by Wendy Orr
Picking it makes me weep harder than singing the land’s death.
I’ve brought my basket, hoping for mushrooms or berries, but this is better than food. I climb higher, rock to rock and crocus to crocus till when the sun is high, my basket is full of flowers and my heart emptied of tears.
Mama and Nunu greet me as if I’m carrying gold.
‘Leilei!’ Mama praises, helping me pluck orange threads – she remembers more than we know – and with Mirna’s permission, we lay them in the kiln with the smallest fire to dry them.
All afternoon, we listen to the chanting and beating of drums from the palace courtyard as the Lady and her priest-folk prepare for the sacrifices – but we stay home. ‘To watch the saffron,’ I tell Teesha, which is partly true.
The other truth is that Mama’s face twisted when the chanting started, and Nunu’s eyes filled with tears.
It’s not enough to sing our land’s story alone on the hills – it has to be shared to make it live. To Mama and Nunu now, Dada and Ibi when we find them, anyone from our land that we meet…and one day, to my own children and theirs.
The song isn’t perfect. I can tell my mistakes by the way Mama blinks in surprise – but they’re both weeping as I sing the new ending.
‘You’ve earned your Learning, child,’ says Nunu, and Mama kisses my forehead. ‘Don’t look so surprised; of course I don’t know the Swallow Clan rites you would have done this day, but I’ve heard the saga often enough to know it.’
‘But that’s not the end of the Learning.’
‘Do you think anyone ever finishes learning?’ demands the only grandmother I’ve ever known. ‘But if the great mother has any sense at all, she’ll know you’ve done more Learning this year than any woman has been asked before.’
My head is still swimming with this when Teesha runs back, breathless with excitement. ‘Come on! It’s the maidens’ procession!’
Just for an instant her voice blurs with Pellie’s in my mind. I say yes, though I’m not sure what she means.
The sun is setting, the sky red as the blood of the sacrificed goats, with the swallows dark against it, wheeling in their departure dance.
I stand in the courtyard with Teesha and the other maidens of all the different clans, in my brushed-clean potter’s kilt and my once-white shift, splashed with purple and now with the red of clay. A garland of crocus is around my neck, with more in my basket; in my other hand is my own small pot to place on the altar.
I’m the only one with saffron to offer, but every girl here has a basket for the procession. I thank Pellie, thank my Learning, for leading me out to the hills this morning to find what I need for this new rite, as well as the gift for my own goddess.
The road through the town, looping around the houses and craft quarter and back to the palace, is made of broad stones. Today, with the street swept clean, I realise that every third stone has an offering hollow.
Singing, twirling, we dance down the road, out from the palace towards the watch-hill, where Teesha and I met Andras once to see the sun rise between the hills. We take turns marking each offering spot with something from our baskets – tiny seashells, flowers, strands of seaweed – Teesha has made round clay beads, and I have my crocus petals, and though some of the offerings are the same, we each arrange them in a different pattern around the hollow. It seems strange that we don’t place our offering inside it, but I watch the others and do what they do.
The youths’ procession follows, close enough that they watch us arranging our offerings. They are carrying pitchers of olive oil and flaring torches, and at each spot one of them dribbles oil into the hollow and lights it. Sometimes there’s a bit of jostling and shoving to reach one spot first, even though there are so many to choose from. Our whirling dance lets us see them without seeming to watch. Teesha’s song is suddenly louder and her dance wilder, and I see that the tall stonemason apprentice is lighting the hollow surrounded by her beads. Mine is the next one – and Teesha’s poking me, laughing, as Andras lights it. We link arms and whirl until it’s our turn again.
We dance all the way back to the palace courtyard, where the rest of the town is waiting, clapping and chanting, for the feast to begin. Mama and Nunu are there with Mirna and her family, and though I don’t know if this is home, for the moment I’m happy. We dance and eat, laugh and dance, maidens in the middle and the youths stamping, leaping and clapping, stars above us and the lights of the offering lamps circling the town below.
Dancing our grief
for Maiden Kora gone
we honour the great mother’s tears
that come as winter rain;
dancing our mourning
till it turns to joy,
and in the midst
of the swirling dancers,
the chanting and clapping,
I dance for the swallows
as we did at home,
wishing them strong flights
to wherever they go,
‘But at winter’s end,’ I dance, I beg,
‘return with the Maiden,
bring us the spring,
and the wandering travellers
from across the sea.’
And the swallows,
roosting in great flocks
before they leave
murmur in reply,
promising that like the Maiden,
life will return.
At the very beginning of researching this book, I joined Aegeanet, a group of archaeologists and academics who are amazingly willing to answer questions from passionate amateurs of the Aegean Bronze Age. I particularly want to thank Dr Sabine Beckmann, who became a friend as well as mentor, archaeology tutor and experimenter, even making her own murex purple dye for me, and helping me create Leira’s name from her theories on Minoan language. The day I spent with her in and around Gournia was a highlight of my life – Leira had to become a potter once I had held a stone pottery tool, stood on the powdery clay floor of the ancient workshop, and seen a piece of pot marked with a 4000-year-old thumbprint…Thanks also to the Gournia archaeological site, and the staff of INSTAP for their warm welcome and enthusiasm when Sabine explained that I was researching a novel. Any errors in the background facts are purely mine – especially the deliberate ones such as relocating the Psychros Cave to a hill near Gournia.
I also want to mention Katie, our extremely knowledgeable guide to Akrotiri, who I finally coaxed into giving me a personal opinion on the age of the snub-nosed saffron gatherer, not presently on display – and all the archaeologists doing this painstaking work and sharing their research with the public.
That trip, and the following twenty-two months of writing, were made possible by the generosity of the Australia Council, for which I am eternally grateful.
Mark and Kiniki Stirling, who were working with refugees in Greece at the time, gave me a more personal insight into the shock of dislocation. Mirna, of Scheria Greek Art, sent me a totally unexpected gift of her recreation of the dancing swallows fresco from Akrotiri, and inspired the title of the book. And more friends than I can name have supported me with specific areas of knowledge, as well love and enthusiasm.
On the writing side, I am grateful, as always, to the team at Allen and Unwin: Jodie Webster and Kate Whitfield, and Sue Flockhart, who supported the book’s gestation and couldn’t stop being involved after retiring. It was also wonderful having the involvement of Pajama Press, with Erin Alladin and Gail Winskill. A special thanks to Josh Durham for another brilliant cover, and Sarfaraaz Alladin for equally brilliant maps.
Finally, my family: my husband Tom, as well as the usual support during the vagueness and exhaustion of writing, climbed with me up Mt Juktas and down the Psychros Cave, stayed in the earthquake simulator when I had to escape, and generally made a strenuous trip easy. And because my life is completely interwoven with my writing, I have to thank James and Georgia, Susan and Glyn, for the greatest gifts of all – ten days apart as I finished the first draft.
Welcoming Claudia and Olive to the world made me more determined than ever that Leira would grow to womanhood strong and confident in her body, despite the traumas that she faced. May all children do the same.
Wendy Orr was born in Edmonton, Canada, but grew up in various places across Canada, France, the USA and UK, before moving to Australia at twenty-one. She started writing when her children were young and eventually gave up her career as an occupational therapist to become a full-time writer. She’s the author of many books, including Nim’s Island (which inspired the feature film), Raven’s Mountain, Peeling the Onion and Dragonfly Song; major awards include the CBCA Book of the Year, the Adelaide Festival Award for Children’s Literature, and the Prime Minister’s Award for Children’s Literature.
Wendy has always been fascinated by ancient history, and one of the greatest adventures of her life was visiting the sites of Crete and Santorini where Dragonfly Song and Swallow’s Dance take place. Under an archaeologist’s guidance, she handled stone pottery tools, identified shards of Minoan pottery, and stood on the powdery clay floor of the potter’s workshop. She descended into the deep, mysterious cave known as the birthplace of the god Zeus, and climbed to the top of a mountain where a Minoan shrine once stood. On the path to the shrine, she found a tiny, smooth white pebble that didn’t seem to belong with the rocks around. ‘It was an offering to the goddess,’ the archaeologist told her. That’s why Wendy believes that there’s always an element of magic in writing.