Future inscribed on lead

She stands in the centre of a great hall with her head held high and her long, bright hair braided into an elaborate arrangement that is held in place by a gleaming circlet. Her white linen robe is bound with pure gold and she is still as a statue, both eyes fixed upon the world.

There is no wind beneath the temple roof and the air is warm, within and without. The only sound that can be heard is an occasional bleating of goats and the distant murmuring of servants as they make ready for the Spring Council, which is to be held at this place in three days time.

She has swept clean the marble floor and it shines like the full moon in April. Mid-morning sunrays flood the hallowed space, infusing every atom. Narrow gaps between the thick, rounded pillars reveal sections of a motionless scene, silent as if time had ceased.

Happy are the men who enter this house and ask of her, “What do you see?”  The wisest make the best of the answer they are given, but more enlist the counsel of priests to assist with their understanding.

Others seek more, but seldom to any avail, for there is a certain way we do things at this place, here at the navel of the world, where the future is inscribed on lead.

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