said Mir-ri. “The Great Lady of Heaven and Earth still speaks to her daughters.”
“We know her as Astarte in the South,” said Makeda. “She is Isis in Kemet.”
Mehtap nudged Inna with her elbow.
Makeda continued. “She has a thousand names and is nameless.”
Harika and Mir-ri were nodding, and Inna had become very still.
Never had Mehtap felt her mother and grandmother quite like this, although Mir-ri often spoke of the old ways.
“I know of this Urim of which you speak,” said Makeda, breaking the spell. “It is the birthplace of Sulaman’s ancestor, the one who was beloved of their El, the Great One they worship here in Ursalimmu.”
“I did not know that this line of Kings began in Urim,” whispered Grandmother Mir-ri. “Long have I wondered at the tales of the first Mir-ri, who left Urim carrying a treasure. I am sure that her treasure was the child she carried, but I have never understood what made the child precious enough for the tale to be told, mother to daughter, for a thousand years. Now you have given me an idea.” She laughed then, eyes shining.
Harika stared at her mother, the bunna bowl resting forgotten in her lap. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mir-ri raised a hand.
“Tell me,” she said, turning to Makeda. “Do you know when Sulaman’s ancestor left Urim?”
Makeda frowned. “I think it was not long before the fall of the old city, if the tales tell true.”
Grandmother Mir-ri nodded knowingly. “It is the same in our tales: the first mother, Mir-ri, left Urim not long before the Fall.”
Then Harika laughed. “I see it, too.” Shaking her head in wonder, she looked at Inna and Mehtap.
Mehtap was trying to understand, but their words seemed like nonsense, although heat flushed her cheeks, as if her body knew what this was about.
“What do you see?” she asked her mother. “What is it?”
Makeda looked questioningly at Harika and Mir-ri.
They looked to each other and nodded.
Mehtap and Inna leaned forward.
Grandmother Mir-ri spoke solemnly, like when reciting a teaching story. “Before the fall of Urim, the first Mir-ri, for whom I am named, left the city with her family. We know she carried a treasure, although no sign of it has ever been found. She carried a child, a daughter if I see truly, a daughter to balance the line of sons that came from Sulaman’s ancestor. A daughter to carry the way of women through the ages, to ensure all is not lost to the way of men and their Great One.”
Makeda nodded. “I have heard of this in the old tales from Ki-en-gir. Through this line of daughters the way of the Queen of Heaven lives, to remind us that El is not all present, all powerful, all knowing as Sulaman and his Priests would have us believe.” She spoke softly, looking at Mehtap. “I have seen you in my dreams, but I did not understand.”
“That means it is us, me and Inna,” cried Mehtap. “But what can we do?”
“It is not what you do,” said Makeda. “It is who you are. It is the lineage you carry, and why you have been running through my dreams; the way of the Mother, the deep reverence for the life-giving power must not be lost. I rode my camel for half a year to see for myself this King who is beloved of El, the Supreme One. Sulaman claims dominion over life and death in the name of El. He claims that the way of El is the only way.”
Just when Mehtap thought she had finished, Makeda began speaking again, her voice soft. “I have seen a King great in the ways of men. He rules with power. He conquers all who resist, and he takes slaves and women for tribute. He builds a glorious Temple for this El. He answers the riddles of the philosophers and knows the patterns of the stars.” She paused as if remembering something. “He is strong and powerful, with the head, hands, and loins of a King.”
“And?” asked Mir-ri.
“He forgets the power of women. For him they are another conquest.” She shook her head, eyes shadowed.
“The world forgets,” agreed Mir-ri sadly. “In my lifetime I have seen the way of the Mother fade before the might of the Father of Sky and Light. It is like the old tales of Marduk slaying Tiamat for dominion over the Earth.”
“But all is not lost,” said Makeda loudly. “We remember.”
Grandmother Mir-ri nodded. “While there are daughters who remember, the Mother will not be lost.”
Makeda smiled. “I am thinking of my own daughters, of the unbroken line of mothers and daughters stretching back to the beginning of Time. It takes such a small time for a man to plant his seed in a woman’s womb, just a few heartbeats. It takes so much longer for a woman to grow the new life, bring it forth and tend it until the child can stand alone. It takes so much more time for a woman to become a mother. How can this be forgotten? How can this new way of worship forget that all life, even that of Kings and Priests, comes forth from woman?”
“Perhaps,” said Grandmother Mir-ri, “that is why Sulaman builds a golden Temple. To forget.”
Meet Mago contributor KAALII CARGILL