Dragonfly Song

by Wendy Orr

and a girl to each side.

  Luki grabs the horns,

  but the bull tosses left like Brownie,

  and instead of a flip

  Luki one-hand cartwheels

  down the bull’s neck to his tail.

  This time Aissa hears the crowd

  loving Luki

  and his skill.

  The bull charges Kenzo

  and the dance rushes on;

  they leap

  one by one –

  and though the bull is still fresh

  the dancers aren’t;

  when he charges Sunya,

  her flip is neat

  but she lands

  flat on her back.

  As if he knows

  his end is near,

  the bull wants more,

  charging Kenzo again,

  who cartwheels along his back

  as Luki did at the start.

  Now Aissa is in front –

  but just as she’s ready

  to reach for the horns,

  the bull sees

  Sunya lying still

  and veers towards her.

  ‘Sunya!’ Aissa screams with her mind,

  and Sunya jumps up

  so fast that she startles the bull

  and he turns back to Aissa –

  who’s not ready,

  not balanced

  as she grabs his horns;

  she sees Luki and Kenzo

  and Sunya, more slowly,

  run ready to catch her –

  knowing the bull

  will throw to the left.

  But as Aissa braces

  to spring with the toss

  the bull shakes his head

  and Aissa feels

  what her friends can’t see –

  that this time the bull

  is throwing right.

  Her body’s still poised

  to be thrown to the left

  as her hands

  slip from the horns;

  if she could shout

  her friends could run

  in time to catch

  but Aissa’s voice

  is not ready to save her.

  Her heart sings goodbye

  to Luki and

  her brother and sister of the dance

  and she catapults

  like the rock from her sling

  that killed the wolf;

  she tries to tuck

  into a roll

  but her arms and legs

  are wrong,

  the ground is nearing,

  and the layer of sand

  will be nothing on stone.

  Aissa closes her eyes

  against coming pain

  and lands

  safe in the arms

  of Kenzo and Sunya

  and Luki –

  while the bull,

  chest heaving, mouth frothing,

  stops and stares.

  ‘We heard you,’ says Sunya,

  ‘like a voice in our hearts.’

  ‘Now leap!’ says Luki,

  and as if they’ve planned it,

  he lifts Aissa to his shoulders,

  gripping her ankles

  so she stands as she did

  in the acrobat dance

  three seasons ago.

  Luki tosses her up –

  Aissa flies free,

  somersaults in the air –

  and lands on the bull,

  hands high.

  And as she leaps off

  the sweat-soaked

  quivering bull

  folds his knees

  and sinks to the ground.

  The screaming crowd,

  standing, cheering,

  throwing gold and flowers

  just as they did

  for the real bull dancers –

  but Aissa and her friends

  are too tired to care

  too tired to know

  that they

  are the real dancers now.

  They want nothing more

  than to hide and rest.

  ‘Stay!’ orders the Mother,

  as she crosses the courtyard

  behind the bull-headed king with his axe

  carrying her sharp bronze knife

  and golden bowl

  to fill with blood.

  26

  FROM THE GREY-GREEN BUSH

  The sacrifice is made; the bull lies lifeless, and the Mother holds up the bowl of dark blood.

  ‘Come!’ orders the king.

  The four young dancers approach.

  Does the Mother know I called the others? Aissa wonders in sudden panic. Will we be sacrificed after all? Sunya hesitates, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Even you,’ says the king. ‘That ugly fall could have sent you to slavery – but I have never seen an ending as elegant as that catch and leap. The bull’s sign was clear: you are all free.’

  He steps back as the Mother dips her hand into the bowl of blood and traces the sign of the sacred axe onto their foreheads.

  She looks deep into Aissa’s eyes.

  She does know!

  ‘It seems you’ve learned to control your gift. You made your choice well.’

  Whatever else she might have said is lost in the roar of the crowd. The young priestesses dance into the courtyard and the young nobles leap over the fences. Aissa and her friends are still reeling, still trying to comprehend the meaning of ‘free’, still trying to realise that they’ve survived, but the cheering lifts them high, filling them with life and joy: ‘We’re the bull dancers now,’ says Kenzo.

  ‘We’re free,’ says Luki. ‘We can go home.’

  The men with ropes start hauling the bull’s body away, Mia runs out cheering, Niko follows with his dragging leg, and the priestesses whirl around Aissa, touching her face, smearing the blood. They swirl away, faster and faster, as the power in each of them joins the gods in celebration and thanksgiving. Aissa feels the power of their dance swirl in her, the same energy she’d felt leaping from the bull.

  Mia and Niko are hugging them, kissing their heads, bandaging cuts they didn’t know they had – the blood isn’t all from the bull. Aissa has a long gash down her right leg, and grazes on her elbows and knees. She can feel them now that Mia’s found and soothed them with healing oil. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t know what matters anymore.

  Young men fight for the honour of lifting the dancers onto their shoulders and parading them around the courtyard. Aissa doesn’t feel real. This seat feels more dangerous than the bull’s back.

  They are carried through the maze of halls to the open west court.

  More people are waiting outside, packed tight as pebbles on a beach, from the steps to the road and into the olive groves on the other side. Aissa didn’t know that one land could hold so many people. Because these are not the palace folk; they’re not richly dressed with flounced skirts and tight-waisted kilts; no gold glints in their hair. These are the working people, the farmers, herders and fishers, wharfmen and sailors, weavers, potters and craftsmen making things for everyday people. And they’re all waiting for her, for Luki, for Sunya and Kenzo – for the chosen ones who have danced with the bulls and pleased the gods.

  The palace guards step in close behind them, and the dancers are deposited carefully on the wide stone steps.

  People pushing through the crowd,

  fighting to touch them,

  holding up children

  to catch the dancers’ god-luck;

  so many hands,

  so many arms.

  Despite the guards,

  they’re separated,

  swept up in the throng

  charging the steps –

  Aissa afraid she’ll drown

  in this sea of adoration;

  her skin tender

  from so much touching –

  she wants to run,

  to get away and breathe.

  But a woman

  holds
a baby for her to kiss

  and strokes her shoulder

  till Aissa looks at her face –

  a face worn with trouble,

  bronzed from the sun,

  much like

  the faces around her

  but a mole by her mouth

  like a dot

  that Aissa loves –

  and she looks

  into dark

  remembered eyes.

  ‘Mama!’ cries Aissa.

  The woman pales,

  shrinks back,

  then clasps her tight,

  the baby squirming between.

  ‘Aissa!’ says Mama.

  ‘I always knew,’ says Aissa,

  ‘you were alive,’ says Mama.

  ‘And that I’d find you,’ says Aissa,

  hearing her own voice

  with its crack of surprise

  and the low-pitched music

  of a strong young woman –

  not the child’s voice

  that she hasn’t heard

  since Mama said,

  ‘Don’t make a sound

  till I come back.’

  And now Mama is back.

  Hugging and crying,

  kohl mingling with bull’s blood

  to run black

  down her face;

  wailing so loudly

  the guards come

  to chase Mama away.

  ‘No!’ says Aissa.

  ‘This is my mama.’

  Even with

  a bull dancer’s power

  a voice is useful.

  Mama’s words rushing

  wanting to hear

  all that’s happened to Aissa

  since she hid her

  under that grey-green bush –

  but it’s too much to tell,

  too much grief to bear,

  Aissa doesn’t want

  Mama to hear it,

  doesn’t want to tell it

  in her newfound voice

  in the midst of the jostling,

  buzzing crowd.

  But Mama tells her,

  between the sobs,

  of being sold as a slave

  by the raiders

  but later bought

  and married to a farmer –

  she has a new family.

  Grown-up Zufi

  has worked for his freedom

  as a sailor on a ship

  trading over the seas.

  But Mama has never

  seen Tattie again

  and mourns her still.

  Mama’s surprised husband

  takes the squirming baby

  while they hug:

  his wife and a bull dancer

  who was once her daughter.

  All Aissa wants

  is to be that daughter again,

  to stay with Mama

  now and forever,

  close beside her as a baby,

  a child

  safe at home.

  But first

  there will be a grand feast

  with every good thing to eat

  and meat from the bulls,

  to honour the dancers,

  and Aissa’s heart cracks

  because Mama

  with her farmer’s dress

  and work-broken nails,

  will not be allowed

  at the party –

  and what if

  she never finds her again?

  ‘I’ll come in the morning,’ says Mama,

  to take you home.’

  27

  THE BULL KING’S PROMISE

  Mia and Niko,

  and last year’s dancers,

  as well as older ones

  who no longer dance

  but have saved their gold,

  rich traders and artists,

  owners of villas,

  priests and priestesses,

  the Bull King and the Mother –

  all will be at the feast.

  But first,

  Aissa and Sunya

  Kenzo and Luki,

  must be bathed and perfumed,

  wounds re-dressed,

  hair and make-up redone;

  Aissa wishes she could wear

  her fine priestess dress

  with everyone else

  so beautifully clad,

  but people want to see

  dancers in their bull-leaping shorts

  as if they might do

  acrobatics again –

  though they’re so tired

  they can hardly stand.

  The great court too

  has been cleansed,

  swept,

  washed;

  the fences removed,

  the blood smell purified

  with the stink

  of burning sulphur.

  The halls around it,

  with folding doors opened,

  are set with chairs,

  small tables

  lamps and flowers,

  while servants offer

  cups of wine

  mixed with honey and water,

  platters of food:

  poppy cakes and small fried fish,

  octopus and oysters,

  raisins and cheese,

  fresh greens

  and the roasted meats

  of the bull,

  which the dancers must eat

  though it sticks

  in Aissa’s throat.

  When they’ve eaten,

  and washed their fingers

  in silver bowls,

  the Bull King speaks,

  without his mask

  but with all his power.

  He calls the dancers

  to his throne.

  Aissa shrinks

  at the people staring –

  but,

  ‘We’ve faced bulls,’ says Kenzo –

  and instead of death

  the crowd brings flowers,

  gold and jewellery,

  scented oils and perfumes

  in crystal phials,

  embroidered robes and woolly fleeces –

  and offers:

  ‘A room in my home,’

  ‘A suite in my villa,’

  because everyone wants

  to share in their god-luck

  if they go on dancing.

  The other-year dancers

  make no offers

  but explain:

  ‘If you choose

  to return to the ring

  you can live in luxury

  and save your gold –

  you can have a house,

  slaves of your own,

  if you live and are lucky.’

  But Luki stands tall

  salutes the king and the Mother,

  and says,

  ‘Great ones, rulers of the land,

  we, the dancers,

  were told

  that to survive the year

  would set us free

  to return to our homes

  and free our lands from tribute.

  This is what I ask,

  for myself and my friends.’

  Smiling gravely, the Bull King nods.

  ‘That is the promise.

  But you must decide –

  do you return

  to a poor life, a poor land,

  or stay

  with all that’s offered

  for a life of glory?

  Your people have already

  mourned you –

  they’ll never know

  that you serve the gods here –

  and the tribute we ask

  is little enough

  to protect your homelands

  from wandering raiders.

  So think and reflect

  before you make up your minds.’

  Luki salutes,

  though his choice is made.

  And, heads spinning

  with fatigue and wine,

  th
e thrill of fame,

  confusion of promises

  and broken faith –

  the bull dancers leave the party,

  led by servants

  to the great guest chamber

  in the palace.

  For Aissa,

  finding Mama and her voice

  is the happiest

  bewilderment of all.

  It’s hard to remember

  that she can speak,

  her voice so strange and new

  she doesn’t know

  if it will come out loud or soft

  or how it will shape

  the sound of words

  so it’s still easier

  to stay silent –

  and besides,

  she knows what she wants:

  to live with Mama.

  She doesn’t want

  to live with strangers;

  doesn’t need more gold –

  there’s enough in her hands

  to buy a goat –

  one like Spot Goat, maybe two,

  and a dog like Brown Dog

  who died with Dada –

  to take as gifts

  to Mama’s small farm.

  And no one can say

  how much gold is enough

  or how many seasons

  a dancer needs to survive.

  So she listens

  as they sit together

  in the great guest chamber,

  with the finest linen

  and the softest fleeces,

  and Sunya says,

  ‘My family gave me to the palace

  to pay their taxes –

  I’ll take bulls and glory

  rather than go back to them.’

  Kenzo’s story is much the same –

  an orphan

  with nothing of his own:

  ‘What’s there for me if I go back?

  The honour of freeing my town

  won’t give me land.’

  Luki doesn’t care

  that he won’t own land,

  knowing the farm will pass

  to his sisters one day,

  as long as he can live in the hills he loves.

  ‘We were sent by the gods

  to free our island,’ he says,

  and waits for Aissa’s sign.

  Aissa thinking

  that if Luki returns

  the island is free –

  there’s no need for her

  and no place either;

  servant to the wise-women

  is no longer enough

  if she’s despised by the people.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ says Aissa.

  ‘With Mama.’

  Aissa’s friends look as shocked as if a bull had spoken. Luki grabs a torch from the wall to shine on her face. ‘You can talk!’

  ‘Ever since I met Mama,’ says Aissa, in her strange new voice. ‘After the dance. I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘You forgot!’ squeals Sunya.

  ‘I wasn’t sure that I could do it again,’ Aissa admits, but the others are laughing too hard to hear.

  ‘If that was your mama on the steps, how can you sing beasts like the Lady?’ Luki asks.

  ‘And you sang us!’ adds Sunya.

  So Aissa has to explain what she’s almost never said in her mind, and never dreamed of saying out loud. ‘Mama raised me till the raiders came. It was the Lady who bore me – but I wasn’t perfect.’