Dragonfly Song

by Wendy Orr

  with her priestess friends –

  though the best in this Hall –

  and it makes her think

  that maybe the Lady

  is just a woman

  doing the best she can.

  The wise-women enter,

  Kelya leaning on Roula,

  Lyra and Lena behind –

  and at their gasps,

  Kelya reaches to touch her face.

  ‘Child!’ she cries,

  delighted tears

  leaking from blind eyes

  and Aissa wants

  to kiss her hands

  but is not sure

  what she can do or say

  with the Lady here.

  And the Lady, her mother,

  still doesn’t understand.

  ‘The oracle is clear,’

  she says,

  ‘the dolphins’ joy for the dancer’s return;

  the young eagle marking

  this Lady for us –

  can it be

  that the greatness foretold

  is not one of our own

  but this priestess

  of the bulls?’

  ‘Not one of our own?’ says Kelya.

  ‘But Lady,

  can you not see?’

  The Lady looks, but she still can’t see. Does Kelya mean that the Lady of the bulls is the baby she’d sent to die at birth? The scrawny, fear-haunted child who chose her lottery shard with such care? She can feel that long triangular – dragonfly-shaped! – shard under her fingers now. But it was impossible that the cringing No-Name could ever be the great one the oracle had predicted – she’d rejected it and chosen another shard: Nasta, who seemed destined for greatness.

  And when the gods had laughed and twisted the pattern again, killing Nasta and moving Aissa, the wise-women’s server, to take her place, she’d been so sure that Aissa couldn’t succeed that she refused to think about her. She’d grieved enough sending her to die the first time. Learning that the baby had not only survived but was living right under her nose, in the most squalid, degrading life possible, was too much to bear. All she could do was try to wipe Kelya’s admission from her mind and forget those few short moments of knowing her own daughter before sending her to an almost certain death. The daughter that she doesn’t know well enough to recognise face to face.

  She’s always tried to obey the gods, but they’ve hidden their plans well.

  Goddess! she thinks, if this is my daughter, send me a sign!

  Aissa wondering –

  under the Lady’s stare –

  if it’s safe to speak;

  to ask in her new-found voice

  if she can return

  to live and work

  with the wise-women –

  and how much

  of her gifts of gold

  she needs to offer her mother

  for that permission.

  The Lady stares on

  till Aissa looks down,

  and spies a small snake,

  a viper,

  coiling under Fila’s stool –

  Fila sees it too,

  screams in fear,

  jumps onto her stool

  waving her arms

  and nearly falling.

  The Lady pales

  but her voice is stopped –

  she’s asked for a sign

  and cannot prevent

  what the goddess wills.

  Aissa has not asked for a sign

  and she has seen

  too much death –

  she sings the snake,

  her voice high and clear

  till the viper slides

  under a crack in the wall.

  The wise-women and the Lady

  freeze with shock,

  and Fila

  falls off her stool.

  ‘Aissa!’ says Kelya.

  ‘You found your voice!’

  ‘Aissa?’ says the Lady.

  ‘My imperfect,

  firstborn child?’

  She takes Aissa’s hands,

  studying the small white scars

  till Aissa’s rage burns bright

  and her voice comes loud.

  ‘My hands were strong enough

  to win with the bulls

  and free the island

  from the pain of tribute.

  The gods of the bull land

  cared for what I did

  and not my scars.’

  ‘The gods of this land too,’

  says the Lady,

  ‘but I didn’t understand.’

  ‘If I’m not firstborn,’ says Fila,

  ‘no wonder I

  could never sing.’

  ‘The snakes always knew,’

  the Lady says sadly,

  ‘as I knew that you

  were too gentle to rule;

  it’s clear that your gifts

  are with herbs and healing.’

  Anger flares in Aissa again

  because Fila

  has had everything:

  beauty and kindness,

  all the love she could want –

  now she’s going to be

  a wise-woman too

  and there will be

  no room for Aissa.

  ‘I’ll return with the ship,’

  says Aissa,

  ‘find my place

  as a priestess in the palace

  or a dancer with the bulls.’

  ‘Your place is here,’ says Kelya –

  and how can Aissa say no

  to old Kelya who loves her –

  but she cannot stay

  where she isn’t needed.

  The Lady lifts

  Aissa’s hands again

  and kisses the scars.

  ‘The goddess’s plan

  has been harsh but clear –

  you are the one

  who will sing the snakes

  and the sun to rise,

  when I am old

  and it’s time for the firstborn

  to rule in her turn.’

  But in this land

  Aissa is No-Name,

  the cursed child,

  the bad-luck girl

  and her fear is greater

  than facing the bull –

  she doesn’t want

  to be a slave,

  spat at or stoned –

  but to be the Lady

  is too giant a leap.

  Then she remembers her anger

  for all the No-Names,

  the not-perfect,

  unwanted,

  those denied a voice;

  the boys who can never own land,

  no matter how they care for it.

  Only a ruler

  can sing those changes.

  She looks into

  the Lady’s face

  as if she is

  just a woman she knows

  like Mama

  or Kelya

  or Mia –

  and sees her own tears

  reflected in

  her mother’s eyes.

  ‘I will stay,’

  says Aissa,

  bowing her head

  for her mother’s kiss.

  The Lady leads her

  out to the Hall,

  and Luki calls:

  ‘Aissa the dragonfly,

  bull dancer,

  snake singer,

  home at last,

  where she belongs.’

  No words

  to say what she feels,

  so Aissa sings –

  sings of the girl

  who lost her fear

  and found her voice

  when she faced death

  on the horns of a bull,

  and now is ready

  to face her life.

  Her voice floats clear

  through the square and town,

  singing the people

  who stop what they’re doing

 
to stand before her

  with hands on heart.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wendy Orr was born in Edmonton, Canada, but grew up in various places across Canada, France and the USA. She studied occupational therapy in the UK, married an Australian farmer, and moved to Australia. She’s the author of many award-winning books, including Nim’s Island, Nim at Sea, Rescue on Nim’s,Island, Raven’s Mountain and Peeling the Onion.

  Wendy has always been fascinated by the Aegean Bronze Age. Doodling on a finger-paint app in 2010, she sketched a dark, curly-haired girl with a twisted mouth, and knew that she had to find this unhappy girl’s story. The plot and Aissa’s fictitious island formed as Wendy researched and read, but the story was sparked to life by serendipitous, seemingly unrelated events, such as finding a piece of chipped flint on a Danish beach, and taking a wrong turn and ending up at the extraordinary deep blue Source de la Sorgue in France. Most mysteriously, every time that she made a significant decision or discovery about the story, Wendy saw a dragonfly the following day . . .