Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  She hunkered down beside me. She was clumsy, these days,

  because her belly kept surprising her,

  throwing her off balance.

  She pressed her palm on the ground.

  “Is it about last night? Did you hear me arguing with Phaistus?

  Listen. Phaistus isn’t going to sell you.

  I’ll make him change his mind.

  In his heart, he doesn’t want to. He cares for you.

  He’s proud of you. He’s just worried;

  he’s afraid of losing his freedom.

  But you have nothing to fear,

  and no reason to beg. I’m your mother.

  The first day you came to this house, I knew it;

  It’s my duty to take care of you, and I will.”

  “It isn’t that. No, it is that,

  but —

  I need you to believe me. I can save us:

  all of us: you, me, Phaistus —

  I can find him a protector.

  We won’t have to go away. We won’t lose the shop,

  and someday, I’ll be free. This is my chance;

  I’ll help Phaistus, and in turn he’ll set me free!”

  “How?”

  “I can’t tell you. That’s the trouble.

  There isn’t time, and I have to leave the city.

  Except —

  Phaistus will think I’m running away —

  and if the guards see me leave through the city gates —

  at this hour — without taking the donkey —

  I’m not running away. I swear it.

  I’ll be gone less than a week. I’ll come back.

  You have to get me past the guards,

  so they won’t think I’m a runaway,

  and you have to tell Phaistus not to come after me.

  I swear by Bendis, my mother’s goddess,

  and by Hephaistos, who guides my hands —

  I’m not lying. I’ll come back — ”

  She shook her head.

  “You have to tell me more than that!

  What should I say to Phaistus?”

  “I don’t know! But I’m doing this to help him.

  I’ll find him a protector and come back.

  Tell him that. He trusts you — ”

  “I don’t — ”

  “I can’t explain. It doesn’t sound true.

  The one who guides my footsteps is a shade.

  I’ve seen a ghost. I know it sounds crazy — ”

  She opened her mouth. Not a sound came out.

  She laid her hand on her belly,

  which was round as a full moon.

  People look different in the darkness;

  in that dark, she was beautiful,

  the veil framing her face,

  the gleam of her eyes, the gloss of her skin.

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t. Pyrrhos,

  if I let you go, and you never come back — ”

  “But I will come back! I promise!”

  I thought of what Melisto said:

  Give her the thing she wants most in the world,

  and she won’t deny you.

  It was as if a wave turned over in my chest,

  and the words spilled forth. “If you let me go,

  when I come back, I’ll be your son:

  Slave or free, I’ll love you;

  I’ll love you as a son loves his mother,

  and be brother to your child.”

  Those last five words came hard,

  but the others —

  I was making a promise I wanted to keep,

  That I’d already kept and kept hidden.

  She sat very still,

  her head tilted to one side,

  a bird hearing birdsong. Then she shook herself,

  flattened her hand to the earth,

  and shoved herself to her feet.

  “You’ll need a cloak.”

  3.

  We parted at the Sacred Gate.

  Zosima bade me farewell before the guard

  and gave me a bundle to carry:

  a loaf for the journey,

  a moist lump of cheese.

  She said to come back as soon as I could.

  Her voice shook. I promised her,

  “I will come back.”

  I passed under the arch, wondering what she would tell Phaistus.

  Would he be angry? (He would.)

  Would he send slave-hunters after me? (He wouldn’t.)

  I passed the tombs on the road

  and thought of Sokrates,

  how he said we could bury him any way we liked —

  if you can catch me!

  if I don’t slip through your fingers!

  Then she was beside me: Melisto.

  “Follow me!”

  She was off. There were others on the path,

  farmers bringing their wares to the city,

  pilgrims heading for Eleusis —

  they couldn’t see her.

  She dodged past them, whirled around, dancing backward,

  frisking like a goat. Beckoning,

  prancing — I was reminded of

  being a child,

  of tag, and Do-What-I-Do —

  but my goal was to go unnoticed.

  I dragged the cloak over my head

  to cover my Thracian hair

  and plodded after her. I felt like a drunkard the morning after.

  Dizzy and dry-mouthed,

  I walked with grief on one hand

  and hope on the other. It was too much —

  but there ahead of me was that hoyden girl,

  Melisto.

  The sun rose, and the grass was wet with dew,

  the wind fresh and gusting;

  The poppies were in bloom, scarlet and black-eyed.

  Melisto stopped to tickle them. The petals passed through her skin.

  She couldn’t grasp them, but the color blazed out,

  staining her fingers.

  Our path slanted upward. We were headed for the mountains.

  Away from the city, the crowd thinned,

  until we were alone. Then she bounded forward,

  leaping like a dog let off its chain.

  I had to catch up. I couldn’t risk losing her.

  She ran with her fingers outstretched,

  growling like a wild beast, giggling.

  I pursued her, my bundle clamped under my arm.

  The ground smacked my feet. Pebbles skittered underfoot.

  My muscles stretched

  air filled my lungs,

  and I outran my grief. The world opened up

  speed and wind and sunlight. I thought, Freedom,

  a thing without pictures,

  but this is what sticks in my mind:

  the two of us

  rushing under the sky,

  sharp-edged meadow grass

  red streaks of poppies

  a wide blue world full of air.

  Melisto dashed back

  breathless

  to point out a patch of hairy leaves.

  “These are cat’s-ear. Good to eat!

  And here’s wild garlic.” She made me taste.

  From time to time, she had me mark the trail,

  anchoring sticks under rocks. I pulled threads from my cloak

  and tied them to tree branches.

  “Here! You can see!

  This is where the girls passed on their way to Brauron — ”

  Again she pointed

  and in my mind’s eye, I seemed to see what she saw,

  a trail of molten silver, or shining dew,

  the marks of small maidens’ feet.

  She spoke of Brauron,

  of how she served the goddess as a Little Bear.

  It was the happiest time of her life.

  Until she went to Brauron, she was kept at home,

  weaving in a yellow room.

  She wasn’t allowed to go outdoors,

&nb
sp; because she was a girl.

  I was surprised to hear myself speak.

  “I wasn’t allowed indoors.

  Because I was a slave.”

  “I used to sneak out.”

  “So did I! Back in Thessaly.

  At night I taught myself to swim.

  At night I used to sneak into the house!

  My first master —

  he might have been my father — ”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, he never spoke to me.

  Never owned me. I didn’t care!

  Except he had paintings in his house — I cared about them.

  I used to sneak inside at night and look.”

  We were night-wanderers, both of us,

  rebellious,

  refusing to stay put.

  She told me about her Bear:

  how she defied the priestesses

  and set the bear free.

  “Weren’t you afraid that Artemis would punish you?”

  “No! I love Artemis! She didn’t want the bear to die!”

  She loved the bear the way I loved horses.

  We were rebellious, but we worshipped the gods:

  she made garlands for Artemis

  and sang to her under the white moon.

  I went in secret to Hephaistos,

  hid my toys inside his temple;

  I prayed he would help me make good things.

  I told her about the Kiln God —

  who was unpredictable,

  and burned my pots.

  She listened.

  She listened as if I weren’t a slave.

  She told me about her father —

  her faith was founded on him

  as flesh is hung on bone.

  She swore he would help me. She trusted him.

  She pitied me because I had no father.

  “I think Sokrates was your real father.

  He spoke to you. He liked to talk to you!”

  When she spoke of Sokrates

  my heart twisted in my chest.

  I ran ahead, so she couldn’t see my face.

  “I’m hungry.”

  I chose a spot in the shade, sat down,

  and tore off a chunk of bread.

  Two silver obols fell out of the loaf:

  Zosima must have slit the crust with a knife

  and tucked them inside.

  Melisto flopped down beside me. She fidgeted.

  I offered her cheese;

  it was warm and runny;

  it wouldn’t last. Might as well eat it up.

  “I can’t eat. In the stories, they say that shades drink blood —

  but I don’t. I only like the smell of food,

  the way the gods do, I suppose.

  I still don’t know much about the gods.

  But I can see how that cheese —

  how the strength of the goat

  and her mother-love

  made the milk . . .

  Now you eat, and the goat-strength

  flows into you. It brightens you up.

  You feel better, don’t you?

  I don’t think we should be sad today.”

  She pointed at the sky.

  Against the clear blue, a bird in flight:

  the neck a double curve, the wings silver-blue.

  “See? that’s a heron!

  and it’s on our right side. That’s a good omen.

  There are lots of waterbirds at Brauron;

  they’re sacred to the goddess.

  I think Artemis will help us. She loves freedom.”

  She reached for a stem of grass,

  as if to pluck it

  and nibble the sweet pale green —

  but the blade never stirred. She frowned at it.

  Then she laughed.

  “I haven’t talked to anyone in such a long time.

  It’s been lonely.”

  I was afraid to know, but I still asked.

  “What’s it like to die?”

  She raised her eyes to the mountain,

  as if words might come tumbling down the slope.

  “It wasn’t how I thought it would be. When I was little,

  I’d lie in bed at night, and the dark would scare me.

  I thought there might be Spartans under the bed,

  and they’d kill me.

  I heard stories about the House of Hades —

  everything dim and lifeless, hopeless.

  It frightened me so I couldn’t sleep.

  I thought dying would be a great weight,

  a grinding pain that went on forever.

  But it happened so fast.

  For me, I mean. It was raining so hard, and I was dancing —

  and I was soaking wet. My skin was icy;

  rain streaming down, and then there was this heat — ”

  She shuddered.

  “And then I was looking down at myself, and I thought,

  I fell down,

  and I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get up.

  The bear was panic-stricken —

  you know how they run,

  like a ball bouncing, rocking up and down;

  I wanted to run after the bear —

  but I couldn’t. I slept,

  and my dreams were curious, very clear and bright —

  You know how you can dip a pebble in water,

  and see colors in the stone you never saw? . . .

  My dreams were like that. I kept remembering things,

  things I’d forgotten, but now they made sense.

  I was deep in my dreams, and I didn’t want to wake;

  I wanted to understand.

  “The next day came, and the priestesses found me

  and wrapped my body in a cloak —

  and I thought, They’ll tend me,

  and I’ll be well again.

  They did things to my body, washed it and anointed it,

  and I felt very tender toward my body,

  because I thought I might need it later on.

  They loaded it on an oxcart —

  and brought it back to Athens

  so I could be buried.

  “My mother was afraid to touch me.

  There were burn marks on my skin — see?

  The marks terrified her.

  She tore her cheeks with her nails. She wept —

  but she was afraid of Zeus’s lightning.

  Your mother was the one who prepared me for burial.

  She didn’t cry, but I felt the love in her hands.

  “I was starting to understand: I wasn’t alive.

  I had a strange feeling

  as if there were somewhere I had to go.

  I remembered stories about the underworld,

  I didn’t want to go there.

  I tried to stay awake, but I kept dreaming —

  I saw Hermes, Guide of Souls — oh, he was beautiful!

  He stretched out his hands like a juggler,

  as if he wanted me to play with him! —

  but your mother called me back.

  She set her curse on me.

  She wanted me to find you and set you free;

  that was the deepest wish of her heart.

  Your mother was good to me.

  I felt I owed her something.

  “You know how it is when you have to stay awake?

  only you can’t?

  I’ve had to hold on; I’ve had to keep myself

  from slipping away, like water soaking into the ground.

  But I’m awake now. Something’s happening.

  I’m not a bystander anymore. I can help you.

  I think if I can set you free, I’ll be free, too.

  “But I don’t know where I’m going,

  or what it will be like.

  I want to tell you the things I never told anyone,

  in case this is my last chance.

  When I was alive, I didn’t talk much.

  So much of what I fel
t was a secret.

  I think that’s what I loved about the bear.

  Neither of us had any words.”

  I put the last lump of cheese in my mouth.

  It was salty. I turned it with my tongue,

  wishing I had a drink of water.

  “I don’t talk, either.

  If you’re a slave, no one listens.

  No one asks questions. Except Sokrates.

  But even Sokrates . . . I wanted him to think I wasn’t stupid,

  so I was always trying so hard — ”

  She nodded fervently.

  “I know. I know.”

  Then she looked at me,

  waiting for me to go on.

  I held up my left arm. “I have scars, too. Tattoos.

  My mother made them. They’re a mark of honor,

  a sign of my kinsmen back in Thrace.

  My mother was wellborn. She wasn’t always a slave.”

  I told her about my mother,

  how she used to teach me and play with me.

  I counted to ten in Thracian.

  She spoke of her mother, Lysandra,

  who was like Menon:

  carrying hatred like a hidden knife.

  “I always knew she hated me.

  She knew it, and I knew it,

  but no one else was meant to know. It was a secret.”

  She told me. She was a citizen’s daughter,

  but she knew what it was to be slapped and pinched

  and yanked around. She’d had her arm broken.

  I pitied her because of her mother;

  She envied me because of mine.

  “But it isn’t just parents who shape our lives.

  It’s our children. They say a girl who dies without giving birth

  will never rest in peace, because she isn’t whole.

  I don’t think that’s why I’m a shade,

  but it might be. Here’s what I think:

  I died before my first woman’s bleeding,

  so I’ll never have a baby,

  but I gave birth to the bear,

  because I set the bear free.

  And I’ll set you free, Rhaskos,

  and in time, you’ll give birth,

  so I’ll have grandchildren:

  clay animals

  and pictures painted on clay, red and black:

  pictures of the gods that live forever.

  Maybe one day you’ll marry Zosima’s daughter,

  and have children with her —

  they’ll be my children, too,

  because I set you free.”

  “Zosima’s daughter?

  You think I’ll marry Zosima’s daughter?”

  “No, I’m teasing you!

  I don’t know the future.

  Even the gods can’t tell what’s to come.

  I don’t know who you’ll marry, or even if

  — if you’ll really paint pots,

  if you’ll ever own a horse.

  “All I know is, that baby smells like a girl.

  Phaistus will be disappointed.

  Zosima won’t.”