by Laura Gill
“Tending a sick neighbor.” Phileia drew up the fleeces, tucking me in. “Close your eyes. The Mistress has you safe in her bosom.” She bent down and kissed my brow.
The bedding smelled of animals and old herbs, and the house with its unfamiliar sounds kept me awake, as did the forbidding presence of the faceless Mistress of the House on her shelf. She possessed no eyes, yet somehow it seemed she could look right through me. Then there were the thousand idols, the broken goddesses and the nameless ones who surely still had power and resented the lack of offerings. Was it my imagination, or did they whisper back and forth in the darkness? What of the raven? Phileia had not explained the bird. I had not asked because I feared the answer, that the high priestess served the dark goddess.
*~*~*~*
The woman who woke me just before dawn startled the sleepiness right out of me. She was all bosom and height, brown as a chestnut, and bald as a baby. “No time to dawdle, girl,” she barked. Her mouth was full and wide, her lips as dark as plums. I stared openmouthed at her until she pinched me. “Move along, lazybones.”
Phileia admonished her, “Be gentle, Ktimene.”
The bald woman was the second priestess. I expected an older woman, a crone like Phileia, not someone so young and mannish.
As I dressed and combed my hair, I could smell the pancakes of curdled milk, honey, and wheat Phileia was baking over the hearth. My body hurt less than yesterday; the ache diminished further as I moved.
No one spoke to me over breakfast; the conversation revolved around the sick neighbor, who was now a dying woman. I felt uncomfortable between the two priestesses, especially with the unnumbered figurines and the raven watching from above, and did not think the women noticed me, but just as I started to slink away to wash my dishes Ktimene summoned me back. “Girl, you’re not to go off alone until you have permission. There are certain boundaries you can’t cross, and places where you’re forbidden to go. Hurry and fetch your cloak.”
Dawn mist clung to the mountainside as we went out. Neighbors were already moving about, gossiping and drawing water from the communal well, and hastening with offering bundles to an outdoor shrine where a wooden xoanon of the very same goddess that Sostrate had placed upon my altar in Argos received the women’s worship. “I thought...” Then I remembered I was speaking to Ktimene, and immediately shut my mouth.
Ktimene forced the issue. “You thought what, girl?” When I hesitated too long, she pinched my arm. “Has the Mistress of the Owls stolen your tongue along with your wits?”
I swallowed. Why did she have to be so unkind? “That...that the Mistress of the House was the goddess.”
“Do you mean the little stone goddess Phileia keeps? No, that’s a special image of the Mistress, bestowed by her to the line of high priestesses a long, long time ago.” Ktimene shrugged her broad shoulders. “She’s always been here, long before us. Some day, when Phileia’s gone, the Mistress of the House will fall into my safekeeping, then when I’m gone, and if you’re worthy, that honor might be yours. But don’t anticipate the day, girl. Most of the girls whose families send them to be dedicated aren’t worthy of the Mistress.”
She knew absolutely nothing about me, had no clue as to what I could or could not do, what I thought or hoped.
A woman carrying a covered basket called out, “Ktimene!” She was young and severe-looking, with bony hands, and did not acknowledge me at all. “Come bless the morning rites!”
Ktimene frowned at her, too. “In a moment.” Her brusqueness with that woman surprised me. Perhaps it was just her way to glower and be gruff with everybody, and she had not singled me out for particular punishment.
As we headed toward the shrine, others acknowledged her in passing, many asking, “How is Marpessa?” My discomfiture increased with each woman who neglected to look at or speak to me; the day before, everyone had waved and shouted greetings. Had the priestesses decided since then that I was unsuitable?
To all comers, she answered, “Only the Mistress and the Fates know for certain.” Yet the atmosphere, rife with pregnant silences and shaken heads, hinted to me that everyone understood how serious the situation was.
Ktimene hustled me along. “You stand over there and watch. Don’t touch anything or talk to anybody.” She motioned toward the side of the shrine, where an observer might stand without fear of being stampeded.
No one said anything to me, or acknowledged my arrival beyond shuffling aside to make a place for me. I could not see anything from that position—too short in stature and crammed up against the shrine’s rough-hewn wall as I was—only hear Ktimene welcome the goddess’s presence.
“Great Potnia, Mistress of the Beasts, Protector of Women, Giver of Life, and Guardian of the Wilderness, we bid you good day with these prayers and libations.” At her words, the women around me reached their arms to the xoanon, the top of whose head I could just discern above theirs, and in unison saluted her.
“We ask your protection and blessing in return.” Ktimene’s pronouncement echoed around the cliffs. A strident voice made for shouting, for commanding, like my father’s. The reverberation of her request still echoed as the women responded in kind. I did not see Ktimene pour out the libations, only heard the hum of the women’s approval, as if they were a swarm of bees gathered around a nectar-bearing flower.
When the women dispersed, I stayed put so Ktimene could collect me, and respectfully kept silent until we left the shrine before saying a word. “Was that the sanctuary of the goddess?” In Argos, the sanctuary comprised an entire building, and the image of the goddess was kept indoors, hidden from view in the innermost shrine.
“What?” Ktimene abruptly stopped walking, my question startled her so. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the shrine for everybody. Are you really so dense? Where we serve, that’s different. Only the priestesses are allowed.”
I refused to feel shame over the blunder. “Sostrate said she was bringing me to the sanctuary. I thought when we arrived all this was what she meant.” I encompassed the whole of the cliffs and houses with a sweep of my arm. “So this isn’t the sanctuary?”
Ktimene uttered a long growl of frustration. “This is the sanctuary enclosure, girl. The temenos. Hasn’t anyone told you about the actual sanctuary?” Not daring to speak again, I simply shook my head. “Look here, the mountain here is riddled with caves. Some, we use for storage, and others we use for making cheese and beer.” She treated the explanation like an unpleasant chore. I never meant to make trouble, and now felt ashamed.
“But there’s another cave nearby,” she continued. “It’s deep and dark, where the Mistress as Mother of the Mountains and Receiver of the Dead dwells, and where only priestesses might go. Not you, though.” She jabbed her forefinger at me. “You’re uninitiated and nameless. Go there alone, without her permission, and the Mistress will devour you. It’s happened to other girls, ones who were even stupider than you. Nobody ever saw them again.”
Without warning, she seized my arm, and squeezed painfully to claim my undivided attention. “Swear by your Argive goddesses—what do you call them? The Two Ladies? You’ll honor an oath sworn on them. Swear on those faces of the Mistress that you’ll stay where you belong, where Phileia and I instruct, not go wandering off.” I stammered something unintelligible, unsuitable, making her shake me and squeeze harder. “You, a king’s daughter! You can do better than that.”
Rising tears stung my eyes. “I-I swear by Queen Hera and Lady Athena not to wander off.”
“Not to take the path behind the priestess’s house.”
Stammering, I repeated her words.
“Not to seek out the Mistress before your time,” Ktimene added brusquely.
Gods, would she never release me? Her vise-like grip was cutting off the circulation to my arm. “Not to seek out the Mistress before my time,” I echoed.
With a huff, she abruptly let me go. “Dry your eyes, girl. We’ve much to do.” I complied as best I could. “We’re goin
g to see the goats. This is also where we shear the fleece.” She started walking again, toward a cliff face under whose overhang the women had constructed a rough enclosure for several nanny goats and their kids. The odor of manure and hay were strong. I concentrated on my surroundings and listening for any instructions Ktimene might give; she would not thank me for having to repeat herself.
I noticed that the nanny goats wore the double-axe brand of the Mistress. “We’ve more with the herds outside, of course,” Ktimene explained. “These are for the milk offerings and special sacrifices. See how they’re all female? Nothing male is allowed in the sanctuary enclosure, not even a young kid.”
So there really were no men; even the animals were female. I nodded to indicate I was paying attention.
Chimes clattered from the crossbeams. I had observed them elsewhere, under the awning of the shrine, and in the overhanging eaves above each house’s doorway. We had them in Argos, too, tinkling chimes of brass and silver and eggshell-thin clay, but these made a different sound, more doleful. Then I saw why. They were fashioned from birds’ bones.
Ktimene noticed where my attention went. “Owl bones, talismans. The Mistress perpetually watches.” She nudged me. “What did I say about the animals?” She glowered until I repeated back everything she had said.
Grunting, she added, “You’ll have to help tend the animals. I doubt you’ve ever milked anything, with those soft little hands. I’ll have to show you.” She snorted. “Now for the beer.”
Ktimene moved on past the goat enclosure to a cleft in the rock that exuded a dry, yeasty smell. “You won’t have wine here. The juice of the grape belongs to men and satyrs, to Dionysus and Pan of the Forests. Wine brings madness, drunkenness, and disorder. But beer-making is a gift from the Mistress to women, a secret of the sacred barley. It nourishes where wine weakens. We did not have to steal it as Prometheus stole fire.” I heard a self-satisfied grunt. “Women are patient, you see. We wait for our blessings.”
Because she had not brought a lamp, we did not venture very far past the threshold. How far back into the yeasty-smelling darkness did the cave extend? I perceived only the shapes of the man-sized pithoi arranged against the narrow rock walls, but sensed the presence of something ominous and ever-watchful. An involuntary shiver passed down my spine; the air was chilly in that space, excellent for storage, but not for sunlight-loving mortals.
“Rhona knows how best to make beer,” Ktimene was saying. “When it’s time for the next fermenting, she’ll show you how it’s done. These should be ready by midwinter.” She patted the nearest pithos.
“I should show you the other caves where we make the cheese and store the grain,” Ktimene announced. Her voice sounded oddly constrained under the earth, as if the whole weight of the Mountain pressed down upon her. “We priestesses keep tallies of everything. We bless what goes into storage, and decide what goes out. Just like in the palaces, I suppose, except here the men lay claim to nothing.”
I followed close as she left the cave, bypassing the goat pen and shrine, and thanked Helios most profoundly for the miracle of daylight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As daylight ebbed, Phileia beckoned to me with a crooked finger. “Come here, child. A woman is dying tonight. The Mistress will come disguised as the dark goddesses Persephone and Hekate to claim Marpessa’s shade. It is not safe for nameless young girls.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “We will appeal to the Mistress of the House to watch over you. Do not be afraid. What we do is for your protection.”
I wanted only to eat supper and go to sleep, to forget about dark spirits and night noises and cowering in fear. What the high priestess said pricked my apprehensions. The Mistress of the House struck me as a goddess that did not like children.
Ktimene laid out a place for the squat little figure, an offering table of painted clay that had apparently belonged to someone’s grandmother, and the kernos, its receptacles empty and awaiting the libations. “The name we give you for tonight is your name for now, not for always,” she explained gruffly. She made a final adjustment to the ritual equipment. “Now, girl, come here and fall on your knees. Adore the Mistress of the House, and above all don’t fidget or interrupt. We will do nothing to harm you.”
Irritation mixed with my trepidation. Did she think me a baby to fuss and make a nuisance of myself? All day, I had striven to behave myself around her.
Barefoot, and wearing only my secondhand linen shift, I knelt on the packed earth floor to kiss the offering table’s edge. I kept my gaze fixed on the hearth curb under the three-legged table, and awaited further instructions. Hopefully the ritual would end quickly. I was hungry.
I heard Phileia’s joints creak as she moved behind me. What was going to happen now? Suddenly, her hands grasped my shoulders and exerted a pressure as though she was trying to drive me down into the earth. My cry of alarm vanished under her reprimand. “Silence, girl!”
Someone seized my left wrist, then Ktimene was there with a ball of scarlet yarn. She wound yarn around my wrist, but I fought her when she reached for my other wrist. “No!” I did not care that the priestesses had ordered me to be quiet. They never warned me that they were going to bind me. Only sacrificial animals were tied up when offerings were to be made.
“No!” The priestesses had decided I was unsuitable, and therefore they had to sacrifice me. Persephone and Hekate demanded an offering of blood, a girl of royal blood. Panic surged through my limbs. “No, no, no!”
“Silence!” Someone slapped me hard enough to whip my head around and make the room spin. Ktimene pinned my arms together. I could not breathe. Face throbbing, I gasped and writhed, and yet was helpless to fight back as the younger priestess secured my wrists, then bound my arms against my torso. She shoved a rag into my mouth before moving down to seize and bind my kicking feet, just like a spider cocooning her prey. She pinched me for good measure, hissing, “Stop fighting. The Mistress won’t look favorably on an unruly child.”
Though I could no longer speak to protest, I heard the hammer of my own heartbeat, even above Phileia’s voice as she addressed the goddess.
“Mistress of the Hearth, holy Potnia of the Oikos, most ancient Goddess, here are offerings of honey and beer.” She stood over me, arms raised, while Ktimene poured out the libations. Honey and beer. Would there be blood, too? Where was the knife? Phileia’s posture called for a sacrificial knife to cut my throat and make the blood run. If they had trussed me like a heifer, then surely the two priestesses had a knife waiting, or worse, the ceremonial double axe.
I could scarcely breathe through the gag. Phileia had said she would not hurt me. She had lied. Why not just drug me, the way the priests in Argos drugged the sacrificial animals so that they would consent? She could not sacrifice me if I did not consent; the gods would not accept the offering.
“Heed this girl-child, this once-daughter of Argos whose name was Danaë, who requires your protection in the season before she is dedicated. With your blessing, oh great Goddess, that you should recognize her, we give her a name that is no name. She is Danaë no longer.” Phileia lowered her hands. Now she would produce the knife, now she would cut my throat... I whimpered through the gag. How could she? I don’t consent! I want to live!
No flash of bronze or sharp obsidian, only her hands as she bent down to place them on the crown of my head. She must sprinkle me first with the sacred barley. Ktimene would stun me from behind with a mallet. My vision whirled. I became lightheaded. I did not want to feel the knife. What did death feel like? Stay away, dark goddess! I refuse the sacrifice! I refuse! Surely the gods could hear my screaming thoughts.
No mallet, no shower of consecrating barley, just the high priestess’s hands pushing down on my scalp. “Danaë is devoured, eaten. She is Outis, Outis.” Shoving inside me the word that meant Nobody. I went numb all over. Nobody, nobody, nothing. “Outis, Outis!”
Nobody.
Then there were words I did not comprehend, and did no
t try to follow, chants in the goddess’s mysterious, ancient language. I was unable to keep from collapsing, lying spent as if bleeding out, and filled with a sickening feeling that the high priestess had just amputated something vital. I would have wept had I the strength.
My heart lurched again when a length of bronze flashed in the firelight. I tensed, but felt only the loosening of my bonds. Someone roughly yanked the gag from my mouth. “Was that so bad?” Ktimene scolded.
Free now, I realized how badly I was trembling. Cold all over, colder than I had been at night outdoors, cold as death. My mouth was dry. All I could manage was a whimper. What had the two priestesses done?
“Ah, she is frightened.” Phileia bent to help me sit up. I felt boneless, empty inside. Even when Phileia gathered me against her, I could not cry. Nothing worked, nothing registered. Her hands stroking my hair brought no comfort.
After several moments, Phileia withdrew from the embrace. “What is your name, child?” she asked softly.
What was she asking? My name? My mind started to supply the answer, to say “Danaë,” but strangely there was now a hole where “Danaë” had lived. “I-I don’t...” My teeth chattered so hard I could not manage the rest.
“Outis. Your name is Outis,” she said. “Your old self has been devoured, cut away just as Ktimene cut the threads that bound you. You have no substance that the gods can harm, and so you will remain until you are dedicated.”
No substance, nothing. Nobody. She spooned food into me because, like an infant, I could not manage on my own, and afterward tucked me under the fleeces. Yet it was just a body lying on the cot. I remained outside myself, confused, not knowing what I was now, or how anyone could cut away what I had been.
No name? Why did the priestesses have to wait to dedicate me? Everything that was, was a Somebody or Something.
Why not me?
*~*~*~*
When I regained my powers of speech the next day, I asked Phileia, “Why am I a Nobody?”