Her heart clenches. The ancient words—their legacy—have survived through time. Once she’s gone, how will the people of Samothrace remember her? Just another cranky crone, blind and senile, who spent her youth in her wealthy household and her old age yelling at servants? As the end of her journey draws closer with every dawn, the burden of her choices adds up on her shoulders.
She once had a purpose. When did comfort overshadow duty? Do the little things have so much power that she forsook her legacy?
Her face burns, her fingers shake and Irene hopes her maid doesn’t notice. She searches amidst the books for her hidden treasure: a small marble statue of a woman holding a child. So similar to, and yet so unlike, the drawings of the church of the new God. Irene made a pledge once, like her mother and her grandmother before her. A pledge to the island and its people, a pledge to the One whose footsteps still echo on the mountainsides during the dark of the moon.
Perhaps it’s not too late. For the first time in her life, this pledge becomes more than words.
“Quoting Homer, Captain?” Her voice is barely a whisper. Did Merope hear her, busy sniffling and tidying up around the room? Irene grasps the armrest of her chair and sits down. “Oh, Captain. Hector was brave and noble indeed, fighting for his homeland. But how could you forget Hecube, his mother?”
This time, Merope hears her. “My lady?” Doubt clouds her voice.
Irene hears this doubt more often now, many times a day: has the mistress lost her mind? Not yet. She pats the soft seat of the stool beside her. “Come, sit for a moment. I have a secret to tell you.”
Slow, cautious steps approach her, and clothes ruffle as Merope sits down. “A secret?” The doubt is almost gone, overpowered by curiosity.
“A secret about the women of old.” Irene’s palm cups Merope’s shoulder, stiff under her touch. “Women like us, who watched for years the slaughter of their sons, brothers and husbands in a senseless war. And so they set to stop the madness.”
Merope sighs. “When did men ever listen to women?”
“We’ll make them listen.”
“But…”
She squeezes Merope’s shoulder. “Go and rest now. Tomorrow we’ll visit the old chapel.”
***
They leave at dawn’s first light, heading north. The morning breeze carries the scents of thyme, goat droppings and fresh bread. People greet them as they pass, their murmurs clear to Irene’s ears once they think they’re out of earshot. The women of Samothrace know where she’s heading, treading on the footsteps of others before her, their tales now legends and cryptic nursery rhymes. But the women know. And this journey is long overdue.
Just outside town, Merope tells her that they’re close to the three-way crossroads. Irene stops. Her soles tingle from the old magic that lies just beneath the dirt and her grip tightens around her gnarled walking stick.
“My lady? Are you well?” Merope exhales frustration. “Ah, we should have taken the mule…”
“Hush!” Irene raises her stick. “I’m fine. Just wait.” And she waits, heartbeat after heartbeat, until her soul rejoices and her blood runs aflame. For a long time, she had feared she’d never see them again. “Here they come.”
“Who? Where? There’s nothing here.”
“Hush!”
Through the mist of her left eye, transparent, luminous forms appear on the crossroads. Clad in garments of a long past era, they carry banners and wreaths, incense burners and baskets of fruits, chanting blessings to the Mother. They head downhill to the circle of marble columns, one sandaled foot in this world, one in the unseen.
Irene inhales deeply and follows—joins—the procession. Merope mumbles but rushes to her side, taking her arm, guiding her over roots and streams. The ghosts vanish when they reach the circle, the Aegean sunlight merciless to all the shadows of betwixt and between.
“Find the path,” she tells Merope. “It should be somewhere at the south.” She points with her stick, hoping it’s the right direction.
It takes a little searching, but they find the hidden path leading deeper into the woods of Mount Saos to a small chapel carved into the mountain rock. Once more, Irene’s feet remember the way and it’s she who leads, and her maid who follows. For a moment, her step falters, her gut clenches. She hadn’t been here in many years even before she lost her sight. Is her return a mistake? She steels her back and walks on, the captain’s voice still clear in her mind. Illiterate women. Heathen curses.
So we’ll see.
Every now and then a bird chirps, but otherwise nothing disturbs the stillness of this place. The air hangs heavy and warm around them, thick with whiffs of wild oregano and lemon balm. Whispers linger at the edge of hearing, speaking in a tongue familiar but long forgotten.
Merope lights their lantern. Once inside, into the heart of the rock, Irene feels at home. Like any Christian church, it is divided into two rooms, one larger for the worshipers and one smaller for the priest. But it’s not a Christian church—it never was.
Behind her, Merope gasps. “Holy Mother of God!”
“Yes.” Irene grins, and traces her steps to the drawing on the far wall. She doesn’t need her eyes to see it. She remembers every line, every stroke of the brush: the image of Panagia Gorgona, the Madonna Mermaid.
The Virgin’s face has the likeness of most church drawings: solemn, ascetic, a straight nose and almond-shaped eyes. A dark kerchief over brown hair, a widow’s black garments. In her delicate, long-fingered right hand she holds a baby. Her left, blackened and claw-like, holds a trident. From the waist down, she is immersed in a dark blue sea, with a scaly tail instead of legs. Boats gather around her, some intact, some sinking. Long before the Trinity, long before the Twelve, another ruled this land and sea. She never left.
“Be still and silent,” Irene tells Merope. “Better yet, be outside.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just sits down on the stone floor. She grimaces, her aching joints hindering every move. But she settles, and waits, counting the knots of her gnarled stick. Every knot a blessing to the Mother, every space in between a hymn to Kore, the Daughter. And every single heartbeat an offering and calling to the hidden face of the Goddess, the Lady of the Crossroads:
“O triple-voiced, triple-headed Lady,
Triple-pointed, triple-faced, triple-necked,
And Goddess of the triple ways, Black Bitch…”
Once more, Irene tilts her head sideways, searching the mists of her left eye for a sign. She chants in silence, she counts in darkness, but her prayer goes unanswered. Soon she tires, the stone floor too cold and hard for her hips. She has almost given up when the answer comes in a vision through the twilight of her left eye. It’s neither the Mother nor the Daughter, but a cranky old woman, clad in black peasant’s clothes, leaning on a walking stick; just like her.
“And what do you want?” No thunder and lightning, just the irritated cackle of a toothless hag.
Irene gulps. “O Lady, I’ve come to plead for our sons…”
The Goddess rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, men die in battle, women mourn their dead, and what else is new? Why should I care?” She points the stick at Irene, her dark eyes mirthless. “Why do you care? You never honoured your pledge to the people of this island, nor to me, as my priestess and their guardian. Why now?”
Irene licks her lips. “Lady, I—I…”
She holds the stick with both hands and leans on it. “Your son is safe. Why do you bother me?” Now her voice is thunder, her gaze lightning. “You come to me empty-handed, blind in body and soul, with your half-hearted chants? Foolish little woman!” She stands straight, no longer a hag but a Lady tall and mighty, wielding the storm. “But will you pay the price?” She raises the stick that is now a trident, and vanishes into a starless night, leaving Irene breathless and bereft.
Blood throbs in her temples. Denied? Forsaken? Air-hunger crushes her chest, and her left arm tingles until it goes numb. She tries to cry to her maid, but no
sound comes out. Is this death? Is she dying alone on those cold stones? No loved one holds her hand; no one mourns her passing. Her last feeling terror, her final memory regret. Broken promises. Meaningless life. Senseless death.
The price.
The grip loosens around her chest, her lungs draw breath, her head stops spinning. She calls Merope and she rushes in, brings her water, helps her to her feet. They sit on a stone bench by the door, her soul in turmoil. She can’t. She won’t. She values the tenets of her order, but loves her life more. Her little things: the taste of chamomile tea, the sunlight on her face, the smell of her old books, the warmth of her scrawny cat on her lap. Her son. Why should she give them up?
“Let’s go. We’re done here,” she tells Merope, and the bitterness of her own voice stings her heart. But the price is too high.
As soon as they step outside, Merope stops abruptly, and Irene trips and grabs her arm so she won’t fall. She opens her mouth to scold her maid, but realizes that the familiar silence of the area is gone. Now it’s filled with murmurs and footsteps, the ruffling of clothes, panting and sniffling and so many heartbeats: the women of Samothrace.
Honour your pledge.
Amidst the living, her left eye detects the shadows of the dead: her mother and grandmother, her sisters of old, the priestesses and keepers of the secrets. Now the dead stand abreast with the living. They close in on her, not threatening—only sad. Grieving.
Her grip on Merope’s arm tightens and her maid squeals.
“My lady, there are people here,” Merope whispers in her ear. “There’s Maro…”
Maro, the baker’s wife. She lost two sons to the sea, and now the Emperor claims her third, her youngest, while she weeps over the waves; no burial, no tombstone for the sons of the Aegean Sea. Irene’s own son is safe.
“…and Sophia…”
Widow of a sea captain, Sophia spent her youth washing other people’s clothes to pay their debts so her son would one day sail on his father’s ship. Now the Emperor demands both. Irene has never worked a day in her life.
“…and Eudokia…”
A young lass, pregnant to her second child, her first just a toddler. Her brother, lost at sea. Day after day, she awaits at the docks a word from her husband, who fights against the Cretan pirates. Irene has spent her days with embroidery and books in her house atop the hill, oblivious to the heartache over those who sail away.
“…and there is…”
“Enough!” Amidst all this suffering, the emptiness of her life scares her. Her little things seem to matter less now; did they ever? Did her life? She draws in a long breath and whispers her answer to the wind. “So be it.” Raising her chin, she speaks again, louder now. “Go back to your homes and families. Tomorrow, we gather at the crossroads.”
***
Come dawn, the women of Samothrace march to the three-way crossroads outside town. And so does Irene, unaided by her maid. A greater hand guides her steps now. She sits down and holds her walking stick in front of her with both hands. Many men pass by muttering, chickens stroll close, goats bleat in the distance. The sun has warmed her skin when loud voices come from the distance. She stifles a grin. Her son and his guest have heard.
“Mother? What is the meaning of this?”
Irene clenches her jaw, refusing an answer.
“Mother, get back in the house now. Have you lost your mind?”
Her grip around her stick tightens until her knuckles hurt. Grow roots. Become my anchor.
He calls one of his guards. “You! Take my mother to her room, and send the others away. I will not have this nonsense.”
She turns her useless eyes to the sound of the footsteps and hefts her stick like a woodsman’s axe. No one grabs her.
Someone clears his throat. “My lord, they’re just women.”
Theodorus grunts. “Do as you’re told!”
The same man speaks again, his voice lower now—pleading. “I mean, they have husbands and children and homes to tend to. How long can they possibly stay here? I know these women, my lord. Some of them are family. I beseech you, do not ask of me—of us—to use force on them.”
“I will not say this again. You have your orders.”
Weapons clank, clothes shuffle, and murmurs rise. Not women’s voices; the women keep the silence. The old men, with skin wrinkled and hardened by sun and salt, the goatherds and fishermen, are no strangers to the ancient magic that lies beneath their feet. They know better than this. They stomp their boots, hit the dirt with their walking sticks, and join the protest. Irene recognizes the voices, although she has no faces for them.
“You’d hurt your mother? What kind of man are you?”
“Leave them alone! What harm can they do?”
“Fine,” spits Theodorus and turns away. “I’ve wasted enough time on the foolishness of women.” Silence follows his footsteps.
Irene lowers her stick, triumph warming her blood. This time, she doesn’t stifle her grin.
***
Hours pass and her joints have stopped hurting—she can’t really feel her lower body anymore. She’s counting again the knots of her stick, reciting in her head the words of Homer and Pindarus. Merope brings her a shawl and drapes her over her shoulders, pleading her to eat. Irene keeps her silence. Later on her son returns, but this time he’s not alone. His guest keeps his distance, but Irene can hear them loud and clear.
“How long have they been sitting there?” Suspicion clouds the captain’s words.
“Since this morning,” says Theodorus, and adjusts his mother’s shawl over her shoulders. Then he lowers his voice, so only Irene would hear him. “Mother, please. Haven’t you humiliated me enough?”
Irene doesn’t acknowledge his presence, but her heart bleeds. She will miss her boy.
“And what are they supposed to be doing?” The captain sounds closer now.
“I assume it’s their protest. I don’t really know. None of them has spoken a single word since they gathered here.”
“And you tolerate this? Call your guards.”
Indignation edges her son’s voice. “My guards, Captain, are just boys, since the Emperor has left me hardly any grown men. Those women are their mothers and sisters.” He sighs. “Our women are a strange breed. Legend has it that, in ancient times, amazons lived on Samothrace and Lemnos.” He speaks with a softer voice now. “Besides, I expect them to disband any moment now. It’s almost night. They have families to go back to.”
A new voice: Father Isidorus. “Good evening, sire. Captain. I fear I bear ill news.”
It has started, and will end in lightning and thunder.
The captain snorts. “What now? Are your goats protesting too?”
“The men speak of strange happenings all over the island: fresh milk turns sour, the cheese won’t curdle, and the sacks of grain fill with worms. The children are crying for their mothers, the hearths are left cold and the dogs howl for no apparent reason.”
Oh, all those little things… Irene would grin if the muscles of her face hadn’t gone numb too.
“Oh, sweet Mother of God!” Theodorus stomps his foot. “Why are you telling me this, priest? Why are you wasting my time? Don’t I have enough concerns already?”
“Have you seen signs of insubordination?” The captain’s voice is lower now—dangerous. “Have you heard words against the governor and the Emperor?”
“No, Captain,” says the priest in a small, squirrelly voice. “Only what I’ve told you. And…”
“And?”
“They… they said they’ve heard whispers when no one’s around.”
Doubt mingles with amusement in the captain’s tone. “Whispers?”
“Whispers at the crossroads, women’s voices chanting in a strange tongue.” His voice falters. “I heard it too.”
Irene’s eyes water. The Lady of the Crossroads—she sits with them.
“Oh, for the love of—” The captain storms away.
Theodorus sit
s down by his mother, first whining, then pleading. Later on, when he tries to pick her up, he finds that he cannot move her.
Irene’s hands are stiff around her stick. My roots. My anchor.
***
Irene loses track of time, her body numb, her mind drifting away. Sometimes she sees shadows through her left eye, sometimes she hears whispers of things she should know, but doesn’t remember. Her son sits with her during the night, even through the cold hours before dawn, when the chill gnaws on bones and pricks the aging joints. Often, people come and tell him things, news and reports. She barely hears their words, but she knows. They speak of little things and great things. Her weary mind can no longer tell the difference. Perhaps there isn’t one.
All around the island, the goats have no milk, the hens lay no eggs and the fishing boats come back empty. During the past night, people claim that the souls of the dead walked alongside the living. Long-dead hags came back to wash their shrouds in the ponds and tend to their animals, their chickens trembling feathered bundles in their pens. And just before dawn, a strange litany of souls was seen marching downhill, carrying banners and wreaths.
And still, Theodorus sits by his mother, even when the north winds picks up.
On the morning of the third day, the storm comes.
“Now you’re stuck with us,” Theodorus tells the captain, when he comes back complaining. “The sea around Samothrace is merciless. No ship leaves port until the winds calm down.”
Cursing, the captain storms away.
By nightfall, the other women have left, and her son too. Only Irene remains under the heavy rain, her long hair loose in the wind, lashing her face. Her old bones feel no cold; she’s one with the island now. She sits straight, her shoulders squared, her oak stick propped up on the mud.
Strong hands try to pick her up, to carry her inside. Her son pleads, threatens, prays. In the end, sobbing openly now, defeated, he covers her with a blanket.
“I should have known,” he mumbles and flees for shelter. “I should have known.”
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