by Anne Fortier
It was not that they spoke much about Myrina’s dilemma; Lilli clearly understood what her sister felt and knew that words would only muddle a situation that, in itself, was relatively simple. Two paths lay before Myrina: one of temporary relief and lifelong regret, and another of temporary pain followed by great happiness. The fact that Lilli was content to merely share her silence told Myrina the girl already knew what the choice must be.
When she eventually announced her decision to leave Ephesus, Myrina found Lady Otrera oddly unmoved by the news. “The less we speak of it on earth, the less will reach the ears of heaven,” Otrera said sternly, putting down her basket. “But we must remove your bracelet. Let me see now—”
And so it came about that Myrina’s jackal bracelet was removed in the vegetable garden without ceremony. “Since we have no moon tonight,” continued Otrera, pulling so hard at the metal she nearly broke the wrist it sat on, “the Goddess may not even notice what has happened. There”—she held the bracelet out to Myrina, proud of having bent it to her will—”you are free to dispose of it, as long as you do it discreetly.”
But Myrina could not bring herself to throw out this burdensome adornment, nor did she dare keep it, for fear it would strike out at her yet. In the end she gave it to Helena, the Greek girl, to brighten their farewell. “I want you to have this,” she said, slipping the jackal around Helena’s wrist, “for you are the worthiest warrior the Goddess could ever have. And perhaps, by gaining you, she will think little of losing me.”
The girl touched the lustrous bronze with reverent fingers. “How often I hate myself for the things I say,” she muttered. “Of everyone here, you are the only one who never turned away from me. Since the night you let me come with you, you have been my steadfast sister. I pray that one day I may return your kindness.”
Then at last came the day of departure, with tearful embraces and belated words of gratitude. Myrina made solemn promises to visit often, but nothing changed the fact that she was abandoning the sisterhood. She, who had risked everything to bring them all back together, was going on to new, forbidden adventures, leaving them behind. Despite her sisters’ tears and blessings, Myrina saw in their eyes they resented her for it.
THE SMALL HILL CALLED Batieia rose conspicuously from the flatness of the Scamandrian Plain, as if deposited there by a giant mole. Riding toward it ahead of her sisters, across a field of ripening grain, Myrina peered at its contours with narrow eyes, anxious to be the first to pronounce that the man wasn’t there.
But he was.
Sitting cross-legged with a spear across his lap, the man first straightened, then stood up expectantly. And when he threw out an arm to wave a greeting, Myrina saw it was the long-limbed Aeneas, Paris’s most trusted companion.
Giddy with relief, she jumped from the horse and rushed forward … only to stop awkwardly at the foot of the hill. “Does your master still await me?” she asked, squinting against the sun, “or are you here to tell us to go home?”
Aeneas shook his head and bent down to pick up his satchel. “If I told him you had been here but had turned around because of me, this mound would have to be renamed yet again, after my dead bones.”
After descending the hill on the other side, Aeneas soon reappeared astride his horse. “Come,” he said, starting upriver and away from town, “we will go to my house in the hills. He will meet you there.”
The look passing between Kyme and Hippolyta did not escape Myrina. Nor did Animone’s scowl of disappointment. They had all, she knew, been hoping for a dignified welcome at the royal court in the manner to which Lady Otrera’s daughters were accustomed. To be whisked away instead to a hut in the countryside fell woefully short of their expectations.
The rustic charm of their destination did little to soften the disgrace. Perched on a densely forested slope, Aeneas’s home turned out to be little more than a cluster of modest wooden cabins … of which the stable was by far the most impressive.
“This is my son,” said Aeneas of the boy who came running out to greet them and help with the horses. “And that”—he pointed across the muddy yard at the smallest cabin of them all—”is where my master stays when he is here.”
Only then, as he looked around at the women, did Aeneas seem to grasp their apprehension. “I am aware,” he went on, a wounded frown passing across his forehead, “we are somewhat removed from town, but this is why he likes to come here. He always says”—Aeneas glanced at Myrina, clearly hoping to win her approval—”this is his true home.”
Somewhat softened to the idea of spending the night in the lonely hills, the women followed Aeneas into his own cabin and were rewarded by the delicious aroma of stew. “This is my wife, Creusa.” Aeneas smiled at the young woman tending to a copper cauldron by the fireplace. “She doesn’t speak your language, but she understands everything and knows what to do. I will leave you with her and return later.”
After exchanging a few words and a kiss with his wife, Aeneas left the cabin. Moments later, Myrina heard the sound of a horse galloping off down the forest path and felt a sudden thrill at the thought that Aeneas had left for Troy to let Paris know of her arrival.
Their hostess’s immediate concern was the food, but a quick trip by Creusa across the yard—possibly to a storage room—yielded a welcome addition of cheese, bread, and wine. And before long, Aeneas’s young wife was ready to sit everyone down at the table with food and drink, while she herself disappeared once more across the yard.
“This stew is not half bad,” admitted Animone, as soon as they were alone. “But then, anything would taste good to me tonight.”
“Just give me a soft nest,” said Kyme, yawning into her wine, “and this old hen shan’t utter another cluck of complaint.”
They ate a while in silence. Even Lilli was quieter than usual, behaving as if she knew something she dared not put into words.
Creusa later returned, her arms full of woolen blankets. Seeing they had finished eating, she beckoned her guests into another room and pointed at a large bed that could easily hold them all. But when Myrina began undoing her sandals, Creusa tapped her eagerly on the shoulder to make her stop.
“What is it?” asked Lilli, already burrowed into the center of the bed.
“I am not sure,” said Myrina. “I think she is asking me to help her.”
“Well.” Kyme yawned again as she loosened her girdle and let it fall to the floor. “Whatever it is, you are the woman to do it.”
Half-expecting Creusa to want help with the big cauldron, Myrina was surprised when the woman went outside yet again, motioning for her to follow. Stepping into the yard, Myrina saw that the summer sun had long since disappeared into the ocean, and yet there was a dewy freshness everywhere that reminded her this night had just begun.
Full of smiling encouragement, Creusa walked Myrina over to the cabin Aeneas had identified as belonging to Paris, and opened the door wide to let her enter. A bit chilled from the unexpected coolness of the mountain air, Myrina stepped into the small kitchen to find a cozy fire burning in the fireplace. The room was by no means luxurious—there was hardly even a mat to sit on—and yet in front of the fireplace stood a large, rather puzzling, water-filled tub made of wood.
Approaching with curiosity, Myrina leaned forward and saw her own shimmering reflection among the flower petals floating around in the water. There did not appear to be anything else submerged in the tub; only when she looked up and saw Creusa’s encouraging gestures did Myrina realize that she was to get in the water—an undeserved honor for one who was neither a High Priestess nor even a holy woman anymore.
Shaking her head, she backed away … but Creusa stopped her. Apparently used to handling reluctant creatures, the woman undressed Myrina with her own hands, nimbly untying this and that until there was nothing left to take off. Only then, urged on by modesty, did Myrina put a foot in the water … and found it so pleasantly warm she did not hesitate to step in and sit down.
The
water rose around her as she did so, and Myrina was relieved to find herself almost completely covered, with flower petals washing gently upon the shore of her shoulders. Leaning back against the wooden side, however, she could not help wondering about the process of building such a magnificent contraption, and while Creusa was putting her clothes aside—grimacing as she did so—Myrina felt around at the tub, inside and outside, to try to figure out its secrets.
But Creusa took her hands with a smile and put them right back in the water. Then, motioning for Myrina to put her head back, she took a brazen ladle and began running water through her hair until it was completely wet. And after that came the soap—a sticky, sweet-smelling substance that reminded Myrina of nothing she had ever smelled before.
Sitting still, her eyes closed against the suds, Myrina was embarrassed to discover how much she enjoyed the bath: the warm water, the wordless calm of the room, and the gentle fingers slowly working their way around her hair and neck. Perhaps it was because Creusa was a stranger … or perhaps it was her, Myrina, whose thoughts and feelings were no longer kept in check by the jackal. If that were the case, she should welcome the change. For had she not left Ephesus and come to Troy precisely for this? Had she not lived this past month in a state of raging impatience, feeling there was so much happiness still to be found in life, so much pleasure?
When the bath was finally over, and Myrina was wrapped in soft blankets, she felt so limp she could barely stand up. Putting a hand behind her back, Creusa walked her through the curtained doorway in the far wall and into the room beyond—a room that was larger than one would expect, but held merely two things: a fireplace stacked full with crackling, burning logs, and a low bed, covered in animal skins.
Pointing at the bed, Creusa let Myrina understand this would be where she slept for the night—away from the others, away from Lilli. And as soon as Myrina stepped into the animal skins, the woman went back into the kitchen to return moments later with a small bowl of hot tea.
After seeing Myrina tasting and nodding with appreciation, Creusa bent forward impulsively to kiss her wet hair, after which she fled the room with downcast eyes.
Shortly thereafter, Myrina heard Creusa leave the cabin, and the door gently closing. Torn between her concerns for the others and her obligation to Creusa, who so obviously wanted her to stay right there, Myrina decided to be patient and drink the rest of her tea before sneaking out to check on Lilli.
But by the time she finished the cup—which contained a curious blend of mint and something else—she was so relaxed that the prospect of getting back into her clothes, bundled somewhere on the kitchen floor, was downright torturous. Sighing deeply, she lay down on the bed to rest for a moment….
And was woken by the sound of water.
Sitting up, Myrina had no idea how long she had been asleep. Her hair was almost dry, and the fire had long since settled into a heap of smoldering coals.
Stepping out on the floor, she tiptoed to the curtain to peek into the kitchen, expecting to see Creusa—indefatigable Creusa—emptying the bathtub. But what she saw made her draw back with a gasp. For it was Paris, completely naked, standing up in the water after a bath of his own, his wet skin reflecting the glow of the embers in the kitchen hearth as he dried his hair.
Unsure what to do, Myrina stayed rooted to the spot, wrapped in her blankets. And when Paris finally pushed aside the curtain and entered the bedroom, barely dressed, she was so struck by bashfulness she turned away. But then … her desire to see him was greater than her shyness, and she looked up to meet his eyes.
How long they stood like that, unspoken words passing between them, she was not sure. Then, as though he had been waiting for permission, Paris crossed the floor and took her head between his hands, kissing her with all the pent-up passion she had seen in his eyes—kisses of tender promises and unbending demands that galloped away with her across fields, endless, blooming fields….
But when he tried to pull the blanket from her shoulder, her hand shot out by reflex to close tightly around his wrist. At which Paris smiled and whispered, “Don’t fight me. Not tonight.”
Myrina slowly released his arm. “It is only what you’ve taught me so well.”
He kissed her neck, right below the ear. “Yes, but there is more.”
She closed her eyes, barely able to think. “And what would you have me learn tonight?”
“The most important lesson of all.” He drew her tightly against him. “To surrender with grace.”
She gasped with surprise. “Once again you are armed and I am not!”
He chuckled but did not let her go. “That is usually why one surrenders.”
“If I were a man, you would never tell me to surrender.”
“No.” He took her by the neck and kissed her again, indulging in her softness. “But you are not a man. You are too lovely, too mysterious—”
Myrina gasped at his skillful touch. “I am not sure I know how to be a woman. I have never tried.”
Paris smiled. “If you could see yourself, you would think otherwise.”
“Will you help me?”
His eyes darkened. “Does Earth need to ask the Sun to rise?”
Myrina shook her head, willing him to understand. “Earth is new to me. For so long, the Moon has ruled my world.”
“I know.” Paris took her hand and kissed her wrist—a shade brighter where the jackal bracelet used to be. “The Moon has no power to give life. That is why she is so jealous of our pleasure.” He clutched her hand with his, then caught himself and let go. “But first …”
Puzzled, Myrina watched him disappear behind the curtain and return a moment later, carrying something wrapped in cloth. After tossing a few fresh logs on the fire he knelt down by the hearthstone to open the cloth and reveal two objects hidden inside. One was a humble clay bottle sealed with wax, the other a golden chalice beset with precious stones. Seeing the hesitant reverence with which he touched the latter, Myrina guessed it was no ordinary royal drinking vessel, but one invested with a certain magic.
“Here.” Paris handed her the chalice and peeled the wax seal from the bottle before pouring out the darkest, most viscous liquid Myrina had ever seen. Then he said, with solemnity, “You are the cup, and I am the wine.” And when Myrina opened her mouth to ask why it could not be the other way around, he pressed his fingers against her lips with a warning glare. “Drink.”
And she did, but just a sip, leaving the rest for Paris, who emptied the chalice with a grimace.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not realize we were to finish it.”
“No.” He knelt down to wrap everything back up in the cloth. “Because I did not tell you. The taste of this, I am sure, has haunted many a bride on her wedding night—as if she did not already have her fill of frights.”
Myrina started. “Does this mean I am your wife?”
Paris rose slowly, to kiss her with reverence. Then he took the blanket she still had draped around her and very gently removed it. “Almost,” he whispered, taking in the sight of her. Picking her up in his arms and stepping directly into the bed, he said, “Before the night is over, you will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
MYRINA WOKE IN A ROOM BATHED IN SUNSHINE. BLINKING AGAINST the bright light, she looked around to find its source and saw a pair of shutters that had been opened while she slept. Next to her lay Paris, smiling at her confusion. The sight of him sent a bolt of delight through her body, leaving a trail of smoldering embarrassment as all her memories from the night were released at once, flapping away on quivery wings.
Diving back under the bearskin they were sharing, Myrina hid her face against Paris’s neck and felt him chuckle. “I thought,” he said, kissing her temple, “we did away with this shyness of yours.” He ran his hands down her back, drawing her closer. “Perhaps we should try to hunt it down again? Clearly, it is still hiding somewhere.”
Myrina giggled when she felt his searching touch. “Unquestionabl
y,” she murmured against his ear, “you did away with a lot of things—and thoroughly so—but let me keep my modesty a little longer that I may not be a complete stranger to myself.”
“Very well,” growled Paris, rolling on top of her. “Keep your shyness if you must, as long as you let this rapacious husband of yours have the rest.”
Later, when they were once again calm, Myrina put a hand over his heart and said, “To think I should travel so far away from everything I know … and find that my home has been here all along, waiting for me.”
Paris turned his head to look into her eyes. “Tell me about the people you used to know. Your parents, your family …”
Myrina reached out to cover them both with a blanket. “They are all gone. My sister Lilli”—she paused to stem a sudden sadness—”is the only blood relation I have left.”
Paris kissed her on the forehead, then lay back to stare at the ceiling. “You are fortunate,” he said, his voice heavy with a burden only he could see. “No one is waiting for you, making demands on you, judging you. You are free.”
Anxious to dispel his sudden gloom, Myrina ran a hand underneath the covers. “Not anymore.”
“But you are.” He checked her hand, not yet ready to play. “This house … you and me … that is freedom. We have both cast off our bonds to be together, and I wish”—he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly—”I wish we could lie here, just like this, until the end of time.”
THEY STAYED IN THE hillside cabin for three nights. During the daytime, Myrina did what she could to entertain her sisters, but despite their goodwill and humorous comments, it was clear they were all—even Lilli—growing impatient with their mountainous isolation.
When Aeneas returned on the fourth day with orders to bring Prince Paris back to court, even Myrina was secretly relieved to see their rustic sojourn come to an end. She suspected the magnificence of a royal reception would have a soothing effect on her sisters’ disgruntlement and free her to once again spend long, delightful hours alone with her husband.
