The Sea King’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  I shivered. The water was warm, but if you stayed in too long without moving, gradually the chill got to you. It had to be the chill of the water-not my response to that eerie speech, which struck an echoing chord somewhere deep inside me.

  Suddenly, for no good reason, I knew there was something wrong with Frederick ’s story. He had omitted something, something important.

  However, this was no time for questions. He looked odd, and I was worried about the return trip.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll look for your ships. In fact I’m going to have a look right now. Climb up on that ledge and soak in the sun for a few minutes before we start back.”

  He gave me a funny look, but did as I suggested. I filled my lungs and went down.

  I wasn’t expecting to find anything. If the wreck had been located near a landmark as conspicuous as this rock, he’d have remembered. All I wanted to do was get some idea of the depth and the general character of the bottom.

  It didn’t look encouraging. There was a lot of debris down there, rocks and pumice and old, hardened lava flows. I could see the search was going to take a long time. Every blessed rock would have to be examined to make sure it wasn’t an encrusted pot or piece of sculpture.

  When we got back to our cove, Frederick was gray in the face and I had to help him up the cliff. I pumped him full of hot soup and coffee and tried to put him to bed, but the food restored all his normal meanness, and he went back to the dig. He wanted me to go with him, but I refused. I hadn’t had my holiday yet. Even my swim had turned out to be an invitation to work.

  I put on some white sandals and a long shift I had bought in Athens, slit up the side and embroidered around the neck. I told myself that I was paying honor to Saint Irene, or whoever it was. But of course that wasn’t the real reason for the finery. If our workers were taking a holiday, so were the men on the other dig.

  I was absurdly excited as I walked along the weed-grown path toward the road that would take me to the village. Imagine being thrilled at the prospect of a visit to a metropolis of a few hundred! But I hadn’t seen that many people for almost a week. I hadn’t seen a shop or a café or a magazine or a radio-or even a tomato. After a week of canned food, the thought of a tomato made my mouth water. If I accomplished nothing else, I could buy some fresh food for supper.

  As I marched on toward the center of the village, I began to meet people. They all nodded and smiled at me. The main plaza was paved with black lava stone. There was a fig tree in the center. On one side a flight of steps led up to the church, a small, squat building with a blue dome. The shops were closed for the afternoon rest period, but of course the hotel was open; it had a terrace out in front, with a grape arbor and a few tables and chairs. I could read a little Greek by now, and I spelled out the lettering on the faded sign: Hotel Poseidon.

  I walked around the village for a while. The whole place was only a few blocks square-but it wasn’t square, the streets went up and down the hill and sometimes ended in culs-de-sac, so that I had to retrace my steps. Most of the houses were shuttered and quiet, but some people were out, mostly children, who giggled and ran when I spoke to them. Two old grandmas, wrapped up in dusty black dresses and shawls, were sitting outside the doors of their houses. One had a spindle and a ball of thread, and she was weaving or spinning; the process was unfamiliar to me, but the result looked like coarse lace. Her withered old hands moved with amazing dexterity. I stopped to admire her work and we had a nice talk. Neither of us could understand a word the other said, but we smiled a lot.

  The harbor area was the busiest-looking part of Zoa. I gathered most of the traffic came by sea, instead of over the rough roads of the interior. It was also the ugliest part of the village, with the usual man-made mess-oil stains and spills, rusty chunks of metal, garish posters advertising various products.

  When I got back to the plaza, people were beginning to come out of their houses. Pretty soon the church bells started to ring, and the crowd eddied toward the church. I followed. I was a little shy about going in, but nobody seemed to mind, in fact some of the worshipers beckoned to me as I paused on the threshold.

  The inside of the church was dark. At first I couldn’t see anything, after the sunlit plaza, except candles twinkling like far-off stars. Somebody was chanting in a high, inflected sing-song voice. There was a strong smell of sweetish incense and a fainter, underlying odor of goat, or maybe unwashed human.

  Gradually my eyes adjusted, but I still couldn’t see much. The place was windowless and lowceilinged, and the candlelight was obscured by the press of bodies. It was rather like being in a cave. The walls seemed to be painted, or maybe hung with pictures, but this wasn’t one of the fancy mainland churches, like the famous old ones I had seen in Athens. There were no mosaics, no glimmer of gilded arches; the paintings, what I could see of them, were modern and rather crude. I had chosen a modest place at the very back, so I couldn’t see the altar or the priest. I could hear his voice, though, rising and falling in that semi-Oriental chant. People kept wandering in and out and nobody seemed to be paying much attention to the service, except for some older women to my right, who were swaying back and forth and muttering.

  Gradually more people began to sway and mutter. Gray clouds of incense billowed out, hanging like fog under the low ceiling. The smell was so strong I felt a little dizzy. A few of the women were keening and wringing their hands, like old Irish ladies at a wake. One woman, near me, was crying; I could see the shiny streaks on her cheeks. More and more people crowded into the small room. I was pressed back against the wall, enclosed by human bodies. Nobody was paying any attention to me, but I began to feel uneasy. I don’t like crowds, or mass emotion. People in a mob lose their identity and become part of a great mindless animal. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t see how to manage it. I didn’t want to offend anyone, and besides, the space between me and the door was packed full. The incense began to get to me. I could feel myself beginning to sway in rhythm with the bodies all around. In another minute I would have started keening.

  Somebody touched my shoulder. I recognized the hand before I looked up into Jim’s face. He was smiling.

  “Let’s get out of this,” he said. I think he was speaking in a normal conversational voice, but I could hardly hear him.

  “How?” I asked helplessly.

  He took my arm and turned. I don’t know how he did it, but people sort of scrunched back and made a path. I followed. Even the steps were crowded; apparently everybody in town had come to the service. The air outside made me feel drunk, it was so clean and fresh. I was surprised to see that the sun was far down in the west.

  Not everybody had gone to church after all. The shops were open now, and clusters of tables and chairs had sprouted around the perimeter of the plaza. The occupants were all men, except for a few obvious tourist types.

  Jim found us a table.

  “Wine or ouzo?” he asked.

  We had wine. It was heavily resinated, but I didn’t mind the taste; it had a healthy medicinal flavor. At first we talked rather stiltedly about the saint’s day and the church.

  “Religion in this area is a funny mixture,” Jim said. “You find the same thing in all the Mediterranean countries, in small peasant communities-a superficial coating of Christianity over the old pagan beliefs. Local saints are the old gods thinly disguised. The festivals of the church celebrate dates that have been sacred for millennia-the spring equinox, harvest, the winter solstice. And maybe one reason why the Virgin Mary is so popular is because a mother goddess was once the most important deity in these parts.”

  I decided maybe he liked the intellectual type.

  “Ah, yes,” I said. “The earth goddess, mistress of animals, whose sacred creature, the serpent, betokened her role as a goddess of the Underworld. One is struck by her seemingly contradictory nature-the maiden and the mother, ruler of the dead and of rebirth…”

  Jim’s jaw dropped. Then he started to laugh. After a few secon
ds I joined him. I hadn’t intended to do a conscious imitation, but my voice had sounded just like that of my high school history teacher, Miss Pomeroy.

  “You must have had a professor who was the twin sister of mine,” he said. “There is an underlying logic beneath the seeming contradiction, of course. The mother was once a virgin, and death must precede resurrection. It startled me, at first, to see how readily the tenets of Christianity could be adapted. But then Christianity was an Oriental religion originally, and the concept of divine sacrifice comes from Egypt and Syria. The god must die in order to ensure the rebirth of vegetation in spring, and the resurrection of the body-”

  He stopped abruptly. His funny peaky eyebrows rose even higher.

  “Why are we talking like this?” he asked.

  “I was trying to impress you,” I said candidly.

  “You did. But… I guess the trouble is I’m trying to work up to an apology.”

  “What for?”

  In a casual, absentminded way he took my hand.

  “The other day. I was rude.”

  “So was Frederick.”

  “Sure, but that didn’t justify my being rude to you. Quite the contrary.” He was still holding my hand. His fingers were long and hard.

  “Forget it,” I said. “I gather that Frederick isn’t too popular with his colleagues. Or do you have a more personal reason for disliking him?”

  “Oh, no. My boss knows him pretty well; I guess he’s prejudiced me. Look, why do we have to talk about that old-sorry, I keep forgetting he’s your boss. Is there any reason why we can’t be friends? Just because our employers don’t see eye to eye-”

  “No reason at all,” I said cheerfully. “I’m a great believer in friendly relations.”

  “Then start out by having dinner with me.”

  “I don’t know… I’m cook and bottle washerat the dig. And Frederick wasn’t feeling so hot when I left today. We went for a swim this morning, and he overdid it.”

  I threw this comment out to see whether Jim would say anything about a ban on diving. His response was more than satisfactory-no suspicion, and considerable interest.

  “I’m glad you aren’t swimming alone. Don’t do it, will you?”

  I laughed lightly. “Listen, chum, I live in Florida. I grew up in the water.”

  “Then you know how stupid it is to take chances. If he can’t go with you, how about me?”

  “You?” I repeated, in innocent surprise.

  “Sure. I don’t work twenty-four hours a day. We could set up a time-every day, if you want to.”

  I considered this handsome offer. And, I mean, it was handsome. It was also impractical. Obviously I couldn’t carry out my explorations in the little bay of the villa with Jim hovering around. But it might not be a bad idea to meet him now and then for some casual swimming in another place.

  “I couldn’t do it every day,” I said. “I could let you know. Where are you staying?”

  “The hotel.”

  “Geez,” I said. Everything I had seen about the hotel, from the greasy tabletop to the waiter’s apron, made me thankful I wasn’t staying there. At least I could keep the house clean.

  “That expresses it pretty well,” Jim agreed. “Fortunately I have a cast-iron stomach and all my shots are up to date. Those qualities, plus a bottle of disinfectant, have kept me healthy so far.”

  “Are you all staying there?” I asked.

  There was a pause. It didn’t last very long, but with the intuitive sympathy I felt for this man, I sensed that it was meaningful. Finally Jim said,

  “There are just the two of us. Me and Sir Christopher. A couple of the islanders are semi-trained; they worked with Marinatos at Akrotiri, where the first Minoan houses were found.”

  Another pause followed.

  “That’s a coincidence,” I said. “There’s just the two of us, too. Me and Frederick. That’s why I ought to go back. I mean, if he is sick-”

  “No, don’t leave. The food here isn’t that bad, if you like olive oil. And you ought to see the procession. It will interest you, in light of what we said about the survival of old religious practices.”

  “Procession?”

  “They carry the saint’s image around town and up the hill. It blesses the houses and the fields, and visits a little cave-shrine farther up, which may have been a sacred spot since the Bronze Age.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, abandoning the call of duty. “If it’s an educational experience, I owe it to myself to stay.”

  We sat for a while in a comfortable silence, watching the people moving around the plaza. Some of the women were wearing gorgeous peasant costumes-only these weren’t costumes, they were the finery that was saved for special occasions, handed down from mother to daughter. Yards of handmade lace trimmed the aprons and tall white caps. The bodices were embroidered in bright colors, and there were lots of gold coins in evidence, made into necklaces and earrings and heavy collars, hanging in festoons across the women’s foreheads.

  The sun was down behind the mountains to the west, and a queer hazy light suffused the plaza. It was still light enough to see clearly, though. I saw the woman as soon as she appeared. She was striking enough to attract anyone’s attention; her clothing alone would have made her stand out in that crowd, where the women were wearing either rusty black or the local peasant finery. This woman’s dress had never come from Thera, or even from Athens. It looked like Paris -a long, mauvey pinky-blue chiffon, heavily trimmed in gold, with little glitters like rhinestones-only the sparks were rainbow fire, brilliant as no imitation diamond can be. Out of the floating folds of chiffon her throat and head rose superbly. The heavy dark hair was wound into an intricate coiffure, held by gold bands. I could see that she was rather stoutly built, from the way the breeze molded the soft fabric against her heavy breasts and thighs. She moved slowly, and as she moved, so did the crowd. It fell back before her, opening a path down which she advanced straight toward the straggly tree in the center of the plaza. There she stopped. She was half turned away from us, and I could see a fine profile, classic in its straight brow-nose line. The funny thing was that she paid no attention to anyone, neither speaking nor nodding; and although they made room for her, none of the crowd appeared to see her.

  “Who’s that?” I asked. “Wow, what a gorgeous dress!”

  “Too flamboyant for my taste. But she’s a flamboyant creature, isn’t she? She lives in that villa on the other side of town-the big white one on the cliff.”

  “I saw it this morning. You mean she owns that place?”

  “Not exactly.” Jim was silent for a second or two; then he abandoned himself to the joys of gossip. Men are worse gossips than women, actually. I noticed that years ago.

  “She doesn’t live there alone,” Jim went on. “She’s either the wife or the mistress of a peculiar old guy who hardly ever leaves the villa. I’ve seen him once or twice; he rides horseback. Has two or three magnificent horses that look as out of place on this island as his girl friend does. Who and what he is I don’t know. He never comes to town.”

  “You don’t know much,” I said critically. “If I talked Greek the way you do, I’d have found out lots more. You don’t even know whether she’s his wife or his mistress?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s not his wife.”

  “Pretty sure! Don’t tell me the men in this town don’t gossip about her.”

  “Oddly enough, they don’t.” Jim gestured at the woman, who stood stock-still in the center of the plaza, gazing off into space. “Notice that there’s quite a crowd around the outskirts, but not a soul within ten feet of her. Nobody talks to her. And nobody talks about her. I admit I’m just as nosy as the next guy. The first time I saw her she fascinated me; she was wearing slacks and some kind of fancy blouse, with loads of jewelry. The outfit was absolutely ridiculous in this little place. So I naturally asked who she was. Everybody clammed up. I finally pried out the information I’ve just given you, but it took me day
s. They don’t want to talk about her. It’s as if she didn’t exist.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “They don’t call her anything. I keep telling you, they don’t talk about her. I overheard a sentence or two, one time, that I’m pretty sure referred to her, and they mentioned the word ‘Potnia.’ That’s not a name, though. It’s a title.”

  The word was vaguely familiar. Then I remembered where I had seen it. Jim didn’t pronounce it as I would have expected.

  “But that’s the old word for the Minoan goddess,” I said. “It means ‘the Lady,’ or ‘the Mistress.’ Not that kind of mistress…”

  “No. Not that kind.”

  I looked again at the motionless figure in the plaza. The eerie light of dusk was gathering, dimming the outlines of her face and body. The evening breeze lifted the fragile folds of fabric so that their edges blended with the shadows. A little shiver ran through me. Jim’s hand tightened over mine.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.” I shook myself mentally. I was getting fey, and I didn’t like the feeling. It reminded me of the moments in the museum at Herakleion. Greece was an eerie place, there were too many old traditions lingering. I forced a pragmatic tone into my voice.

  “I wonder what she’s doing. Why doesn’t she go into the church, or to one of the shops?”

  “I expect she’s come to see the procession,” Jim said. “After all, that’s why we’re sitting here.”

  As he spoke, the church doors burst open. Light poured out of the entrance. The inside of the church was ablaze with light, quite unlike the gloomy cave I had seen; then I realized that a number of the men were carrying torches. I wouldn’t have allowed them to be used in that age-dried structure, but then I wasn’t the priest. The effect was certainly theatrical.

  The torchbearers formed an aisle down the stairs and then the procession appeared, headed by the priest. He was a swarthy young man with a handsome black beard, wearing green-and-gold vestments. Following him came the shrine, supported by four husky villagers. The doors of the carved, gilded box were open, and I assumed that the saint’s statue was inside, but I couldn’t see at that distance. The villagers genuflected and knelt as the priest led the procession down the stairs. A crowd of spectators followed, forming a roughline. It wound down the stairs and around the plaza.