by Wendy Orr
She appears for the first time the next day. She looks pale and sick, dazed with grief. She does not look like a ruler.
The man beside her does. It’s the trade priest, the only priest who survived, because he was the only one who didn’t go down to the harbour when the great wave came. Now he is Sarpedon, the chief. He feasts the sailors – there are still goats and sheep in the hills to be slaughtered and cooked, though the smell of the grilling meat mingling with the stink of dead animals on bonfires makes me gag.
I eat anyway and gather bones for Chance. Nunu says the servant talk is that the stores of dried food are dwindling fast. The barley in the fields that was ready to harvest has been smothered and scorched. Spring is the season of fresh greens; people should be out picking in the hills, but this year there’s nothing to pick. The ash covered it all and the new plants aren’t strong enough to push their way through. The gentle spring rains, instead of washing it away, run the ash into pools, where it hardens like rock in the next day’s sun.
Worse, any townfolk, fishers and sailors who survived when their homes and stores were swept away are coming to the palace for food. You don’t have to be an oracle to see that only trouble can come from less food and more people.
All my life, I’ve thought that being Swallow Clan meant we were safe. Not from random cruelties of the gods like illness and accidents, but safe from hunger, from violence and fear.
Now I’m not so sure. I’m not hungry, but I’m afraid it could happen. In fact, I’m afraid all the time. I’m afraid of the crowds of people who come to the palace to demand food, because if Nunu is right, there soon won’t be anything to give them. And we have only Sarpedon and a small handful of guards to hold them back.
I’m even more afraid because this Sarpedon doesn’t like us. He lied about my brother and he’s afraid we know it. No – not afraid: angry. And now he’s in power.
He’s not the only one who doesn’t like us. People point their fingers against evil at our door, and mutter about curses carried from over the sea.
She’s my mother! I want to shout. She was our Lady’s sister; she was wise and beautiful and when her spirit comes back she’ll be like that again!
But her spirit isn’t back, only a tiny bit of it, and even though she only cries when she hears other people keening, they still don’t understand. They remember her wailing as if she was foretelling this disaster, and they hate her.
Most of all, I’ve been afraid since I saw that slave girl led to the altar. Just like I didn’t know priest-folk could go hungry, I didn’t know that anyone needed to be afraid of being sacrificed like a goat.
It seems there are more things to be afraid of than I’ve ever imagined.
The thoughts swirl in my head, as if Pellie and I are arguing:
We need to run away, to find somewhere safe.
We’re guests here! Of course we’re safe.
Sarpedon hates us.
But this is where Dada will return to.
He won’t find us if we’re dead like Glaucus. Or like the slave girl.
But where can we go?
That’s the one there’s no answer to. No answer except to tell Nunu to venture back to the kitchen at different times of the day, to gather extra food, dried figs or fish, barley cakes – things that are light to carry and don’t need cooking. At the same time I organise our goods, packing the gold and bronze items into baskets with our clothing.
I’m not quite sure why I’m doing this. It’s as if the Pellie part of my brain is planning, and not telling Leira what it’s for, because what it’s for is too scary to contemplate.
In the end there’s no choice. A roar of shouting, of doors being battered, wakes us in the night. There’s no time even to dress. We throw our cloaks on over our nightshifts and grab the packed baskets. I peer out of our room; Nunu tells Mama to keep quiet, and for once, she obeys. So does Chance, except for a low, rumbling growl. He hasn’t left my side since he returned.
The back gate has been broken down. Men are pouring in, heading for the storerooms. We shelter behind our door till they pass, then run down the corridor and out the shattered gate. It’s too dark to see where we’re going: ‘Into the hills!’ I whisper, because the sea is no longer safe and neither is the town.
*
We climb steadily upwards. By the time the murky dawn breaks we can look far down to the cemetery where Glaucus lies, and further down to black smoke coiling up from the palace.
Mama is slowing already, and Nunu is panting, but I am thinking like an animal: I can’t let them stop till we find an outcrop of rock to shelter against, where no one can take us by surprise from behind.
Nunu pulls a bladder of ale from her basket. I don’t ask how she got it – I’m just glad she did, because I’d thought of food but not drink. We each take a sip; Mama wants more and is cross when I stop her. ‘No, no, no!’ she snaps, trying to grab it back from me.
‘Fig!’ says Nunu, handing her one. ‘Your favourite!’
Mama chews, and forgets that she’s angry. But it takes another one before she forgets that she’s hungry.
I don’t know how many figs or barley cakes we have, or how long the ale will last, but it doesn’t matter – I don’t know where we’re going or how long it will take to get there. The smoke from the palace is thickening and spreading; we won’t be going back to Tarmara.
If townfolk are attacking the palace, it’s not safe to be priest-folk.
I hear this as if the goddess herself has spoken in my head, though she doesn’t tell me what to do about it. Don’t be Swallow Clan? It’s like saying, ‘Don’t be a girl. Be a dog instead.’
I wish I could be a dog. We could follow Chance, scavenge for food, and bite anyone that attacks us. We wouldn’t have to decide if we should go on walking in our nightshifts or dress properly and tear our clothes. Our nightshifts are white linen, split at the sides like our dress shifts, but the front in one piece that covers our breasts. It’s easiest just to wear them.
Trying to remember
what Dada told me of this land,
where the best pots come from,
the bronze and gold
and where the cities lie –
Knossos the greatest.
But Nunu heard the rumour:
what the sea did to their harbour
was worse than here
and riots have smashed the palace.
‘Over the mountains to the east,’ said Dada,
‘barely a full day’s sail by sea,
is Gournia:
a town of honest traders,
though smaller than our own –
I once sat out a five-day storm
in their wide safe bay.’
Perhaps the angry sea
has spared this town,
and my heart says,
‘If Gournia sheltered Dada
it can save us too.’
Dada will be remembered
and the priest-folk will take us in,
for though we’ve left the pots behind
we still have gold and bronze
to trade.
Our ceremonial shifts and skirts,
rolled inside our cloaks,
are strapped across our backs
to keep them clean and whole
so when it’s safe
we can look as priest-folk should.
I find a branch for Nunu to lean on,
and we turn to the east,
clambering up goat trails
with the rising sun in our eyes.
This is not like gathering flowers
on Crocus Mountain –
the hills aren’t higher
but go on without end;
thorns tear our legs, our arms and shifts;
the smoky sky is dark,
lightning flashes without rain –
and we won’t be returning
to hot baths and feasting.
‘At least we’re not carrying Mama,’ says Nunu,<
br />
which is true,
though I still wish we had Dada or Ibi
and knew how far we must go.
Then Mama starts her no, no, no song
and I sing with her, but louder,
‘Yes, yes-yes, yes!’
till Nunu laughs, wheezing and coughing.
I think Mama will laugh too –
but she shouts louder,
slaps Nunu, and sits.
I tell her we don’t have much food
and no shelter till we reach this town;
we need to keep moving
before the sun is too high to find the east –
but if Mama is sitting we must all do the same
and I can see
that Nunu also needs to rest.
Another sip of ale, a barley cake and fig.
I rub Mama’s feet,
wipe blood off her scratched legs
with the edge of my shift.
Chance licks mine,
the only drink he gets.
Smelling bruised thyme
disturbed under ashes
between the rocks where we rest,
I wonder if the goddess will ever
call her plants to return.
We sing to Mama, sing her up to her feet,
over the crest of this ash-covered hill;
a glimpse of the sea where we’ve come from –
not as far as I hoped
for all the climbing we’ve done –
down the slope and up one more
to find a safer place to rest
while the sun is high,
our faces shaded and backs guarded.
‘Watch while I sleep,’ I say to Nunu,
but she is already snoring –
and so is Chance.
I’m an almost-woman, young and strong,
I tell myself
but after a moment
I doze too.
We walk on once the sun dips enough that we can be sure of the west. The light is still weak through the haze, and keeping it on our backs is not as easy as walking into it in the morning. The goat trail twists and crooks so we have to keep checking if the glow is still behind us.
When did Nunu get so stiff she can hardly turn her head? She has to pivot her whole body, and now she’s so tired that she staggers when she does it. Once, she falls right over.
‘Don’t look back!’ I snap. ‘I’ll take us the right way!’
I need Nunu to be younger. I need Mama to be well.
I need Dada to be here.
I need Glaucus to be alive and the world to be right.
In my head, Pellie laughs. Are you baby, or almost-woman? she asks, so clearly that I spin around to see her.
She’s not there. How could she be? She’s safe at home with her mother the Lady and her sister Kora, far from murdering waves and crowds.
I go on walking, and singing to Mama, and turning around to see where the sun is, until I don’t need to turn around anymore, because suddenly it’s dark. We are not going any further tonight. My stomach cramps in pain.
‘Nunu,’ I whisper, ‘I think my bleeding is coming early!’
‘You’re hungry,’ Nunu says grimly.
I open my mouth to argue, because I’ve been hungry before – I’ve fasted from sunrise to sunset on feast days – but I’ve never felt like this.
Then I remember the sweet barley porridge that Nunu would give me before sunrise on those days. I can almost feel its warmth filling my stomach, and almost cry because it’s not real.
‘This is the sort of hunger that made my family sell me to your grandparents,’ says Nunu.
Terror descends with the dark. We’re starving in a world the gods have abandoned, without fire or shelter, and a half-grown puppy to protect us.
But as we unwrap our bundles of clothes, I remember the bronze dagger. It’s the most valuable thing we have to trade. Hunting dogs are etched along the blade, and a lion’s head is carved into the golden hilt – but I don’t care about its beauty. It’s a weapon.
Tying our flounced woollen skirts over our nightshifts, and our cloaks on top, we huddle together. It’s still cold on the rocks, but Chance is warm on my feet, and I clutch the dagger till the handle is hot in my hand and sends strength to my heart.
*
‘Sing the dawn,’ says Nunu.
So I do, because there’s nobody else to do it, and even though it doesn’t feel right, the sun comes up the way it should, and I think it’s a little brighter than yesterday.
Does the Lady sing it in Tarmara today, after the invaders and the fire? What happened in the palace after we fled?
Mama doesn’t waste time worrying about things like this. While I am peeing behind a bush, Chance is nosing around further up the hill, and Nunu is bundling our skirts and cloaks, Mama grabs the drink skin and gulps the rest of the ale.
We finished the barley cakes last night. There are six figs left; Mama cries when I say we have to leave three of them so we can have something later.
‘They’ll taste better when we’ve walked a little way,’ I tell her – but one fig or two, we’ll still be hungry, and most importantly, we’ll still be thirsty.
These mountains had snow on their peaks before the ash covered everything. If we keep on walking, we’re bound to find a river – or even a little creek – just a trickle of snow melt will make us happy.
We step into the creek before we know
and the thick ash sludge
is up to our knees,
as if a hearth has been washed
before the embers are cleared.
Sandals slide and slip from our feet –
I reach and search
till all my shift is as mud as the hem –
I find three sandals
but never the fourth
and think Nunu is lucky
to have never known shoes,
though her old legs are trembling
with pushing through muck.
Mama feels the wetness; scoops it up,
choking as ash smears black
across her lips.
‘No!’ I snap,
but the thirst wins,
and Nunu and I try it too,
spitting grit between our teeth,
harsh moisture on our tongues.
Only Chance doesn’t care.
Shivering out to the other side
my wet shift clinging, foul with ash,
Mama’s wet only to her knees,
though she slaps at it, ‘No, no, no!’
as if it could learn to behave.
Nunu pulls off her tunic –
thorn-shredded up the side –
rubs Mama’s legs with the drier part,
dresses her in formal flounced skirt
then helps me do the same.
But no gossamer shift to tear on thorns –
till our nightshifts dry
we’ll go bare-topped as farmers.
Not far from the mire
that was once a stream
we find another path;
skirts catching prickles and thorns;
my right foot, bare on the stones –
I’ve given Mama my sandal –
bruised and bleeding
like the wounded Kora.
I think of how she bears her pain
and maybe I can too.
I don’t care where the path goes
but it may lead us to help
because the cruel fact is
we can’t do this alone.
And at worst
it’s still leading us east
through the spiny forest.
At siesta time, when the sun is high
we eat our last figs –
our throats so parched we can hardly swallow –
and rest in tree-shade,
Mama and Nunu dozing,
open-mouthed and twitching.
I clutch my dagger
because demons wer
e howling in the night
and some of them
might have been wolves.
I only know wolves
from stories and furs –
but I know that Chance
isn’t big enough to fight them.
We need to find people –
if we’re not the last alive in this world –
and shelter and food.
I pack our empty baskets
one into the other
and find two strong branches –
a crutch for each, Mama and Nunu,
then wake them from their rest.
Mama is cross, throws her crutch away –
though when I use it,
easing the pain in my wounded foot,
she takes it back.
Trudging, stumbling,
we limp on through the day,
eagles circling above –
wishing my spirit could soar with them
spying out what lies ahead
and what we’ve left behind.
The sun is lowering –
I don’t know how we can face
another night of fear and hunger –
when Chance growls
and we hear the bleating of goats.
I see a flock below us,
and a lone boy building a fire
by a shelter of rocks and branches.
His dog standing alert,
hackles raised, growling to see us
and starting to charge;
the boy shouts him back,
his hand on its shoulder,
like mine on Chance.
‘Greetings, strangers,’
he calls, a quaver in his voice,
‘are you tree-spirits,
or women abandoned by the gods
to wander lost in the hills?’
Abandoned by the gods
is exactly how I feel
though it seems a dangerous reply.
I can’t think
how to explain why we’re here –
faces blackened with mud,
bare as peasants though in elegant skirts,
gold on throats and arms,
not clad in goatskins
as his mother and sisters must be.
And though Nunu’s grey hair is plaited tight
and my curls too short to tangle,
my ponytail is a knot
and Mama’s hair a nest of snakes.
But before anyone speaks,
Nunu moans and drops to the ground.