DELPHYNE'S TALE: EARTH MEETS
SKY
by Nancy Vedder-Shults (Spring,
2002)
Long before Apollo there was Gaia, our
Mother Earth. And long before the ancient temples were erected at
Delphi, there was a simple cave guarded by a snake. This is the
story of that snake, Delphyne, Gaia's serpent daughter. It is a
story of sun and shadow, of appearances and disappearances, a story
of life's sacred mysteries and earth's many blessings.
The first blessing, of course, was Gaia herself, she who birthed us
smelling of breast milk and soil just ploughed. Since the beginning
she has nurtured us from her black furrows. And when we die, she
welcomes us once again into her rich earth. Life -- death --
rebirth. This is what Gaia brought her people, the unending
blessings of darkness and light, the cycles of day and night, the
seasons of the year, the mysteries of the earth.
These were celebrated in a cave at Delphi. Here the people marked
the spot where Gaia gave birth to the world and everything upon it,
declaring Delphi the womb of the universe. And here the people
returned to listen to Delphyne, Gaia's oracle. For Gaia had
fashioned her serpent daughter to protect her sacred mysteries and
to prophesy for those who approached the Earth Mother with respect
and reverence. Intoxicating vapors escaped from fissures inside the
holy cave, hissing Delphyne's sibilant omens and announcing Gaia's
will to those who journeyed here.
For the Earth Mother had created Delphyne in her own image. The
serpent, like her mother's cycles of day and night, appeared and
disappeared, sometimes slithering upon the sunny surface of the
earth and sometimes burrowing into its darkest depths. When she
became too large, she sloughed her worn-out skin, embracing the
freedom of surrender and release. And once she had shed her outer
layer, she renewed herself, manifesting the wisdom of Gaia's
healing and rebirth. Life -- death -- rebirth. This was the mystery
of the snake as it was of her mother.
But the people forgot these mysteries and began to fashion new gods
for themselves, gods in their own image, dressed in human form.
Zeus, Ares, Apollo, gods of the heavens, not of the earth, gods of
the sun, not of the shade, gods who dwelt on the highest peaks, not
everywhere as Mother Gaia before them. These heavenly beings were
filled with arrogance and jealousy, the arrogance of immortality
and the jealousy of dominance. Zeus declared himself supreme and
thought to parcel out the heavens and the earth to the gods who
ruled with him. To his son Apollo he gave the task of conquering
Delphi. But who can vanquish the seat of life-death-and-rebirth?
How can you attack the cycle of the seasons, the pattern of day and
night? Where is the beginning of a circle?
Such questions did not daunt Apollo. He was a new god, a young god,
a god of utmost hubris. Delphi would be his, he thought to himself.
If anyone wanted an oracle from the gods, any of the gods, they
would have to go through him; he would be their intermediary. He
believed this would bring order to Gaia's chaotic omens. And in his
mind he saw glistening marble temples with classical proportions,
priests garbed in togas restraining the thronging pilgrims and a
fence enclosing the holy spring. And in his imagination, he heard
music played on flute and lyre, harmonious in form and structure.
He envisioned himself taming the Muses and bringing them to Mt.
Parnassus at Delphi. Such was Apollo's hubris, to think that he
could domesticate the fount of creativity! So in his pride he
fashioned himself a bow and went to Delphi as a conqueror.
When Delphyne saw him approach, bow and arrow in hand, the air
rasped in her throat, a guttural sound that traveled the length of
her spine and back, finally hissing through her lips.
"Such audacity," she thought to herself. "Such ignorance! He does
not know who stands before him."
And when Apollo demanded her submission, Delphyne laughed out loud,
a roar that echoed off the mountain peaks surrounding Delphi,
carrying flames high into the sky.
"Gaia's daughter does not engage in combat," she said, looking him
in the eye. "And Gaia's daughter knows no defeat. Aim well and
true, young godling. Shoot your arrow into my very heart, but know
that when you are done and see my carcass lying at your feet, I
will be with you still."
For Delphyne knew that although she was mortal, she would be
reborn, just we exhale in order to take in fresh air.
So Apollo took up the challenge and slapped the arrow against his
bow, drew the cord and let fly, straight into the dragon's heart.
And Delphyne collapsed in front of her cave, a mountain of flesh
coiled in upon itself. Apollo left the carcass to decay where it
had dropped, focussing the heat of the sun upon it. And from its
rotten stench he renamed the dragon Python, the decomposed one. But
he never noticed that among the worms that wound their way through
the dragon's remains, was a tiny snake that slithered off into the
sacred cave, Delphyne reborn.
After Delphyne's death and rebirth, the pilgrims came as they had
before. Now to be sure, there were temples and pomp, priests in
their regalia as the people waited in single file to speak with the
woman Apollo had appointed as his priestess. But this young woman
breathed in the sacred fumes from the earth and listened to the
hiss of Delphyne as of yore. For you see without Gaia there is no
life, there is no death, there is no rebirth. And without Delphyne
there is no oracle. And though Apollo may march and strut, parading
as the god of Delphi, his mother and the mother of us all continues
her cycle of life -- death -- and rebirth. Stars blink in and out
of existence. The snake renews itself and is reborn.
Delphyne, Gaia's child, come and live in me. Delphyne, Gaia's
child, I'll be cave to Thee. Serpent of the shadow, The mystery you
know, Delphyne, Gaia's child, in you I ebb and flow.
