Celebrantë - Part One

My name is Zena Roewyne and I have a moderate reputation as a writer and publisher. I am twenty nine years old and a single woman. Or at least, that is how I would have described myself yesterday. Today, I am no longer sure who or what I am.

I must find a means to make sense of what has happened to me. The only way I can conceive of doing that is by using what meagre talent I have and writing about it. That indeed, was the request made of me last night but before I embark on the greater work that was commissioned, I need to set down my experience. I must account for the transformation that has been wrought upon me, if only for my own sake. I am anxious therefore to testify to all that I can remember. Words spoken, deeds done, thoughts, feelings …, everything!

Last night I consider as ‘Day Zero’. The point when my previous life was swept away. It has been replaced by a sense of renewal and feelings of bliss that I previously would have dismissed as sheer make believe. I have also been entrusted with a grand and noble purpose.

Despite the strange veil that has been drawn over the earlier hours of what occurred last night, I must write down as much as I do recall before it vanishes entirely.

I was tricked and made captive by a …, I don’t know how I can describe her, but Goddess is close enough. I dimly remember a feeling of initial terror which slowly morphed, through several stages, until I was trembling with desire for my erstwhile tormenter. A paroxysm of passion overwhelmed me and I know I gloried in every act and aspect of the lovemaking that ensued.

My desire was (temporarily) assuaged but my passion, I can sense, has been awakened forever and is bubbling within me now, just under the surface. A single thought of her heavenly face and body is enough to re-ignite it and compel me to make myself come. I know this with certainty for I have already succumbed to the compulsion several times since she left my home. However, such action does not fulfil my need as my orgasm merely leaves me feeling bereft. I must therefore learn to control the urge and await her pleasure or I will be lost.

You see how talking of it makes my fancy wander? I must steel myself and continue.

So I do remember being bound to my bed. I remember that my fear was turned into intense sexual wantonness but I have no recollection of how it was done. I remember, hazily, that I willingly participated in an orgy of lovemaking, some of which I have a firm sense, that I initiated. I remember, or rather I know because I can feel it, that I had tremendous orgasms all night.

I also remember that before my world was turned upside down, I was preparing myself to go on a date with a man. But now, I cannot picture his face or even remember his name. And …, whatever he meant to me before, he is of no interest to me now.

What I do remember, and now with astonishing clarity, is me lying across the lap of the woman who has my heart in her keeping. We are on the couch in the lounge. I am gazing up at her as she lazily runs her fingers over my body, sustaining me in a state of near arousal. I know that, if she wishes, she could modify the patterns she is drawing on my skin and I would again utterly abandon myself to her.

But mainly, I feel privileged to have her undivided attention and secretly triumphant that I outlasted her sexual desire with a hitherto undreamed-of lasciviousness of my own.

In contrast with the dim recollections of bodies entwined that dominate my thoughts of the evening, my memory of the last hour or so is imprinted on my brain. I will record it here and now because, although there is no pressing need for an aide memoire (I remember our conversation almost verbatim), these lines will stand as the opening of the most remarkable biography ever written.

“Although I expected much of you, my red-haired beauty,” My lover said to me, “You far surpassed my every expectation. I have been searching for one such as you, and had all but despaired of ever finding her. You therefore come to me in the very nick of time.”

I had no clue what she meant but as she looked down on me, I dared hope that it was love I saw in the blue depth of those eyes.

“But I will come to that in due course, my darling Zena. First tell me, how was it that an English Rose like you was given such a name? You were made to cherish and do not resemble a warrior princess.”

“My name is spelt with a ‘Z’. I am mostly English but I do have a strain of more exotic blood. One of my great grandmothers was from Bohemia. I was named in honour of her.”

“Ah, that is very good. And so my little Bohemian tinged Anglo-Saxon, did the lovemaking meet your needs?”

“Why need you, ask, Mistress? Everything that was done to me I pleaded for. Everything I did was because I earnestly desired to.”

“Let us determine one thing before we continue. You may not call me ‘Mistress’.”

“But why ever not? I learned so much about myself. I want you to teach me more.” Even to my own ears I sounded like a child. “Did I not please you?”

“Oh, Zena, my love, you pleased me exceedingly well. Indeed, you reminded me so much of myself at your age that I have decided it is to you that I will pass on my torch. Therefore, you must be made aware of much that others have only guessed at.” She seemed to be considering carefully and, as though asking it of herself said, “But what shall you call me?

I have had many names,” She continued thoughtfully. “Celebrantë or Mytherille were what I was called in The North and West and long were favourites of mine. Gewtzel or Gümüshelle were names given me to the East and the South though I disliked their gutteral sound. But the names of my youth were Eyeenehkah and Ahseemie. I wish to be reminded of those days. You shall therefore call me Yeena or Ghena depending on which appeals to you.”

“I prefer the soft ‘ch’ sound of Ghena,” I said.

“That you sound the name to rhyme with your own bodes well, I think. So be it. I shall be Ghena.” She looked down on me and smiled. “I have always believed that important decisions must be celebrated in some way. So, my Zena, I will seal our covenant with a kiss.”

Ghena stroked my face for a moment and then bent her face to mine. She began by tracing the line of my lips with the tip of her tongue and my heart leapt. As her soft lips made contact with mine, I felt a thrill run through my entire body. My eyes slowly closed and my lips parted to allow her tongue access to my melting insides. It felt like I was being explored in the most intimate way imaginable and this, oh so gentle penetration, was guaranteed to make me come. I don’t know how long the kiss lasted but I had the softest, sweetest orgasms imaginable. Ghena was able to do that to me with a simple kiss whereas no other person had even done so much as raise my heartbeat.

When it finally ended and I was warming myself in its fading embers, she began to speak again. “I think kissing is the sincerest of all intimacies. And you, my sweet Zena, seem to share my love for it. I am pleased that you do for I believe that I shall want to kiss you very frequently.

“I will like that,” I said. “Your kiss seemed to touch my soul. But, Ghena, I do not understand. You talked of passing on a torch and spoke as though you are weary of life. But surely you cannot be much older than me.”

“And how old do you think I am?” She asked with a rueful smile though there was a twinkle in her eye as though she were teasing me.

I hesitated, not wishing to offend her, and chose an answer that befitted her youthful looks but also acknowledged her obvious experience of the world. “Er, Thirty-five? You cannot be older than that considering the perfection of your complexion.”

“Flatterer!” she said and laughed. “No, my love, try older.”

“Forty then but no-one would ever believe it.” As she continued to shake her head, I essayed, “Forty four …, forty seven …, fifty?” My voice rose in increasing scepticism until it gave out at my final guess, in complete disbelief.

“Let us leave it at fifty. But I fear it is not fifty years but fifty centuries. I told you that I have been long searching and that you had much to learn of me.”

“But how can that possibly be!” I made to rise but she held me on her lap with gentle restraint. I don’t know what expressions crossed my face but doubt, apprehension and hurt must have figured. Perhaps even horror too, for I saw a deep sadness dim those wonderful blue eyes. They now seemed not so much like radiant pools of azure light but fathomless oceans of ultramarine.

“Oh, my poor Zena, I do not wish to distress you although it is necessary for you to learn of this in order to choose. But ‘choose’ I say, and mean. I will not force you to do my will – it is important to me that you freely accept the undertaking I shall propose. Will you hear me out? It may aid your understanding.”

“Of course I will,” I said, ashamed that my dismay could cause her such pain. “I’m very sorry, but I was shocked.” I kissed her lips briefly and relaxed again on her lap and she seemed content.

“Very well, then. Listen closely. All I ask for now is that you suspend your disbelief and trust your senses.”

She sighed deeply and began to relate her strange and fascinating tale.

“I know not the exact year of my birth but it was truly over fifty centuries ago. ‘Birth’ I say though that is not the word – for I merely awoke one morning, just as you see me now. I was naked and laying on white sand by a blue sea. The first thing I saw was a butterfly which settled for a brief moment on my left breast. Then I became aware of other sensations. White crested waves were gentling lapping at the shore; the sun had not long risen and I could hear birdsong in a nearby grove of trees. I remember feeling confused but not at all fearful. I stood and walked toward the trees to take shelter as the sun was already becoming too fierce for my pale skin. I soon discovered that I was not in a wood but in a very large walled garden containing an abundance of flowers and trees and bushes of many kinds. Many were heavy with fruit and I tasted several and found all the varieties delightful.

The back of the garden sloped up a small hill and cascading from a gap in the wall was a waterfall, not much taller than I. It pooled into a tiny, stone-bottomed pond and then formed a small stream which meandered across the garden before disappearing under a wall and emptying into the sea. I stepped into the pond and waded to the waterfall to wash the sand off my body and the fruit from my hands. Then I drank my fill from the flowing water before exploring my surroundings with greater purpose. Butterflies and bees there were in profusion and I found several places where honey was to be found. The garden seemed to contain everything I required.

Indeed it was so because I watched thirteen cycles of the sun and stars pass above while I was alone in my little paradise. The birds became my friends and would gather to sing to me at dawn and dusk. I never saw a creature larger than a rabbit and none ever fled from me though winning their trust took longer. I was perfectly content and didn’t question from whence I had come, why I was there or how I instinctively knew what to eat and when.

After thirteen years, my skin had acquired the light tan it still possesses but my hair was very long and came to below my hips. It had been bleached white by the sun and the colour has never darkened or altered by even a tone.

Then, one evening, as the sun was setting and perfume from the blossom was heavy in the air, someone came to disturb my solitude. I looked up to see a vision of a woman, clad only in gauzy silk. She was so beautiful to my eyes that the sight tugged at my heart. Remember that all I knew of the human form was the distorted views of myself that I would sometimes catch in flickering reflection from the pool. I loved her from that first moment.

She had eyes that were not quite blue nor really green but seemed to flicker between the two. Her lips were the colour of the cherries I ate in summer and were very full and wide. Her face was creamy white and so exquisite it seemed to demand the adoration that I already was willing to give.”

Ghena’s eyes had taken on a far-away look as though she was seeing the image anew as she spoke. She sighed with longing and resumed the description of her vision.

“Her hair was not quite as long as mine and hung in curls rather than waves. The colour was copper-red like the rosy-fingered dawn. She was tall and slim and what I could see of her body beneath the translucent silks promised soft curves and breasts like ripe peaches.

Then this woman spoke to me. I seemed to know instinctively that the sounds meant something but I was unable to interpret them. All I perceived was a lilting melody. Thus did I first lay eyes on the Goddess Aphrodite.”