Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  I thought of things I wanted to say to his face,

  words that would shame him,

  wound him,

  make him burn

  like me.

  At last, they stopped talking. I stretched out on the grass.

  I itched and wiggled and twisted,

  tightening myself. Something bit me.

  I raked my sweaty skin.

  At last I slept.

  Long ago my mother told me

  dreams don’t mean anything,

  but if someone comes and stands over you

  on your right side —

  or maybe it’s the left side —

  I was young, I didn’t know left from right

  — but if someone stands over you

  it’s a dream from the gods.

  I saw the dream. Wavering, bright as a torch in fog:

  a girl my age. No, she was younger:

  immaterial

  the fluted folds of her tunic

  were restless and astir.

  Her hair was unbound,

  her eyes gleaming like an owl’s.

  On her arm and shoulder, a spiderweb of scars,

  an intricate pattern,

  the lines changing course like rivers.

  She kept her hands behind her back,

  hiding something.

  I’d seen her before

  but that night

  my mind was made supple by sleep,

  and I could remember:

  That first time: the slave market — I’d seen her there,

  her robe as bright as a bride’s,

  but too short; I’d thought she was a Spartan girl.

  I thought of Phaistus —

  It was as if some god

  seized me by the arm and towed me back.

  Then Phaistus bought me,

  and I forgot about her.

  And the second time: she was with Sokrates,

  in broad daylight, under the willows,

  swinging her feet,

  kicking up splashes.

  And the time I was drawing,

  the day Zosima came in barefoot,

  and caught me making a horse — !

  There were other times, too. I’d be hauling water

  or digging clay. Phoibe would lift her head,

  sniffing, her ears swiveling;

  I’d catch a glimpse:

  a glow like amber,

  a shadow like smoke in the air. But always

  there was something to distract me,

  and I’d forget.

  So there you were, Melisto:

  the dream standing over me,

  and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see you.

  I saw you close at hand:

  I could see your burn scars, your lightning marks,

  the mosquito bites on your legs,

  the freckles on your cheeks

  as you brought forth the thing behind your back —

  A terra-cotta horse. A toy.

  I seemed to feel the clay between my fingers

  cool, damp, tough; I imagined myself

  pinching the mane,

  making a crisscross in the belly,

  drawing out the legs. I thought,

  I could make that!

  My mind flashed ahead,

  like a child leaping over a stream. I imagined the toy finished;

  I painted it:

  two oval black eyes,

  dug-in nostrils.

  I’d paint that horse with spirals and stars,

  with jags of Zeus’s lightning —

  I saw myself in the Agora,

  my hands full of coins:

  being praised by my master,

  buying my freedom.

  I remembered you when I woke, Melisto,

  but my first waking thought was: the horse!

  TURN: HEPHAISTOS

  The boy’s first terra-cotta:

  a toy. He thinks, because he’s working on a toy,

  it will be easy,

  but he is one of my own,

  and anything,

  anything,

  anything,

  he makes

  will take everything he has:

  all his cunning,

  perseverance,

  tenacity, and mother wit.

  Look at him!

  He is fighting for his freedom

  — his fingers tighten like fists.

  COUNTERTURN: RHASKOS

  I thought it would be simple.

  A toy: a horsie for a rich man’s spoiled son;

  how hard could it be?

  I took the clay in my hands,

  but it fought me:

  slippery,

  obstinate,

  stone-cold,

  and my fingers were all thumbs.

  I squeezed and clawed,

  and plucked and pinched;

  I was tying myself in knots,

  doom-ridden —

  while the clay snaked through my fingers:

  my thought-horse galloped away.

  HEPHAISTOS

  He hasn’t learned to keep his mind on the horse.

  He’s all nerves. He’s scarcely breathing,

  trying to bully the horse in the clay.

  He ought to know better;

  a horse cannot be broken like that;

  a toy is not made by brute force.

  RHASKOS

  I thought the horse would be the straightforward part.

  The hard part: persuading Phaistus

  to give me permission to sell my work.

  Plus earning the money:

  hundreds of drachmas. It was hopeless.

  I couldn’t even make the horse!

  HEPHAISTOS

  How can I get him to see

  he’s not the one who will make the horse?

  It’s the passion he has for the horse

  that will summon the horse in the clay —

  RHASKOS

  The clay held out against me.

  No surrender. I started over.

  Stupidly. The horse was lost, was trapped

  in the maze of my thick Thracian skull.

  HEPHAISTOS

  Rhaskos, think of the child at play,

  and the joy he will find in the horse.

  Play with the clay.

  Just play. Imagine the horse . . .

  Now, gallop away.

  Think of rhythm and fire and force;

  power, spirit, and grace;

  the luminous eye and the fragrant breath —

  What in thunder is that?

  RHASKOS

  I was trying to find the horse —

  I was trying to draw out the legs:

  they were too short,

  too thick. The body was wrong, round as a bubble —

  the belly too large —

  Then . . . something got into my hands

  and what was meant to be

  a delicate head on a cresting neck

  became bloated and stout —

  BOTH

  A pig!

  HEPHAISTOS

  I am a god,

  but I didn’t divine

  the pig in the clay!

  Where did that come from?

  RHASKOS

  I made a pig!

  With the ball of my thumb,

  I dug in the ears,

  and hollowed the snout —

  HEPHAISTOS

  How did that pig get in there?

  BOTH

  Ha!

  RHASKOS

  How did that porker get out?

  HEPHAISTOS

  Look — he’s bewitched by the work of his hands —

  irresistible piglet!

  RHASKOS

  I made a pig, and that pig makes me laugh —

  It’s good. And now for the horse!

  STANCE: HEPHAISTOS

  He struggles — and his work is not in vain,

  persists — and I, the deathless god, applaud:

  Rh
askos the slave becomes a child again,

  and by his crafting hands becomes a god.

  1. THE RIVER

  Sokrates. I didn’t forget him.

  After the quarrel, I’d see him in the Agora,

  jabbering like a magpie.

  Once he saw me:

  His brow lifted, and his hand;

  his face split in a smile.

  I was still mad at him,

  hoping he wasn’t mad at me.

  When he wasn’t, it threw me off guard.

  I was relieved,

  but I was still angry.

  I thought I should stick to it,

  like a man. My heart was torn in two.

  I turned my back on purpose.

  There came a day —

  weeks had gone by. Sycamore leaves were crisping,

  the olives dark as plums;

  I was riding Phoibe,

  heading for the river to dig clay,

  and there he was.

  Facing me. Alone. Motionless. His head up,

  his eyes open

  but unseeing. His arms hung at his sides;

  it sent a shiver down my spine.

  I know there’s a thing called a stroke.

  A man can be struck down by a god;

  afterward, he can’t speak.

  He loses his voice and the use of his limbs.

  I thought Sokrates was struck down.

  I didn’t stop to think: What could I do against a god?

  I jumped off Phoibe

  and ran to him. “Sokrates! Sokrates!”

  He didn’t hear me.

  A slave doesn’t touch a free man

  unless he’s given orders.

  I yanked his hairy cloak,

  tugged on his hand;

  I jiggled it;

  he went on staring

  at the Invisible;

  he was like a corpse on its feet.

  I screamed, “Sokrates!”

  I thought of the river.

  I’d scoop up water,

  splash him, sprinkle him, drizzle it down his throat —

  I darted forward,

  stubbed my toe,

  fell —

  “Rhaskos!”

  His voice: deep and calm,

  and peaceful. I raced back to him.

  “You were standing there —

  just standing there, Sokrates!

  I couldn’t make you hear me!”

  All my anger, nursed for weeks,

  blown away

  like smoke sifted by the wind.

  “Rhaskos, I’m afraid I startled you.

  You caught me when my daimon was upon me.

  I have a daimon, you see, a spirit,

  a kind of sign;

  it comes to me, and I have to pay attention.

  The rest of the world falls away. I’ve had it since childhood.”

  I know what a daimon is. He didn’t have to tell me.

  A daimon’s like a mule,

  half god

  and half something else.

  “I know about daimons,” I started to say,

  “but I’ve never met anyone — ”

  Then I stopped.

  My thoughts began to spin

  and wobble

  like a pot caving in on the wheel.

  I blurted out, “Is it a girl?”

  Sokrates gazed at me in wonder.

  You probably think I’m boasting. I’m not.

  That very first day, when I drew the square

  he looked at me like that,

  as if I were something

  he didn’t know a slave could be.

  “I’ve missed you, Rhaskos.

  One of the things I enjoy about you:

  you never ask the same question

  everyone else asks.

  People have asked if my daimon is bad, or good,

  or why I should have one

  when other people don’t.

  But no one ever asked if my daimon was a girl.

  The truth is, I’ve never seen it.

  It’s like a voice I can’t hear.

  I seem to be listening. I am full of expectation,

  but it never tells me what to do.

  It stops me in my tracks.

  It’s a kind of holy obstacle.

  I don’t understand it,

  but I believe it comes from the gods,

  so I obey it. But tell me:

  Why did you think it was female?”

  “I’ve got one,”

  I said, and I don’t know why,

  but that was funny,

  so we laughed.

  Again, my tongue was freed:

  he was listening. I could tell him things, even crazy things

  because he was a little crazy.

  I told him about you, Melisto.

  He followed me to the river

  so I could dig clay.

  He sat on a sun-warmed rock

  and listened while I worked. He asked me questions.

  We wondered if you were a god. He made me laugh, because he said,

  when someone talks about a kettle, that’s easy,

  because every man means the same thing

  when he talks about a kettle.

  But when a man talks about something important —

  like courage, or justice, or the gods,

  half the time,

  he can’t say what he’s talking about.

  The higher and finer a thing is,

  the less men can say what it is.

  So it stands to reason that the gods —

  who are higher and finer than anything else —

  are almost impossible to talk about.

  But he thought we ought to try.

  He thought we should ask questions.

  There wasn’t anything so holy

  that he wouldn’t ask questions.

  “The gods are said to be beautiful:

  is your daimon beautiful?”

  I stopped with my spade in my hand. “She isn’t grown up yet.

  Her hair is mussed up,

  and she has scratches all over her legs.

  But I want to look at her. Her face has meaning . . .

  If I saw her clearly, it would be like finding out a secret.

  That’s as close as I can get.”

  “And you’re quite sure she’s someone you never saw before?

  In Thessaly, perhaps, when you lived with Menon?”

  “No. I never saw her there.

  I’ve wondered if she might be a ghost,

  but she’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to say that, Rhaskos.

  You say she follows you,

  and she visited you in a god-sent dream.

  Ghost or goddess or daimon,

  she must have something to do with you.

  Could she be one of your ancestors, perhaps

  a Thracian girl?”

  I wedged my spade in the earth. “She’s dark-haired.

  I think she’s Greek. Her skin is sunburnt, with mosquito bites.

  The more I think about it,

  the less she seems like a god.

  Why would a god put up with mosquito bites?”

  “A very good point, Rhaskos. Why, indeed?”

  “They wouldn’t.

  Even a daimon wouldn’t.

  She’s not like a ghost. She doesn’t look dead.

  Not pale or sickly or shriveled.

  Though she has scars — ”

  “Scars like yours? Thracian tattoos?”

  Trust Sokrates to have a sharp eye!

  I looked at my arm —

  crusty with dried clay —

  it was hard to see the marks that disfigured me.

  “My mother made those scars.

  I don’t know why she cut me.”

  “I do. They’re clan symbols,

  the marks of your tribe.

  I fought with Thracians in the war.

 
Many of the men had tattoos.

  They’re a sign of noble birth among the men.

  Another Thracian could read them, and know your lineage,

  and where your people come from.

  I haven’t the knowledge. But I’ve seen two Thracians meet,

  examine each other’s tattoos,

  and throw down their swords. A warlike people, the Thracians;

  fine musicians and good horsemen.”

  I shook my head from side to side.

  My head felt like a beehive. There were too many thoughts

  buzzing and zigzagging —

  Shadow flashes of that darkest night,

  the soot-black stall,

  the weight of my mother on top of me,

  pinning me down,

  cutting me,

  rubbing my wounds with ash,

  shock

  blood

  disfigurement.

  Now Sokrates was saying I was of noble blood.

  My darkness became light:

  My mother knew she would be sold —

  she knew we would be parted —

  she wanted to give me a name. A clan,

  a birthright, proof that my forebears were noble;

  I was too young to understand,

  so she carved the truth on my skin.

  “Rhaskos?”

  (You no longer seemed real to me, Melisto.

  Even Sokrates wasn’t real,

  but I knew he was asking me a question.

  A slave answers when he’s spoken to.)

  “Her scars aren’t like mine. They’re beautiful,

  patterned

  like the veins in a leaf. I’ve never seen scars like that.

  She showed me a horse, in my dream —

  a toy horse. I’ve been practicing . . .”

  but I couldn’t keep my mind on all that.

  “Are you sure about what you said?

  That my tattoos are a sign of noble blood?

  You said you’d fought with the Thracians —

  but they’re barbarians. They killed those boys at Mycalessus —

  they killed everyone, even little boys,

  even women and farm animals.

  I don’t want to be like that.”

  He looked past me so long, I wondered if

  his daimon had come back,

  but then he spoke.

  “Rhaskos, I’ve been to war.

  I’ve watched men fight, and I’ve fought myself.

  To be a soldier requires a fierce spirit.

  A kind of passion comes to a man during battle.

  A man fights, his fierce spirit roused,

  panic and fear on all sides —

  The best soldiers are like dogs;

  the fierce spirit obeys reason

  as a dog obeys his master. But sometimes

  a man tastes blood and becomes a wolf.

  I’ve seen men kill brutally and needlessly,

  Greeks as well as Thracians.

  Until men learn the love of wisdom — ”