Voyage of the Snake Lady

by Theresa Tomlinson

  “Well done!” Coronilla approved. “Do not let this fire go out! It is your job to guard it! This fire will mean life or death to us!”

  Phoebe nodded, taking her responsibility seriously, determined to do this job as well as she could. “Fetch those twigs!” she ordered Tamsin. “And more over there!”

  Back at the beach Myrina saw the twirling smoke and smiled. Leti and Fara had managed to garner many items from the water, and so planks of wreckage now became crutches and litters to carry those who’d been injured up to the fireside. They hauled ashore the bodies of the four drowned goats, for Myrina swore that nothing must be wasted.

  “That is our meal for tonight,” she told them, without mercy. “So much for our hopes of breeding. What of the sheep?”

  Fara shrugged wearily. “Drowned like the goats, I should think.”

  “We must find them,” Myrina insisted. “If they have drowned, then we need their meat to sustain us and their skins to help us keep warm.”

  After a short search Fara gave a shout and dived into the deeper water. She emerged with one of the drowned sheep, its thick wool so heavy and drenched that its body could not float on the surface.

  “Well done!” Myrina cried. “Meat and a skin—we must try to find the other one.”

  She made them drag the corpse of the sheep up to the camp. Only then could they give their minds to the best way of treating their own dead with respect. Six drowned Moon Riders were now laid out by the stunted tree, so Myrina organized a solemn procession of women to carry them up to the campfire.

  Myrina walked behind them, distressed to have lost so many. As she followed in their wake her steps slowed and her thoughts fled back to the sight of Iphigenia disappearing into the dark and terrible sea. At least she had the bodies of these six Moon Riders and could perform the sacred rites that would send them safe into the arms of Maa.

  Somehow she had managed to force Iphigenia out of her mind while it had been so vital to save Tamsin and Phoebe and help the others. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, the horror and terrible emptiness of losing her dear friend flooded back to her.

  Chapter Seven

  Where Magic Lies

  THE PROCESSION MOVED ahead while Myrina stumbled and stopped, sinking down onto a rock beside a small pool. She dropped her head into her hands and sat, still and desolate, slowly growing cold again, her thoughts a wild muddle of sorrow and despair.

  Her mind slipped back over the years. “We have lost too much,” she murmured. “Too much!”

  Over and over again the Moon Riders had fought back against all the odds. They had struggled on despite the loss of friends, lands, purpose, and power. The battle at the River Thermodon and the destruction of Myrina’s magical mirror had been terrible, but the loss of Iphigenia, whom they had risked so much to save . . . this was more than she could bear.

  At last she lifted her head, gazing down into the still water at her feet. “Princess—priestess,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and breaking, “where have you gone? Did we rescue you from the sacrificial knife only to let you die in this cold, dark sea?”

  The water beneath her reflected a white-gray sky, with clouds that slowly shifted across her vision. The surface of the pool glinted with a touch of frosty light that struck right down through the water to the bottom, where the sand was patterned in waves. The tide had etched small diamond shapes there, creating a small but perfect world inside the pool. As Myrina stared down at it, she slowly drifted into a dreamy state of half sleep that was not unfamiliar to her. A tiny seed of comfort grew and began to spread through her body. She gazed at the reflection of the moving clouds and then through them to the mirrored image of the sky beyond.

  Her shoulders drooped and her breathing slowed; this was almost like gazing into her mirror. Was it possible that she did not need a magical mirror to see loved ones far away?

  “Iphigenia. . .” She murmured the name over and over again. “Iphigenia!”

  She gasped as at last the pattern of shifting clouds slowly began to clear, showing her the recognizable shape of a coastline—very different from the one the sea had thrown them onto. An inlet of water with a narrow sea entrance was almost enclosed by towering cliffs. Inside was a small beach edged by buildings, some of them very large and grand. A city had been built into the steep hillside, with the water lapping at its feet.

  Her focus shifted to the flotsam and jetsam that had been thrown onto the beach in the wake of a storm. Could it be wreckage from the same storm that had smashed the Apollo and driven them ashore? Could this be the city whose lights they’d glimpsed? But there in her vision was a sight that made her heart beat faster. A young woman lay on the beach, thrown up onto the sand among the rubbish; it looked as though the woman clung to a solid wooden shape that she recognized: the carved figurehead of the Moon Lady—Artemis herself.

  “Iphigenia. . .” Myrina’s lips moved in wonder. “Can she be alive?”

  She watched and saw that many people were running down to the beach, picking up bits of wreckage, curious to see what the tide had washed up. They gathered about the inert figure. Myrina watched with concern. Were they friendly? Could Iphigenia really be alive?

  Then she saw with joy and gratitude that they were wrapping her in a warm cloak and giving her something to drink. “She must be alive!” Myrina murmured.

  The figurehead was lifted high, and suddenly these strange people were dancing around the carved figure and bowing to the princess who’d been washed ashore in such a bedraggled state.

  “She’s alive, she’s alive!” Myrina cried out loud with delight and clapped her hands.

  The vision faded as she spoke, though she tried hard to grab it back again. At last she reluctantly gave up the struggle; she was too exhausted and cold to find the image again and she’d seen the most important thing. She sat on the rock for a moment, smiling and wondering. “My dear friend lives and . . . I do not need a magic mirror,” she whispered. “The magic is in me—it is here in me!”

  She did not know where Iphigenia was, but she had seen enough to trust that she was not dead and not in any immediate danger. This knowledge meant everything to her; now despair could be thrown aside. She and her companions must find a way of surviving in this unfamiliar, bare landscape. Perhaps, after all, the decision to travel north might still prove to have been a good one. She rose to her feet, stiff and cold again, but her spirits were higher than they had been all through the day. She set off at once, marching toward the Moon Riders’ camp and the fire.

  Coronilla, Akasya, and Kora had worked wonders. Barrels and baskets were stacked outside the copse, drying in the last rays of the setting sun. Even some of the cloaks and clothing had been retrieved and were now hanging out to dry on the lower branches of the trees.

  “Here, see what we’ve found!” Tamsin leaped up at the sight of her mother. She held out a handful of hazelnuts. “I can crack them with my teeth!”

  Myrina smiled and then she suddenly laughed out loud at the sight of Leti chasing the other sheep. Somehow against all the odds the creature had managed to scramble ashore and find itself a bit of fresh grass to nibble. Pleased with its newfound freedom, it was determined not to be caught. The strong young woman chased it around the marshy ground with just the same determination, and at last she flung herself full length and wrestled it to the ground. The sheep gave up at last and allowed itself to be led back to the camp, bleating and protesting loudly, both animal and Moon Rider covered in sticky mud.

  “Well done! Well done!” Myrina clapped her hands.

  Then she looked down at the six bodies of her friends and her laughter fled. “Now, as darkness falls about us, we must build the fire up into a pyre,” she said. “Then we will feast and dance to honor our dead—but I must tell you this: I believe Iphigenia lives! I have seen her in a strange watery vision. I cannot swear that what I have seen is true, but I believe it is.”

  Kora frowned and shook her head and murmurs of sorrow ca
me from all around, but Coronilla touched her shoulder. “Snake Lady, if our lost priestess lives and could send a vision of hope, then she would surely send it to you.”

  Myrina smiled, glad that they did not pour scorn on her words.

  The two drowned goats were roasted on hastily improvised spits and the mouthwatering scent of roasting meat drifted among the trees. Myrina hesitated for a moment, but then she remembered her vision of Iphigenia and decided that they should open a barrel of cherries stored in wine that had been saved from the sea.

  Suddenly she was struck by uncertainty. “Maybe we should eke out our provisions,” she said to Kora. “Do you think this right?”

  “Yes,” the practical woman agreed. “In the days to come we must save all we can, but tonight we are battered and bruised. Open the barrel and let them eat, for we must somehow get through this harsh night and honor the dead. Let us keep our self-respect and dignity.”

  Myrina nodded, grateful for this support. Roasted goat meat had never tasted so good and the cherries in wine cheered and warmed them all, but nobody begged for more, not even Tamsin, almost as though they sensed the need for restraint.

  When they had eaten, they all stood up to dance. First they moved in a solemn circle around their comrades’ pyre. Though the air was full of sadness, still it was good to move. Coronilla played her pipe, the slow notes rising and falling in a lament that had become all too familiar. Myrina beat out a rhythm on her drum, though tears poured down her cheeks as she thought of the missing clack of Iphigenia’s castanets. Even those who were injured made their contribution, keeping up a steady clapping rhythm and lifting their voices in the slow thrumming songs that would see their lost sisters safely back into the earthy care of Mother Maa.

  Later, as the flames licked high into the darkness, the atmosphere changed and the women began to catch each other’s hands and form the long chain of crisscrossed arms; this was the dance that many of the women had invented when they were Trojan slaves. It expressed respect for the dead, just as much as the slow circle, but it was also a dance of life and survival. At first the young people stood back and watched their elders as each woman began chanting and singing in the language of her own long-lost homeland. But as the dance progressed, they all began to chant in the Luvvian tongue, symbolizing their unity, and moved together in perfect harmony.

  Then at last the young ones leaped up to join them, smiling and laughing as they remembered the stories of their births. Most of the children had been conceived in slavery, their mothers used for comfort by the warriors who had traveled far from their homes to defend the city of Troy. The women had had no choice but to bear these children and they had suffered terribly, but the years of peace on the banks of the Thermodon had restored their pride and purpose. No Moon Rider had anything but total love for her child.

  “We live! We live!” they sang. “We live and survive!”

  As the flames burned low, sending smoke twisting high into the night sky, the rhythms of the dance quickened even more and wild songs of thanksgiving made their spirits soar, while blood went racing through their veins, making them warm and cheerful.

  Then at last Myrina called for the gentle moon dance, fearful that they would exhaust themselves and anxious to settle them to a restful sleep, for they would certainly need all their energy to face the coming day.

  Night watchers were appointed, and Myrina snuggled in between Tamsin and Phoebe, grateful for the warmth that they’d built up beneath the smoky, seaweed-smelling blankets that the fire had dried.

  Coronilla shook Myrina awake as the first blurry rays of acacia-colored light touched the eastern horizon. “What now?” she growled.

  But Coronilla would not be put off. “Open your eyes, Snake Lady,” she insisted. “Akasya and I have seen such a sight that will make you howl for joy. Get up off your backside and come and see!”

  The suppressed excitement in Coronilla’s voice made Myrina snap into action, wide awake and ready for anything. She leaped to her feet, full of curiosity. “What is it? Why do you have to make such a mystery of it?”

  But Coronilla’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I’m not saying! I want to see your face!”

  “Then take me to it—quickly, at once!”

  Her friends grabbed her by the arms and pulled her along between them, away from the sea, away from the copse of trees, and up a gentle slope to some rocks, where Leti and Fara were crouched. They lay flat on their bellies, keeping their heads down, but Myrina could see that they watched something or someone down below them on the other side of the rocks. They both turned at her approach, huge grins on their faces. Leti lowered her palm in warning, then raised a finger to her lips for quiet.

  Myrina sank like a cat, moving slowly forward, belly low. They made a space for her to creep between them, then at last she carefully stretched her neck out to see what it was that brought such excitement. They all turned to witness the wonderful look of surprise that lit her face. “Thank you, Maa,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a moment. “Now we are safe! Now we can survive!”

  A grassy valley rolled gently away from them, sloping down to a wide river that curved its way through the lowest ground; but, most wonderful of all, along the banks of the river, tossing their manes, nickering gently to one another, moved a herd of wild horses.

  Chapter Eight

  A Gift from Maa

  THE MOON RIDERS lay for a while just watching the horses, still as statues, huge smiles on their faces, eyes wide with delight.

  The main herd grazed on the river-watered grass. Their coats gleamed in the early morning sun, gray, brown, black, and chestnut. One huge light-bay stallion moved among the mares like a king or a great chieftain. A little way upriver a smaller group of young males congregated, expelled from their mothers’ care as they reached maturity. They were the hangers-on kept at a safe distance from the mares by the stallion, who patrolled the boundaries of his harem. All the beasts were strong and healthy, well fed from the green grass.

  “Mare’s milk!” Myrina whispered. “Mare’s milk, hide, and steeds.”

  “Do you see the herd leader?” Coronilla pointed to a beautiful blue-black mare who moved among the young foals, giving them bossy nips if they got in her way. “She should do for you.”

  But the sight of the beast rung Myrina’s heart, making her think of Isatis. “No”—she shook her head—“I could not have a blue-black mare again; you take her.”

  “With pleasure,” Coronilla whispered, her voice full of reverence. “Do you think Maa placed them here just for us?”

  “I don’t know,” Myrina replied, “but no other sight could bring such a warmth to my heart.”

  They stayed there for a little longer, but then Myrina backed away, keeping her head down until she was well out of sight of the herd. She struggled to her feet, trying to calm her excitement. “There is much to do. Leti, Fara, will you two stay here and keep watch? Fetch me if there is any sign of them moving away.”

  Leti and Fara were more than content with their role, while the older women crept back to the camp, full of plans.

  News of the discovery flew fast through the camp. Though some of the younger women were eager to rush off to claim their chosen beast, Myrina insisted that they gather about her and talk through their plans.

  “We cannot take a chance of startling them!” she said fiercely. “This must be done the Mazagardi way—you all know what that means. Any woman who disobeys can walk away and find her own way of living in this desolate place.”

  Some of the girls were shocked to hear her speaking so sternly, but Kora, Akasya, and Coronilla backed her every word. At last they settled down and listened carefully to her plan.

  “Do you understand?” she demanded. “This time we cannot afford to make a mistake!”

  They listened carefully and agreed.

  That night the Moon Riders performed the horse dance about their fire. They pawed at the ground and stamped, tossing their heads this way and
that, imitating the movements of trotting, cantering, and galloping. They remembered with great sadness and longing the steeds that had been so cruelly slaughtered by the Ant Men, but they also recalled the joyful swing of the hips that came to every rider as the horse got into its stride. They longed for the pleasant feeling of a cooling breeze swishing through their hair as the horse gathered speed. They yearned for the wonderful warm scent of horseflesh.

  Next morning they rose before dawn and danced enthusiastically to welcome the sun. Coronilla’s group set off first, for they had far to go, and they carried small bundles of food strapped to their backs. Akasya and her friend Nessa soon followed them, walking quietly through the woods. Leti and Fara also went, each in a different direction, Leti walking calmly away to the east and Fara to the west. All the women kept well out of hearing range or scent of the horses.

  Myrina waited with Tamsin and Phoebe—they were the last to leave the camp. Kora stayed behind to tend the sick and feed the fire, with a few good bow-women ready to defend the meager stock of food they possessed. Though Kora understood the delight that the Moon Riders felt at the discovery of the herd, she swore that she would never go near one of those dangerous beasts.

  Phoebe and Tamsin walked stealthily beside Myrina, moving like leopards. They approached the lookout spot and dropped to the ground without a word. Then they quietly set about making themselves comfortable on their bellies, keeping their heads low, for there would be a long wait ahead. They must be patient: their very lives might depend on the outcome of this venture.

  They lay watching the horses with greedy eyes. The sight of them was so exhilarating that for the moment they could be content just to look.

  “The golden mare with the sandy mane is mine,” Phoebe whispered fiercely. “Sandmane I name her.”