Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  She knew Phaistus and Zosima. Why wouldn’t she?

  She’d watched me for three years.

  She didn’t know about my life in Thessaly —

  that was before she died.

  She’d ask a question, and I’d answer it —

  and when I ran out of breath —

  because the path was steep —

  she’d talk, telling me about her life —

  — and I’d interrupt her, and our voices overlapped.

  We told our secrets, and they shifted shape,

  changing into stories. She led me to a stream,

  and I drank cold water till my stomach ached.

  On the bank, I drew her a horse,

  and she breathed admiration and said:

  “Oh! That’s good.”

  I turned my head to hide the grin on my face.

  We headed up the mountain track.

  The sun-horses raced across the sky.

  I couldn’t believe how easy it was, being with her.

  She was a citizen’s daughter,

  and she was a girl. I’d never talked to a girl in my life.

  I thought they were different,

  But she was more like me than anyone I ever knew.

  The sun-chariot blazed and plunged over the mountaintop.

  We found another spring.

  I gathered the plants she showed me,

  dandelions, asparagus, and wild onions.

  I gnawed them till my jaws were sore.

  She showed me how to strip pine boughs from a tree

  and make myself a bed.

  She sat close to me as I slept,

  a torch in the night.

  4.

  She woke me in the middle of the night.

  “Rhaskos?”

  “What?”

  “Get up! Come with me!”

  I wanted to sleep,

  but she stuck out her hand;

  that touch that sent sparks flying,

  crisped the hair on my arms,

  and set my teeth on edge.

  “What is it?”

  “The sky!” She leapt up and pointed:

  the heavens aglitter:

  stars singing and trembling

  like bees near a hive.

  “See? The Great Bear! Get up!

  I have to teach you the Bear Dance!”

  She was after me then,

  tracing patterns in the sky.

  The Great Bear, the Little Bear, and Ariadne’s crown.

  I rubbed my eyes. I had no idea

  which stars she was pointing out.

  Who teaches constellations to a slave?

  I wanted to sleep. I yawned and grumbled,

  but she was adamant,

  stretching upward, fingers splayed

  as if she meant to scoop down the stars,

  stab them with her forefinger,

  and pin them to the earth.

  She made me see the patterns.

  Then, all at once, she was dancing —

  “Your hands. Like this. Like claws.

  Stamp your heel on the ground,

  heavy. Curl your toes!

  Lift your hands to the sky!”

  By the gods, she made no sense,

  but I obeyed her. It was as if some god

  made her teach me that dance,

  It was as if some god

  made me learn it.

  I danced as a Bear,

  hruffing and snorting and clacking my teeth;

  my knees drawn inward,

  my claws held high,

  the stars caught between them.

  So Melisto danced on the night she died;

  so Melisto danced with the bear she loved;

  so Melisto danced when the god struck her down.

  I danced till my body was slick with sweat,

  salty and ripe.

  I stank like a bear — I know that —

  but at last she dropped her arms

  and sighed

  and let me go to sleep.

  5.

  Morning came. I ate the last of the loaf,

  wiped dew off the grass, and licked my palm.

  I was still hungry,

  but the sky was stippled with saffron and milk,

  and the wind was fresh. Again we walked

  and talked. I never talked to anyone like that.

  No one ever talked like that to me.

  I talk to you still, Melisto.

  I’ve been talking to you ever since.

  We spoke and we were silent;

  the path was steep,

  robbing me of breath.

  She pointed out caves in the mountain —

  narrow entrances I might have missed.

  “On the way back, if it rains — ” Looking back,

  I see both of us knew

  I would come back alone.

  She was less giddy that second day,

  more thoughtful,

  gnawing her upper lip.

  The caves reminded me of Sokrates,

  and I told her what he said,

  that maybe we were like people who lived underground,

  who’d never seen the sun, just shadows.

  I told her how Sokrates died hoping to see another world:

  a country of health and truth

  and absolute beauty. “See, if Sokrates is right —

  and he was the wisest man in Athens, the Oracle said so —

  maybe the House of Hades isn’t what we think.

  Maybe it isn’t sorrow and nothingness. Maybe it’s full of power

  and color

  and animals!

  Maybe when you go there, you’ll see a real horse!

  — or a bear as big as the Bear in the sky

  all stars and claws!”

  She grinned. “I’d like that.”

  Then she stopped and gazed all around

  turning slowly:

  the wind herding the clouds over the blue sky,

  rock and root underfoot;

  each pebble, each stalk of grass

  haloed with piercing light.

  I knew what she was thinking.

  There was nothing I could say, so I said nothing.

  We journeyed on, and the countryside changed,

  It was a female land: secretive, soft and wild,

  The path was less steep, and I was grateful.

  The reeds murmured ceaselessly. I saw pelicans,

  a kingfisher,

  a nest of quail.

  We stopped beside a river, and I waded in to drink.

  She told me to bathe my sore feet

  while she looked for the willow tree

  where once she camped with a girl named Elpis.

  She had only a few friends, when she was alive.

  She was like me that way.

  Almost at once, she cried out,

  beckoning with both arms.

  “It’s here! in the grass!”

  The grass was lush and green:

  a tangle, a hiding place,

  but gold, pure gold, doesn’t darken,

  and I tore apart the tussock:

  a sphinx head of reddish amber,

  carved by a master —

  the cut of the nostrils,

  the austere curve of the cheek,

  a spear-point crown,

  and the gold:

  twelve palmettes on a leather string;

  so much,

  so heavy.

  I’d been afraid the necklace would be too light a thing

  to buy a boy’s freedom. Now I held it in my palm,

  weighed it, admired it, almost feared it.

  Each gold palmette

  was thicker than a drachma, solid gold —

  and there were twelve,

  each worth fourteen times as much as silver.

  “Are you sure I can have it? Won’t Artemis be angry?”

  “No.” She was fearless, that girl.

  In that way, we weren’t
alike.

  She made up her mind and stuck with it.

  I thought more than she did;

  worried more,

  wondered more.

  I was more wary of the gods.

  “Artemis is the protector of youth —

  she’ll want you to be free.

  Besides, you’re going to give it back.”

  She sounded as if nothing could go wrong.

  I knotted the necklace in my cloak

  and prayed she was right.

  6.

  In the middle of the night,

  her absence tugged me from sleep.

  I got up and searched for her.

  She stood by the river

  like a deer listening for danger.

  She knew I was there but didn’t turn her head.

  “It’s time for me to go.”

  “Go where?”

  Her shoulders lifted.

  “I don’t know.”

  She spread her hands.

  She let me draw close.

  I thought you were crying, Melisto,

  but I never saw you cry.

  Your owl eyes blazed in the dark.

  We stood face-to-face:

  Akhilleus.

  Penthesilea.

  “Listen, Rhaskos. You don’t have to come with me.

  I don’t know where I’m going.

  I only know I have to go now.”

  I forgot I couldn’t touch her. I reached out.

  There was an instant when her fingers were warm

  gripping mine, a strong hand —

  then her fingers stung, sparked —

  I yanked my hand free.

  “You see?”

  You turned your back and started off. I followed. You never looked back.

  We followed the river to a bridge of white stones. I crossed behind you. I saw the gleam of pale columns: temples and walkways. We’d come to the Sanctuary of Artemis.

  I felt both awe and fear. It was holy ground, and I didn’t belong: I was a slave, and male.

  We skirted the buildings and went onward. The wind freshened and I smelled the salt of the sea. I remembered what you’d told me, Melisto: you were struck down at the water’s edge. We were going to the place of your death. I looked at the sky, which was clear. The moon was down. There was no lightning, no storm, only the Great Bear and the Milky Way.

  On a low bluff overlooking the sea, you stopped. The water was dark, except for a curl of froth at the edge. I thought I saw a pod of dolphins plowing the waves, but they were far away; I might have imagined them. Standing behind you, I longed for a brush. I itched to draw you, Melisto: the dark confusion of your hair, the line that meandered from temple to cheekbone to jaw.

  I grieved for you as I grieved for Sokrates, because I couldn’t keep you.

  You gazed out to sea. There was a moment when I saw through the starlight, and I saw things that weren’t there. I saw the gleam of Sokrates’s bald forehead: I saw the Guide of Souls, dark and golden at the same time. I saw him tuck his wand under one arm and extend his hands.

  For the last time, you glanced at me, Melisto. You were breathing hard. You lowered your head like a bull about to charge. Your eyes narrowed, and you said “Now!”

  Out in the dark was the thing that you feared, and you braced yourself, tensing —

  Then you plunged forward and ran to the shore. You stumbled on entering the water; you kicked and splashed — and I must have blinked, because then you were gone.

  And I’ve missed you, Melisto, I’ve wanted you back. But at that time, my heart was light, borne aloft by your ἀρετή.

  7.

  The next day of the journey, I was too hungry to go on —

  or so I thought. When I came to a farmhouse,

  I hid my cloak under a bush,

  went to the door,

  held out an obol,

  and begged for bread.

  An old woman gave me a loaf and a watery cup of wine.

  She wouldn’t take my money.

  “Travelers and strangers come from Zeus.

  Zeus will reward me.”

  I went back to retrieve my cloak.

  My mind was dull with hunger and fatigue,

  but it struck me funny: Here I was,

  carrying gold, pure gold, in my ragged cloak,

  and begging for bread. I glanced at the sky;

  the crescent moon had risen. I felt better after the loaf

  and picked up my pace;

  the knot in my cloak swung from side to side.

  Once or twice I panicked,

  because I thought I’d lost it.

  Melisto had shown me food plants,

  and I gathered them along the way:

  sharp herbs that left their tang in my mouth

  but did little to satisfy my hunger.

  Still I was grateful.

  The fourth day I had little food.

  I hoped to reach Athens before the sun set.

  I thought of Zosima,

  of the trouble I’d caused her;

  four days I’d been gone, and Phaistus rebuking her;

  four days, and she’d think I was gone for good.

  I imagined her face at the sight of me:

  relief and joy,

  her squinty smile, and her flappy sandals;

  I knew she’d rush to get me something to eat.

  I wanted to show Phaistus the amber sphinx;

  he’d see its beauty; he’d know its worth.

  I wanted to tell him we could stay in Athens —

  But the sun went down before I reached the city.

  The gates would be locked.

  I’d have to wait another hungry night.

  I kept away from the road.

  I didn’t want to sleep too near the tombs.

  Once again, I stripped limbs from a pine tree

  and made myself a bed.

  I tied the necklace around my neck. Tightly.

  unknotted my cloak and covered myself.

  I slept. But I was awakened,

  a sound in the night, a presence, an odor,

  a trace of music, the singing of the stars,

  the voice of the god.

  I got up, every hair on end. A noise from the brush.

  Then I saw her: more solid than the darkness,

  an opaque shadow

  larger than a dog,

  smaller than a horse,

  a lustrous eye,

  a savage death.

  Melisto’s bear was watching me. I stood

  unweaponed

  I heard the huff of her breathing;

  she was drawing my scent into her nostrils;

  I was a warm smell

  flesh

  food —

  I sympathized. I was hungry myself.

  I didn’t move a muscle

  breathless

  danger

  — then my laugh came out as a snort.

  Melisto had foreseen this hour

  and taught me what to do. I lifted my hands,

  stamped one heel in the dirt,

  and began to dance.

  It was no dream.

  I danced, and the bear watched me,

  and the music came from the stars,

  the Great Bear overhead:

  perhaps the goddess herself was there,

  armed with her silver bow,

  ready to shoot me for one false step.

  but I didn’t misstep. I danced.

  I danced. I growled and pivoted,

  huffed and clawed the air,

  shifted my weight,

  circled and swayed.

  I danced till I’d sweated out my fear,

  and the bear grew bored and padded away;

  I danced till I was dizzy and faint,

  and the goddess was appeased.

  8.

  There was one last knot to untie:

  the final gamble. The sun was rising as I entered the city.

  I longed to go h
ome,

  but I had to see Arkadios.

  He was a citizen and a busy man,

  away from home all day —

  I couldn’t wait till nightfall.

  Melisto had told me how to find the house:

  She’d described the carved gatepost

  and told me the name of the slave at the gate.

  “Are you Sosias?”

  “I am. Who told you my name, and what do you want?”

  He was sizing me up.

  I was ragged, and not very clean,

  a red-haired nobody.

  He was in charge of the household,

  a trusted servant, with other slaves under him.

  I tried not to sound too meek.

  I tried not to sound too bold.

  “I came to see Arkadios. He’ll want to see me.”

  “Will he, now? Who’s your master?”

  “I work for Phaistus, a potter in the Agora.

  I knew your master’s daughter, Melisto.”

  “The master’s daughter’s dead.

  Struck down by Zeus three years ago.

  You’d know that, if you knew the family.”

  “She’s the one who told me your name.”

  I dragged my cloak around my neck,

  holding the knot at arm’s length.

  I clamped my fist around it,

  squeezing, so he could see.

  “I have something for your master, here,

  but it’s for his eyes alone.”

  He was curious,

  but he shrugged as if he weren’t.

  “I’ll ask if he’ll see you. My guess is, he won’t.

  He’ll tell you to leave your gift with me.”

  I tightened my grip on the knot

  and shifted my weight to the balls of my feet.

  If he came at me, I was ready to run.

  Instead, he opened the gate.

  “You can wait in the courtyard,

  but don’t think you can come in the house.

  There are women in the kitchen, working.

  What’s your name again?”

  “Rhaskos. I mean, Pyrrhos.

  My master calls me Pyrrhos.

  Arkadios won’t recognize my name.”

  He nodded.

  He understood how it was with names.

  I wondered what his real name was.

  I followed him into the courtyard.

  I could smell bread baking.

  My stomach gaped open, like a yawn.

  There was a rosemary hedge,

  fragrant,

  and a bench, which I knew better than to sit on.

  The house was well built, modestly large,

  the roof tiles unbroken, the altar scrubbed clean.

  I saw a tortoise,

  crawling steadily, intent on some tortoise errand.

  Melisto had told me about the tortoise.

  As I stood waiting, a door slammed,

  and a little boy scampered into the courtyard.

  At the sight of me, he stopped, jamming his fingers in his mouth.