What’s the matter with me? I have brothers, she reminded herself. The men of Lokris were quite casual about their bodies, and several times she had glimpsed her brothers bathing or stripping down for athletic contests. But with Arion it was different. That moment at the spring had been a personal exchange between them that had felt—intimate.
She paused to wipe her brow, then went back to work with renewed energy. Why could she not make his image go away? Why this strange weakness in her knees? To distract herself, she imagined herself at home in Naryx. What would her life be at this moment if her name had never been drawn on that fateful day? With another set of threads on the loom of the Fates, her parents might by now have arranged a marriage for her. She’d always feared they would choose some old widower who wanted her only for the bearing of sons or somebody hard and cruel with little patience for women. Like her father. But what if they chose someone young—and handsome?
Unbidden, the image of Arion crept into her mind. She had taken him as much for granted as the trees, the rocks and stones of the mountainside. Why had she not noticed his beauty before? If the Fates had placed different threads on their loom for him, he might have been a free man with property—the very husband that her parents would choose.
In her mind she could see the wedding ceremony and even hear the wailing of the flutes, the steady beat of the drums and tambourines as the procession began. She saw herself veiled and decked in gems and garlands of flowers, being led forth between her parents toward the sacred moment when at last she would stand before her husband. And she saw him so clearly: Arion, wearing the long chiton of the bridegroom, his eyes meeting hers, looking not too different from the way they had just now at the spring: solemn, mysterious, full of deep feelings she could not read.
No! She flung the grinding stone aside with a force that sent barleycorns flying, and rubbed her eyes to shatter the images that could never be. A taste of bitter gall filled her mouth. Unjust Fates! There would be no marriage of any kind for her even if by a miracle she did reach home. And Arion, who could be nothing to her, who probably didn’t even like her, would leave her life forever when this time of isolation on the mountain was over. He had told her so.
She heard a stirring behind her. Arion reappeared, clean and damp and strangely subdued. He was holding the filled caldron. Without meeting her eyes, he set it on the ground near her.
He said only, “Here’s the water you needed for cooking.”
XXVIII
THE RIVER
U
On the morrow it rained. Tired of his long treks to the valley, Arion took his bow and went hunting. He hoped to kill something big, a boar or a deer, that he and Marpessa could live on for days, but after hours in the woods, he came back wet and cold with only a pair of squirrels and a small partridge.
The next day was dry, and he took a different route, heading south down steep slopes to where he had glimpsed the blue waters of what he’d learned was the Adramyttenos Gulf. It took hours to reach the base of the mountain. There he found a fishing village, a few huts clustered around a shallow cove. He approached a group of men who were repairing some weatherworn vessels.
“Who are you, stranger, and what do you want?” one of them asked warily.
Arion answered in the rough Ionian dialect he’d spoken in his childhood. “I’m a carpenter from a village yonder.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “I usually find work in Troy. But since the raid—” He shrugged. “Now I work where I can. I’ll lend you a hand if you can spare some food and fishing nets and lines.” The man who had spoken gave a silent nod.
Arion set to helping them, mending nets and boats, gutting and cleaning fish. Around mid-afternoon one of the men gave a shout. Looking up, Arion saw a huge, fast-moving ship with two tiers of oars. The men stopped their work to watch its passage north past the mouth of the gulf.
“I’ve never seen a such a big ship,” Arion said. “Where’s it from?”
The oldest man, looking troubled, said, “That can only be a Phoenician ship.”
“I’ve heard of the Phoenicians.” In fact Arion knew almost nothing about this alien people. “Two tiers of oars,” he added wonderingly.
“Aye, their ships are powerful. They command the seas,” another man said. “We rarely see them here, though. Most of their trade routes lie to the south.”
“They sail where they please, even to the edges of the world,” a third man added. “They don’t believe in our gods.”
The oldest man spat. “Certainly they have no regard for Poseidon! They cross the seas all year as if they owned them, with no fear of his wrath or his storms.”
“Are they marauders?” Arion asked.
“Not often,” came the reply. “They can be hostile, but they’re more interested in trading.”
Ships that cross the sea in winter! If he could find the Phoenicians, there might be a way to take Marpessa home.
Later, as he trudged up the mountain with dried fish, some precious salt, and fishing nets, lines, and hooks, an idea came to him. Tomorrow he and Marpessa could go fishing in the streams on the lower slopes. Perfect! he thought. Easy food, and a way to take her mind off fear and worry.
The next morning the air was heavy and the sky cloudy. Dark clouds rested on the mountaintop. As Marpessa crouched over the fire pit, trying to coax a flame from the embers, Arion came up to her, eager, smiling. “Marpessa.” She stared at him, astonished. He even forgot to call her Teukros. Now that she thought of it, he had not called her Teukros since the day at the spring. “Let’s go fishing. We’ll follow the stream down the mountain. It’s a long walk, but—”
Marpessa banked the fire and leapt to her feet. “Let’s leave at once. There’s some leftover bread. We can eat it on the way.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. She thought about being out in the open in a fierce storm. Looking at the sky, Arion said, “The storm is far away. I don’t think it’ll rain soon.”
“We’ll come back if it does,” she answered. “What does it matter if we get a little wet?”
Carrying the fishing equipment, they set off down the slope, following the stream bed lined with moss-covered rocks and boulders, overhung with pines and firs, ancient oaks, chestnuts and alders whose trunks were covered with climbing creepers, their crimson and gold leaves aglow with sunlight. Several times they had to ford small streams that joined the flow of the larger one. Arion, walking behind her, said, “Yesterday I saw a Phoenician ship, a large one that can cross the seas in winter. If we could find these Phoenicians—”
Filled with sudden hope, she turned to face him. “Oh, do you think we could?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t even know where to start.” A cloud covered the sun and painted the world gray again. “In the meantime you must keep your spirits up,” he urged. “Your mother would want you to be well and happy.” Then he added, so softly she barely heard, “As I do.”
Her heart gave a jump. I am happy, she realized, happy just to be with him. When she shot him a glance, his eyelids dropped, but the very air between them had changed. Her pulse quickened.
The sun came out again. Birds chattered in the trees. Once a partridge shot across their path, and Marpessa grinned at Arion, glad that he had not brought the bow. She heard scurrying overhead. Red squirrels leaped from limb to limb, carrying nuts and seeds to store away for winter. At times she and Arion heard, deep in the forest, the thrashings of larger animals, but none came near. When the sun grew hot, they stopped at the stream’s edge to scoop up mouthfuls of icy water. As they finished the bread, their eyes met in a solemn silence deeper than any words.
They walked on, Arion at her side now on the narrow animal trail. His arm brushed hers, and the touch sent warmth flooding through her. When she paused to look up at him, he stopped too, and something flashed in his eyes. He’s going to take me in his arms, she thoug
ht with a shiver of joy. But he only gave a little half-smile that made her heart catch, and as they continued down the trail, she felt a strange desire to brush up against him again to feel his warmth filling her with happiness. The trail narrowed so that they could not walk side by side, and he slipped behind her, but she was excruciatingly conscious of him, his breath, his every step. She felt his eyes watching her. She wanted to turn and look at him but dared not. An expectancy grew in her, deep in the core of her being, an excitement as keen and pure as the sun on the water, the wind in the trees. A loud rustling startled her, and a huge heron lifted from its concealed spot on the riverbank. As she watched its flight, her heart pounded with sudden, frightened joy.
At last the slope flattened out and the stream slowed. They came to a place where the river widened into still deep pools, a tamer place with less boulders, more spaces between the trees, and slender willows overhanging the banks. A place of peace, she thought. “Here,” said Arion, “we will find fish.”
Arion dropped the poles, nets, and hooks on the bank. The thought of teaching Marpessa to fish made his heart quicken. He would let himself touch her because he would need to place his hands over hers as she held the pole. Here is how you do it, he would say. But even as he imagined it, she reached down swiftly, picked up a net and a small sack, and said, “I’ll set a trap for minnows. We’ll need them for bait.”
His surprise must have shown, for she laughed. “My youngest brother, Diores, taught me when I was a child.” She strode to the river’s edge.
The sunlight vanished. More clouds were gathering, some gray and menacing. Arion saw a distant flash of lightning, heard thunder rumble from the mountains. He glanced toward the summit of Mount Ida, hidden in its crown of cloud. Gray lines slanted down from the clouds. It’s raining up there, he thought. Maybe has been all day. But the mountain peak was far away. Father Zeus, he prayed, withhold your storm from us! They would have to be quick about their business, for they were a long way from their camp.
He looked toward where Marpessa crouched. He could not take his eyes from her slight form in the wool tunic, her curls tossing in the breeze. He imagined caressing the sun-warmed nape of her neck. Her hands made swift scooping motions. She turned to smile at him. “I’ve got some, Arion. Maybe enough.”
He snapped out of his trance in a hurry, and as she came back to him, he busied himself with lines and hooks to make it seem that he had not been watching her. He divided the fishing equipment, then said, “You fish here in the shallows. I’ll go a bit upstream. I saw some bigger pools there.”
He headed up the bank to a deep green pool, its waters barely rippling in the breeze, the sun kissing each tiny wave with dazzling light. He baited his hook, dropped his line, and gave a sigh. It was the most perfect day he could remember. As his eyes wandered downstream to Marpessa, he felt lifted into some realm of gold. Then thunder rolled again, louder now. Zeus’s terrible voice coming through the clouds. A warning. There was tug of unease, almost of dread, in his stomach. A chill ran along his skin. The gods were reminding him that they could snatch all this away in an instant.
Standing under an overhanging willow that cast its shade on the water, Marpessa saw the lightning and heard the thunder. Gray clouds covered the sun, making the river look choppy and angry. Lightning flashed again suddenly, and thunder rolled just a few heartbeats after, threatening, ominous. But when the sun came out again, she sighed with relief. It’s still far away, she told herself. She waded in, catching her breath at the cold of the river, and cast her line. Arion gave a shout and held his arm high, dangling a fish. She smiled and waved. Whenever she thought he wouldn’t notice, she glanced at him, thigh-deep in the middle of a pool some distance away, his tunic hitched up to keep its edges dry. Her line jerked. She felt Arion’s eyes on her. As she pulled a trout from the water, she tried to make all her movements sure and skillful.
She rebaited her hook and went back, deeper this time. The breeze freshened, and the river sang its lapping melody. Its song seemed to grow louder, more intense—even urgent.
“Arion!” she called. “The river is singing to us!”
But he was staring up-river, his body rigid. Then he whipped around.
“Flood!” he bellowed. “Run! Get out!”
A roaring filled the world. Marpessa looked up in terror and saw a monstrous white-topped wave swelling and churning down the river toward them.
XXIX
THE FLOOD
U
For an agonizing moment she was paralyzed. Then she ran splashing to the willow, pulled herself out of the water, and clung in its branches, her gaze fixed on Arion as he raced for the opposite bank. Before he got there, the flood engulfed him. Her heart squeezed and seemed to stop. Then she saw his head and arms. The wave hurtled him toward her. She stretched an arm out. “Arion! Here!”
His eyes wide, he raced closer, out of control. He reached toward her, desperate fingers spread. Legs and one hand gripping the tree, she flung herself far over the water. Their fingertips grazed.
He shot past her.
Marpessa gave an anguished scream. She let go of the willow and launched herself into the flood. Icy water closed over her head. She came up gasping. The speeding current gripped her, sucked her into its churning waters, broken tree limbs all around her. A log struck her back, knocking the breath from her lungs. She wheezed, choked. Where was Arion? There! She stroked hard, adding her strength to the current. She went under, swallowed water, came up, caught a breath, swam harder. God of this river, save us! she prayed.
Almost there. But then he vanished. Oh, gods, help me! A leg appeared. She lunged, grabbed his ankle. Held on. Fought to keep her head above the flood. Tried to reach his head to pull it up. But she couldn’t. For many heartbeats they raced on the swollen river with all the other things torn loose from the mountain—roots, branches, the carcass of an animal. Downstream a deer was swimming with desperate strokes. A tree limb crossed their path, collided with them. For a moment they slowed, and she reached higher on his body, found a grip on his tunic. She grabbed the tree limb. Broken branches stabbed her. She felt a sharp pain in her arm—almost lost her grip.
Suddenly Arion’s head came up. He took a choking breath, caught the trunk, and pulled her arm over it. Their arms were linked. He tried to call out, “Hold—” But he was nearer the middle of the river, getting the brunt of the current. His words were washed away.
Something struck the log. His head vanished, reappeared. He gave a coughing breath. Waves splashed over his face. Marpessa tried to move closer but got jabbed in the ribs by a branch. She could only grip his arm, anchoring him to the log. His head was swamped. Oh, gods, how can he breathe? The roar of the flood filled her ears. Arion’s face was completely under, she couldn’t reach him. Arion, Arion! God of this river, save him!
Then she felt a tiny slowing of the current. She searched the shore—or where it should have been. The terrain had flattened, and the water spread out, murky and shallower. She tried to steer them in the direction of the land but made no gain. She stretched her foot downward, seeking the bottom. Nothing. She kicked frantically toward the shore on her right. Arion’s head came up. His eyes were closed. At once he went under again.
Oh, gods, he’s dead!
She touched solid ground, groped with her feet—was swept on. She tried again, found a grip. Planted both feet. She grabbed his hair, pulled his face out of the water, pushed against the current with all her strength. They inched toward land. Waist-deep now, she towed the log, holding Arion’s head up. At last she ran their log aground. With her final strength she pulled Arion onto dry land.
She lay at his side gasping for air. The moment she could breathe, she shook him. He was senseless, maybe not even alive.
“Arion!” she screamed. She rolled him on his side, pummeled his back. Water spurted out of his mouth, but he did not stir. She tore at his tunic, b
aring his chest, pounded on it. “Arion, Arion, breathe!”
No response.
“Oh, gods! Don’t let him be dead!”
As if a god had answered, she knew what she must do. She put her mouth over his, forced her breath into him. Again. And again.
On the fourth breath he gave a terrible lurching cough. His body heaved and he was sick. Then he drew a shaking breath. Another. He shuddered. But he was breathing.
She fell against him sobbing. Her cheek rested on his cold chest, his heart beating in her ear. Her body shook with his trembling. She reached her arms around him as far as they would go, scooping through mud, weeds, debris, it didn’t matter. She held him as close as anyone could hold another. It was not close enough. She must stop those terrible tremors that wracked him.
She covered his chest with her own body. She pulled her legs over his to give him all her warmth. After a long time his shudders lessened. His eyes stayed closed. She listened to his every breath, breathed in rhythm with him, murmured in his ear, “Arion, Arion! You’re on land. You’re safe now.”
She could lie there forever with him, they need never move again. They were both alive, and it was enough.
His senses returned slowly. Each breath seared his chest. His body was still in the cold grip of death. As he came awake, his eyes were closed and he saw nothing but the churning brown waters that had so nearly swallowed him. He remembered gripping the log, waves swamping him until he couldn’t breathe, his lungs filling with water, pain crushing his chest. He remembered seeing sunlit flashes from his life, the vineyards, the workers toiling, Thrasios’s harsh face; then his mother’s, bending over him; the old couple who had owned him when he was a boy. Then everything vanished in swirling blackness, and just before it closed in, he thought, This is death.
Shadow of Athena Page 15