by Laura Gill
“Surely you remember the women Phileia attends outside the temenos. She wants you to start helping.”
Because I could never venture beyond the stream, and rarely went farther than the stockade, I regularly forgot about the hut where Phileia and Rhona brought the Mistress’s blessings to the women who climbed the Mountain seeking the goddess’s aid with difficult pregnancies or other fertility problems. Ktimene disliked anything having to do with men or babies, and almost never went, and as a yet-to-flower maiden I had never been invited along.
My blood had changed everything. “This is one of the mysteries?” Just the thought of having to intercede with the Mistress on behalf of a mother and child unnerved me. As a young mortal, I was insignificant, a mere insect to the goddess. I did not even know how to communicate with her as the priestesses did, with poppies and smoke. “I’m not ready.”
But Rhona did not coddle me. “In the world outside, you’d have already been exposed to childbearing. Midwives start their training at nine or ten years old, earlier even if they’re quick learners. Women help each other in their tasks, whether it’s weaving or grinding corn or giving birth. You’ve been instructed. You know how the Women of the Mountain work together to survive. To master the mystery means to understand it here.” She touched her fingers to her heart. “To be able to feel the invisible threads binding you to all other women as well as the Mistress herself.”
I hung my head. “I don’t want to make a mistake or displease the goddess.”
Rhona harrumphed, “What, do you think Phileia or I will throw you at a laboring mother right away?”
“I remember long ago, there was a woman in Argos. I wasn’t allowed to watch the labor, but couldn’t help hearing her scream and scream. Like she was dying, except it was her babies that always perished.” Practice over many years had enabled me not to dwell on “my stepmother” or “my father” because those things no longer were.
“That’s part of the mystery, a new life paid for with the mother’s sacrifice of blood and pain.” Rhona rubbed grains of crushed lavender between her fingers. “The Mistress doesn’t always accept the sacrifice, though, just as she doesn’t always accept our libations of beer or honey. Childbirth can be unpleasant and messy. The mother screams, and none of us can take away that part of her suffering. We can’t resurrect the stillborn, and sometimes we can’t even save the mother, but when the Mistress is benevolent, there’s magic in child-birthing that men can only envy. You’re very lucky, Myrtale. Very few Women of the Mountain get to share in the mysteries of birth.”
Rhona deposited the mortar on the table between us. “That’s enough lavender. Now bring the cauldron so we can heat the milk and lard.”
CHAPTER TEN
Summer brought an abundance of poppies. Though I could not join Rhona’s Gleaners in the mountain meadows, I remembered how the fields of Argos had looked from the heights of the Larissa. Scarlet poppy heads dotting the grass like droplets of blood. Garlands in the hands of the palace noblewomen, and whispers of the harvest rites of Mother Demeter and Queen Hera, women’s secrets to which I had not been privy.
I waited for the Gleaners to return with baskets overflowing with scarlet and orange. This year, I could adorn my bare head with a garland of poppies and wild roses, and dance with the initiates. Phileia promised to instruct me soon in the mysteries of this most sacred of the Mistress’s blessings to mortals. “You might be too young still to commune with her through the smoke,” she told me, “but you’re old enough to memorize the recipe.”
Phileia chose a cold, overcast day to begin teaching me the poppy mysteries. Koré had since returned to the dark realm to become Persephone, and Mother Demeter was again in mourning, with the solstice still many weeks away.
Just after dawn, she went outside to coax and collect the house snake from her burrow for the ceremony. Now Phileia retrieved her from a jar and held her out to me for the oath-taking, saying, “The mystery you are about to receive is a sacred charge. Only an initiated, consecrated priestess may partake in this mystery, and no knowledge of it may ever pass her lips except to another priestess. Everlasting torment awaits any who violates this trust. Myrtale, take this serpent as a sign of truth. Let her taste the words of your oath for falsehoods.”
Little though I liked handling snakes, I took the sluggish house serpent in my hands. Gorgo, that was the house snake’s name, but she was nowhere near as dreadful as her name suggested. Her scales felt cool and dry, and in an attitude of weary resignation she flicked the air with her tongue. At this time of year she, like all serpents, descended into the earth to attend Queen Persephone and the dark Mother of the Mountains.
Phileia spoke again, “Swear, Myrtale, consecrated virgin and priestess newly dedicated to the Mistress’s service. Swear that the knowledge of the holy poppy will remain inviolate in your keeping.”
Holding Gorgo out, I said, “By the Mistress, I swear with no falsehood that the knowledge will remain secret.”
Phileia took Gorgo from me; the snake wriggled her objection to being so manhandled when she should have been slumbering. “Mistress of Life and Death, dark goddess, hear this. Your consecrated servant Myrtale has sworn to keep your knowledge secret. Let worms gnaw her vitals if she ever profanes this oath. Let the gods steal her breath, steal her sight, and stop her heart should she ever profane this oath. So I have said, so she has heard. So let it be.”
Kissing Gorgo’s scaly head, Phileia thanked her before depositing her in the jar to return to her burrow. “She will forgive us in time. Now, Myrtale, let us purify the space so no evil spirits may steal this knowledge. Bring me the flame.”
With the lamp flame, she drew a circle around the hearth where we sat. “Mistress of the House, guard your servants as they undertake this sacred instruction.” Again, with earth and sprinkled water, invoking the idol on the hearth curb. Phileia even blessed the white poppy heads in the basket, and the obsidian knife beside them.
Together, Phileia and I split open and milked all the poppy heads, and shaped all the sap into lozenges; the leavings, the discarded heads, she collected in a specially decorated jar for disposal. “We will bury these in the sanctuary, returning them to the sacred earth from which they sprang,” she explained. “You must never burn the poppy plant or toss any part of it in the midden. That shows disrespect for the goddess’s gift, and tempts those without discretion or training to meddle in matters that are above their concern.”
“Even though anybody can go to the meadow and find the poppies?” I countered.
“Yes,” Phileia answered. “Fire is another gift of the goddess to men, even though it came prematurely through Prometheus’s impatience. But we don’t abuse her generosity by leaving a bonfire unattended. So, too, with the poppy and other herbs of the field. Only those with the knowledge should meddle with them. It takes age and wisdom to walk with the gods.”
“Yet you show me these things,” I said.
“To prevent you from experimenting on your own,” Phileia explained. “Sometimes it’s wiser to loosen the restrictions and permit a little knowledge than to keep secrets and risk the dangers of disobedience.”
Later, we gently released Gorgo with our thanks back into her burrow so she could hibernate in peace. After that, the day’s chores beckoned. Phileia and I went inside, where I retrieved my spindle and wool basket.
Phileia followed me back to the open doorway. “It’s rather blustery today.” The chilly air had reddened her cheeks just like the apples she meant to bake for supper. “You’re certain you wouldn’t rather spin by the hearth?” Disappointment colored her tone, as if she had been counting on my company. Ktimene was out and about, consulting with the visiting herdswomen.
Her scrutiny prompted feelings of guilt. “The light out here is better for working wool.”
“And the conversation more interesting?” Phileia gave me a knowing look. “So, what do the initiates in their longhouse talk about?” As I started to protest my ignoran
ce, she cut me short. “I know about your habit of eavesdropping on them. Wouldn’t you rather sit among them than spy on them from outside?”
There should not have been any initiates this time of year, except that five maidens from three villages had flowered during the summer, and their families wanted them married before spring came. “I would,” I admitted reluctantly, “but they won’t speak freely around me.” I swiped a hand over my scalp. Ktimene had helped me shave the stubble that morning. “It’s the priestess-tokens that remind them I’m different.”
The high priestess coaxed me back inside and shut the door. “Yes, the bare head disconcerts some people,” Phileia agreed. “So what is it about their conversation that fascinates you? They’re not very intelligent, to judge by their gossip, so there’s nothing for you there.” Her tone became more playful. “Is it perhaps the young men they speak of?”
A flush crept into my cheeks. “All I do is listen, I swear. There aren’t any young men around, and even if—”
“You’re a consecrated virgin and you take your vows seriously.” Phileia waved my protest aside. “Yes, yes, Myrtale. But no, you don’t take your vows that seriously when you’re fourteen and curious. Sometimes you wonder what you might be missing. Remember, I was young once, too, and inquisitive. You’re not missing very much, and, thank the Mistress, you won’t be tempted. Only the fathers and old grandfathers dare come as far as the stream, and only because we allow them to escort the initiates. No young men, no matter what the initiates say about sneaking their lovers into the sanctuary for secret trysts. Our sentries would fill their bellies with arrows if they tried anything.” Not to mention that the so-called maidens themselves could be executed for profaning the Mistress’s domain. I listened every year to Phileia and Sostrate laying out the rules, and always wondered whether that would be the year some love-hungry maiden disobeyed.
“I don’t like the talk about love-making,” I began, “and yet...” I sat down at the hearth, where Phileia brought out the cored apples for baking. “Sex sounds painful and disgusting, but most of the girls seem eager for it. I don’t understand why.”
“That’s because you’ve never been besotted with a boy.” Phileia went to the jars on the shelf to retrieve her herbs and precious spices. “Love makes mortals silly. You’ve seen how ridiculous Rhona gets whenever she falls in love? The woman never learns. And I’ve seen Sostrate get soft and sentimental, but that was when she and I were much younger. She’s sworn off love affairs now. Ktimene alone keeps her head when she’s in love, but how, only the goddess knows.”
I stared at my spinning things, then at the hearth where the Mistress of the House stood sentinel over the apples Phileia had cored that morning. Suddenly, helping her stuff them with cloves and honey sounded much more interesting than sitting in the cold autumn sunshine waiting for one of the initiates to mention her lover in the villages below, or to giggle with her companions about being poked by him. Animals rutted all the time. What was so special about men and women doing it, anyway? “Maybe I should stay in this afternoon.”
Phileia brightened. “Yes, try your hand at baking apples. Ktimene always overstuffs them. But mind that you finish your day’s spinning.”
The apples turned out wonderful. Ktimene returned from the animal pens in time for supper, just as the wind started howling, and the shutters rattling. “Clouds are gathering,” she huffed as she doffed her shawl by the door. “There’ll be a storm before long. Maybe snow on the ground by morning if it’s bad enough.”
A distant thunderhead rumbled as we ate; the Mother of the Mountains gnashing her teeth, so the priestesses said. Or a sign from Zeus Bromios. Thunder and lightning often plagued the mountainous regions. Every cold season, I wondered whether it was the Mistress raging in grief over her daughter’s loss, or if it was Zeus voicing his displeasure at the Women’s lack of reverence.
And sometimes, on blustery, noisy nights like this, I still associated thunder and lightning with masculine things, just as I secretly maintained my belief in Helios as the bright sun and in Apollo as the Healer. Though the raging thunder did not trouble my sleep overmuch, I hoped it would end before morning; the nanny goats bleated and fussed whenever I tried to milk them during a storm, and the kids butted me trying to return to their mothers. Moreover, the milk I collected on such days was not as nourishing or sweet as when the gods—or the Mistress, if it was she who raged—were content in the heavens, and it did not make for good cheese.
Snug under the fleeces, the taste of baked apples still dancing in my mouth, and the scent of my lavender cream perfuming my nostrils, I started to drift off into a relaxed slumber when a terrific boom suddenly rattled the house. My every nerve tingling, my heart seizing with terror, and half-expecting the house to come falling down around my head, I jolted upright. “What was that?” Even then, though, I instinctively knew what had caused the noise, but never before had it struck so close. I could practically smell the brimstone of the immortal’s lightning bolt.
Phileia, who had retired just before me, was now awake, too, and Ktimene stood frozen in the act of preparing for bed. Within seconds, the high priestess threw back her coverlets, left her cot, and crossed over to the hearth, where, to everybody’s horror, the Mistress of the House had fallen facedown.
“Is she all right?” I exclaimed through chattering teeth. All of a sudden, I felt ice-cold where moments ago I had been snug and warm.
“Even the little Mistress bows to the great one’s wrath.” Phileia’s hands noticeably shook as she righted the idol. Then, together, we all set about placating the house goddess with bits of baked apple, cheese, and a libation of beer, even though we had earlier filled her kernos with identical food and drink offerings.
A knock at the door startled us yet again, as if the goddess herself was outside demanding entry. Ktimene seized a knife from the hearth, but Phileia waved her back with a curt gesture and went to answer the hammering at the door. Thank the gods she did! For it could easily be the Mistress, cold and thirsty with wandering, and—gods forbid—if she encountered an armed Ktimene barring the door in righteous fury she might send another thunderclap and searing lightning bolt to blast the house and all within.
“Who’s there?” Phileia shouted through the door.
Unintelligible shouting answered her query, but she must have recognized the speaker because she opened the door at once. A young sentry stood there, windblown and frantic, and babbling something incoherent while she indicated something behind her. The wind howled and buffeted Phileia in her thin shawl. I could not make heads or tails of the conversation, and shrank back when a white lightning flash presaged the coming thunderclap; it struck farther away this time, yet nevertheless shook the earthen floor underfoot.
When Phileia shut the door again, fighting the wind until Ktimene came forward to help push it closed, she relayed the sentry’s story. “One of the sacred oaks has been hit by lightning. The Mistress must be very angry, to strike one of her own attendants.” Her face looked gray and drawn, and I did not know whether to panic or keep my misgivings to myself; nothing like this had ever happened inside the temenos. “We must wait till morning to inspect the damage.”
She sent me back to bed, but I could not reclaim my earlier peace. Every time a thunderclap rumbled, I trembled and waited for lightning to strike the house. Phileia remained awake, hunched by the hearth. Ktimene alternated between dozing on her cot and keeping vigil with the high priestess. Once, I stirred to find her frantically rummaging through a basket of ceramic objects. When she saw me, she immediately made me don the amulet she had found; it depicted Potnia Theron clutching serpents and standing on a lioness’s back. “Keep this close, Myrtale,” she said.
The amulet rested hard and lumpy in the valley between my breasts. “Is everything all right?” Ktimene never showed such fear as I saw in her tonight.
“Of course, yes,” she lied.
A thread had started to weave an insidious path through my ha
lf-conscious brain, that Phileia and Ktimene were mistaken, that the thunder and the lightning strike had come from almighty Zeus. Although, maybe they knew that deep inside, and were afraid because it was a sign that even inside her temenos the Mistress was not all-powerful. All I knew for certain was what I thought and dreaded. I had not paid reverence to Zeus, either.
I must have dozed a little, because when Phileia roused me sunrise had come. “Time to join us, Myrtale. The storm’s abating. We must don our robes and see about the damaged oak.”
Yawning, I stretched stiff muscles as I retrieved my vestments and started to dress. There was no breakfast because we were fasting for the spirit of the slain dryad. Ktimene was not there; she had already gone out to choose a sacrificial kid.
Word of the ritual had spread quickly. Everyone spilled outside despite the bitterly cold morning, and now formed a circle around the injured oak.
Whichever displeased immortal had flung the lightning bolt, they had done great harm. The lightning had sheared through the branches to carve a deep scarlet gash through the trunk. Several of the dryad’s blackened limbs lay smoldering on the ground, where everyone gave them a wide berth. The tang of charred wood and the pungent, metallic odor the heavens and the earth always exuded just after a violent storm permeated the clearing.
Zeus had done this, I felt sure. I had heard tales of men and women struck out in the open by Zeus’s lightning bolts. Why should it be any different here? Potnia Theron might be Mother of the Mountains, Giver of Life, Receiver of Death, and Mistress of the Animals, but why should there not be a potent male power beyond Pan of the Forests and the Year-Consort the Women of the Mountain acknowledged, especially when the evidence lay smoldering before them?
I stood frozen, trembling as the Women bewailed the loss of the dryad and the beseeched the Mistress for her everlasting mercy. Why, why the Mistress? My throat knotted against the terror of contradicting my elders so overtly. For the love of all that was holy, the oak was Zeus’s own tree!