by Wendy Orr
as if, says Dada,
all the Swallow Clan houses
were joined with the temple
in one great, many-roomed building –
though they have no Swallow Clan here
so the rulers are priest-folk.
Here Sarpedon their chief
stores goods coming in for taxes,
sorts and trades them
and rules the land all around,
while their Lady
serves their goddess.
And my brother Glaucus –
so much older than me
he was almost a man before I was born –
lives with this chief and Lady
and I can’t imagine
how sad he will be
about our Mama’s lost spirit –
or how surprised to see me.
Even the wharf men are shocked
at a ship so early –
though they know Dada’s sail,
and that we come in peace –
so they rush to the quays
to haul us in.
In ceremonial clothes and paint,
I cover restless Mama in her nightshift;
a coverlet embroidered
with the swallows of our land
and the ducks and dragonflies of our clan.
Once again, Dada straps her
securely to her bed,
guides it swinging to the wharf,
while Nunu mutters a prayer
giving thanks for dry land.
But when I alight in turn
the rock quay sways as if it were a boat
and Dada whispers,
‘You’ll get your landlegs soon –
walk tall, representing our home.’
He asks for a runner to send for my brother
but there is something strange
in the wharfman’s accent –
I can hardly understand his reply:
‘You must see Sarpedon, the chief.’
Dada says they speak our language,
but it’s not quite right.
‘I’m honoured,’ says Dada,
and to me: ‘Glaucus will be away,
gathering goods for trade.
He wouldn’t expect us so soon.’
For though Dada always meets the chief,
Glaucus usually runs
to the quay to greet him.
There’s no music or flowers
to greet a captain from far away
and our procession is small:
the four sailors at the corners
of Mama’s upside-down bed,
four more behind, each with a gift –
an amphora of dark red wine,
a pendant of two golden bees
holding their precious comb,
a tunic of the deepest purple
and a fine, swallow-painted pot –
but Dada marches in front
with me by his side,
trying to walk tall,
as if this long street from quay to palace
is as familiar as my own.
The palace goes on forever:
columns, walkways and stairs;
sacred horns on the wide flat roofs –
a whole town
joined into one.
A guard greets my father,
sends a runner to the chief;
calls a servant to pour water
to wash our hands
and dry them with linen –
just as we’d do
for a guest in our home.
The chief and Lady greet us in their chamber,
and when my father salutes
Sarpedon rises from his throne:
‘I am sorry for your troubles.’
‘Have you heard so much already?’ asks my father.
‘The island will be well again
and win the favour of the gods,
but it suffers now
and our healers are overwhelmed;
from the bonds of our friendship
I ask to entrust my wife
to your wise-women
and for my daughter to join my son.’
The Lady is already bending over my mother,
calling a servant for wise-women,
but Sarpedon’s face pales to say ‘no’
even as his words say, ‘My friend.’
‘You haven’t heard:
our great mother shook too,
a column toppled in the courtyard
where young men played a board game.
Three were killed,
and one was your son.
We buried him with honour
with our own dead.’
‘No, no, no!’ my mother screams,
and I wonder at the gods’ cruelty
that lets her understand her son’s death
when it seems she’s heard nothing
for this last bitter season.
The warrior in my father
checks private grief in this hall of state
though his face is as grey
as our pebbled beach at dawn.
‘With your leave we will go now
to the city of the dead
and not speak of trade till morning.’
‘Leave your wife in my care,’ the Lady says kindly,
but Dada says no,
Mama has heard enough –
she must say her own farewell.
I want to scream No! like Mama
but stay still like Dada,
tears washing away my careful paint
as the world spins around me –
we left a place of death
to be greeted by death here.
And through the pain runs the thought,
What happens to us now?
Do I stay here, a not-yet-woman,
with my spirit-gone mother
and ancient maid?
But how could we live on Dada’s ship
all this long trading season?
Dada takes ash from the hearth,
streaks his face and Mama’s;
Ibi and I do the same,
and Nunu and the sailors,
then we follow a priest
to the hill of the dead
where my brother Glaucus –
dead all this time that we’ve thought of him,
planned for him, counted on him –
lies buried.
Sarpedon buried Glaucus with all his treasures and weapons; there was nothing for us to do except offer another sacrifice, letting the lamb’s blood soak through the ground to feed him, even as he drank our tears and knew we remembered him.
Back in the palace guest rooms, our faces and chests still streaked with the ashes of grief, Dada finally tells me the truth of why we left home.
He had taken a lamb to the new Lady to sacrifice and ask if Mama would live. He recites the oracle’s prophecy to me now.
In pain the goddess cries
for the swallow who comes no more
in this dark change
of chaos and death.
Cry the swallows
cry the land
cry the changes to come.
Great mother’s pain
labour of childbirth
labour of death;
from her belly
spews the dark.
Swallows flee
swallows fly
swallows come no more
yet live again.
The Lady – Pellie’s mother – said that it meant Mama would die, and the goddess was grieving for all those who had died in the shaking and the winter illness that came after.
Dada thought she was wrong. Gods don’t grieve for humans, he says. Our years are short; we all return to the great mother at some time – the gods don’t care if it’s sooner or later. But weak as mortals are, the gods still need us to feed them the smoke and blood of sacrifice.
‘The gods will only grieve when no mortals are left
,’ he says now. ‘That’s why I believed we must flee like the swallows in autumn – the swallows who haven’t yet returned for the spring.’
‘Can a man read—’ I stop myself, but Dada answers anyway.
‘Can a man read the goddess’s prophecy? I don’t know. But I prayed to the god of the sea, whose ways I understand better, and it seemed that he was calling me back to serve him.’
‘And?’ says Ibi, almost angrily. ‘Tell her the rest.’
My father sighs. ‘And I had a dream. A demon-dream, but it felt like a true one, of the great mother birthing fire and darkness to cover our land. That’s why Ibi wanted his family to come. That’s why we brought everyone who would; why I have told the other ships to follow as soon as they can.’
‘But the Lady is the Lady,’ Ibi growls, ‘and we couldn’t defy her.’
‘And I’m a priest only in clan,’ says Dada. ‘I’ve been at sea all my life. What do I know of prophecies? Besides, our ships are small compared to the land – if we’d shared my dream, how would we take the people who wanted to flee?’
‘But your dream didn’t tell you that Glaucus was already dead,’ Ibi snaps. ‘Perhaps the Lady was right, not the sea captain.’
‘More than likely,’ says Dada. ‘But I couldn’t stay and watch the gods take your mama, just to prove it.’
After three days of mourning, Dada says we must begin to sell the trade goods, and look for more to buy for his next stop.
‘But we need a trading ambassador here,’ he adds.
Ibi’s as cantakerous as a wild boar, and rage about leaving his wife behind has only burned brighter since we learned of Glaucus’s death – but I’m glad he’ll be staying with us.
‘Be courteous to all and trust no one,’ Dada continues. ‘Sarpedon and the Lady are courteous hosts, but their loyalty is to their own land, their own gods and the people who serve them – just as yours are to the Isle of Swallows.’
I suddenly realise he’s talking to me.
‘I can’t be an ambassador! Why not Ibi?’
‘I can’t stay on land,’ says Ibi. ‘Dada’s dream haunts me every night. It’s only at sea that I can sleep and forget my family for moments at a time.’
‘But I haven’t even finished my Learning!’
‘You’ll learn more in one season at this palace than in three seasons of Learning.’
I keep on spluttering, but my exclamations wash over my father’s ears like the cooing of doves.
‘Think of it this way,’ he says finally, ‘if your Mama’s spirit hadn’t wandered, she’d be the Lady now, and you’d become Kora at the end of your Learning. This is a time of change: in this new place, you’ll become a woman and serve our gods by honouring our home. You’ll have goods to trade, and to gift as seems wise; you’ll speak to our sailors and wandering craft-folk with the voice of the Swallow Clan – our Kora in this land.’
He holds my face in his hands, looking into my eyes so that I can’t look away.
‘I’ll return next spring with the swallows.’
*
But first, Dada says, he’ll teach me all that he can. I go around the palace with him and Ibi in their trading.
‘There are many times in life when you need to appear more confident than you are,’ says Dada. ‘Trading is not one of them. Let the traders see you as a child – then shock them with your sharpness.’
So I stand back, Chance pressed close to my side, and watch Dada and Ibi play the bargaining game: flattering when they want to sell, walking away when they want to buy. In normal times they would simply exchange the goods that the trade ambassador has collected, with new things for him to sell. But Glaucus was the ambassador and Glaucus is dead. These are not normal times. Ibi is impatient and angry; Dada wears his grief like a cloak that he can remove briefly when he must.
The palace is so big because it’s not only the home of the priest-folk and temple, but the public meeting place and craft quarter as well – and everything to do with taxation and trade.
‘It’s all tightly controlled by the priest-folk,’ says Dada. ‘The palace takes part of everything in taxes, whether it’s goats or gold. They store farmers’ produce, legislate what craft-folk produce, and control where slave labour will go.’
I try to imagine Nunu’s sister-in-law being told how to shape her pots. She’d be crankier than Nunu on a hot day.
The craft quarter is just across the courtyard from the guest rooms: potters, seal-stone makers, jewellers, carpenters, spinners, weavers, spear makers, bronze workers for weapons and others for art. They’re all next to each other in a maze of narrow streets, with their workspaces in front of their storerooms, and their homes on top. It feels alive the way our town used to, bustling with noise and colour; the heat of kilns and forges, the clanging of hammers, the singing of workers and the smell of their sweat mixed with the stink of melting copper and the scent of sea – and I hope the goddess can’t hear me thinking that all of it is better than the smell of her belching.
That night Dada introduces me to Sarpedon and the Lady again, formally, as the replacement for Glaucus. Sarpedon says that our sister-countries hardly need representation from one to the other, and the Lady asks if I’m a full woman yet.
‘Almost,’ I say, and she smiles and says she will watch over me like her own child.
‘I don’t trust that one,’ Nunu says when we’re alone.
‘She’s the Lady!’
‘Lady of this land, not ours. Did you see her eyes widen with gladness when you said you were still a maiden? You think she’s happy because she needs more children to care for? She’s got five of her own! She thinks that if you haven’t finished Learning, she can guide you however she wants.’
The problem with Nunu is that she thinks everyone’s as crabby as she is.
The Lady – who truly is kind and welcoming, no matter what Nunu says – has given us Glaucus’s room in the palace. Dada and Ibi are still in the guest rooms but Mama, Nunu and I have moved in to where we’ll live till they return. The wise-women visit Mama every day.
And Mama is getting better. Her spirit is still wandering, but her body is stronger. For two days after we heard that Glaucus was dead, she did nothing but cry and sleep; every time she woke up she looked around as if she knew us, before remembering that her son was dead and starting to wail all over again. While she wails, she walks, round and round our room in circles – it’s hard to believe that when we were at the farmhouse we could barely get her out of bed to take a few steps. Now we can hardly stop her walking and the wise-women give her poppy juice at night to make her sleep. Even better, she only cries in the morning; by the time the sun is high her tears dry and she just walks, her eyes empty as a painted picture’s.
Sometimes I think that her body is getting ready to welcome her spirit home and that soon she’ll be my Mama again.
Other times I think that her wandering spirit met Glaucus’s when he died, and will stay with him always.
The Tarmaran trade priest says that Glaucus hadn’t started collecting merchandise before he died.
‘And the goods we left him with, to start his trading?’ Dada asks. ‘He had a quantity of swallow pots and purple cloth – do you know where we could find them?’
The trade priest shakes his hand in a strange rolling movement, as if he’s throwing dice. ‘Gone long before,’ he says sadly.
Ibi stiffens, but Dada salutes and glares at Ibi till he does too. ‘I am sorry for any care he cost you,’ he says, and motions us to follow him out of the courtyard and the gate.
He may have apologised, but anyone who knows my father can see the rage in his stiff-legged walk. None of us speak till we’re on the path to the hill of the dead, well away from the palace and out of earshot of anyone at all.
Ibi’s the first to burst. ‘Glaucus gambling! It’s a lie!’
‘Of course it’s a lie,’ Dada snaps. ‘And a lie against the dead is a lie against the gods. That’s why he hasn’t met us sooner
. But we are guests in Tarmara, and I don’t know if Sarpedon and the Lady know of the lie. It’s not easy for a guest to tell a chief that his trade priest is a liar and a thief – and until we can, I don’t want the priest to suspect that we know. That’s why I didn’t ask about the gold and bronze: Glaucus had two small daggers and four sets of gold earrings.’
His voice breaks, harsh as a raven, when he says his son’s name. When he turns to me, his eyes are desperate. ‘We have no choice. Your mama cannot sail with us; you need to stay with her. But I won’t be leaving you with as many goods as I’d wish, and most importantly, not with the trust I’d wish. Sarpedon and the Lady will ensure that a guest is safe from harm, but you’ll have to be alert with your trading. And keep your dog with you at all times.’
My fingers are clammy and sweaty; my stomach is churning. I’ve been starting to get used to the idea of being the ambassador. I think of how I bargained with the fisher at the farmhouse, and see myself graciously giving and accepting gifts from visitors from our homeland; choosing exquisite things to store, and perhaps to keep – and best of all, being admired and adored, hearing people whisper, ‘This girl, still a maiden – you see how expertly she trades; how she helps the folk of the Isle of Swallows, how beautifully she dances…’
Now those dream whispers are saying, ‘See that foolish girl? Her father is their land’s trading admiral, but she’s lost all the goods he left her, cheated at every turn.’ Bargaining for daily fish is not the same as the complicated balance of trade goods.
‘We’ll pray to our gods to protect you,’ Dada says fiercely, pulling me close. ‘And you’ll smile, listen, and trust no one. Keep on singing your mother’s spirit; find a goddess you can pray to. Share your worries with Nunu, but only when you’re sure no one else can hear.’
I hear the finality in his tone; still two more days till the spring festival, but he has prayed and read the signs of the sea, and they must leave at dawn.
The ship is already loaded. Now that we know there are no goods in the palace for me to gift or trade, Dada unloads a giant pithos pot, as tall as my head, packed tight with smaller pots and jugs. They’re decorated with the swallows of our clan, made by Nunu’s family’s workshop. I don’t know if Dada chose them for that, but it comforts me.
At the last moment he adds a small bronze dagger. ‘I paid more than I should have for this, hoping it would trade well when we reach Mycenae,’ he says. ‘Use it only if your need is great.’
I’m expecting a procession, rituals and sacrifices when he sails, but in Tarmara he is merely another trader, sailing inauspiciously just before the sailing season begins. We gather in the central courtyard at dawn while the Lady sings the sun to rise, and then walk down to the quay. It is the same procession as when we arrived, with a servant from the palace in place of the wharfman, but this time Mama is walking. It’s the first time that she’s walked further than the courtyard. Dada holds her arm so that she doesn’t wander off, but she isn’t wailing.