Written in the Ashes

by K. Hollan Van Zandt

  As she approached the temple, Hannah could hear water splashing into a fountain. She walked around the high walls until she reached a set of tall wooden doors that were locked from the inside. Hannah set her satchel and lyre down at her feet and rapped loudly.

  From behind the wall came the braying of a goat, the tinkling of a bell, and light footsteps on a stone path. Behind the doors, a child spoke. “Who is there?”

  “I am called Hannah.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I just arrived from Alexandria.”

  A little finger poked through a knothole in the gate. “Look through here.”

  Hannah knelt and peered through the hole. An eye with long lashes and a big brown iris speckled with gold was looking back at her. The child giggled.

  Hannah stood up. “What is your name?” she asked sweetly.

  “Suhaila,” said the child. By the sound of her voice she was no older than four or five.

  “Suhaila, can you open the gate for me?”

  “I am not allowed.”

  “Oh, I see. Could you get someone to open it for me?”

  Suhaila ran from the gate calling the name “Mira” again and again.

  Hannah heard two sets of footsteps, and then the sound of a key being turned. The gate opened a fraction and a beautiful girl peered through, everything about her golden. Her long hair swirled around her gleaming skin like bronze water, her amber eyes so luminous they might belong to a hawk more than a woman, though her nose was red and swollen, as if she were a tad ill. There was something unsettling about her eyes that peered through Hannah, weighing her on a scale. Mira eyed her slave collar and her full breasts with a slight look of disapproval.

  “You are Hannah?”

  Hannah collected her things into her arms and nodded. “I am.”

  “Come in.” The woman opened the gate wide enough for Hannah to pass and then closed it behind her and locked it again from a key that hung from a cord around her neck, and then withdrew a handkerchief and blew her nose modestly, then tucked it away. “I am Mira,” she said, bowing slightly, her palms pressed together in front of her heart. “And this is Suhaila.” Mira placed one delicate hand on the head of the small, dark-haired child standing beside a white goat with a bell around its neck.

  Suhaila fingered the ends of one of her curls and introduced the goat. “This is Cleopatra.”

  Hannah smiled and returned the bow. “A pleasure.”

  “Come, I will show you the grounds and the gardens and then you will meet Mother Hathora, our High Priestess,” said Mira. As she led Hannah around the temple, the diminutive priestess carried her head high and walked with the same sprightly gate as the Arabian horses Alizar adored. Hannah felt a bit awkward by comparison.

  They crossed the wide stone steps of the temple, weaving between the tapered columns, and then down again into a flourishing garden where the ordinary life of duties blended into the sacred timelessness of worship. Several ancient olive trees stood watch over the garden where between the vegetable rows, women in long colorful robes were gathering bunches of herbs and flowers into their arms, or digging with small spades.

  On the far side of the vegetable garden, opposite the lapis dome of the temple, stood a quaint split-level stone house that adjoined several other structures. “Those are mostly rooms devoted to study.” Mira indicated the smaller octagonal buildings covered in creeping vines. “Before us is the Garden House, where we sleep. Up on the knoll, behind the fire circle, there are much older gardens and a beautiful outdoor chapel that overlooks the sea in the north.”

  Hannah smiled a little, feeling for the first time in many months that this was where she belonged.

  The angel too, rested. The door had been promised. The warrior would come.

  Mira kissed Suhaila’s head and pushed her off toward another priestess. who took her by the hand. “Come, Hannah, I will take you to your room.”

  The entry of the Garden House opened to a sparsely decorated room with some large cushions set on the floor and a glowing brazier at one end, called the common area.

  “We mostly use this room for meetings, meals, and occasionally crafts. We have no need to work the way the priests of Poseidon do with their stone carving. The Great Library completely sustains us.”

  “Is there water here on the island?” Hannah asked.

  “There was a flowing spring once when the Heptastadion bridge was still in place some fifty years ago, but now we use a well. We send our requests for items like candles and incense by skiff when we pick up the morning wood. You will see.” Mira sneezed, and blew her nose in the kerchief she kept tucked up her sleeve.

  Beyond the common area was a small kitchen. An open door led outside where two red hens scratched at the damp ground beneath a sprawling belladonna tree, pink blossoms bobbing amorously. Mira paused to explain the various kitchen duties the priestesses performed, and then they crossed the common room and ascended a flight of winding stone stairs to the sleeping quarters where ten or more doors opened at angles into the wide stone hall. “That door at the end leads to the room where the children sleep. The other rooms are for the priestesses. You will share my room.” Hannah could not tell by the look in her eye if Mira was happy about the arrangement. Hannah had seen the look once before in a gypsy woman who sold sheep to her father, only to switch the young ewes for old when he was not looking. She hoped what she saw was only because Mira was ill.

  Down two steps in the center of the cozy room hung a worn white tapestry with a peacock feather design that acted as a divider. All around were a number of candles set on stone pedestals and tucked into recesses in the wall that cast a warm, radiant glow over objects of devotion: crystals, curved branches, seashells, round black seeds, and small cups of water where colorful rose blossoms floated. The scent of frankincense hung in the air. At the end of Mira’s bed a black cat with white feet and lunar eyes awakened, letting out a tiny sigh and stretching its legs.

  “We have our own balcony that leads up to the roof through those doors there. I sleep outside in summer, but not this time of year. I never seem to have enough flesh on my bones for the winters here.” Mira rubbed her arms as she crossed the room and picked up a bundle of sticks from a basket in the corner, tossing them into the brazier. Then she took a seat on the floor to warm her back.

  Hannah set her bag on the straw mattress, the lyre on the floor. Then she noticed the fine sleeveless white linen khiton with the braided sash that lay on the pillow, and stroked it, finding it smooth as water.

  Mira smiled. “You can change, then we will go outside.”

  As they stepped into the garden, a bell high in the temple clanged and all the priestesses paused, closed their eyes, and repeated the same gesture. Hannah watched as Mira brought her hands together at her forehead, and then lowered them to her heart.

  When Mira opened her eyes she explained that it was a meditation bell. The priestesses took turns sitting beside the bell in the temple attic, ringing it about once an hour. If the bell rang twice, it signified a meal. If the bell rang three times, it was time to wake up or go to sleep.

  Mira led Hannah out a south-facing archway erupting with jasmine and down a winding path to a labyrinth, its four quadrants lined with white stones. At its center was a giant clam shell half buried in the ground, set there for offerings. Mira explained that the labyrinth had been formed by a brush from Isis’ wings when she flew down to the island. Hannah requested a moment to walk through it, and Mira indulged her.

  When she was ready to continue, Hannah followed Mira behind the Garden House to an exquisite cave carved in the side of the hill with an elaborate fabric embroidered with falcons and snakes hung over the door. Mira explained with reverence that this was the moon hollow, a place where the women went to relax during their monthly blood when they were not expected to do chores or participate in temple rituals. It
was a time when the priestesses recognized women were closest to the goddess, and so they were invited to create art for the temple if they felt so inspired. Hannah thought it sounded a bit strange, but warmed to the idea.

  Behind the Garden House and the chicken coup, a long arbor dripping with violet and ruby bougainvillea led toward the temple, though the blossoms were not at their best for the time of year. Just beyond it, Hannah noticed a small path that snaked down to the cliffs on the far side of the island. “That path leads to the tholos.” A spirited smile sprung into Mira’s cheeks.

  “The what?”

  “The tholos. The temple where we offer our dances. Ours was built of white marble as a replica of the one in Delfi, with grand Corinthian columns. When the ships pass by we hide behind them so the sailors will not see us.”

  Dances. Hannah felt her throat tighten. Would she be expected to dance? She had never danced before; she had a dreadful feeling that she would dance miserably.

  Mira noticed the look of concern on Hannah’s face. “You will love the temple dances, do not worry.”

  “Perhaps I could just play music for the dancers instead.” As a child, Hannah had sometimes sung and beat a drum for the gypsies who appeared in their caravans in the middle of the night, swishing their skirts and keeping the rhythm with their finger cymbals.

  “You play music?”

  “Yes.”

  Mira looked Hannah up and down. Her limbs curved like the long feather of an eagle, and her thick eyelashes framed the deep sea. Her presence was magnetic, yet she seemed utterly unaware of her beauty. It would make her popular with the others, Mira was certain. She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you from, Hannah? You speak with an accent I do not recognize.”

  Hannah became self-conscious. “I come from Sinai. And you?”

  Mira looked off into the mist. “My father was a sailor. Mother Hathora says his ship sank in a storm and I was brought here by a flock of gulls.”

  “Gulls?” Hannah scoffed.

  “I know.” Mira led them down the length of the arbor. “Mother Hathora gives all the children here a story of where they came from. The truth is that the boatmen in Alexandria are paid to bring us, the unwanted babies from the brothels, but Mother Hathora believes that we need roots in order for our lives to have meaning. In a way she was right about me. I long to fly over the sea with broad wings that can carry me anywhere I want to go. When I look up into the sky I feel completely free. And this island, this temple is my nest. My heart always returns here.”

  So.

  That evening, the priestesses gathered in the temple for a new moon ritual. Hundreds of white candles burned on the altar, illuminating the wide room in a warm, peaceful glow. At the front of the temple, a large brass bowl the size of a birdbath was set on a dais before the altar of Isis. Isis, whose image was painted upon the reredos in the style of the Egyptians, down on one knee, her rainbow wings outstretched, her golden urea gleaming in the candlelight. Hannah found herself instantly captivated by this mother goddess, whose beauty was so soothing and strength so reassuring. But she also felt afraid, knowing her father would disapprove of her being in a strange temple before a goddess. He had raised her to believe in Yahweh. Hannah tried to remind herself that she was not Jewish after all, that she had merely been raised a Jew, but it did little to set her at ease even if she felt inexplicably drawn toward the beauty of the temple, awed by what she saw.

  Before the altar, a beautiful glint of light caught Hannah’s eye. On the floor were three large spheres resting in concentric circles at various syzygies. Upon the outermost circle sat a large silver sphere the size of a small child curled in a ball. Next, and slightly larger than the first, was a sphere of beautiful hammered brass, its surface scintillating in the candlelight. The third sphere in the center was the smallest, the size of a round melon and of solid copper, its surface of mottled verdigris. “Mira,” Hannah whispered, “What are those?”

  Mira’s lips spread into a reverent smile. “The Sacred Calendar. The large golden sphere there represents the sun. The silver one is the moon, and the copper one marks the beginnings and middles of the seasons. It is an ancient way of keeping time.”

  Hannah sat up on her heels to get a better view. The floor around the Sacred Calendar was exquisitely painted with the renderings of the twelve zodiac signs as well as other images of wheat, wine, fruit, and women praying and dancing. “The next ceremony will be the Winter Solstice,” said Mira. “Mother Hathora had the calendar created for us long before I came here. She is Egyptian, but studied as far as Britannia, where all the priestesses have sacred stone circles that keep time the way that this one does.”

  “A primitive Celestial Clock of Archimedes,” whispered Hannah, thinking of Hypatia. Then she was instantly overcome by a wave of guilt. She had told Hypatia she would sing for her lectures in the Great Library. Though Alizar had promised he would explain, a mere explanation would never suffice. Hannah felt indebted to Hypatia for the lyre, and so vowed she would use her time on the island for songwriting devoted to Hypatia’s philosophy. That way she would have a new repertoire when she returned to Alexandria. She hated to think if.

  The temple doors opened and a hush fell over the room as an elegant woman with long silver hair pinned up in a topknot swept gracefully into the temple, her palms held in prayer before her heart.

  Mother Hathora.

  High on the dais, the High Priestess’s piercing gaze paused to acknowledge every face, a peaceful smile pressed upon her lips. When her eyes fell on Hannah, Hannah felt speared straight through. She swallowed and returned the gaze as best she could.

  Mother Hathora bowed and the priestesses all joined their palms in front of their hearts and bowed in return. Then Mother Hathora lifted the long handle of a brass bell and tapped the brim decisively with a wooden mallet. A simple, pure note rang out and began to grow louder, resonating in the stone walls of the temple and the bones of the women. Even after she lifted the mallet from the bell the note continued to pulse in the room. When it had dissipated, the women stood and chanted the traditional opening. Hannah watched them from where she sat.

  “Goddess guide the path of my heart,” they said in Egyptian with their hands in prayer at their hearts. Then they brought their palms up to their foreheads. “Goddess guide the path of my mind.” Then they opened their arms out to the sides and circled their palms back to their hearts saying, “Goddess guide me to the source of light.”

  Then Mother Hathora sat down in a limestone throne chair behind the dais and invited a spider-limbed priestess called Celesta to lead the women in the invocation of the four directions. The priestesses chanted the positions of the sun, moon, and seasons in the Sacred Calendar. When they had finished, Mother Hathora stood up slowly and stepped back to the dais, closing her eyes. Hannah admired how her long pale blue robes draped around her body, giving her a graceful definition that softened her otherwise angular features. Hannah had a difficult time placing her age until she saw the Mother’s hands, fingers knotted at the knuckles like the roots of her old olive tree. As if she could hear Hannah’s thoughts, Mother Hathora looked straight at her. “We have a new priestess in our midst this evening. Hannah, is it?” Hannah nodded in the affirmative. “Please stand, Hannah, and receive the blessing of our temple.”

  Hannah slowly came to her feet, nervous at having been singled out. Then the priestesses all turned their eyes toward her and chanted, “Welcome, child of the Goddess.” Hannah felt a warmth rush into her heart and she smiled in return.

  “Thank you,” said Mother Hathora, lifting her hand to indicate Hannah could sit. “You have come to our temple on a fortuitous evening on the night of the dark moon, when we gather to tell the story of our beloved goddess, Isis. May she live always in your heart. She is a wise and compassionate teacher. Learn to serve her and you will be filled by her spirit.”

  Two priestesses swiftly w
alked to the dais and removed from beneath it an enormous codex bound in vellum—a book so large it required two women to lift it. They set it on a tall stone podium surrounded by a number of candles and turned the thick pages to somewhere in the center. The candlelight glowed on the pages of the book, on Mother Hathora’s pale skin, and on the metal spheres of the Sacred Calendar. She placed one hand upon the book and closed her eyes as a large silver moth fluttered around her head.

  “It is the Great Book,” whispered Mira.

  There was a long, interminable silence before Mother Hathora spoke again. When she did, her voice acquired the cadence of reading. Hannah could understand very little of what was being spoken in Egyptian, but she sat enraptured, imagining the lovers Isis and Osiris, thinking of her night with Gideon.

  When the story reached its end, Mother Hathora closed the Great Book and smiled. While she was reading, a soft rain had begun to fall outside, wetting the earth, and the scent of damp soil and foliage wafted into the temple.

  The priestesses then joined hands and said the evening blessing and silently departed through the door leading out into the garden.

  Mira turned to Hannah. “Mother Hathora is expecting you in her study,” she said, pointing to the courtyard and the steps that led upward. So Hannah turned away from the group of women who were walking beneath the arbor back to the Garden House and entered the little courtyard, thankful she had not eaten much at dinner since her stomach was now churning.

  Beyond the fountain lay the stairs covered in thick tangles of bougainvillea. Hannah took a deep breath and began to ascend. Partway up, she wondered how an old woman could climb such steep stairs every day. When Hannah arrived at the top she saw a small door that was left partially open, a soft light streaming through.

  “Come in, Hannah,” said a voice from behind the door.

  Hannah entered and stood before Mother Hathora, who was seated cross-legged in the center of the room, indicating a cushion in front of her.