The Lost Sisterhood

by Anne Fortier

  “I was just—” Paris cleared his throat in an uncharacteristic fit of timidity. “I just thought—”

  “Yes.” Lady Otrera held out a hand to him. “I see that.”

  For the remainder of the day, Myrina was kept busy with endless tasks, all of which were performed comfortably within hearing range of Lady Otrera. By the time Paris finally left the farm to return to his ship, Myrina was ready to pull out her hair for not having exchanged another word with him.

  But as he walked across the dimly lit courtyard of Otrera’s private house, heading for the door, Paris made a point of stopping to check his sandal right next to a pillar overgrown with jasmine. Somehow he knew Myrina was right there, hiding from the eyes of everyone, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him before he left.

  “Meet me on the beach at sunrise,” he said under his breath, not even looking toward her. “And be armed.”

  MYRINA COULD NOT FIND rest that night. All she accomplished with her writhing and sighing was to have Penthesilea sneer at her to be quiet and Lilli wake up crying, muttering broken phrases to do with ships and fires on the beach.

  “It is her!” Lilli hissed, when Myrina tried to soothe her back to sleep. “They are coming for her.”

  “Who, dearest?” whispered Myrina, holding Lilli tightly against her chest, hoping the noise would not wake anyone else.

  “Her!” replied Lilli, as always upset that Myrina did not understand. “The princess. She is dark now, but she is here.”

  After a long night of no sleep at all, Myrina finally left the dormitory to creep out behind the barn and saddle her horse. She knew it was still well before daybreak, but she was too anxious to wait any longer. Suppose her scheme was discovered—suppose Lady Otrera tried to stop her? The danger lay not so much in the embarrassment as in the risk of not being able to meet Paris as planned.

  The horse, a silver gelding, snorted happily when he saw her, but Myrina hushed him up with anxious entreaties. And instead of riding off with a happy howl as she normally would, she led him past the house by the bridle, hoping to be seen and heard by no one. Not that there was anything sinful about her excursion, but … the way Lady Otrera had looked at her the night before suggested that the others might think differently. Paris was, after all, a man.

  Riding across the fields toward the ocean, breathing in the soothing coolness of the air, Myrina saw the morning mists lifting off the land with reluctant grace. Although it was already summer, Earth was in no hurry to unveil her splendors before the approach of the Sun; not until he reached out with golden fingers, reminding her of the heat of his touch, did she shed the final layer and welcome him back with a burst of birdsong.

  It was the Sun, too, that pushed Myrina forward, urging her on with a warm hand against her back and spreading glorious morning light before her as she rode down from the dunes onto the sand. Within a few loving breaths the bleak expanse of the beach was roused from sleep, changing color from purplish gray to sage honey.

  And there, in the middle of it all, she saw Paris riding toward her, holding the mock spear in one hand. But he did not stop when he reached her; he merely grinned and continued down the beach as if he intended to ride all the way to the rocky promontory at its far end.

  Riding after him, Myrina did her best to overtake him, and by the time they finally reached a small, protected cove she had never known was there, they both tumbled from the horses, laughing.

  “Look at you!” exclaimed Paris, with false disappointment. “I had looked forward to teaching you to ride … but I see Otrera’s daughters beat me to it.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Myrina, taking off her sandals, “you see numerous faults with my style. Hippolyta is always after me about my knees—”

  Paris smiled. “I would not dare to even notice your knees. All I see is the face of a woman in control and enjoying the ride. That”—he checked himself and turned to unsaddle his horse—”is more than enough.”

  “Tell me,” said Myrina, eager to delay their weapon games until she had received answers to her most pressing question, “have my imprudent actions caused you trouble at home?”

  Paris glanced at her over his shoulder. “If they had, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Then you have … forgiven me?”

  “I am not sure”—he lifted the saddle from the horse and put it down on a boulder—”what that word means. My feelings in this case are so tangled I have long since given up unraveling them. I tried to cut them off”—he shrugged, taking out his mock sword—”but they grew right back. Are you ready?”

  Myrina hesitated, aching to know what he meant, but aware further inquiry would likely yield nothing but more riddles. And so she found her own two wooden knives and crossed her arms before her, in a posture of fear. “There, is that hopeless enough for you?”

  Paris nodded. “Not bad. But I know you too well to be fooled. There is something in your eyes—we have to work on your eyes. But first, let us talk about your strengths, because they are your true weapons.” He nodded at her legs. “Above all, your litheness. Fast and nimble feet. You could easily outrun a man; in fact”—he smiled—”you have outrun me many times.”

  Myrina frowned. “I asked you to teach me how to fight. No one needs instruction for how to run away.”

  Paris held up a warning hand. “You are too impatient. That is a weakness of yours. Strike first … and you might as well plunge the blade into your own chest. Wait, wait, wait … and then wait again; that is the key.”

  “Wait”—Myrina grimaced—”while my opponent cuts me into stew meat?”

  Paris nodded. “He will try. But you will know how to avoid the blows. And then, just as he gets impatient and careless and tired, that is when you strike. But first”—Paris batted the wooden blade against the palm of his hand—”I will teach you how to predict and avoid the sword.”

  By the time he finally let her rest, Myrina was sore all over with bumps and scrapes. She had become better at blocking and avoiding his lunges, yes, but only after being poked and stabbed again and again, mostly on her arms and legs, but also occasionally in the ribs. Even when she would stumble and fall, he gave her no quarter but slapped her backside with the wooden blade until she was back on her feet.

  When at long last he relented, Myrina collapsed in the sand with a groan, not sure she would ever find the strength to get up again.

  “Here.” Paris offered her water, but she was too exhausted to take it.

  “And I thought you were so noble,” she mumbled, clutching her elbow. “But you are cruel. When can I have a shield?”

  “Did I miss a spot?” He knelt down beside her, taking her arm. “Hmm—” He felt the bruise with his fingers. “How about this?” He leaned forward to press his lips against the spot. “Better?”

  She stared at him, words of yes and no at war in her throat.

  “Yes? Well, then—” Paris got back on his feet, brushing off his knees. “Up with you, lithe Myrina. We have only just begun.”

  AND INDEED, FOR SEVERAL weeks Paris met Myrina on the beach to continue her training—sometimes early, sometimes late, in order that no one at the farm saw a pattern in her absence.

  True to his word, he taught her how to master the weapons she had—above all her speed, flexibility, and balance—and before long she was able to duck and jump to avoid most of his blows, much to her own amusement and his growing consternation.

  “I have taught you too well!” he exclaimed one day, just as the sun was setting on a long, hot afternoon. “Now you are the one dealing the blows … to my dignity. Wait. What are you doing?” Tossing aside the spear and sword, he lunged at her just as she sat down to rest, mashing her thoroughly into the sand. “What did I tell you? Never think it’s over until they are all dead. Even without weapons, even on his knees, your enemy will still try for your throat.” He pinned down her arms and legs, putting all his weight upon her. “Now push me off.”

  Gritting her teeth, Myrina tried to shove him
away with all her might, but he was too heavy. “Come on,” he urged her. “There is always a weak spot. A careless moment. Find it and use it.”

  She tried again, and again, but there was no weakness to be found. Groaning with the effort, she looked him in the eye, trying to guess his thoughts. It was not difficult, for they were acutely entwined with her own.

  Still breathing hard, she ceased her struggle.

  And then he finally kissed her: the kiss they had both craved for so long, a breathless, feverish indulgence that might have gone on forever … had not Myrina’s heel happened upon a perfect little mound of purchase in the soft sand, enabling her to flip them both over and throw Paris down on his back, one of her mock daggers pressed to his throat.

  “And you call me cruel?” he croaked, his features torn with humiliation. “You are surely the queen of eternal torment.”

  Myrina pressed the dagger into his throat a little further. “I haven’t killed you yet. Have I?”

  Paris frowned. “Why not?”

  Instead of answering, she bent down to kiss him again, eager to reclaim the pleasure she had just felt. And when—a few breaths later—he was once again on top, she did not mind, for it no longer felt like defeat.

  Once unleashed, their passion was like two wrestling lion cubs—at once playful and relentless. Paris did not tire of her lips … the lips that had so often teased him and told him no, and Myrina could barely contain her delight in feeling him at last … the powerful body she had so often admired, so often longed to feel against her own.

  “My beautiful Myrina,” he whispered, running a warm hand down her arm to close around the jackal bracelet. “Let us take this off right now—”

  “No.” She moved her arm away.

  “Don’t worry.” He was still kissing her, and still reaching for the bracelet. “I will do it for you.”

  “No!” She shrank away from him, twisting her arm behind her back. “We cannot!”

  “We cannot what?” He pulled her right back and pinned her, once more, beneath him. “Insult the little doggie? It didn’t seem to mind me kissing you, did it? In fact, I have a suspicion it is enjoying itself very much.”

  But the damage was done.

  “Please.” Myrina pressed a fist against her face, forcing back the tears. “I do not want to hurt you—”

  Paris sat up, flushed and irritated. “Then why is it that everything you do invariably results in the most excruciating pain?” He rose with a groan and paced down the beach, swinging his mock sword at invisible adversaries.

  Later, when he was saddling his horse, Myrina walked over to embrace him from behind. “I warned you,” she whispered, feeling a sadness so profound she could barely speak. “I have a vicious bite.”

  Paris let his arms drop. “If only you did. But the gods, in their infinite hilarity, have given you the sweetest taste.” Turning, he took her face in his hands and kissed her once more, his face full of distress. “I should go and never come back, but I can’t. Meet me here tomorrow?”

  For three more days they struggled, until at last, Paris plunged his sword and spear into the sand and fell to his knee with a headshake. “You … surrender?” said Myrina, standing awkwardly before him, daggers still raised.

  “Myrina.” He clutched his face. “My beautiful Myrina. Will you never be mine? Am I destined to be second to a dog?”

  She knelt down in front of him, desperate to relieve his anguish but afraid of what might happen if she tried.

  “I have to return to Troy,” Paris said at last. “At first light.”

  “No!” Myrina threw her arms around him. “Don’t leave me again. Please! Promise you will return right away—”

  His head dropped. “I cannot.”

  “But”—she pressed her cheek against his—”are you not … fond of me?”

  Paris looked up, his eyes full of reproach. “Fond of you? Myrina, you are my queen—I want you more than I want life itself.” He swallowed, then went on with sudden determination. “Come to me. Come to Troy and be my wife.” He touched her chin, his eyes dark with solemnity. “Or stay here forever, enslaved by your imaginary mistress.”

  Myrina stared at him, pushing back her tousled hair. “You would marry me?”

  Paris shook his head. “Do you think I would teach just anyone to fight me to the death? I want you to be my wife. My one and only wife.” He took her by the neck and kissed her firmly on the lips. “There is a hill called Batieia just outside of Troy; I will post a man on it day and night, until you come. In fact, I will rename it ‘Myrina’s Hill’ in your honor.” Looking straight into her eyes, he took her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “A cold metal dog … or a man with a pulse beating in every limb? You must make that choice, but I beg you: Do it soon.”

  MYRINA RETURNED TO THE farm after dark. Never had she felt its appeal more keenly—the wide-open doors and windows, glowing with familiar warmth, and the many voices raised in a chaotic chorus of merriment.

  Walking through the garden door, she found everyone busily at work setting the dinner table, laughing at nothing in particular, and absorbed in all things unimportant, and suddenly she felt like a stranger, a trespasser, who had donned a stolen form to be admitted inside.

  Not until that moment did it occur to Myrina how masterful she had become at ignoring her own desires—desires that had once been simple, but which had gradually become far less so. A year ago, when she and Lilli had walked through the desert together, she would have liked nothing more than to come upon a dinner table set by friends. And after leaving the Temple of the Moon Goddess in search of her stolen sisters she would surely have fallen to her knees with gratitude had she known that one day soon, they would all—except one—be living in happy seclusion yet again, on a farm near the sea, surrounded by kind people and fertile lands.

  But once her task was done and her sisters safe, her own wishes had fallen to the ground limp and obsolete, like the ropes men use to erect mighty walls. And she had fallen prey to the evil that attends every great architect: Once his building is complete, he cannot quietly inhabit it, enjoying the fruits of his labor, but must busy himself with plans for another, and then another … until he finally sits down in the shade of the old people’s tree, his life having been nothing but a continuous construction, with no time left for moving in.

  Or perhaps she was being unfair. There had certainly been times when Myrina sincerely enjoyed the challenges of the farm and the company of new friends equally passionate about hunting. And Lilli, too, seemed happy here. It was true the girl’s nights were once again tormented by evil dreams, but her days were merry and full of cats and ducks and joyful tasks. Lady Otrera took special care that those of her daughters who were unable to fully participate in the general mayhem—and there were several such girls, for the locals did not care to raise them—never lacked things to do, never found themselves without responsibilities that were uniquely theirs. So much so that Lilli had developed quite the attitude of being indispensable to the mechanics of the kitchen and guarded her realm with ever-growing ownership.

  “I dread to think,” she had said to Myrina, only a few weeks earlier, “what they ate before we came. Will you help me clean out the larder? No one seems to care about these things.”

  Seeing she had little else to do, Myrina had agreed to the project. Together, the two sisters had cleaned out the cellar, finding this and that, tasting and spitting out … but most important, they had been able to talk privately about their hopes for the future. By sunset that day, when the larder was finally organized, Myrina had felt confident they were equally fond of their new life and could think of no better place to be.

  But then Paris returned. And with him came a swarm of emotions and ambitions that had chased Myrina wherever she went, stinging her continuously, regardless of how many times she plunged into the pond behind the barn, nearly drowning herself to escape them.

  Sitting down to dinner that night, after saying good-bye to Par
is and seeing him ride off in the twilight, Myrina could almost feel it coming through the open windows: the call of Troy. She had heard it described often enough as a magnificent city with proud walls and towers, but tonight it had assumed a new radiance; it was the home of a man who would deny her nothing, and whose nearness was so captivating, she could think of little else.

  Closing her ears to the usual kitchen chatter, Myrina spent the hour after dinner setting mousetraps. It was perhaps not the noblest of pursuits, but she found a strange satisfaction in doing what had to be done with as little suffering to the victims as possible. So intent was she on wiring her cunning contraptions she did not even notice she had an audience until Lady Otrera put a hand on her head and said, “I was wondering why I am no longer disturbed by the screeching of dying mice. All I hear now is a snap, and then silence.”

  “If only,” muttered Myrina, struggling with a knot, “one could wire human hearts as easily.”

  “Come.” Lady Otrera gestured for her to get up. “Let us walk. It is such a calm evening.”

  Right away Myrina knew what lay behind the invitation. The all-seeing mother of the house had learned of her clandestine trips to the beach, either from an eyewitness or from simple deduction. The Trojan ship had been moored in the harbor for three weeks, yet Paris had only come to dinner once. Why? What did he have to hide?

  Bracing herself for the scolding she deserved, Myrina followed Otrera through the vegetable garden to the meadow beyond. Here, bathed in the light of the rising moon and casting a distorted shadow on the wild grains, stood the Tree of Chimes—an old hardwood with wind flutes hanging from its branches. No one had yet explained to Myrina the logic of this tree and its mournful sighs, but she had long since guessed it served as a guardian of the dead, whose ashes—she assumed—were buried in the ground beneath it.

  Puzzled by their destination, Myrina stopped beside Otrera, waiting for her to speak. She feared the subject would be sin and punishment, and was already preparing to protest her innocence when Lady Otrera reached out to caress the bark of the tree, saying, “You never met Sisyrbe. She was the finest daughter I ever had. Never broke a rule, never refused a task. A brilliant rider. But she was struck down by a fever before fully grown. And Barkida”—Otrera paused to steady her voice—”fell from a horse and broke her neck. She and so many others died too young. So you see, Fate does not always favor the deserving. All we can do is be honest to ourselves and hope for the best. An unhappy life, cut short by an unfair death … surely, that is the greatest tragedy.”