Myth of the Moon Goddess - The Aradia Chronicles, Books One, Two and Three

by Rane, April

  When she came back to the wagon, Aradia put her hand on the driver’s shoulder in a warm gesture.

  “Thank you for walking with me and acting as my guide, Azarias,” she said. “It will be my pleasure to reward you well. The light of the day is fading. It is time to return.”

  “I have been rewarded well by sharing some time with you. I am sorry for the way I acted, but you remind me of my daughter. She died not so long ago, and my wife left me… I think because she could not speak of the pain. I realized that I too, had pushed the pain away and lived in a world that never housed my daughter. It was easier to think she never existed than to remember her death. The world is less because of her loss,” Azarias spoke softly, as if testing the words. “Have you ever known anyone like that,” he asked as he helped her into the wagon.

  Aradia sat in quiet contemplation. She knew she was not yet ready to speak of the tragedy. But this kind man needed something to let him open to his pain. The words came hesitantly.

  “Oh yes … my sister Sardiana. She … she died not long ago and the world is much less because of her. We were very close.” A quiet tear slipped down Aradia’s cheek. “You are the first person I have told. Thank you for listening. The world would be a better place if everyone was as kind as you have been to me today.”

  Seating herself in the wagon as it slowly began its trek back to Athens; she looked out over the Aegean Sea and felt a loneliness she could never have imagined. Talking of the tragedy today helped Azarias, she was sure, but remembering it now she gripped the wooden edge of the wagon. Fiercely squeezing the rough planks, causing rotting wood to splinter, she knew that her spirit guide was right. She needed to feel the pain-but not now! She was not yet ready. If she allowed her pain to surface, she feared she would splinter like the wood beneath her hands.

  Waking refreshed and ready for her day, Aradia vowed that next time she would spend more time at Piraeus, gazing the Aegean Sea. From all that she was told of the Athenian culture she was fearful that in order to get away she might have to take one of Giorgos whores, as women of that persuasion had freedoms that apparently she did not.

  At noon, she met with a young woman in the courtyard and gave her some herbs.

  “I want you to make a tea by mixing linden flower with raspberry leaf and then use just a bit of the herbs in this packet,” Aradia told her. “Before and during your courses, you should drink a few cups a day. It will help with your pain.”

  Clutching the small packet to her chest the woman told Aradia she was to marry soon, and wanted a child more than anything. Aradia checked her wrist on her right hand. “Hmm,” murmured Aradia, while tracing a line on the woman’s hand.

  “If you go to the temple to sanctify your marriage, the priests will not allow you to have the ceremony. Do you see this line?”

  Aradia traced the top most line of the three that circled the back of the woman’s wrist. Chain like, it curved up and into the lower portion of her palm.

  “This would reveal to the priests that you cannot bear a child. I will give you a talisman and with much prayer and belief you shall indeed give birth.”

  Aradia took a small stone out of the pouch that lay beside her on the bench and pressed it into the woman’s hands.

  “This is a goddess stone. You see it has a hole in the middle. It represents your woman part and the sacredness of it. Pray to the goddess Demeter to help you conceive a child. Pray to the goddess Hera to help make you a good wife, but one that does not cower before her husband. Hera never cowered before Zeus! His power did not dwarf hers, for she understood the royal line comes through the woman.”

  As she readied herself to help with the evening meal, she found her thoughts running to her handsome blue-eyed stranger. Aradia took extra care with her hair, pinched her cheeks, and entered the kitchen. It had indeed been a peaceful day. She felt good news would come to her soon.

  Her pot-bellied host leered at her in his usual fashion and said, “So, your gentleman came last eve, put up a fuss when he thought you might be gone.”

  She flushed. It warmed her heart thinking that he had made a fuss, but not wanting Giorgos to see, she bent over to put away a pan in which she had heated her herbs. He rubbed her bottom then moved away quickly.

  Throwing a flask at him, she said, “The next time it will be two of your best. You cannot win with me. Why do you try?”

  “You try my patience!” he yelled, coming forward, and grabbing at her breasts.

  She kicked him hard in the shin. “The next time it will be harder and higher!” Her words were hot and venomous, steeled with determination. “Do you understand me?”

  “I’ve seen you making eyes at the blue-eyed devil,” he told her. “He is too high-born for you! If he could, he would put you up in some room, and visit you when he chose to do so. A paid butana!” He began to croak miserably, and groaned in pain. “If you were my slave I would sell you to him!” he said with a hoarseness barely audible while cupping his throat to ease the pain.

  A string of curses rang out of her mouth. He did not understand them. “You pig! You cannot sell what you do not own!” She picked up bowls and flasks and hurled them at him.

  He lunged towards her. “Butana!” he croaked.

  “I curse you for a fool,” she said while she kicked and bit his arm, and then she spat at him.

  “No! I take that back. There is no need to curse you with being a fool. You are one!” she said running to her room.

  “I cannot stay any longer,” she told Poletzia later that night. “It is time I leave. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Please,” begged Poletzia, “just a bit longer. I…it is important. I cannot yet tell you why. Will you stay? Besides if you leave here there is nowhere to go. You will become a slave!”

  Aradia stayed in her room that night although she wanted badly to know if the blue eyed stranger would come again. Giorgos tried to get in, but was unable to do so because she had pushed the bed against the door. He stood outside threatening her, his voice diminishing with every word. Finally he crawled off to bed.

  Because she needed guidance, she sang to the gods and to the sweet goddesses. She put salt at the door and around her in a circle for protection. She asked to see her fate. The answer came.

  “You are living your fate; it is time to carve out your destiny.” This was repeated over and over. She did not sleep well, tossing and turning through the night.

  Aradia arose from bed still tired and trudged off to the courtyard where two young girls were waiting and anxious for her help with matters of love. One of the girls reminded her of Sardiana. Normally, she would have sent them away, telling them to come back at noon, but today she listened to their stories patiently, gave them a love potion to satisfy their concerns, and sent them off.

  But once she was alone, tears began to fall. Sitting on the oak bench in the courtyard with beauty and color and the scent of flowers all around her, she could not help but think of her beloved sister. It crushed her heart to see one that so closely resembled her. She knew only too well that she had not yet mourned the loss of her family. Aradia realized that seeing the young girl today was a catalyst. She let herself feel the loss, and began to cry. Heart-wrenching sobs tore at her as she pulled her hair, rocking back and forth, moaning words incomprehensible to any who would overhear. She was speaking the ancient Etruscan language that she had shared with her grandmamma when she was a child.

  She cried for the life her brothers had not had a chance to live, and for the warmth of her sister’s love, and grieved the fact that never again would her mother and father make love any longer, for she had heard them say that was what they would miss most when they left their bodies behind. Finally, she cried for herself, because she was in love with a man she did not know, and felt he believed her to be a servant.

  How is it that he could be so blind? Had it been his intention simply to use her? She cried until her chest hurt, and the deep well of her tears dried up.

 
I will not let life push me down, she railed! I will take part in my fate. I will leave here soon and not be around the likes of the patron. He disgusts me! I will see what comes next. She then prayed out loud to the goddess Juno, goddess of love.

  “Great goddess, hear my plea. Allow me to know what the blue-eyed stranger’s intentions are for me. Goddess, I implore you. If he wants me not, then help me leave here. This place crushes my soul.”

  Later that night Poletzia crept into Aradia’s room. “I have been getting coins from the ones who came to you for spells and I am saving to go to my sister’s in Volos,” said Poletzia in a whisper. “I am leaving my husband and the money is needed, for my younger sister is very poor. Please do not be angry with me. That is why I take a fee to bring these women to you. They are happy, you make a profit, and I free myself of the old bastido. The money I am earning will last the rest of my life if I spend carefully,” Poletzia nodded, looking very proud of herself.

  She continued speaking resolutely. “Aradia, I want you to know that though we have not been good friends, somehow I count you as one. That sounds strange, I know, but it is true. You have shut yourself off. I have tried to honor that, yet strength pours out from you. It gives me power right here in my gut. It makes me know that I am worth more than being a beating post for that brute of a man. I am sad for all I have missed in my life, yet I am determined in the same moment to grab what is left. I am an old woman, older than my years. But no matter what is left, it will be lived in peace with freedom to think for myself, and the laughter of my sister to soothe this old heart. Thank you for the gift you have given me. You need not say anything. I will go now.”

  Aradia sat up in bed, absorbing what had been said. It was true that she had not become friends with the old woman. She had cut herself off, judging Poletzia a fool for staying where she had been so little appreciated, in a place where whores came and went. But in this country she had had no choice. Yet she had a choice now and Aradia was glad she was taking it. As Poletzia was leaving the room, Aradia touched her shoulder. Poletzia hesitantly turned back and looked Aradia in the eyes.

  Aradia smiled down at the old women, “I am very glad for you, but more than that I am proud to know you. You honor me in saying I helped you, but had it been my grandmother seeking refuge instead of me, you would have been out of here the night she met you. So by those standards, I failed. Yet it is my grandmother’s very words that comfort me. If you try you can never fail.”

  When he entered the courtyard that night, Aradia felt his presence, but she did not look at him, fearful that she would be mistaken and not see love in his eyes. Then again she was more afraid that she would see his soul in his eyes, pouring forth a deep and abiding love, for such a love would surely frighten her more.

  “Regina Bella,” he whispered. “When I opened the door to the bedroom at the inn where you had been taken when you first entered this country, apparently I rescued you from men who would have sold you into slavery.”

  Aradia stole a glance around her, at the shadows which might hide danger. She had known that being sold into slavery was her intended fate. And she had remained secluded here, for the most part, because she was aware of the laws of Athens. These stringent laws would have made her a slave in an instant, if it had been discovered that she was not one of Poletzia’s relatives, but a foreigner. But suddenly she felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in the past.

  “These men are angry with me,” he continued looking deep into her eyes, “They have followed me and questioned me to see if I know where you are.” Taking her hand, he assured her. “No, they do not follow me now. I have been very careful. But what I have come to realize is that I put myself in harm’s way so you can sell yourself into slavery here?” He motioned to her surroundings.

  “Sir, there is more than one kind of slavery,” she told him. “What better did you have in mind for me?”

  “There is a large and exquisite villa on an island south of here. Dignitaries and reverenced academics are welcome there.”

  “Is this your villa, sir?” Aradia asked, hope stirring inside her.

  “No, but for some time now, it has been my home when I come to Greece,” he told her.

  “I shall be leaving here soon,” answered Aradia in a burst of defiance. “It will be my decision when and where I go, and only I will know!”

  “On that you are wrong.” said the handsome gentleman, turning her toward him. “I know your every move. I do not try to ensnare you, simply to see to it that you come to no harm.” Aradia turned and began to walk away.

  He touched her gently on the arm, and then turned her around to face him, saying softly, “Tu’mea cour.”

  Silken words of love, so bold, so welcomed. She spoke them to herself, “You have my heart.” She had never heard words verbalized that pulled at her heart as these three simple words. She knew that he meant them, and she experienced a timeless moment knowing that they have always loved each other and yet she felt she had never before made love to him. She wanted to experience that, loving him, making love to him, being loved by him-all of it! And yet, she was frightened. Would all of the emotions, the pain, the loss, the vision of her family lost to her and to the world come tumbling out if she opened her heart?

  He spoke again, his honeyed voice bringing an image to her mind of molten lava caressing frozen tundra. “I have many words to say to you. I wish to know how you are called in your dialect. It means much to me.”

  “I am called Aradia. It means, bright orb like the moon or the sun,” she said raising her chin and pulling herself up to her full height.

  “Aradia…Your name fits you well. A-ray-de-a. I love the feel of it on my tongue. Please, I must speak to you in private. Come sit with me under the olive tree. There is a pleasant bench I see.” His voice rich in timber yet smooth as silk, sent shivers through her body.

  “Regina delle strege,” he said, as he knelt on the ground and took her hand, “Regina della notte oscura della stelle e selle luna. L’amore che io te portata, vo per l’amore chi me porti e che io pure. Tu’mea cour, Colli votre luce sulle mea.”

  The words flowed from his lips as he lovingly spoke her language, such precious words and sentiment said with enormous feeling. “Queen of all enchantresses. Queen of the dark of night and of the stars and of the moon. All the love I have felt of late, and by the love I feel, which I shall ever feel… until I die. You have my heart. Cast your light upon me.”

  Unprepared for such eloquence, she could not respond at first to this princely man kneeling at her feet. His words were very loving. But he thought her a slave or a servant at best, and could not be asking her hand in marriage. Was he then, asking her to be his mistress? Questions were colliding in her mind, collapsing her ever present need for independence.

  Sitting there upon the bench, she experienced the same horrendous and helpless feeling that had come over her when she saw her friend, Phesoj being killed. Her energy drained and her body went limp, and she knew that her eyes were begging him to be gentle with her. Just for this moment… she wanted to lean on someone.

  In a near-whisper, Aradia said, “I feel a great need to be held…but at this time take no liberties … for I think my heart would break if you did.”

  He sat beside her and held her gently.

  “I do not even know your name,” she said.

  “My name is Tomis,” he told her, “and I will take you to the villa that I spoke of. It is owned by a man that has always made me welcomed. Many say he is unscrupulous in his business dealings, and that he has been a pirate in his day, but he has been nothing but kind to me. I am afraid it is quite a journey though, for his home resides on a little known island off the coast of Crete.”

  Aradia nodded her head and moving like one in a trance, she went to gathered a few things together. While placing them in a shawl and tying it tightly, Poletzia entered her room. She had decided to give her new found friend most of the coinage and all the jewelry she had been given
by the towns-women. The jewelry had not held any appeal to her and the old women needed the coins far more than she did.

  “Poletzia, I am leaving shortly,” she said as she handed her the pouch. “Take this and leave here on the morrow. Promise me now, for I shall know if you speak the truth.”

  Nodding, the old woman gave her promise.

  “Did you get a lock of hair from the patron as I asked?” said Aradia.

  “Yes,” she said, taking it out of her pocket, “and I have wrapped it as you requested.”

  Taking it, Aradia embraced her like the true friend she had become.

  Rushing into the courtyard, she was relieved that he still waited for her. As they slipped away through the shadows, she saw Poletzia watching them, a smile on her toothless mouth.

  But her reluctant host was waiting for them, just outside the courtyard in the narrow, rutted street.

  “Have you stolen from me?” he demanded of Aradia. “Why, otherwise, are you creeping away in the night? Who is this man? What will I tell your relatives if they come searching for you. I took you in after all!”

  Aradia could see that Tomis was about to push him away, but she interrupted him saying she wanted a word with the patron.

  “Giorgos you are not sleeping well,” she whispered menacingly in his ear, “and you can hardly speak. I have put a curse upon you. You have heard tales that I am a witch? Doubt it not. I will remove the curse when I hear your wife is safely away from you. I have given her the means to do such. If there is harm that comes to her, then I shall double the curse. I am sure that no one will care if you cannot speak, but I have been told that men die from lack of sleep. Heed me in this matter.”

  She took from her pocket the lock of hair that Poletzia had given to her. It was tied with black and red ribbon. He had no doubt from the color and coarseness of the hair that it was his.