Share with Earth’s Daughter the descent into darkness, a voice guided her from afar; whether a real voice or not she never knew. One by one you must leave behind all the things of this world which are dear to you, for now you have no part in them.
She discovered that she was wearing her weapons; she would willingly have taken an oath that she had left them behind this morning. Through the sound of the drums the guiding voice came again:
This is the first of the gates of the Underworld; here you must give up that which binds you to Earth and the realms of Light.
Kassandra fumbled with the unfamiliar girdle of the robe she was wearing and unfastened the jeweled belt which held her sword and spear. She remembered Hecuba admonishing her to wear them always with honor; but that had been very far away and had nothing to do with this dark chamber. Had Penthesilea too come to this dark doorway and yielded up her weapons? She heard the sword and spear slide to the floor and strike there with a metallic sound within the noise of the drums.
Why did her hands move so slowly—or had she moved them at all? Was it all an illusion of the drums, or was she still crouched motionless in the dark circle, even while she strode boldly down the dark tunnel, clad in Andromache’s long ungirt robe, which somehow did not trip her up at all?
Somewhere there was an eye of fire. Flames below her? Or was she looking into the slitted eye of the serpent?
It surveyed her unblinking, and a voice demanded:
This is the second Gate of the Underworld, where you must give up your fears or whatever holds you back from traveling this realm as one of those whose feet know and tread the Path in My very footprints.
The serpent’s eye was close now; it moved, caressing her, and in a flicker of memory—centuries ago, in another life perhaps?—she remembered how she had caressed the serpents in the Sun Lord’s House, and embraced them without fear. It was as if she embraced them again, and the eye came closer and closer; the world narrowed further till there was nothing in the dark with her except the serpent’s embrace. Pain stabbed through her until she was certain she was dying, and she sank into death almost with relief.
But she was not dead; she was still moving through the fiery darkness alone; but there was a voice heard through the thrumming of the drums which went on until her whole head was ringing with it.
Now you are in My kingdom, and this is the third and final Gate of the Underworld. Here there is nothing left to you but your life. Will you lay that down as well to serve Me?
Kassandra thought madly, I can’t imagine what good my life would be to Her, but I’ve come so far, I won’t turn back now. She thought that she spoke aloud, but a part of her mind insisted that she made no sound, that speech was an illusion, like everything else which had happened to her on this journey—if it was indeed a journey and not a curious dream.
I will not turn back now, even if it means my life. I have given all else; take this as well, Dark Lady.
She hung senseless in the darkness, shot through with fire, surrounded by the rushing sound of wings.
Goddess, if I am to die for You, at least let me once behold Your face!
There was a little lightening of the darkness; before her eyes she saw a swirling paleness, from which gradually emerged a pair of dark eyes, a pallid face. She had seen the face before, reflected in a stream . . . it was her own. A voice very close to her whispered through the drumming and the whining flutes:
Do you not yet know that you are I, and I am you?
Then the rushing wings took her, blotting out everything. Wings and dark hurricane winds, thrusting her upward, upward toward the light, protesting, But there is so much more to know . . .
The winds were ripping her asunder; a lightning-flash revealed cruel eyes and beaks, rending, tearing—it was as if something alien flowed through her, filling her up like deep dark water, crowding out all thought and awareness. She looked down from a great height on someone who was and at the same time was not herself, and knew she looked on the face of the Goddess. Then her tenuous hold on consciousness surrendered, and still protesting, she fell into an endless silent chasm of blinding light.
SOMEONE WAS gently touching her face.
“Open your eyes, my child.”
Kassandra felt sick and weak, but she opened her eyes to silence and cool damp air. She was back in the cavern . . . had she ever left it? Her head was pillowed in Penthesilea’s lap; the older woman’s face was blurred with such a halo of light that Kassandra shielded her eyes with her hands and blurted out, “But you—you are the Goddess . . .” then fell silent in awe before her kinswoman. Her eyes hurt, and she closed them.
“Of course,” the older woman whispered; “and so are you, my child. Never forget that.”
“But what happened? Where am I? I was—”
Penthesilea quickly covered Kassandra’s lips with a warning hand.
“Hush; it is forbidden to speak of the Mystery,” she said. “But you have come far indeed; most candidates go no farther than the First Gate. Come,” Penthesilea murmured. “Come.”
Kassandra rose, stumbling, and her kinswoman steadied her.
The drums were silent, only the fire and a thin wailing. Now she could see the flute player, a thin woman hunched behind the fire. Her eyes were vacant, and she swayed faintly as if in ecstasy; but the fire and the flute at least had been real. In a circle around them, about half the maidens still lay entranced, each watched over by one of the older priestesses. There were vacant spaces in the circle. Penthesilea urged her to make her way carefully, touching no one, toward the entrance of the cavern. Outside, it was raining, but from the dim twilight she could tell that the day was almost over. The drops of rain felt icy and clean on her face. She felt sick and fiercely thirsty; she tried to catch rain in her hands and sip the drops, but Penthesilea led her through a door she vaguely remembered seeing, and then she was in Imandra’s lamp-lit throne room, where the magical journey had begun. She still walked carefully, as if she were a fragile jar filled to the brim with alien wine which would spill if she made a careless movement. Queen Imandra came from somewhere and embraced her, clasping her tightly in her arms.
“Welcome back, little sister, from the realms where the Dark One walked with you. Your journey was long, but I rejoice for your safe return,” said the Queen. “Now you are one with all of us who belong to Her.”
Penthesilea said, “She passed all three Gates.”
“I know,” Imandra answered. “But this initiation was long delayed. She is priestess born, and it is late for her.”
She stood back and took Kassandra by the shoulders as her mother might have done. “You look pale, child; how are you feeling?”
“Please,” said Kassandra, “I am so thirsty.” But when Penthesilea would have poured her some wine, the smell sickened her, and she asked for water instead. It was clear and cold and relieved her thirst, but like everything she would eat or drink for many days, it had a pervasive slimy-fishy taste.
Imandra said, “Be sure to notice what you dream this night; it will be a special message from Earth’s Daughter.” Then she asked Penthesilea, “You will be returning south soon, now you have Her word?”
“As soon as Kassandra is able to ride, and Andromache prepared to return with her to Troy,” answered the Amazon Queen.
“Be it so,” Imandra said. “I have readied Andromache’s dower, and many to travel with her. And for our young kinswoman, the priestess, I have a gift.”
The gift was a serpent; a small green one very like Imandra’s own, but no longer than her forearm and about as thick as her thumb. Kassandra thanked her, tongue-tied.
Imandra said softly, “A suitable gift from priestess to priestess, child. She is hatched from an egg of one of my own serpents; and besides, what else should I do with her? Give her to Andromache, who would flee from her? I think she will be happy to travel south with you in that beautiful pot, and to serve with you at the shrine in Troy.”
That night Kassandra lay
long awake, troubled at the thought of what she might dream; but when she fell asleep she saw only the rain-washed slopes of Mount Ida, and the three strange Goddesses; and it seemed that They struggled with one another not for Paris’ favor, but for hers, and for Troy.
14
THEY SET FORTH in carts as clumsy and slow as the tin-bearing wagons had been, laden with Andromache’s bride-gifts and dowry and with gifts from the Queen to her Trojan kindred from the treasures of Colchis: weapons of iron and bronze, bolts of cloth, pottery and gold and silver and even jewels.
Kassandra was unable to imagine why Queen Imandra was so eager to have her daughter allied with Troy, and even less able to imagine why Andromache was willing—no, eager—to comply. But if she must return to Troy, she was glad to have with her something of the wide world she had discovered here.
Also, she had come to love Andromache; and if she must part from Penthesilea and the women of the tribe, at least she would have with her one true friend and kinswoman in Troy.
The journey seemed endless, the wagons crawling day by day at a snail’s gait across the wide plains, moon after moon fading and filling as they seemed no nearer to the distant mountains. Kassandra longed to mount and ride swiftly at the side of the Amazon guards, leaving the wagons to follow as best they could; but Andromache could not, or would not, ride, and fretted at being alone in the wagons. She wanted Kassandra’s company; so, reluctantly, Kassandra accepted the confinement and rode with her, playing endless games of Hound and Jackal on a carved onyx board, listening to her kinswoman’s simpleminded chatter about clothing and jewelry and hair ornaments and what she would do when she was married—a subject which Andromache found endlessly fascinating (she had even resolved on names for the first three or four of her children), till Kassandra thought she would go mad.
On her outward journey (it seemed to her that she had been immensely younger then), Kassandra had never realized the enormous distances they had covered; only when summer arrived again and they were just beginning to see the distant hills behind Troy was she fully aware of how long this journey had been. In Troy, Colchis was popularly regarded as being halfway around the world. Now she was old enough to take account of the many months of travel; and of course with the wagons, they were traveling more slowly than the riding bands. She was in no hurry to see the end of the journey, knowing that her arrival in Troy would close the walls of the women’s quarters around her again, but she wondered how things fared in the city, and one night while Andromache slept, she reached out in her mind to see, if not Troy, at least the mind of the twin brother whom she had not visited for so long. And after a time pictures began to form in her mind, at first small and faraway, gradually enlarging and becoming all of her awareness. . . .
FAR To the south on the slopes of Mount Ida, where the dark-haired youth called Paris followed his foster-father’s bulls and cattle, on a day in late autumn, a group of well-dressed young men appeared on the mountainside, and Paris, alert to any dangers to the herd he guarded, approached them with caution.
“Greeting, strangers; who are you, and how may I serve you?”
“We are the sons and the servants of King Priam of Troy,” replied one of them, “and we have come for a bull; the finest of the herd, for it is a sacrifice for the Funeral Games of one of Priam’s sons. Show us your finest.”
Paris was somewhat troubled at their arrogant manner; nevertheless, his foster-father, Agelaus, had taught him that the wishes of the King were law, and he did not wish to be thought lacking in courtesy.
“My father is Priam’s servant,” he said, “and all that we have is at his disposal. He is from home this day; if it will please you to await his return, he can show you what we have. If you will rest in my house out of the heat of the noonday sun, my wife will bring you wine, or cool buttermilk; or if you prefer, mead from the honey of our own bees. When he returns, he will show you the herds and you may take what you will.”
“I thank you; a drink of mead will be welcome,” replied one of the newcomers from the city, and as Paris led the way to the little house where he lived with Oenone, he heard another one whisper, “A handsome fellow; and I had not thought to find such manners so far from the city.”
As Oenone, bright and pretty in her working-day tunic, with her hair tied up under the cloth she wore mornings for sweeping the house, fetched mead in wooden cups, he heard the other muttering, “And if nymphs as lovely as this are in abundance on the mountainsides, why should any man stay within city walls?”
Oenone looked sidewise at Paris, as if wondering who these men were and what they wanted; but he knew little more than she, though he had no desire to say so in their hearing. “These men have business with my father, my dear,” he said. “Agelaus will return before the noon hour, and then they can settle it with him, whatever it may be.” If they had wanted goats or even sheep, he would have felt qualified to deal with them himself, even if they were specially wanted for sacrifice; but the cattle were his father’s special pride and joy. So he sipped at the mead Oenone had poured and waited, finally asking, “Are you all King Priam’s sons?”
“We are,” replied the elder of them. “I am Hector, Priam’s eldest son by his Queen, Hecuba; and this is my half brother Deiphobos.”
Hector was unusually tall, almost a head taller than Paris himself, who was not a small man. He had the broad shoulders of a natural wrestler, and his face was strong-featured and handsome, with brown eyes set wide apart over high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth and chin. He bore at his waist an iron sword which Paris at once coveted, although until recently he had thought there could be no finer weapon than the bronze dagger Agelaus had given him as a special gift when he had gone out into a late-winter snowstorm and brought back a dozen weakling lambs who all would otherwise have perished.
“Tell me about these Funeral Games,” he said at last. He noticed the way Hector was looking at Oenone and did not like it. But he also noticed that Oenone was taking no notice whatever of the stranger. She is mine, he thought; she is a good woman and modest, not one to go about staring at strange men.
“They are held every year,” Hector said, “and they are like any other games at festivals. You look strong and athletic; have you never competed in such games? I am sure you could carry off many prizes.”
“You mistake me,” Paris said. “I am not a nobleman like yourselves, with leisure for sport; I am a humble shepherd and your father’s servant. Games and the like are not for me.”
“Modestly spoken,” said Hector. “But the Games are open to any man not born a slave; you would be welcome.”
Paris thought about it. “You spoke of prizes . . .”
“The major prize is a bronze tripod and caldron,” Hector said. “Sometimes my father gives a sword for special valor.”
“I would like that prize for my mother,” said Paris. “Perhaps if my father gives me leave I will go.”
“You are a grown man; you must be fifteen or more,” said Hector, “quite old enough to come and go without permission.”
And as Paris heard the words, he thought it must be so indeed; but he had never gone anywhere without Agelaus’ leave and had never thought he would. He noticed that Hector was staring at him fixedly, and raised questioning eyebrows.
Hector coughed nervously. “I am wondering where I have seen you before,” he said. “Your eyes—they seem to remind me of someone I know well, but I cannot remember where.”
“I go sometimes to the marketplace on errands for my father or my mother,” Paris said, but Hector shook his head. To Paris it seemed that a curious shadow hung over him; he felt an instinctive dislike for this large young man. Yet Hector had been in no way offensive, but had treated him with perfect courtesy, so he did not understand it.
He rose restlessly and went to the door of the house, peering out. After a moment he said, “My foster-father has come home,” and after a few moments Agelaus, a small, slight man who still moved quickly despite his age, came into th
e room.
“Prince Hector,” he said, bowing, “I am honored; how is it with my lord your father?”
Hector explained their errand, and Agelaus said, “It’s my boy can help you with that, my prince; see, he knows the cattle better than I do, does all the cattle-judging at fairs and such. Paris, take the gentlemen out into the cattle-field and show them the best that we have.”
Paris chose the finest bull of the herd, and Hector came and looked into the beast’s face.
“I am a warrior and I know little of cattle,” he said. “Why choose this bull?”
Paris pointed out the width of the bull’s shoulders, the breadth of its flank. “And his coat is smooth without scars or imperfections; fit for a God,” he said, and inwardly thought: He is too good for sacrifice; he should be saved for breeding. Any old bull will do to strike off his head and bleed on an altar.
And this arrogant prince comes and waves his hand and takes the best of the cattle my father and I have labored long and hard to raise. But he is right: all the cattle belong to Priam, and we are his servants.
“You know more than I of these matters,” Hector repeated. “So I accept your word that this bull is the fittest for sacrifice to the Thunder Lord; now I must have a virgin heifer for the Lady, His consort.”
Instantly Paris saw in his mind the fair and stately Goddess who had offered him wealth and power. He wondered if She bore him a grudge that he had not awarded Her the apple; perhaps if he chose for Her the finest creature in all the herd, She would forgive him.
“This heifer,” he said, “is the finest of all; see her smooth brown coat, and her white face, and see how beautiful her eyes are; they seem almost human.”
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