Wild Magic

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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.

You summon me into being.

Come.

I am Sibyl

I am born of earth and dream

I alone in this land exist outside the Wheel The Wheel turns and all things change I do not change

The Wheel turns and what was

Is now forgotten

I do not forget.