Danae

by Laura Gill

  I found a handful of raw chestnuts, roasted them, then, burning my fingertips in my impatience, broke them open. The best nutmeats from the fattest chestnut went to the goddess with a little prayer. “I know there’s meat at the feast,” I told her, “but no one’s brought any, and I’m forbidden to go into the night without the protection of a name.” Speaking aloud blunted the edge off my discomfort around the many idols and the Mistress of the House. I had even taken to calling the stuffed raven “Sostrate.” “A real name, I mean. ‘Outis’ means ‘Nothing,’ and I’m not nothing. My name was once Danaë. Do you know how long it’ll be before the priestesses take me to the sanctuary to give me a new name, a proper one?”

  She did not answer, perhaps because the question was impertinent, or she did not understand Hellene. I filled the emptiness with my voice a while longer, till there was nothing left to say, till the oppressive night with its storm-rattling and the crackling of the fire and the sound of my own breathing brought back memories of similar solstice nights in Argos. It would have been my ninth name-day. How had I forgotten?

  “Because that name-day belongs to Danaë of Argos,” I murmured. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Everybody always forgot it.” Stopping the spindle whorl, I wrapped the finished thread around the distaff and put it aside. Now I looked intently at the goddess. “A new name means a new name-day. I hope nobody forgets.”

  The Mistress of the House continued to say nothing. Of course. She was a statue, a relic of primordial times. What did she care about a nameless Argive girl? I screwed up my face. “Why didn’t whoever carved you at least give you a smile?” Her eye sockets seemed much larger in the flickering shadows. “Then I could believe you were listening.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Spring brought the snowmelt, and the warming, lengthening days enticed from the soil the burgeoning of green shoots and splashes of purple lupine and pink anemones. Mornings and evenings remained cold, and the snow persisted on Parnon’s highest crags, but I welcomed the changing of the seasons.

  Visitors, older women leading young maids, came to the enclosure seven days after the vernal equinox. From the reception the Women of the Mountain gave them, their arrival was expected, and celebrated with rituals. Phileia and Ktimene donned their moon masks and vestments, and went to the stream to summon the maids into the sanctuary enclosure.

  “Laodike, step forward into the holy circle of womanhood and be welcome! Itamo, step forward into the holy circle of womanhood and be welcome!” Grasping the hands of each maiden and calling her name, Phileia physically brought her across the threshold of the stockade. I counted seven such young women.

  Rhona, standing beside me, leaned in to explain the reason for the ceremony. “Those are the initiates, the girls who’ve flowered during the last season and are ready to find husbands.” She nodded toward the last maiden, a stick-thin wisp of a girl. “They come to learn the mysteries, to become self-sufficient in the ancient ways that we keep, and that they don’t learn from their mothers at home. How to hunt and fish, how to survive alone in the wilderness, and how to defend oneself from attack. How to venture into the spirit world and come back unharmed. As for the rest?” Rhona nudged me reassuringly. “All that they learn, one day you’ll learn yourself, and much more.”

  Would the girls be stripped of their names as I had? I did not ask Rhona, because Phileia had admonished me that that ritual was a mystery to be safeguarded. Instead, I observed, waiting for the priestesses to shove the newcomers to the ground and bind them with scarlet yarn, but no such thing happened. With each passing moment, each girl who was welcomed across the threshold, my dejection intensified. Never mind Phileia’s explanation, that every prospective priestess endured the same ritual of unnaming, I could not help but feel singled out and ashamed, certain that I had been punished for some offense.

  A welcoming feast followed the ceremony at the stockade gate; my spirits sank yet further. Those initiates were staying in the sanctuary but a season, while I was to remain in perpetuity and become a priestess. Where was my welcoming ceremony? Where were the cheers and festival roast meats and beer for me?

  All the girls were between fourteen and seventeen; none took any interest in me, and they all regarded me with disdain once they heard my non-name. Even the mothers, who themselves had once been initiates, and were allowed inside, did not acknowledge me except to shake their heads and collectively wrinkle their noses. “Whoever heard of naming their child Nobody?” Scornful laughter attended my flustered distress.

  Phileia, overhearing them, gently but firmly chided the women, “She is to be dedicated as a consecrated virgin and become a priestess. The Mistress has devoured her old name.” That was all the explanation she offered, but her words changed nothing. They did not soften the women’s disregard or alleviate my embarrassment, and once their attention was diverted, I fled.

  Later, Phileia found me knotting and unknotting colored yarn in the open doorway, beside the Mistress of the House, whom I had brought down from her niche and brought outside to enjoy the sunshine. We had negotiated a comfortable relationship, the stolid, ancient goddess and I. I fed her and said the prayers every day, and for her part she neither judged nor commented, and certainly never teased me about my nothing-name. Phileia allowed this and even encouraged me to handle her, saying, “She is your protectress, after all.”

  “Greetings, holy one.” Phileia acknowledged the goddess before gathering her skirts and seating herself next to me. The high priestess was silent a moment, contemplating the trees. “So, today’s celebrations aren’t to your liking?” she inquired in a tone that said she already knew the answer. “Think nothing of their jibes and sidelong stares. This is an ordeal you must endure.”

  My hands stopped twisting the yarn, lest Phileia chide me for fidgeting. “When do I meet the goddess? When am I to be dedicated?”

  “Is this a thing you want, then?” Phileia uttered a soft, bemused laugh.

  “I don’t like being a nobody. I’m empty inside where I used to be Danaë, because there isn’t anything to take her place.” How to articulate my profound sense of un-being? Were my words sufficient? “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “That’s because you need to be filled up. Yes, I know what it’s like to be hollow inside.” Phileia took the yarn, lightly squeezed its madder-dyed softness, and idly passed it from hand to hand. “Are you ready with your whole heart to face the Mistress of All and become her lifelong servant? Don’t lie simply because you want a name.”

  I stared at the yarn in Phileia’s worn hands. “I don’t know. The Mistress...” Twisting around, I indicated the goddess. “I don’t understand her.” The rest of it, that I feared the dark goddess, that everything about the caves and the eyes of the numberless and nameless idols in the house unsettled me, I dared not confess. A Woman of the Mountain was fearless. I felt vulnerable and incapable. If Phileia or Ktimene learned that, then I would be Nobody forever and ever.

  “The Mistress is what she is. Nothing can change that,” Phileia answered. “Is it the Mistress of Light and Life you fear, or is it the dark goddess?”

  I did not answer for fear she would see right through to the coward inside me. I need not have bothered keeping silent, for when she spoke again she articulated my fears for me.

  “Of course, you don’t want to meet her. No one does, but we must honor her because she is powerful, because her displeasure means suffering and death here in the world above. You won’t meet her till you’re ready to meet her, and you’re still far too young to learn the darkest mysteries. Just accept that death and suffering are a necessary part of every mortal’s existence. Where there is darkness and death, there is also rebirth. Where the Mistress grants us her bounty, there are sacrifices to be made. You’ve already sacrificed your old name and belonging to the goddess. Are you ready to sacrifice further to receive a new name?”

  My mind whirled with memories of scarlet wool and the panic of being unbound and unable to breathe.
“What would I have to do?” I asked warily.

  “Embrace your new name when it’s given to you. Resign yourself to serving the Mistress, the greatest goddess of all. Rejoice in your good fortune.” Phileia handed the ball of yarn back to me. “A priestess of Potnia Theron has backbone. She does not run away as you fled from our visitors before.”

  Then Phileia slapped her hands against her skirts and rose with an audible creak. “Now let’s go inside so I can remove this paint. Bring the goddess.”

  The mothers went home that afternoon, and the girls settled into their dormitory, a thatched longhouse on the southeast side of the enclosure. As soon as the next day, they attended lessons in boy things: shooting arrows and wielding daggers, and wrestling and boxing for their own protection. Many, having brothers, or having watched their mothers help with the hunt or fend off raiders, already knew the basics. Yet I did not, and though I was much younger and smaller, Phileia and Ktimene urged me to join Sostrate’s group. “It’s never too early to learn to fend for yourself,” Ktimene said. “Practice builds strength.”

  I balked at having to associate with the initiates. “When am I ever going to get to hunt or fish? When will I need to defend myself from raiders? I’m not even allowed past the stockade.”

  Ktimene reached over and twisted my ear. “You talk like a cowed ninny from the palaces, afraid to touch shining bronze for fear you might grow testicles. You may not be able to hunt, but one day you’ll have to make the blood offerings. As for attack, who knows what threatens? A day may come when men no longer fear the Mistress.”

  Although I did as bidden and grudgingly attended the lessons, I found I was not particularly motivated to try very hard; the scorn of the initiates tempered any enthusiasm I might have felt at being allowed to handle a bow or dagger. Worse, none of the adults intervened. Sostrate and her Hunters impassively observed from the sidelines, arms crossed and shaking their heads, even when one of the girls shoved me down.

  For a long moment which seemed like an eternity, I lay face-down in the dust, cheeks burning, tears threatening. Slowly, I crawled onto my hands and knees, wincing at the sting of scraped palms, and tried without much success to shut out the taunts at my back.

  At last, sensing the adults’ impatience, I climbed to my feet and, refusing to participate further, sought refuge under an oak tree. Priestesses of the Mistress had backbone, Phileia had said. But I was Nobody, in all senses of the word. I swiped grimy knuckles across my face to blot my tears; it did not help much.

  Then came a taunting voice at my back. “Aw, is poor little Outis going to cry again?” Malamena drawled.

  How dare she, that peasant bitch! Bunching my fists, I turned and rushed her, releasing a shout that was more wounded moan than fierce battle cry. Knocking that ugly waif off her feet required little momentum. Within a furious heartbeat, I had her on her back in the dirt, straddled her, and, simultaneously hyperventilating and hollering, shouted, “You shut your mouth, you stupid bitch!”

  “Hey!” Another girl, maybe husky Eratara, tried to pull me away, until someone else shoved or knocked her aside. By then, I was sobbing so hard that my vision blurred and my breath came in hard, gasping hiccups. Even Malamena’s features vanished; she was just a body on which I vented my frustrations, and whose nails dug into the flesh of my forearms as she struggled to squirm free.

  “That’s enough now!” Sostrate barked. Two pairs of arms grabbed mine to haul me upright and away. I did not go quietly, but shouted and writhed until a sudden blow landed hard against the left side of my face. “Enough!”

  Meanwhile, Malamena wailed, “Did you see that? Nobody attacked me!”

  Everyone started laughing, but not at me. “If Nobody attacked you,” rejoined another girl, “then why are you complaining?”

  I had scarcely gotten my bearings again when Malamena thrust her gaunt face in mine. “You filthy little demon-child!”

  “I’m more than you’ll ever be, you bitch!” I hawked a wad of spit that landed on her chin. Sostrate dragged the girl away, while ordering Thettale to take me home.

  The priestesses expressed their mutual disapproval at the disheveled, red-eyed waif Thettale deposited on their doorstep. Phileia shook me sternly. “Is this true, Outis, what she says?”

  Thettale interjected, “If she’s going to defend herself from the older girls, she’d better do it properly.”

  “Right.” Ktimene seized me by the forearm and, before Thettale could say anything further or Phileia order me inside to wash my face, the younger priestess frog-marched me around to the rear of the house.

  Roughly unhanding me, she launched into a tirade that carried into the trees and reverberated like Echo’s mournful wails against the crags. “Look at you! Do boys cry in battle? Does the Mistress of Battles weep when she casts her spear against the enemy?” I stared dumbly, too much in shock to open my mouth. “Next time some fool knocks you down, you don’t lie there crying. You get right back up like the goddess herself.” She shoved me for emphasis, but, expecting her rough-housing, I managed to keep my balance. “Here, punch me.”

  I stood there like a ninny.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Ktimene pinched the flesh of my inner arm hard enough to elicit a cry of pain. “Hit me.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  My refusal had scarcely left my lips than she lunged forward quick as a striking snake, backhanded me across the cheek, and when I still did not obey, she shoved me so hard that I wobbled backward, precariously trying to keep my balance. Ktimene loomed over me. “What are you going to do about that, stupid girl?”

  So I attempted to do what she ordered, only to fail spectacularly, retching and breathless, when she drove her fist into my stomach. I would have fallen had she not seized a handful of my hair to hold me upright. “You walked right into that,” she growled into my ear. “Catch your breath and try again. You’re not going inside till you manage to hit me.”

  Ktimene released me, and gave me a moment to clutch my belly and find my wind. Was she mad? There was absolutely no way I could have struck her. Had I the nerve, I would have turned on my heel, walked away, and let her fume, but I obeyed. All I knew how to do was what I had done with Malamena earlier.

  Huffing her exasperation, Ktimene swatted me aside, and this time she did not grab me to prevent my falling. “You’re pathetic.”

  “It’s not fair!” I exclaimed. “You’re bigger.”

  “So was that chit of a girl you knocked down, but then you had the advantage of surprise.” She allowed me enough space to stand and recover, yet harangued me the entire time. “What a fool! Only imbeciles and madmen rush into a fight like that. You’re practically asking for a beating. What you desperately need are lessons in boxing and wrestling.” She raked me with her gaze, assessing. “It’s a shame you don’t have anyone your own age to practice with, but I’ll ask Baubo to instruct you. She has more patience than I do. For now, come here and pay attention so I can show you how to defend yourself from attack. And no crying.” Ktimene wagged her forefinger. “Strong-minded women don’t weep for shame. They make others weep for disrespecting them.”

  I did not want lessons, only to forget about the morning’s incident, but Ktimene’s insistence compelled me to work hard at both masking my frustration and heeding her instructions. I tackled both problems with difficulty, for by then I was tired and hungry and shaking all over, which she must have noticed, yet continued to drive me.

  Phileia came around back in the afternoon to watch. If I had cherished any notion that she might notice my exhaustion and relent, those hopes were dashed the second she sat down on the footstool she brought and urged me to show her what I had learned. “Sad,” she commented afterward. “You need practice.”

  Late afternoon was drawing out the day’s shadows by the time I was allowed to stagger inside and wash. I was beyond exhausted, and the smell of cooking supper nauseated me; I had not eaten since breakfast. All I wanted to do was drop face-down
on my cot and sleep for the next two days, yet the priestesses insisted I take nourishment.

  “You won’t grow strong starving yourself,” Ktimene observed. Strange, since earlier she had not shared any of the goat cheese or bread Phileia had brought. I had to earn the privilege of eating, she had stated. How my paltry efforts had earned me a meal, I had no clue, and at that particular moment I cared little. Adults were full of contradictions.

  Yet before she let me tuck into the food, Phileia delivered a stern admonishment. “You forget yourself, Outis. Learning to defend yourself doesn’t mean you can lash out at the first opportunity. You should never let a situation get to the point where you have to resort to violence. You are not a man. Women of the Mountain use their cunning, their inner strength, rather than their brawn. That’s why the Mistress created women to be wise.”

  The next day I woke with stiff, aching muscles, and unhappy at the fact that I still had to attend lessons with those horrid girls. Even though no one that morning dared to jostle, pinch, or trip me, all of them shunned me, and gave me sidelong looks that made me feel less than equal. Strength. I tried remembering what Phileia had said last night about strength, and how Ktimene had chastised me about not crying, but for a nine-year-old, maintaining the self-confidence they demanded seemed as crushing a burden as any the Titan Atlas bore on his mighty shoulders.

  If anybody was teased, it was scrawny little Malamena. “All that wailing yesterday and it was just Nobody,” Eratara snickered. “Ho, Nobody’s there!” She meant it as a jest. I did not find it funny.

  Laodike, the willowy fifteen-year-old standing nearest me, acknowledged my existence with a question. “Were you born with that name?”

  “No,” I said.

  “So what is your real name?” she pressed.

  Her inquiry was not a matter of polite curiosity, but, I sensed, something far less benign; she reminded me of the Argive court gossips. “They took my real name,” I answered quietly. “The Mistress devoured it.”