Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “What’s your name?”

  “Melisto, daughter of Arkadios.” Melisto spoke proudly, as befitted the child of a distinguished man.

  “Mine is Elpis.” The girl wiggled closer, fitting her body into the curve of Melisto’s. “I saw you when we were on the Akropolis. You’ve got a necklace, too.” She pointed to a circlet of beads around her neck. “Mine is new.”

  Melisto had forgotten the amber sphinx. She cupped her fingers around the carved sphinx head.

  “Did your mother give you yours? Mine gave me mine.”

  Melisto frowned. “In a way.”

  “My mother gave me mine, because she’s going to miss me. She cried, and I cried. I didn’t want to leave home. But she says I’ll like it. She was a Bear when she was a little girl.”

  Melisto raised herself up on her elbow. “Did she tell you what it’s like?”

  Elpis shifted onto her back. She propped her legs on top of Melisto’s knees. The warmth of her childish body was surprisingly sweet. “She told me everything, but I’m not supposed to tell. It’s a secret, what it’s like being a Bear.”

  “But what is it like?”

  “We get to play outdoors all the time. The priestesses don’t care about us getting dirty or sunburned, because we’re Bears. Except, when we stop being Bears, and go home again, we have to stay indoors. Till our skins get pale. Then we can get married. But as long as we’re Bears, we can play outside. And we can have pets. I want a frog and a little rabbit. All the animals around the sanctuary are tame, because nobody dares hunt them. Artemis would punish them. Some girls like hunting, and they go out with bows and arrows, but they can’t hunt close to the sanctuary. Mother says the priestesses like wild girls, so they aren’t strict during the day, but at night we have to do everything they say, as soon as they tell us, and the best we can — ”

  “At night?”

  “Yes, because at night we play the games and say our prayers and do the dances for Artemis. If we don’t do them right, we’re disobeying Artemis. That’s bad.”

  “What happens if we’re bad?”

  “If we’re really bad, we get sent home. And we have to find the way back ourselves, and we might get lost. Or eaten by wolves. And even if we found our way home again, it’d be shameful for our families, and no man would want to marry us. No man wants a girl who wasn’t a good Bear.” Elpis gave a great yawn. “And even if we did get married, we might not be able to have babies, because Artemis won’t help. My mother was a good Bear, but I was hard to birth. She prayed, and Artemis saved her life, but she almost died. She said she loved me all the more, because she had to fight so hard for me.” Her voice was drowsy.

  “She didn’t say that,” Melisto said accusingly.

  “Yes, she did,” insisted Elpis. Sleepy she might be, but she was definite on that point. “She says it all the time.” She snuggled closer to Melisto and gave a little sigh. All at once she was asleep.

  Melisto’s mind sifted through the day. Thratta was braiding her hair; Lysandra was giving her the amber sphinx . . . By midwinter, her father might have a son. She shut her eyes at the thought and seemed to be back on the Akropolis: she heard the women cry out as the goat’s blood spattered the dust. Then she was walking by the grave markers outside the city, the butterfly perched on her arm . . . The butterfly’s wings were blue as rosemary flowers, and Korinna was smiling, that godlike, roguish smile . . . “Korinna,” murmured Melisto, and then: “Elpis.” These were the two new people in her world, and she must not forget their names. She repeated them to herself until she fell asleep.

  3. CAVE, GROVE, BRIDGE

  On the second day of the journey, there was thunder and downpour. The rain fell in veils that blinded the children and blurred the green of the trees. The four handmaids gathered the Bears and divided them into groups, locking their hands together. Korinna led her group to a steep hillside. Like a shuttle finding its way through warp threads, she tugged the girls between overlapping rocks.

  The girls shivered. Inside the cave, the air was dim, but Melisto’s owl eyes adjusted quickly. Korinna was counting the girls, touching each one on the crown of her head. There was a firepit surrounded by black stones. A rough niche held a clay figure of Pan, the god of caves.

  Korinna finished her head count. She untied a flask that hung from her belt and went to the clay image. She poured a few drops of liquid in front of it, her lips moving in praise to Pan.

  Melisto picked at the knot that fastened her himation to her back. She undid the cord and draped the bear pelt around her like a cloak. Wool grease had prevented the rain from soaking in. The inner folds were not even damp.

  Elpis tugged at her. “Do me, too.”

  Melisto snorted: an exasperated sound she had learned from Lysandra. She untied the cord that bound Elpis’s himation, shook out the cloth, and began to towel-dry the younger girl. Elpis’s skin was goose-pimpled; her body was as fine-boned as a fawn’s. Melisto had never been delicate like that.

  “This is the first cave you have seen.” Korinna’s voice echoed against the stone. “There are many in these mountains. As a Bear, you must learn to provide yourself with shelter and food. Before the battle of Salamis, the women and children fled the city. My grandmother told me how it was. The women who’d been Bears were able to help the others. They knew which plants were safe to eat. They knew the caves. If there’s a war — and there is always war — the wisdom you learn as a Bear could save lives.

  “The knowledge we give you is a gift. But it is secret knowledge, and you must not boast of it. When you leave Brauron, you will speak only of what all women know: wool work and cookery and the care of children. Once you marry, you will no longer be a wild bear. Marriage will tame you. But you will remember what you learn from us. In times of hardship, you will share what you know.”

  The girls listened gravely. Already Melisto’s imagination was at work, envisioning a city besieged by Spartans. She would be a heroine, stealthy and wise; she would lead her mother and Thratta to a cave like this one.

  There was a cache of firewood in the driest corner of the cave. Melisto followed Korinna and helped her carry the logs to the firepit. The priestess kindled a fire and told the girls to wrap themselves in their himations. Then she left them. She returned some time later with an armful of roots, ferns, and green plants.

  Melisto gazed at her worshipfully. Korinna was drenched, but she seemed refreshed, even exhilarated. Her skin gleamed with water, and she quivered like an animal, without seeming to notice that she was cold. She pulled her rope of hair around one shoulder and twisted it, squeezing out a small waterfall. Then she hunkered down and separated the plants into piles: one for each child and one for herself.

  Melisto saw herself performing the same action: dividing food for herself, Thratta, and Lysandra. She would give Thratta and Lysandra the same portion, not shortchanging the slave. She was eager to sample the plants, but found them sharp and tough. Some of the wild herbs stung the inside of her mouth, cutting her tongue, but leaving a clean aftertaste. Other plants oozed sap so bitter she was tempted to spit them out. She liked the dandelion flowers the best: they tasted like food, not grass. Elpis wrinkled her nose over the plants and ate little, complaining of hunger. In her heart, Melisto sympathized.

  The children prepared for sleep. The floor of the cave was sharp and uneven. The fire provided light and smoke, but little heat. Melisto wrapped herself and Elpis in a tight cocoon. The younger girl’s skin was icy. Melisto held her close, chafing her bare arms. At last the child grew warm, and she fell asleep.

  Melisto remembered Thratta’s words: I think some god has made you strong. She was proud of herself. She had eaten wild plants, and she was sleeping in a cave. She had never been afraid of the dark, and Korinna had smiled when she helped with the firewood.

  The following day dawned chilly and clear. The children rose at first light and shoved their sore feet into their sandals. They draped their cloaks over their wet chitons and r
esumed their journey, limping. Elpis was pale. She walked hanging on to Melisto’s hand, sagging against her, almost tripping her. Melisto wanted to shake her off, but something held her back.

  The fiery sun climbed the arc of the sky, opening the poppies and hardening the mud underfoot. Wind dried the girls’ tunics. As the day grew warmer, they shed their himations. They began to whisper and chatter; they picked up speed. Midmorning the procession passed through a village, and the villagers left their houses to honor the Bears.

  They fed the bedraggled children bowls of barley porridge sweetened with honey. Melisto savored every grain, licking her forefinger and scraping the bowl. Some of the village women gave offerings to the children. These were not gifts, but objects to be passed on to the goddess at the sanctuary. The most beautiful girls were adorned with ribbons: Elpis received three. The women made a pet of her, stroking her frizzy curls and praising her. They decorated her: a yellow ribbon around her right wrist, a scarlet one around the left. A sea-green ribbon hung in loops from the shoulders of her tunic. Elpis spun in circles, watching the ribbons float around her. Color bloomed in her cheeks.

  Melisto received no ribbons and understood why. She sat in the shade of a juniper bush and watched the younger girl twirl. It hadn’t occurred to her that Elpis was so pretty. She felt hoodwinked.

  After a brief rest, the handmaids gathered the girls, reminding them that they had lost a half day because of the rain. If they were to reach Brauron while the moon was still full, they must travel quickly, following the river Erasinos.

  The landscape was changing. Forest and foothills gave way to marshland. All her life, Melisto had looked up to the breathtaking height of the Akropolis, the Rock of Ares, and the Hill of the Wolves. Now the horizon was low and soft; the hills curved like the haunches of a sleeping woman. The sky was full of seabirds: shearwaters, pelicans, and herons. Melisto was aware of the wind, not because it blew hard, but because it stirred the leaves and the reeds along the river. There was a constant murmur in the air, not conversational, but secretive, intensely private.

  When the sun began to go down, the handmaids removed the bridles from the donkeys. The freed animals shook their heads, drawing together into a herd. The leader broke into a trot, and the others followed suit. In a few minutes, they were out of sight. A rumor made its way through the flock of girls: the donkeys were bound for the stables at Brauron, where they would receive their evening fodder. The sanctuary was near at hand.

  Korinna led the girls to the riverbank. The river curled, swift-flowing, but wide and shallow. Korinna told the Bears to strip naked, wade in, and wash themselves from head to foot. Melisto dragged her tunic over her head. She kick-splashed her way into the river.

  Once the girls had bathed, Korinna guided them to a grove of trees: olive, pine, pistachio, and willow. She ordered them to spread out their himations and go to sleep. As soon as her back was turned, there was a murmur of discontent: if the sanctuary was nearby, why not finish the journey? The girls were hungry: they wanted to see where they would live; they wanted to sleep in beds, with a roof over their heads.

  If Korinna heard their protests, she gave no sign of it. She stalked away from the grove with the dogs at her heels.

  Elpis came to Melisto and held out her wrists. She had neglected to untie her ribbons before entering the river, and there was a rose-colored ring around one wrist. The yellow ribbon had left a mark like a bruise. “Do you want to wear one of my ribbons?”

  Melisto’s eye strayed to the scarlet ribbon. It was her favorite color, but she wasn’t going to say so. “They’re not your ribbons. They’re for Artemis.”

  “They’re mine for now. I’ll let you wear one.”

  “They’re wet. You can keep them.” Melisto pointed to one of the willow trees. “Let’s spread our blankets under that tree. Nobody’ll be able to see us.”

  She parted the willow branches and ducked between, knowing Elpis would follow. Inside the trailing branches, the world shimmered. The young leaves were yellow-green on one side, silver on the other. Melisto squatted down and spread out the two himations. “Melisto,” Elpis said in a coaxing voice that Melisto was getting to know, “would you let me see your necklace? Up close?”

  Melisto hesitated. Over the past days, she’d grown aware of how heavy the necklace was. She wanted to take it off. “You can try it on, but you’d better give it back.”

  “I will.” Elpis knelt up to kiss her cheek. “You’re good to me.”

  Melisto didn’t know what to say. She dug her fingers into the grass and watched Elpis play with Lysandra’s necklace. The little girl crowned herself, tried the necklace around her neck, and tossed it lightly up and down. “It’s heavy, isn’t it? I like the way it jingles. Your mother must love you a whole lot.” She nuzzled the amber head. “I like the face part best. Is the lady Artemis?”

  “No. It’s a sphinx head.”

  “What’s a sphinx?”

  Melisto paused. She knew a sphinx when she saw it, but she didn’t know how to define one. “It’s a winged monster, only beautiful. They protect graves and ask riddles.”

  “What’s a riddle?”

  “A riddle’s like a question, but the answer’s a trick.” Melisto smiled as she remembered a riddle Arkadios once taught her. “Here’s one. I’m the dark child of a golden mother. I fly in the sky without wings. What is it?”

  Elpis shrugged. “I don’t know. What?”

  “You’re supposed to guess,” Melisto rebuked her. “The riddle’s about something that’s like a dark child, and comes from a golden mother. It can fly, but it doesn’t have wings. You have to guess what it is.”

  Elpis wrinkled her nose. “Is it your mother? Does your mother have golden hair like Demeter?”

  “No, she’s dark, like me. The riddle’s not about mothers, silly. It’s about a thing. What kind of thing floats upward, but doesn’t have wings? What rises up in the sky?”

  Elpis clapped her hands. “A bird!”

  “Birds have wings. So that’s wrong.”

  Elpis frowned in concentration. Then her face lit up. “A bat!”

  “Bats have wings,” Melisto reminded her. Elpis’s failure to find the right answer was balm to her soul. “The answer’s smoke. A dark child — you know how smoke is darker than air? And fire makes smoke, so fire’s like the smoke’s mother. The golden mother, see? And smoke rises up to the sky without wings.”

  She watched Elpis’s face as the child thought through the riddle. “Let’s tell the others!”

  “No.” Elpis was a nuisance; Melisto had accepted that, but she wasn’t about to share her. “What’s the point of a riddle everyone knows? From now on, this’ll be our riddle. I’ll only tell it to you. That way, we’ll be the only ones who know the answer.”

  “Tell me another one.”

  “Tomorrow.” Melisto couldn’t remember another riddle. She stretched out on the bear pelt. “Now give me back my necklace.”

  Elpis handed it over. Melisto curled her fingers around the amber sphinx head, fitting it inside the hollow of her palm. As her mind fished for riddles, she sank into sleep.

  Darkness fell. It was Melisto’s third night sleeping with Elpis, and by now they had the knack of it. Their bodies shifted and balanced, nestled and flopped; they slept like puppies from the same litter. Melisto dreamed of caves and a fluttering ribbon, a sea-green flame. She dreamed of Arkadios holding his infant son.

  Then her dreams were fractured like eggshells. The night was full of voices, rustlings and flares of light. Melisto sat up, alert.

  “What is it?” Elpis clutched her arm. Melisto shook herself free. The curtain of willow boughs stirred; the face of Korinna, lit by torchlight, hung like a mask in midair.

  “Come! Get up! At once!”

  Melisto grabbed her himation and rolled it into a ball.

  “Is she angry?” Elpis was half asleep. She sounded as if she might cry.

  Melisto shook her head. “No, but we have to
get up. There’s a rush. Get off the blanket and give me your belt. I’ll help you.”

  She snatched Elpis’s himation, rolling it tightly. She lashed it to the little girl’s back, yanking the rope into place. “Come on!” she urged Elpis. All around them, the girls were putting on sandals, tying their cloaks to their backs.

  The handmaids shuttled between them, their torches ablaze. One of Korinna’s dogs howled. The moon was high overhead; dappling the grass with light like frost. Yellow fire from the torches, streaming: white light cast from above. Melisto shivered.

  Korinna threw back her head and cried out like a wolf howling: “Ololyzo!” The word held no meaning, but called the gods to attention. “Ololyzo!” She whirled away from the pack, sprinting ahead. The dogs lunged forward, barking. The girls dashed after them, out of the grove and into an open meadow. Dew moistened their feet and their naked legs. Melisto fell and was up in an instant; Elpis kicked off her sandals. Breathless and damp and moonstruck they ran, trailing the priestess’s torch.

  There before them they saw it: the wide bridge, the foaming spring, the sacred cave and the temple. This breathless, headlong flight was their entry into Brauron. Just at the edge of the bridge, Korinna spread out her arms like wings. The girls stopped in their tracks, obedient as the dogs.

  “Ololyzo!” Korinna tossed her torch in the spring. It hissed like a snake. The priestess raised her arms to the sky and began to spin in circles.

  Melisto found herself spinning. Her unbelted tunic ballooned around her. She spun until she was dizzy. There was a tumult of sound: the liquid noise of the water, footfalls on soft earth, Elpis’s laughter. Korinna was singing a tune that surged and broke as she panted for breath. The ragged song reached an open space deep inside Melisto. It was a praise song for Artemis, Artemis the fierce and bright, the tall and chaste; Artemis the deer slayer, the strong-voiced; the protector of maidens, of stags and wolves and bears.