The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Men from the rocky mainland put much importance in their beards, never shearing them except in service to a god or in mourning, for they believed prowess and courage resided in the hair, especially the beard. Carmanor’s hadn’t yet gained the majesty of an older man’s, but there were no unsightly gaps. After so many years on Kaphtor, Selene preferred the male face clean-shaven. Still, she found this particular foreigner’s youthful beard endearing.

  “You have a fine son,” she told her companion.

  “He is my life’s pride, along with his brother.”

  “Have you many children?”

  “No, my lady, only the two boys. I would have enjoyed more, but those two are a handful.”

  “I’ve seen boys who turn their mothers’ hair gray,” Selene agreed.

  “Never were two boys so different as mine.” The man gave a hoarse laugh. “Carmanor’s brother is as spoiled and carnal as Carmanor is serious and pure.”

  Alexiare, she finally remembered. That was the man’s name. “It’s a good thing then, that Carmanor and not his brother found Aridela.” Intrigued by his sardonic tone and the flash of amusement in his eyes, she hoped he would elaborate.

  He guffawed then fell into a fit of coughing as he gulped more wine. “A good thing indeed, my lady,” he finally managed.

  She turned her attention to the dancers, thinking the man may have drunk more than he should. Cretan wine, even watered, was stronger than most; people from other lands always said so.

  Serving maids carried in platters of meat and placed them along the tables. Baskets of bread followed, and oysters, octopus and bream. No one could prepare fish like the Cretans. Selene filled her trencher with delicacies.

  Music and dancing continued. Conversation, laughter, and flirtations made the atmosphere as sparkly as the crystals in the bull’s face and the jewels gilding the women. Selene, however, couldn’t stop fretting over Aridela, who toyed with her food. Her head drooped once or twice.

  Midway through the meal, a man at the Callisti table stood and lifted his hands. Everyone gave him their attention, leaving only the faint crackle of cooking fires and sizzle of meat to break the silence.

  “When it was decided that all must abandon our island,” he said, “I knew there was nowhere else I could go but our beloved motherland. Your welcome makes our losses easier to bear.” He bowed toward the queen. “We offer you our loyalty and our lives, Queen Helice.”

  Helice rose from her chair and lifted her bowl. “All who reside on Kaphtor extend friendship to our brothers and sisters in need. We’re saddened that such fine accomplishments must be discarded and thriving towns emptied, leaving nothing but echoes of the happiness that once flourished there.”

  “It is sad, my lady, but we are grateful for the time and warning given to us by our most gracious Goddess, for no structure is as important as the preservation of our children.”

  “Is it true fire and rocks shoot from the summit of Mount Alcmene like arrows from a bow?” asked one of the counselors.

  “My lady, these rocks soar into the heavens and fall upon our roofs. The ground on the mountain is hot; at night, rivers of fire glow beneath cracks in the soil. Crops wither before they can ripen, for the air itself is poison. But the earthshakings are the worst. Many die in their destruction.”

  Another man stood. He raised the scarred, reddened stump of his arm, turning so everyone could see. “A firestone dropped from the sky and burned away my arm before I could open my mouth to scream,” he said. “It often strikes me that whoever gave our mountain its name was a gifted seer.”

  The man seemed to shrink as he offered a conciliatory shrug toward the heavens.

  “What does he mean, lady?” Alexiare asked.

  Selene spoke quietly. “In the old tongue, the mountain’s name means ‘Wrath of the moon.’”

  “Ah.” Alexiare tore his bread and dipped it in olive oil.

  “There will be more destruction.” One of the Callisti women rose from her seat. “The Earth Bull’s growl becomes a roar. I fear for my sister, who dedicated her life to Our Lady. She and the other priestesses carry honey and gifts as close as they can get to the top, where the Goddess is angriest. The soil is thick with blood from their sacrifices. Everything there is melted; the ground runs like water and the air sears their throats. One of the priestesses died when flames shot out of the rocks and engulfed her where she stood.”

  Shocked muttering eddied across the room. Many made signs against evil and the serpent sign of Athene.

  “Surely an angry god is imprisoned in Mount Alcmene, and fighting to escape,” she said.

  The Callisti man put his good arm around the woman and drew her down into her seat, for she was shaking and weeping.

  “The ways of the Lady are never easy to understand,” Helice said. “Tomorrow, we shall sacrifice, pour libations, and pray on the cliffs. Wind will carry our pleas to the ears of Athene.” She paused, granting the refugees a disarming smile that instantly infused calm throughout the room. Glancing at Aridela then Carmanor, she added, “Though elsewhere in the world there are matters of concern, this is a day of gladness for me, and for the people of Kaphtor. Our healer has declared that my child is recovering from her injury. The risk of bleeding has passed. She will heal, and return to trying the patience of her elders.”

  Cheers and laughter erupted. Bowls and fists pounded against the tabletops. Aridela blushed. Unlike her sister, she reveled in attention, so she must be thoroughly enjoying this.

  When the noise diminished, Helice inclined her head toward Carmanor and extended her bowl. “Because of Carmanor of Mycenae, who carried our princess to safety.”

  He gave a sheepish grin as cheers echoed against the walls.

  The queen set down her bowl and motioned for Carmanor and Aridela to rise. Carmanor obeyed. Aridela rose as well, slowly, stiffly; her mother grasped her elbow to assist her.

  A stab of premonition made Selene’s skin tingle.

  The queen clasped their hands. She lifted them in front of her; as the audience rose from their cushions to cheer, she pressed the hand of her daughter to the foreigner’s.

  Aridela started. Her head turned to meet the gaze of the boy’s. He, too, acted strangely. His mouth opened. He paled. He and Aridela stared at each other.

  A clap of thunder vibrated the walls. The forbidding sound died away into confused, guarded silence. Everyone waited, but the thunder didn’t repeat, nor did it begin to rain. The ground didn’t shake.

  Aridela’s face turned greenish-white. Her eyelids fluttered and she fell, striking her chair and dropping to the floor.

  Queen Helice shouted for the healer as she knelt.

  Themiste rushed to Aridela’s side.

  Numb with terror, Selene gripped the edge of the table.

  Whatever affliction struck Aridela affected Carmanor as well. He sank onto his chair, his face as sickly pale as the underbelly of a fish. His head drooped toward his chest; he clutched the sides of his face, his fingertips white as he pressed them against his flesh.

  “What happens?” The question echoed throughout the room. People muttered and gasped.

  “The boy is ill.”

  “Has she fainted?”

  Anxious conjecture flowed from the dais toward the back of the chamber like a growing sea-wave. “She speaks.”

  Selene lost her balance as dizziness made the room spin. She squeezed her eyes closed and gritted her teeth. Any moment, she feared, she would herself lose consciousness.

  The frightened voices echoed and grew faint.

  “What is she saying?”

  “Listen. Be quiet.”

  “There’s the healer.”

  “What happened to the boy?”

  Selene fought to clear her head. She opened her eyes. The dais swam before her like a dream.

  Carmanor was slumped on the table. Alexiare bent over him, shaking his son’s shoulder.

  “What omen is this you send?” Selene whispered. “Show m
ercy, lady. We don’t mean to anger you.”

  The only reply she received was a chill that spread through her body as though she’d dived into an ice-logged sea.

  Men lifted Aridela onto the litter. One of her small arms fell limply over the side.

  The queen wept. Themiste visibly trembled. They both looked nearly as ill as the princess. At first they held each other as though their legs couldn’t support them. Then Themiste released the queen. She covered her face with both hands and fled the room.

  Cries and shrieking cut through Selene’s skull like dagger blades. Everywhere she looked, women scratched their faces in the age-old manner of mourning a death.

  “Aridela,” she moaned. A lacuna expanded, dragging her into a formless gorge where nothing could be thought, felt, or known.

  For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world, and nothing can ever part us.

  Nothing can ever part us.

  Menoetius pressed the palms of his hands against his eyelids and gouged his fingertips into his temples.

  Nothing can ever part us.

  Like worms consuming his flesh, the words inched deeper. Behind them he heard the gruff roar of a lion. The voice became two, three, a cacophony.

  For longer than you can imagine/Nothing can ever part us/Together we/I will be with you/Nothing can/Longer than you can imagine/

  He couldn’t open his eyes nor speak, not even when hands pulled at him and voices begged him to respond.

  Themiste closed the door to her chamber and leaned against it. The wood felt rough, cold beneath her forehead.

  Blessed silence after hours of pandemonium. Stillness after horror and fear. The solitude of the underground soothed her flesh and mind.

  Here, deep in the labyrinth beneath the palace, she allowed her shoulders to sag. No one would see. Only a few trusted people even knew the whereabouts of these apartments. How she longed to go home to the mountains, to the cave shrine, away from these smelly crowds, fetid air, and heat. Away from turmoil.

  As soon as I’m finished, I will go. After I record what happened.

  Something moved, making no sound but alerting her by its sinuous gliding into the circle of light.

  “Here I am at last,” Themiste said, and knelt.

  The asp crawled into her hands. She brought it to her chest, and pressed her cheek to its body.

  “What does this mean to Aridela, to all of us? I wish you could tell me.”

  Io was the second serpent to bear the name since Themiste was named Minos. Priestesses relinquished their birth names when they committed themselves to service. So did sacred snakes.

  It tasted Themiste’s cheek with its tongue.

  Three times. The holy number.

  Write it down.

  Themiste crossed the room and lit another lamp. The glow illuminated a set of wall shelves filled with votive offerings, clay bowls, and miniature statues of Athene, Mother Goddess, she who long ago guided her people to this rich island. It was to honor her that initiates called Crete “Kaphtor,” which, in the ancient tongue, meant ‘Sea of Apples.’

  She felt along the bottom for the catch. One side of the shelves popped loose, releasing a draft of cool air.

  The revealed chamber stretched into the earth like a musty wormhole, dwarfing the lamp flame. Shelves held rows of fired clay tablets and stacked papyrus weighted with smooth blocks of obsidian. Farther in, the walls were pockmarked with pigeonholes, designed to hold rolled papyrus scrolls.

  Yes, record what happened, but not in the shrine ledger, which anyone can read. This event must go into the Oracle Logs.

  There it would remain, hidden from any eyes but the Most Holy Minos of Kaphtor.

  Concealed since the days of Kaphtor’s first colonization, the Oracle Logs held Goddess Athene’s instructions on olive grafting and how to combine tin with copper to form strong bronze. On these tablets, one Holy Minos recorded the horror of the earthshaking that felled all of Kaphtor’s earlier palaces and described how the intrepid people rebuilt, using what they learned from the damage to make their new walls and roofs more resistant to the rippling of the earth.

  From time immemorial, each Minos was given the task of inscribing her secret thoughts and fears, her visions, and the chronicle of Kaphtor’s people.

  Only one was allowed knowledge of the accounts. That kept them honest. When the chosen priestess was deemed ready to wear the mask of the bull and accept her new name and duties, the old Minos picked her own manner of death. Some leaped from the cliffs. Some plunged daggers into their hearts or drank enough poppy juice to usher them in sleep to Athene’s Paradise, the unfathomable red isle of Hesperia.

  Themiste pulled out a few sheaves of papyrus and carried them into the main room. She placed them on her worktable and fetched a clay tablet from her stack where they were kept damp, ready for her use. Positioning the lamp where it would give good light to her efforts, she sat, letting the serpent lounge across her shoulders.

  After the chaos at the feast, she wanted to revisit the past, to search for clearer understanding. She thumbed through the sheets until she found the one she’d written ten years ago, on the night of Aridela’s birth. Quiet settled around her as she smoothed it, brought the lamp closer, and began to read.

  “Watch for the birth of a child after a long period of prosperity and peace.”

  Minos Pelopia wrote these words long ago, the first year Kaphtor’s olive trees ripened and trade with other countries commenced. Hers was the first prophecy I was forced to memorize. I was only fifteen, bored with tedious daily instruction, resentful of all my obligations. I felt it a waste of time to memorize, word for word, something thousands of years old. Yet today, just before daybreak, this event came to pass.

  The child was born.

  A prophecy, written so long ago none living now can imagine such a passage of time, a prophecy dismissed by many before me as an error in sight, is unfolding in my lifetime.

  These people look to me to protect them from the tempestuous wrath of deities. I, Themiste, Minos of Kaphtor, have the burden of using my knowledge to divert evil and danger from our beloved land.

  I’ve been Minos but a few months. My teacher is dead. I am the youngest priestess ever to be given the bull-mask and marked with the oracle’s sign on my forehead. For the first time, I wonder: do I have wisdom enough for this?

  Pelopia’s prophecy continues:

  “This birth will be marked by lightning, which will cause the destruction of a sacred place.”

  This morning Queen Helice gave birth to her second daughter. I myself picked the name: Aridela, which means ‘Utterly Clear.’ Just after the birth, lightning struck the summit of Mount Juktas, shaking our world and leaving a smoking crater where the shrine once stood.

  The people have begged me for reassurance. They know not that I too am afraid; if lightning will strike in the night, without benefit of cloud or rain, how can we guard against it?

  It was hot and breathless in the queen’s chamber, with the midwives, fires and unguents. I stepped onto her balcony for a moment, and so witnessed the event.

  Above me, the sky was black but for the winking of stars.

  A faint hum drew my gaze upward. I saw a flash of crimson and green, so bright it blinded me. Pillars of flame shot up on the mountain and even from where I stood I heard the terrible explosion. Behind me, the midwife cried out. I returned to the chamber to find her holding the baby, exclaiming about a mark on her wrist that appeared to be a fresh angry burn, its shape a perfect miniature replica of the horns of a bull. The midwife swore it wasn’t there before, that it appeared at the same moment she heard the sound of the strike. I admit I cannot remember seeing this mark during the birthing, but the woman could be lying to cover some careless mistake she made.

  Pelopia’s prophecy returned to my mind. For the first time I recognized the value of memorizing it.

  Themiste’s serpent flicked its tongue int
o her ear. “Stop, Io,” she said, stroking its head. “Let me think.” Yet her concentration was broken. The words she read made no sense. Her neck muscles wilted under the weight of the fancy diadem she’d donned for the feast. Dangling ivory beads clicked softly as she removed it and laid it on the table.

  She rubbed her neck and stretched her shoulders. Though she didn’t feel old, at twenty-seven, this weariness carried a foreshadowing of age. She pictured herself as a bent crone. Every word she uttered would be listened to with respect. People would bow as she passed. Themiste laughed at the fancy as she prepared a stylus. People respected her words now. No one, not even the queen, held more power than she. Her titles were many—Most Holy Minos, Moon-Being, Keeper of the Prophecies, Oracle and High Priestess of Kaphtor. It was unlikely that she would grow old anyway. Oracles incinerated early from close association with the fire of divine beings, and gave over their strenuous responsibilities to younger, stronger women.

  She unfastened each ivory clasp until her hair spilled almost to the floor. Io reared in protest at this suffocating curtain, Themiste’s one secret vanity.

  Why did this day make her wish she could remember her birth name? She concentrated, trying as well to recall the face of her mother, but soon realized she was only postponing her work.

  “I’m tired.” Themiste closed her eyes. Sleep would overtake her if she weren’t careful. She must finish what she started. Then she could rest.

  She remembered writing these words as though she’d done it moments ago.

  I chewed the cara. I drank the wine and breathed the smoke, and let the vision take me. My priestesses could not rouse me until long after the supper gong sounded. At last I gave voice to revelation; Laodámeia chased the others out and recorded my words so I could study them when I regained my senses.