Δεν απάντησα. Έφερα τα χείλη του στα δικά μου. Πέρασε την απελπισία μου για πόθο και απάντησε με τον ίδιο τρόπο – και ίσως να ήμουν εγώ αυτή που έκανε λάθος.
***
Βημάτιζα στο δωμάτιο σαν τίγρης, τα γυμνά μου πόδια χάιδευαν το πάτωμα από μαλακή πέτρα. Από στιγμή σε στιγμή ένας Θεραπευτής θα εμφανιζόταν στην πόρτα και θα μου έλεγε τα καλύτερα νέα της ζωής μου – ή τα χειρότερα.
Ήμουν τρεις μέρες παγιδευμένη στο Ναό, ενώ οι Θεραπευτές έκαναν τις εξετάσεις που έπρεπε για να επιβεβαιώσουν την εγκυμοσύνη μου. Ή να την διαψεύσουν. Έπαιρναν κάθε πρωί τα ούρα μου και τα ανακάτευαν σε διαφορετικά δοχεία με ξύδι, φύλα πικραλίδας και πευκοβελόνες. Τα άφηναν στον ήλιο. Τα έχυναν σε ζάχαρη. Έφταναν στο σημείο να δοκιμάζουν την γεύση τους. Εξέτασαν το σώμα μου, χιλιοστό προς χιλιοστό, με έβαλαν σε ένα θερμό λουτρό και έριξαν μουστάρδα, για να με κάνουν να ματώσω. Αλλά δε μάτωσα.
Που ήταν ο Θεραπευτής; Κάθισα και ξανασηκώθηκα νευρικά αμέσως. Περνούσα τα δάχτυλά μου μέσα από τα μαλλιά μου, έτρωγα τα νύχια μου, έως ότου η πόρτα άνοιξε επιτέλους. Αλλά δεν ήταν ο Θεραπευτής, ήταν η Ερμεία.
«Πριγκίπισσα!» είπε κλαίγοντας. «Ελάτε γρήγορα, Κυρά μου! Ο νέος σας – τον πήραν!»
«Πότε;». Άρπαξα τα χέρια της, τα δάχτυλα μου την γάντζωσαν. «Και που;»
«Το πρωί. Για – για ανάκριση». Δάκρυα κύλησαν στο πρόσωπο της Ερμείας. «Ένας από τους φρουρούς μου μίλησε. Τον πηγαίνουν στην αίθουσα του θρόνου για να κριθεί. Συγγνώμη, κυρά μου, δεν ήξερα…»
Δεν ήθελα ν’ ακούσω άλλο. Πέρασα μπροστά της βιαστικά, οι φούστες μου κυμάτιζαν πίσω μου. Αν τον σκότωσαν, θα τους διαλύσω όλους, ορκίστηκα. Κι ας μην είμαι Βασίλισσα.
Σχεδόν πέταξα προς το παλάτι, αδιαφορώντας για τις μυτερές πέτρες που μου έσκιζαν τα πόδια και για το κάψιμο στα πνευμόνια μου. Μου φάνηκε ότι πέρασε μια αιωνιότητα μέχρι τη στιγμή που όρμησα στο δωμάτιο του θρόνου, όπου τα μάτια μου έπεσαν αμέσως στο μελανιασμένο και ματωμένο σώμα του Δαίμονα. Ήταν γονατισμένος μπροστά στο Συμβούλιο Μητερών, το χέρι του κρεμόταν σπασμένο – αλλά ήταν ζωντανός. Όλο μου το σώμα χαλάρωσε από ανακούφιση για μια στιγμή. Έβαλα το χέρι μου στον γερό ώμο του και ίσιωσα τους δικούς μου, σηκώνοντας το βλέμμα μου για να κοιτάξω στα μάτια την αρχιέρεια.
Πήρα μια βαθιά αναπνοή και είπα το μόνο που μπόρεσα να σκεφτώ, τη μοναδική σκέψη στο μυαλό μου: «Δε μπορείτε να τον πάρετε».
Ήθελα να μιλήσω με αυτοπεποίθηση και εξουσία. Αλλά με άκουσα, όπως και οι αρχιέρειες, να κάνω μια απεγνωσμένη μπλόφα. Δεν είχα τέτοια εξουσία. Όχι ακόμη. Η αρχιέρεια χαμογέλασε, σίγουρη για τη νίκη της.
«Δεν είστε σε θέση να μας διατάζετε, Πριγκίπισσα».
Τα δάχτυλα μου έσφιξαν τον ώμο του Δαίμονα. Είχε δίκιο, όσο κι αν το μισούσα αυτό. Εκτός…
«Ζητώ συγγνώμη, Γλυκιά Μητέρα». Μια μεσόκοπη γυναίκα με ρούχα Θεραπεύτριας μπήκε στο δωμάτιο του θρόνου και υποκλίθηκε ευγενικά. «Πρέπει να μιλήσω με την Πριγκίπισσα».
Χωρίς να περιμένει την άδεια, η Θεραπεύτρια πλησίασε με μετρημένα βήματα και ψιθύρισε στο αυτή μου. Ψιθυριστά την ευχαρίστησα κι εγώ. Έγνευσε καταφατικά και έκανε πίσω με άλλη μια υπόκλιση.
«Για πες το πάλι» είπα ψυχρά. «Πες μου ξανά ότι δεν είμαι σε θέση, ότι δε μπορώ».
«Δε μπορείτε και δεν θα μπορέσετε ποτέ» γρύλισε η αρχιέρεια. «Να προσέχετε πως μιλάτε».
«Και βέβαια όχι» είπα, καρφώνοντάς την με ένα σκληρό βλέμμα. «Με την ευλογία της Μητέρας, θα είμαι Βασίλισσά σας – και το ξαναλέω, δε μπορείτε να τον πάρετε».
Τα μάτια του Δαίμονα στράφηκαν πάνω μου. Η μητέρα μου γέλασε θριαμβευτικά, στα μούτρα της αρχιέρειας.
«Ροδάνθη;»
Γέλασα και ακούμπησα το μελανιασμένο και ματωμένο πρόσωπο του Δαίμονα με τα χέρια μου. «Συνέλαβα».
Έκλεισε τα μάτια του, ακούμπησε το μέτωπό του στο δικό μου. «Σ’ αγαπώ» είπε.
«Όπως σ’ αγαπώ κι εγώ». Τον φίλησα.
Και έτσι έγινε.
ΣΗΜΕΙΩΣΗ ΤΟΥ ΣΥΓΓΡΑΦΕΑ
Το Η Γέννηση μιας Βασίλισσας έχει δημοσιευτεί το 2016 στο περιοδικό Timeless Tales με τον τίτλο Mixed Blessings (Μπερδεμένες Ευχές). Βασίζεται στον μύθο του Έρωτα και της Ψυχής, με αντεστραμμένους τους ρόλους: ο μνηστήρας τιμωρείται όταν κοιτάξει το πρόσωπο της πριγκίπισσας, αντίθετα με τον αρχικό μύθο.
a queen crowned
There was a time and an age when all the land was covered in ash. We lived like animals, fighting and killing over scraps we once thought the vilest refuse. No—we were worse than animals, for we would also lie and cheat and steal.
For many years, we struggled. For many years, we died, disappearing from the earth like snow in the last days of spring. The animals fared far better than we: they had never forgotten how to survive in the open air.
It was a dark, grievous time, but also a time of rebirth. For centuries we paid our debts to the earth in blood, in hunger, in sickness. But we endured. We were wanderers, then hunters. When the flowers and grasses returned to the fields, so did we. We became farmers once again. Villages rose, then cities, and with them rose families and chieftains and kings.
It was in one such kingdom that I was born. I grew up and became a husband, then a father, then a widower. My wife was called Summer, and she came into my life like a star plunging to earth. Seeking to flatter her, I called her princess. Her smile wasn’t that of a bashful girl but instead a knowing grin. I discovered the secret behind her smile on our we
dding night. She let fall her voluminous robes, revealing her swollen belly, and told me her story for the first time.
She was a princess in truth, from a land ruled by beautiful, fertile queens. She might have ruled herself but for the will of the Fates—she had a sister who won the crown, first by virtue of her birth ahead of Summer, then by bearing a child of her own. In her land, only the queen was permitted to raise the child of her body. When Summer conceived, she fled rather than pledge her baby to the Temple for placement with a deserving family, as the law of her country demanded.
The baby arrived with the first sun’s rays, and so we named her Dawn. Summer liked to say that our daughter’s birth marked the beginning of a new day, a new life. She had come to me heavy with regret and harried by the mistakes of her youth. She never told me what those mistakes were, and I never asked. But when Dawn was born, I could swear I saw Summer’s burdens lift from her shoulders and disappear over the horizon like a flock of birds.
I feared at first that a princess couldn’t be content with a lowly farmer, but I was wrong, and happy to be so. When she died, I had no shortage of memories with which to comfort myself: Summer rocking a newborn Dawn in her arms, teaching a toddler Dawn to read, turning to me as I walked through our front door with a smile on her face as brilliant as the summer sun itself.
In Summer’s absence, I raised Dawn as best I could. Farmers don’t trade in gold and silver—not farmers like me, anyway—but what coin I had, I spent on books and tutors to feed her mind, as Summer would have wanted. She was clever, our Dawn. Cleverer than I, to be sure. I took no credit for her quick wit or searching curiosity, but I gave her what I could: kindness, generosity, honesty, all the things my parents had sought to instill in me.
I mostly succeeded, though Dawn’s interpretation of “honesty” was at times somewhat creative. She never lied, exactly. She just had an uncanny knack for bending the truth to the very edge of breaking. Perhaps I should have been more stern with her, but her cartwheels of reason and logic delighted me, and she knew it.
With each season, her cleverness grew along with her beauty, and I prepared myself for the day she would take a husband. She never did, though the young men swooned and panted after her. They were good lads, all of them, and some even had their own land or had sired children on Temple wives. I would have encouraged her to choose one if I thought it would do any good—and if I could have faced the thought of losing her.
But she would have none of them, and so I kept my silence. We lived in peace and joy for many years, until the day my father died. His land abutted my own, and we had long ago agreed that the property would come to me upon his death. What good would it do my brother, after all? He lived in the King’s city, selling and buying and selling again.
And yet, there he was, our father’s ashes still warm on the pyre, claiming that the land was his to dispose of as he wished. I fought him as best I could, but he tied me up with his words until I didn’t know my nose from my foot. Finally, on Dawn’s advice, I insisted that we take the matter before the king.
“Though I don’t know what good that will do,” I said glumly to my daughter. “My brother is just the sort to find favor with the king. Who am I but a farmer?”
“Who better than a farmer to take custody of a farm?” Dawn pointed out. “Take heart, Papa. I have faith in you.”
And so we went before the king, and of course my brother argued his case just as prettily as he had before, while I stammered and shook and wrung my cap in my hands like the bumpkin I was. The king listened intently to us both, his head bowed over his steepled fingers. When I finished, he studied each of us for several long moments before he spoke.
To my brother, he said, “You claim the land as your own by right of your superior business acumen.”
“And general intellect, Sire, yes,” my brother replied. “If it please you.”
“It doesn’t, particularly,” the king said. “But I will give you my verdict nonetheless. The land shall go to the strongest mind, as you say.”
My brother smirked. “Thank you, Sire.”
“Save your thanks,” the king said, holding up his hand. “You will forgive me, I know, if I wish to judge for myself whose mind is the stronger. I will give you a riddle, and in eight days you will each return with your answer. The riddle is simple: what is the fastest thing in the world?”
My brother bowed and left with a light step. My own tread was as heavy as my heart. I couldn’t think of anything the answer might be. A hawk? A horse? It couldn’t be anything so obvious, I was sure. But my mind cleared as I realized that I knew of something quicker by far than the swiftest falcon or the strongest steed—my daughter.
I hurried home, eager to share my news with Dawn.
“The fastest thing in the world,” she mused. Then she smiled. “I think you’ve already found the answer, Papa.”
I scratched my head. “Have I?”
“The mind,” she explained. “The quickest thing in the world is the mind. That’s why you’ve come to me, isn’t it? You always said my wit ran faster than a hare.”
“Bless you, daughter.” I kissed her cheeks and swung her around in my arms as I had not done since she was a child. “What would you have as your reward?”
“Bring me back something from the city. A book.” Already she was turning back to the one in her hands. “You will prevail, Papa, I know it.”
Again I went to the king’s city, and again I found my brother as smug and pompous as ever. He was fairly bursting with eager pride as we went before the king, chuckling and muttering to himself as we approached the throne.
“So,” the king said. “Again I ask you, what is the fastest thing in the world?”
“Great king,” my brother said, before I could even open my mouth. “I have pored over books and quizzed traders from all reaches of the earth. I have discovered that there is an animal, a cat that lives in the dry plains of the south, that can outrun any horse, no matter how fleet or strong. This cat is the fastest thing on earth.”
“I know the animal of which you speak,” the king said. “It is swift, indeed. But it is not the fastest thing in the world. Farmer, what is your answer?”
I cleared my throat. “The mind, Sire. The fastest thing in the world is the mind, for it can reach beyond the mountains and seas before we take a single step.”
The king smiled at me, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “Well spoken, farmer. But I have another riddle for you: what is the heaviest thing in the world?”
Again, my brother and I bowed and took our leave. Before we parted ways, my brother sneered at me and said, “You were lucky, brother. But luck will only carry you so far.”
“I’ll see you in eight days,” was all I said, and again I hurried home to my daughter.
“Let me think,” she said this time. “But don’t worry, Papa. I’ll have your answer before you return to the city.”
I waited for a day, watching her out of the corners of my eyes, until, laughing, she shooed me out of the house.
“I can’t think with you underfoot,” she cried. “Go feed the pigs.”
But the next day, as promised, she came to me with our answer. I carried it with me to the king’s city, full of hope and fear in equal measure.
“Iron,” my brother declared, his chin jutting outward. “I have conducted a study of all the materials in the realm, and I have measured iron as the heaviest.”
The king shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. My brother stiffened.
“But, Sire—”
The king turned to me. “Well, farmer? What is the heaviest thing in the world?”
I swallowed. “Fire.”
The king’s smile widened. “Why?”
“Because you can’t lift it,” I said, beginning to sweat.
“Indeed,” the king said. “One more riddle, farmer, and the land is yours. But I would have your answer now. Tell me, what is the most necessary thing in the world?”
I froze
. The sweat already gathering on my brow trickled into my eyes. I blinked furiously, trying to think. My brother, of course, leapt to fill my silence.
“Money, of course,” he cried.
The king very nearly rolled his eyes. “No.”
“Food, then,” my brother insisted. “What could be more important?”
“The earth itself,” I blurted. “Without out it, there would be no food, nor water. And—and where would we stand, without it?”
The king laughed delightedly. “Without doubt, the land is yours. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Sire.” I gasped, giddy with relief, and nearly fell to the floor. “Thank you.”
My brother stormed away, and I followed more slowly. But before I reached the door, the king called me back.
“I must know,” he said. “Where did you find the answers to the first two riddles? The words were not your own.”
“My daughter,” I explained. “She’s the cleverest person I know.”
“Your daughter!” the king cried. “Well! I would very much like to meet her.”
I bowed. “You honor us, Sire.”
“Bring her to me,” the king said. “At once.”
When I told Dawn of the king’s command, she came willingly enough, for she had never been to the city and wanted to see the markets and temples for herself. When the besotted king asked for her hand, however, she refused.
“It can never be,” she said. “You are a king, and I only a poor girl.”
The king persisted. For a full three turns of the moon, he courted her, bringing her books and scrolls from faraway lands and discussing philosophy while they walked in the gardens. As I had with her other admirers, I kept my silence, and she kept hers. But I could see that she liked him, despite her protestations, and finally I sat her down and demanded an explanation.
“Do you want to marry him?” I asked. “None of your tricks, now. Answer me plainly.”
The Roots Of Our Magic Page 12