What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
—Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”
———
I awake shortly before dawn, rising silently from the soft reeds and woolen bolsters upon which I sleep. I do not know why I have risen so early, but I am restless, and do not wish to return to bed.
There is light enough to see by, so I walk out into the cool morning air, careful not to disturb my sisters who still rest. The river rushes and burbles, just out of sight below the dip of a ridge. After listening to it for a moment, I gather two ceramic pitchers, and go to retrieve some water for morning washing.
As I walk down to the bank, I see the morning star glimmering in the indigo sky, drifting just above the golden band of the approaching sunrise. Some of my sisters point to that star and claim it is the eye of our mistress, watching over us. I do not know if this is true; Danupaya tells me it is only a superstition, brought by foreigners from the west. I murmur a prayer anyway.
The river is cold, and my hands begin to feel stiff as they are soaked in the act of filling the pitchers. I dry them off on my robes, then pick up the heavy jugs with a huff of effort, and proceed back up the hill. The baths are in a circular room adjoined to the bedchambers; I bring the water inside, setting down one pitcher and carrying the other to a copper basin. I pour just enough for my needs, leaving the rest for my sisters to use later.
It takes several minutes to wash my hair; it was long even before my initiation to the temple, but now, uncut for years, it falls well past my shoulders. When it is at last washed and dried, I move to a bowl of sweet-smelling paste, a mixture of wood-pulp and frankincense, prepared the previous evening. I scoop some up in my fingers and rub it in across my face, feeling my skin softening.
Finished, I examine myself in a bronze hand-mirror. I smile at the sight of my reflection. My face is smooth and clean. My hair is long and soft, cascading over my shoulders. My earrings, golden hoops in the shape of serpents, catch the light as the sun rises behind me. I am beautiful.
I hear voices; my sisters are rising, and soon we will be performing morning prayers and casting our divinations. I set down the mirror, and I go to meet them.
———
If you need proof that nobody chooses to be trans— that it’s a process of self-discovery, something you learn about yourself through experience and exploration, and most importantly something you don’t decide to become so much as realize you always have been— look no further than yours truly. My timing was impeccable, really: I finally had my revelation and began my transition right as transphobic rhetoric was reaching a fever pitch, in the tumultuous shadow of the 2024 election. I came out just in time to be barred from changing my gender marker! Unmatched kairos, really.
Honestly, it’s hard to believe it took me so long. There’s a lot that seems unbelievably obvious in hindsight. Wait, you mean all boys don’t imagine themselves in a bridal gown when they think about getting married? And all boys don’t feel compelled to cover their chests because being seen topless feels wrong? All boys don’t feel a rush of joy when someone mistakes them for a girl? Huh. Wait a second… You’d think I’d have gotten the hint at some point between “feeling confused and upset when I was called ‘sir'” and “feeling envy for beautiful women instead of attraction”— but, well, I got there eventually.
And now here I am, in this world that really doesn’t seem to like me very much. It’s not easy out here as a trans women, especially not right now. I’ve been harassed on campus. I struggle with dysphoria on a daily basis. According to the current administration, I’m a threat to cis women just because I exist— a “gender ideology extremist,” whatever the hell that is.
And y’know, I’m staying strong. Refusing to hide, putting on my “death before detransition” shirt, supporting my fellow queers wherever I can. Making plans to move to safer places. I’m taking it a day at a time, and so far I’m doing all right, all things considered.
Wouldn’t it be nice, though, to not have to worry about all this? To just be accepted? Yes, it would— but that’s just not the world I live in, unfortunately. I can’t wave my hand and make things magically better for trans people. All I can do is adapt to difficult circumstances as best I can. It isn’t easy, but then, nothing good ever is, is it?
Sometimes, though… sometimes I dream about what it would be like, to not have to fight or live in fear. Sometimes I dream of an older world, one where my womanhood wouldn’t have just been accepted— it would have been divine.
———
I gather up my headdress, running my fingers along the sleek antlers and the etched gold. Intricate images, lovingly crafted in the yielding metal, remind me from where I came, and who I now serve. I etched the highest image by my own hand: that of Artimpasa herself, watching me from the throne of heaven, flanked by her beasts. I am proud of the work.
Pulling back my hair, I carefully don the headdress, feeling the weight of it, adjusting to the strange new balance brought by the branching antlers. I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out. I am ready for the ceremony. It isn’t my first one, far from it, but I still feel a rush each time, as though it is a thrilling new experience. But then, how else should one feel about communing with her god? How else could one feel?
Two of my sisters have prepared the tabernacle, raising walls of coarse wool over a frame of lime branches. Later, we will split the bark from those branches, twisting and coiling it, drawing out the hidden truths of the future. For now, we enter the tent, and Axsinaka lights the coals in the copper brazier. The heat fills the space; soon, sweat is running down my back, trickling over my face— cleansing me. I close my eyes, feeling beads drip from my lashes and onto my lips.
Taumuriya comes to my side, carrying hemp seeds in a gilded bowl. She holds them up to me— it is my turn to cast them over the fire. I carefully scoop up the little brown-green kernels, cradling them in my hands. She nods, encouraging. I step forward, say the words, and toss the seeds onto the scarlet coals.
At once, the air fills with sweet, earthy smoke. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Within minutes, I can feel my heart beating faster; at the same time, my limbs seem to move slower, as though submerged in water. I can feel a euphoria rising up within me, and I know I am in communion with my goddess. The divine has come upon me. A drumbeat begins, and I raise up my hands.
———
Herodotus, writing from the perspective of his patriarchal and unenlightened culture, called them “those who suffer the female sickness,” deeming them “cursed” with femininity for the sins of their ancestors. In the Hippocratic Corpus, they were called “the soft ones,” men degraded into female roles by infertility. More recently, historian Yulia Ustanova called them “an orgiastic cult” of “transvestite shamans”; archaeologist Barry Cunliffe went further, declaring them a “strongly transgender priesthood.”
Whatever you want to call them, however you want to describe them, they’re only one thing to me: they’re the sisters I should have had.
I’m talking about the Anarya, a powerful and noble priesthood of the ancient Scythians. If you don’t know who the Scythians were (which I’d imagine you don’t; they aren’t quite famous like the Greeks or Romans), I’ll give a brief overview: between 2900 and 2200 years ago, the Scythian kingdom spanned from Eastern Europe into Central Asia, with the center of their power being around the Black Sea. They built cities, but were also partly nomadic, and functioned as a collective of autonomous tribes unified under a dynastic monarchy. In their time, they were best known for their skill with making and using bows and arrows— Scythian archers, called toxotai, were even used as a police force in parts of Ancient Greece. Overall, interesting folks. Check out The Scythians: Nomad Warriors of the Steppe for more, if you’d like.
(Not a paid advertisement; it’s just a good book.)
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s focus back in on the cool part: the Anarya. They were the priestesses of the goddess Artimpasa, and served the Skōlotoi, the royal dynasty, as advisors and soothsayers. They would predict the future, and they would be called upon if the king was sick or if treason was suspected among the aristocracy; they performed funerals for the high-ranking, making sure nobles reached their proper place in the afterlife. They served as judges and jury in certain criminal proceedings, and they would be present at coronations, to ritually confer power from the gods onto the new ruler.
And— best part for last— they were trans women. They were, we might say today, assigned male at birth; but then— usually in early adulthood— they experienced a transformation, and began wearing women’s clothes, taking female names, shifting their voices to be more feminine. Once initiated into the temple of Artimpasa, they lived as women, all day, every day.
Historically, they were often dismissed as weird transvestites, but no— the Anarya were more than just cross-dressers. I think it’s pretty inarguable that they were what we today would call transfeminine— even if, of course, they wouldn’t have called themselves that, because it’s a modern term. But it’s a modern term for something that has existed, in one form or another, forever— for as long as there have been people, there have been trans people.
Their name, a-narya, is often translated as “unmanly”— a word laden with modern (and toxic) connotations of weakness. Boys don’t cry, that’s unmanly. But a more accurate translation would be more literal: “not male.” The Scythians believed that Artimpasa had the power to change human sexes, turning men into women (and women into men— though if there was a transmasc priesthood, it’s sadly lost to history). Artimpasa herself was androgynous, in fact— she was always depicted with breasts and the clothes of a queen (and wings— can’t forget the wings), but sometimes she had a beard, or even a dick, in carvings and sculptures. This was likely meant to represent that she transcended human notions of gender— she had the power to defy anything we mortals dared to assign at birth.
The Anarya were not “unmanly men”— they were divinely transformed women. The Greeks and Romans (and many later historians), disdainful of what they saw as deviancy, called the Anarya cursed; but among their own people, they were blessed. They were the god-touched, remade in Artimpasa’s own image. They were revered— and feared— as holy figures.
Oh, and did I mention they smoked cannabis for their rituals? And that they are implied, in some writings from the time, to have had relationships with each other? Trans lesbian shamans?!
For as long as I’ve known about them, they’ve made me think damn, I was born in the wrong millennium! I should have been alive back then! Back when I would have been respected. When I would have lived surrounded by my trans sisters in a place of sanctuary. When I could have just performed my rituals and prayers all day long, never having to worry about my rights being taken away, my name change being denied, my meds not getting covered— about anything beyond my royal role as a goddess-blessed woman. Wouldn’t that be the life?
———
The evening wind sighs across the plain, making the reeds whisper among themselves. The sun is below the horizon as we finally exit the tent, our ceremonies complete. I breathe in cool air, feeling purified, though also exhausted from the hours of ecstatic worship.
I help to take down the tent, collecting the lime-boughs as Apatura pulls away the sheepskin cloth, carrying the branches away to be used for divination tomorrow morning. It doesn’t take long, and soon, I am retreating back into the bedchambers, exhausted.
But before I go to bed, I make a detour into the sanctum of the temple, quietly approaching the statue of Artimpasa that resides there. I make obeisance before the stone form of the goddess, my winged lady, flanked by her beasts as she sits upon her throne, her stern but comforting expression lovingly sculpted by the hands of a long-gone sister. I like this statue, and I come in here often, even when I am fatigued and ready for sleep. But I linger only a moment, before slipping out and making my way to my rest at least.
As I lay in bed, my mind drifts back to my old life; back when I had a man’s name, wore a man’s clothes; back when I had the beginnings of a beard weighing down my ever-melancholic face. Before the goddess herself had reached down and transformed me, and started me on this path. I recall the first time I heard the words, spoken by the high priestess about me: “Artimpasa has chosen her.” Her. In that moment, it had felt as though everything finally made sense. They had explained to me that I was chosen, that I had a special place in the eyes of the gods, but that first word— that first her— had been all I needed to understand. Everything had fallen into place.
There is a rustling, and I feel a warmth beside me. It is Taumuriya; she joins me often, unable to sleep well on her own after the excitement of the ceremonies. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, gently stroking my fingers through her hair, until we both drift off to sleep, lulled by hushed whisper of the river.
———
I can’t guarantee that what I’ve written here, this “day in the life,” is totally accurate— it’s based on extensive research into the day-to-day lives of the Scythians and the practices of the Anarya priesthood, but it’s also based on my dreams about the life I could have had. Dreams aren’t necessarily true to life— personally, I’m not a believer in past-life memories appearing in dreams, though it would be very cool if that’s what these dreams really were— but they are true to my heart. That I dream about being one of the blessed and god-changed women of another age tells a truth about me, and about the hardship of being a woman like me in my own age— an age where I would seem to be anything but divine.
Sometimes, I just want to escape. I want to escape from having to constantly worry about the safety of my other trans friends, and having to hear that they got harassed again. I want to escape from being the subject of nationwide fearmongering and disinformation— no, my “protect and support trans kids” sticker does not mean I’m going around pressuring kindergartners to get bottom surgery, thank you very much, and it’s exhausting that a lot of people see me that way. See my womanhood as some kind of dangerous ideology, instead of just who I am. Transitioning is no more an “ideology” than wearing glasses to correct my terrible eyesight is an ideology.
Is it any wonder that I want to go back to a time when the transsexuals were holy? When they were feared for their power and sanctity, and called upon by the king himself for assistance?
But y’know, the truth is, I don’t need to be feared and worshipped like the Anarya were (though that would be pretty cool, and I certainly won’t stop you if you’d like to venerate me). I’m not looking for power, I’m just looking to be able to stop looking over my shoulder. I— we— just want to live our lives.
There is a safety to be found even in this time, though. I’m eternally grateful for the community I’ve found here in Cullowhee, for all the queer friends I’ve made and the unending support I’ve gotten from them— and had the opportunity to give to them. If we’re condemned souls, our existence vilified, than what else can we do but build our support for each other?
Living in an age of hate, it hurts. But to paraphrase the wise man Burlew: Sooner or later, you gotta take all that pain and do somethin’ with it. Try to make somethin’ better out of it.
I can’t go back to that old world and live that holy life. But maybe I can find that life right here.
———
We are gathered around the firepit, the light of the flames dancing across our faces. It took a few tries, but we finally got the wood to catch, and now marshmallows are steadily baking on sticks as we talk and joke and laugh. There are four others with me, all trans women, all absolutely gorgeous, in my eyes. It’s a girls’ night out.
In this moment, there is no fear or hate in the world. We’re just women, gathered together, dressed up in our ladies’ clothes and using our ladies’ names, sitting under the bright stars.
Someone passes a joint to me, and I take a long drag, holding the smoke in my lungs for a moment before exhaling a rolling cloud. The sweet, earthy smoke fills the air for a moment before the wind swirls it away. There is a warmth beside me as someone sits close, cuddling up to me, and I wrap my arm around her and pull her in, my heart filled with affection for her.
Just girls, in our girls’ clothes and girls’ names, partaking in this together.
“Close enough,” I murmur to myself, and I nod a prayer up to my great winged lady in the sky.