by Jo Graham
By now the weather was turning. The sailing season was ending, and we must wait until spring to sail again.
“We will stay in Byblos,” Neas decided. “We can winter over here and perhaps escort other ships back in the spring. I will arrange a place where we can haul the ships out and mend them. They will need to be retarred at least.”
“There are some rotting planks too,” Jamarados said. “Is there anyone who has a boatbuilder’s skill?”
Kos shifted back and forth. He was not accustomed to speaking in Prince Aeneas’ council, and I wondered why Xandros had brought him. “My father was a boatbuilder. I wasn’t brought up to the trade, but I was around it all my life. I can have a look.”
Xandros nodded. “I’ve done emergency repairs. I know how the planks should lie, though I don’t have the skill of seasoning them and preparing them. And seasoning them takes months at least. A couple of years is better.”
“Where will we get the wood?” Amynter asked.
Neas looked out at the coast, at the busy port. “They are known for their woods here. Cedars that are the finest in the world.”
“Indeed they are,” Jamarados said. “That is the chief wealth of these parts, besides trade. In Ugarit we used to buy cedar that was seasoned and ready for building. Surely we can trade for it here, though it was expensive.”
Neas blew out a long breath. “Everything is expensive. And we have months to make our trades last, until spring comes and we can put to sea again.”
“Is that what we’ll do?” Amynter asked. “Hire out again next spring?”
“It is beneath the dignity of a prince of Wilusa to trade like an islander,” Anchises said. “Better that you should make your way with a sword, as befits a nobleman.”
“Better that I should think about the good of the People before my own honor,” Neas snapped.
“Better that you should think of the scraps of honor left to you by your noble uncles, by your noble grandfather, and think too well of yourself to grub like a merchant,” Anchises said. “Great Hektor would never...”
“Father,” Neas said, “Great Hektor is not here.”
“Great Hektor had the honor to die for his city,” Anchises said and held Neas’ eye.
We all stood in stunned horror, not sure what to say.
Neas turned away. “I’ll check on the stores,” he said, and walked across the plank to Seven Sisters.
Anchises looked after him, then about the silent council as though daring someone to speak. No one did. Each captain looked at his feet, or at the sea. And then they parted with few words until only I and Xandros were left.
“We are all without honor,” Xandros said, looking in the direction Aeneas had gone. “Only Neas feels it most, as he had most to lose. Lord Anchises speaks what we all know.”
“There is no point in speaking it,” I said hotly. “Can’t he see that it doesn’t matter? What is honor next to survival?”
Xandros stared at me. “Lady, do you know nothing of the hearts of men?”
“I see that we must survive,” I said.
“And it does not matter how we do that?”
“Of course it matters,” I said. “And I am not suggesting that we break faith with these merchants we have promised to protect. But we must do something, or else just sit and wait for the deluge to wash over us. Xandros, this is not just about us. This is not just a misfortune that has fallen upon the People. I know this.”
Xandros pushed his hair back from his face. “What is it, then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I leaned back against Dolphin’s rail. “I can’t see the shape of it. Like seeing a storm and not knowing how big it is, or trying to draw the shape of the coast.”
“Drawing the shape of the coast?” Xandros said. “How can you draw the shape of the coast? And how can you know how big a storm is? It’s too big to see.”
“But if you could,” I said. “If you could then you could understand what you needed to do.”
“You need to find a beach to run up on, or get as far out to sea as you can to ride it out,” Xandros said.
“Yes,” I said, “but the gods can see.”
“We aren’t gods,” Xandros said.
“How much less than gods are heroes?” I asked. “Surely heroes are but a little less than gods.”
Xandros shook his head and he was smiling. “Lady, you are speaking to me of Mysteries, things that are far beyond my understanding. These things are not for me to see.”
“They aren’t beyond your understanding,” I said. “They are beyond your learning, as they are beyond mine.”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Can you learn to replank a ship?”
Xandros nodded. “Yes. I mean, I don’t know how to do it, but if Kos can teach me, of course I can learn it.”
“Can any man here?”
He leaned back against the railing of the deck. He smiled. “Well, no. Not every man. Amynter is very set in his ways, and Kassander doesn’t know enough about seamanship yet to understand what needs to be done. And there are several who are just too slow. Boatbuilding’s a skilled trade.”
“Could I learn?”
“You’re a woman.”
I crossed my arms. “If I were to try, Xandros. Could I learn?”
“Yes,” he said. “If anyone would teach you.”
“How did the first boatbuilder learn?” I asked.
Xandros put his head to the side. “I don’t know. How should I know? Maybe the gods taught him.”
“And if the gods taught me the shape of clouds and how they moved, I could understand the storm,” I said. “There are things we can learn that we don’t know. It’s not that we can’t, it’s just that we don’t know how.”
“And maybe the gods don’t want us to know all their Mysteries,” he said.
“How do we know what is their will?” I asked. “We don’t know unless we ask them. Perhaps the first boatbuilder sat beside the sea with an old log and shaped it, and the Lady of the Sea smiled upon him and was glad to have him ride on the waves. Perhaps that is how it was. Perhaps She whispered in his ear all the secrets of the deep.”
Xandros shook his head. “Lady, you are leading me too far from shore.”
I smiled. “And you are following,” I said. No one had ever gone so far before. I put my hand on his arm.
Xandros froze and I pulled my hand away before I saw that he was looking over my shoulder.
I turned. Ten ships were coming into the harbor. The foremost ship was painted with the Chariot of the Sun.
“Neoptolemos,” I said.
YOUNG GODS
The princes of Byblos are strong rulers, and they do not allow brawls to break out in the streets because it would hurt trade. The prince was a man called Hiram, the fourth or fifth of that name. He was young and energetic, some five years older than Neas.
We had not been long in the city when he sent for Neas to see him in audience. Jamarados went with him to translate and Amynter and Xandros to bulk up the party. Also, Xandros knew a little of the language from past trading trips to Ugarit, but looked as though he didn’t, something that can be an advantage in diplomacy.
It seemed that Prince Hiram told Neas in no uncertain terms that whatever blood feuds existed between him and Neoptolemos, they must be suspended within the walls of Byblos, or both of them would be his guests in the dungeons below the citadel for far longer than they wished.
I was glad, when I heard this, that Neas had not taken Anchises to the audience. I didn’t think Hiram’s tolerance would have been improved by a long recitation of Neas’ lineage.
And so we rested in the same harbor as our enemies. Somehow I doubted that Neoptolemos liked Hiram’s peacekeeping any better than Neas did, but perhaps he too had little choice. The weather turned bad. Autumn was upon us.
It was time for the Feast of the Return. On a squally day, the sky leaden with rain clouds, I approached Neas about it in the court
yard of the house we had rented with the profits of our journey from Millawanda.
Neas sighed. “I wish that we could keep the customs of our People. There are rites of all peoples here, and Prince Hiram seems not to object to such things, particularly if they are kept private.”
“The Egyptians have a Shrine here,” I said. “Surely no one can object to rites within a private house.” I gestured to the high wall and sturdy gate. “Especially as no one can see. What concerns me more is how it can be done. There can be no procession unless we go round and round the courtyard, and I do not know what I can use for the gate.”
“There is a storage pit around the back,” Neas said. “It’s used for grain and beans. It’s raw earth, not stone, and is only about as deep as my waist with boards over the top to keep animals out. Would that do?”
“It will have to,” I said, scuffing my foot in the dust. “This ground is hard packed and there is probably stone beneath it. There is no way to dig anything deeper.” We went and looked at it. It was rough, but it would do.
More troubling was the question of who would do the other parts. I should do Demeter, of course. She has the most lines, and her part is the one that keeps the entire rite flowing. I had done it twice in Pylos, since She Who Was Pythia died. Some of the choruses could be dispensed with, but I would still need a strong singer for the Lord of the Dead. His part is one of the hardest, and indeed that is one of the most coveted parts for a priest, with range and emotion that goes from rage to fear to grief to understanding of the way the world must be. I should have to cut it down, in any event, for no one could possibly learn all of it in a short time, unless he were a priest with a trained memory. To teach the part to someone uninitiated is almost blasphemy, but I could see no way to do this without the Lord of the Dead.
The Maiden is rather easier. Her lines are short and largely repetitious, with only one section that needs a good voice. After all, she was going to spend most of the rite sitting in the grain pit waiting for an entrance while the Lord of the Dead and I sang at each other.
After some little thought I settled upon Tia.
“Me? I can’t!” she said, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “I’m not dedicated.”
“You don’t have to be,” I said. “The Maiden is usually sung by an acolyte. I sang the Maiden for years in Pylos, but sometimes she’s sung by any girl with a true voice and a lovely face.”
“I can’t stand up in front of all those people,” she said, but there was a light in her eyes. Once, before this war, I thought, she had been the kind of girl who knew her beauty and who loved to sing for her kindred. That beauty and love was in her still, under her grief.
“Tia,” I said, “you must do it for the People. We all must do what we can to the best of our abilities now, whether or not we were trained to the task. This is what is needed of you.”
One hand curved down to the growing swell beneath her tunic and she looked down. “I’m not a maiden,” she said.
“Neither is the Kore,” I said, and sat down beside her. “All through the heat of summer She has ruled over the parched lands beneath the earth with Her hand in Death’s. She has lived in a dark place as the Queen of the Dead, abducted from Her kindred and taken as His dark bride. And now Her mother has come to ransom Her. She has won Her daughter back from Death. And so Persephone puts off Her black robes and begins to climb. She waits naked in the earth in the darkness. And She forgets. All that has passed before is behind Her. She waits while Her mother sings to Death. And then She comes forth robed in white, innocent as a newborn baby, enfolded into the arms of Her kin.” I paused and took her hand. “Tia, you are the right one to do this. I know.”
And so she agreed.
There was really only one choice for the Lord of the Dead, one man with sufficient presence and a sense of timing. Besides, Neas had seen enough rites he ought not have in childhood. The inner workings of one more wouldn’t make a difference. He had a strong voice too, a little light and pleasant for the Lord of the Dead, but resonant and flexible. We spent hours while I taught him the part from memory, and I was glad indeed that She Who Was Pythia had made me learn each and every part completely.
If he had been a priest, I thought, we should have been well matched. We were too well matched for comfort as it was, our voices blending together, light and dark, like fire and shadow. But he was not a priest, and I had best remember that.
At last the night came. I awoke Neas at midnight, though I let Tia sleep a little longer, and he helped me with the last preparations of the pit, with placing the torches around the empty animal pen behind the house where people would stand.
He fidgeted in the cool predawn air. “Isn’t it time?”
“No,” I said. “We must wait until the stars begin to pale. Otherwise you will have to stretch your part out waiting for the dawn, and you don’t want to do that.” I rearranged the folds of his cloak. Neas wore a dark tunic belonging to Amynter, which was a bit short on him, and my black cloak folded double and pinned with gold at the shoulder to make a short cloak like men wear. With his sword at his side and his hair combed he made a passable Lord of the Dead. I had my long black tunic, which was getting old and shabby enough to look as though I had been seeking my daughter in the wild for months.
Tia came out a little later, when the stirring in the house became obvious. She was clutching a loaf of bread. I stared at it. “Am I not supposed to eat?” she said with horror.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said. In truth, she should fast, but at her point in pregnancy she might pass out cold if she had to wait in a strung-up state for hours on an empty stomach. “It’s almost time,” I said. “Go ahead and get in the pit.”
Clutching her bread, Tia climbed into the pit and Neas put three of the four boards back on top. Sitting on the ground, she could look up and see us but not be seen by people settling down to sit in the animal pen.
When most of them were there I started the lament, soft and quiet, from one corner. Kos went round and lit the torches as I had asked him to, and gradually the curve of the animal pens came into light. All of the People were sitting on their cloaks on the ground or leaning against the fences in back. Someone had dragged two benches outside for Anchises and the men who had been wounded to sit on. I could see the children’s enormous eyes shining in the torchlight. Neas’ son sat on his grandfather’s lap. Amynter’s two boys were still for a moment. I let my voice grow in the gathering light.
This is a song that has no instruments, just the raw pain of a mother calling for her lost child.
Xandros sat cross-legged toward the front, and I saw him put his head down in his hands. I hoped Neas would not choke with tears, but I could not turn my head to look. I held the last note, willing that he would not.
And then he came in true and strong, the same tune but different words, how he loved this wife he had taken from her people, how she had lit the darkness of his eternal tomb and brought summer to the lands below. Where she walked the flowers bloomed.
Now at last I could turn toward him and I saw that there were tears in his eyes, but there were none in his voice. His turn exactly matched mine, a quarter turn, so that he was still three quarters to the People and only the extreme left could not see his face. What a priest he would have made, I thought, had he not been a prince! His sense of timing was absolutely perfect. As my arms rose, starting the invocation, his rose in perfect mirror, leaning toward me so that it seemed that we pulled at each other without touching, only our voices accusing and counteraccusing, then reconciling, life and death tugging at each other.
The stars were gone. The sky was streaked with pink and with white wisps of cloud. The sun was just below the horizon. A breath of wind brought the sweet smell of baking bread from the ovens.
Neas stepped back. Now the lament was his. Now the loss was his. He would dwell in darkness half the year, return to the caves of bone and sorrow. He slid the third board away with his foot.
Tia rose fr
om the darkness, her white robe shining, her long hair spread across her shoulders in the morning breeze. I could well believe that flowers sprung up where she trod. Her clear, high voice cut across the stillness, warbling on the first note like a child’s, then catching true.
I looked across to Kos and nodded, and he started the hymn that the entire People sing, the “Anados Kore.” “She rises, Golden One, blessings strewing. Golden One, we adore You! Joy You bring us, joy and light...”
I embraced her, and there was that light in her face that told me there was much more there than her, that she was transported by love, as I had hoped. “Welcome, dear daughter,” I said. “Blessings bringing.” Pressed against her, I felt the child jump within her and knew that there were three of us in this rite, me, Tia, and Pythia to Be.
I knew that Tia felt it too, because she flung her arms around me, murmuring, “Thank you, thank you.” I am sure that to those watching it seemed a very convincing reunion.
Afterward there was fresh-baked bread and honey. The children ran round and round, laughing and dancing. Even Anchises seemed in a good mood, and Neas took ribbing about being the Lord of the Dead very well indeed.
He was his mother’s son, I thought. He should have been a priest. Had he been, we should have been a perfect match for each other. Resolutely, I shoved that thought out of my mind.
Kos hugged me, his other arm around Tia, who was chattering and eating more bread. I did not need to go apart for this prayer. Silently and with a full heart I said, Dear Lady, thank You.
FOR DAYS AFTERWARD a holiday spirit prevailed. The rains came, and between the paving stones new grass sprouted. The air was cool and the breezes off the sea wafted away the city stench. Tia rounded out, as she should now, and seemed less drawn and thin.
Neas and Kos were often at the harbor, making the trades of lumber to repair our ships, and overseeing the work that was done. In the end, Kos needed help. We paid a local boatbuilder to join Kos in the work and bring his three apprentices. Kos brought three likely boys as well, so that they should learn something of the trade.