Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  “Yes.” Myrina nodded. “The children . . . they must say good-bye to their mother.”

  Myrina saw at once that Coronilla and Bremusa were carrying Reseda’s body carefully between them, while Alcibie and Polymusa stood ready to help pick up Gul and Aben, their eyes dark with angry sympathy. Myrina remembered that they had lost their own parents in just such a raid as this.

  “Now I know,” Myrina said to them. “I know the pain you felt.”

  “Yes.” Coronilla spoke for them all. “You know the pain now and it is terrible. But it was you who made us live through it and survive. Since that day we have called ourselves Myrina’s gang and now we will help you.”

  “Yes,” said Bremusa quietly.

  “It is our turn to help,” Alcibie repeated.

  They bent to the terrible task of gently cleaning the bodies, smoothing the singed clothing and carrying them respectfully to the funeral pyre. Black smoke rose again above the desolate landscape. The Moon Riders made a circle around the flames, dancing and singing the Songs of Leaving that would carry the spirits of those who had died safely into the arms of Earth Mother Maa. None could send Mazagardi souls swiftly to rest better than the young priestesses.

  Myrina stood beside her grandmother, still dry-eyed, watching the smoke drifting high into the sky. Phoebe had woken, and though they knew she must be hungry now, she did not cry for food but watched the fire quietly, her eyes wide and solemn. Yildiz stood between her great-grandmother and her aunt, clutching tightly onto them both but making no complaint about her sore and blistered skin.

  “We too should dance and sing for them,” Myrina murmured.

  But Grandmother Hati shook her head. “Never again,” she whispered, her voice low and bitter. “Not I. You go and join them.”

  Myrina looked at her grandmother, surprised. She could not remember a time when Hati had refused to dance, for their dancing was more, much more, than just enjoyment; it was a sacred duty that expressed their deepest emotions. Not to dance in honor of those who had died was shame indeed.

  “But, Grandmother, you have lived all your life to dance for Earth Mother Maa,” she said. “We must dance now to honor our closest ones.”

  “Not worthy.” Hati’s mouth curled with self-disgust. “I’m not worthy, not anymore. I wasn’t there when they needed me; I was away up on the hillside. And when I saw it happening—I . . .” Her voice shook, then came back firmly with a terrible honesty. “I hid. I could have raced to join the fight, but I hid. I never thought that I, Hati, could ever do that. To hide from a fight is the deepest shame and sorrow to me.”

  There was a moment of silence. Myrina sighed. She understood this extra pain. Never through all her long life had Hati’s courage been doubted by any. All the Mazagardi children knew the story of how, as a young woman, she had ridden down through Thrace to Athens and fought the Athenian guards.

  “Grandmother,” Myrina said at last, quiet but determined, “perhaps there is another way to look at this. Maybe Maa was holding you back, for you have never dodged a fight, not in all your life. If you hadn’t saved yourself up on the hillside, you wouldn’t have been here to take up Phoebe from her mother’s arms and you wouldn’t have been here to pull Yildiz from the burning tent. When you saved yourself, you saved these two precious children.”

  Hati frowned for a moment, but then she reached over to Myrina with gratitude and grabbed tight hold of her hand. “Your words are like raindrops on parched land,” she whispered.

  “And there will be more raindrops,” Myrina insisted, her voice gaining strength and conviction. “Until at last we flood the land and wash away all the filth that has been spread over it.”

  Hati looked up at Myrina with surprise and grudging respect. “You are right, my Snake Lady. We must not forget that we are Mazagardi and we must dance to honor our dead, whatever shame we bear. There will be time enough to rid these lands of invaders. Come, Yildiz, you and Phoebe will be part of our ceremony.”

  So all four of them went to join the circle of dancers, as the night sky darkened and the moon came out.

  When the fires died down, the Moon Riders brought out what food they had and shared it about. Nobody felt much like it, but Penthesilea gave the order that everyone must eat, for a funeral feast also brought honor to the dead. “And we will need our strength for the days to come,” she said.

  There were murmurs of agreement and everyone obeyed. Coronilla quickly made some flat, coarse bread from the rough flour they carried with them and produced a small but sustaining meal, with goat’s cheese and olives. All the Mazagardi stocks had been stolen along with the horses and kine. As they forced the food down their throats, angry conversations grew among the women, like the fierce buzzing of hornets whose nest has been disturbed.

  But Penthesilea again gave the order: “Silence now! We dance for the moon and then we sleep. Tomorrow we hold a council—and believe me, it will be a council of war.”

  The slow, gentle moon-dance at last brought with it the release of tears. Myrina and her grandmother wept openly as they turned and swayed, touching hands, singing the familiar, soothing songs of the night. Then Myrina took what was left of her family into her tent, and they lay down together, so weary that even the terrible bitterness of the day could not keep them from their sleep.

  In the morning there was another job to be done before they could begin their council of war. Earth had to be heaped over the charred bones and ashes where the pyre had burned. It was a solemn job that required the help of everyone—Yildiz and even little Phoebe. At last the large hump of earth was patted smoothly over the burnt remains of the dead, so that it seemed to them that Maa had taken back her children, sealing the wound with life-giving soil, soon to be covered again in grass and flowers.

  Myrina pointed out to Hati the straggling survivors who had appeared throughout the morning. “Grandmother, you are not the only one who hid,” she told her. The local fishermen and their families, who knew the country well, came down from the hillside caves where they’d taken refuge. Such flights had become a way of life for them in recent times.

  At noon, dust was seen rising in the west, and as they all watched fearfully the sound of horses’ hooves could be heard. The Moon Riders ran to mount their horses and snatch up their bows, but they soon saw that the approaching warriors wore their hair tied up in topknots. It was the elderly warrior Peiroos riding at the head of a gang of Thracian tribesmen.

  “Welcome,” Penthesilea cried, striding out to meet them.

  “Naught to fear,” Myrina told Yildiz. “They are old friends of ours.”

  Peiroos had been following in the wake of Achilles’ raiding party, hoping that he could cut them off and chase them back to the southern shore. When he and his tribesmen saw the mound of earth and all the devastation, they shook their heads, understanding that they’d come too late. They dismounted and offered the Moon Riders what help and supplies they had. Just as their tents were raised, another lookout spied a smaller cloud of dust rising in the north and the Moon Riders were cheered a little, for they recognized the banners of Atisha, approaching with her caravan.

  Neither Myrina nor Hati was surprised. “She has been mirror-gazing and seen it all,” Hati murmured.

  Penthesilea rushed forward to welcome Atisha and help her out of the litter that she now used for travel, since her old stallion had died. The Moon Riders were a little shocked to see how thin and fragile she had grown and how slowly she moved. But still, despite that, she looked sharply about her, recognizing each face and giving them all their names.

  A special hug was given to Hati. “What times we live in,” she whispered.

  Hati pulled back a little. “You have seen it all?”

  “I have seen that you saved your grandchildren,” Atisha told her sharply, coming forward to kiss her cheek again. “What times! I thought Theseus was bad enough, but . . .”

  They both nodded and words failed them. Then Hati took the two children away to Myr
ina’s tent. “They do not need to hear all that must be spoken of,” she whispered.

  “We are glad to see you, Old Woman,” Penthesilea said to Atisha warmly. “You are just in time for a council of war. Come speak to Peiroos, who has ridden here from Troy.”

  Atisha nodded. “I have seen such doings in my mirror visions as I hoped never to see. I have no strength of body left, but I still have my wits and advice to offer. Call this war council and let us plan what must be done.”

  So everyone sat down. The first to speak was Penthesilea, who vented her fury and urged that they ride at once to Troy in the wake of the Ant Men to take back the Mazagardi horses and slaughter the warriors in revenge. The bitter anger that held Myrina’s heart in a tight grip of misery made her wish to follow Penthesilea’s plan at once, but then another voice, full of warning, spoke up.

  The Thracian lord Peiroos applauded Penthesilea’s courage, but he feared that an ill-prepared attack would go amiss. “Troy’s troubles are greater than ever,” he told them. “King Priam’s son Hector, the one we called the Tamer of Horses, has been killed by the Ant Men’s leader, Achilles. We all thought Hector invincible, but with his death that high-walled city has lost its heart. The people have withdrawn inside the citadel like a snail into its shell and Agamemnon and his Achaean leaders strut and crow outside on the plain. The walls of the citadel are still strong, but the Trojans’ stocks of food are as low as their spirits. The Achaeans raid the countryside and take whatever food they find, so that those towns that would willingly send supplies to Troy have nothing left to give. I myself have lost more than half my warriors, and many of the survivors are wounded men, who grit their teeth every day against pain, but still fight on. An ill-prepared attack on the Achaeans, with our small numbers, would mean that we’d be swatted like flies—and who would then be left to stand by the Trojans and defend the tribal traveling lands?”

  “So do we sit here on our backsides and let Achilles’ Ant Men destroy us?” Penthesilea demanded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bitter and Wise

  PENTHESILEA’S ANGER MADE the whole company flinch and there was a moment of silence. But Peiroos got up again, shaking his head. “I still counsel patience—we must have patience. We have received word from King Memnon of Ethiopia that he is coming himself, leading an army of his fiercest fighters. He reviles the thought of Agamemnon’s rule spreading throughout the whole of Anatolia as much as any. No, my fierce Daughter of the War God, we will not sit here on our backsides; we will train and gather support while we wait for the Ethiopians and hone our weapons. Then, with King Memnon’s aid, we will have an army, sharp for battle, that can truly ride to the aid of Troy and throw the Achaeans back into the sea.”

  Penthesilea answered him through gritted teeth. “I like it not, warrior man. Patience is hard to find, but . . . I do see the sense in your words.”

  Atisha stood up and gave her approval of Peiroos’s plan. She seemed relieved that Penthesilea, though burning for a fight, had agreed to wait. The Moon Riders had always respected the fierce Thracian tribesmen. They would be able to work together well.

  “Let all the tribes go to the Place of Flowing Waters to carry out our Spring Celebrations just as we always do,” Atisha suggested. “The Achaeans know of our rites; they will suspect nothing. But this year our songs and dances will disguise a war gathering. All the traveling tribes have suffered bitterly over these past years and I swear the survivors are ready to make their last and final stand. This time we cannot let the Achaeans swamp us with numbers.”

  Myrina could not help feeling a welling sense of disappointment. Her stomach churned with fury as she saw in her mind the swift punishment that she longed to hand out to Achilles’ Ant Men. She wanted to leap up at once and ride after them, shooting all the warriors full of arrows until they looked like falling porcupines. A desperate desire for action grew in her, while those around her seemed to do nothing but talk and talk. It was difficult to sit still, listening to it all; she shuffled her feet constantly, her heart bursting with hatred.

  Peiroos and Penthesilea argued on about tactics, but Myrina’s gang was aware of their Snake Lady’s inward struggle. They never left her side, always ready to stroke her back or hold her hands. Bremusa, always the practical one, brought food and drink and stood over Myrina, insisting that it was consumed.

  The war council was at last coming to an end as the sun began to sink. There seemed to be grim agreement all round, but before they could start to disperse, Atisha once more struggled to her feet, demanding that they listen to her. Her voice had lost its old strength, but her powerful storyteller’s sense of timing held her audience in silence.

  “This plan has all my blessing,” she approved as her gaze swept about the gathering, “but there is one more thing that we should do. The Trojans should not be left in this deep despair, ignorant of our intentions. They should know that there are many who care for their plight, and they must be told that their allies gather together in the shelter of Mount Ida.”

  “Ah yes! The Old One speaks true.” A wave of murmuring agreement rose from all sides.

  “But how?” Penthesilea demanded.

  “A small number may get into Troy unnoticed by the Achaeans. We need someone who knows the land well and whose courage lies in subtlety rather than in strength; somebody whom the Trojans will trust.”

  Myrina suddenly looked up at Atisha, but Penthesilea cried out with wild excitement, pulling the knife from her belt and brandishing it above her head. “I shall go. I shall go ahead and defend the Trojans until you come.”

  Atisha smiled but shook her head. “We need you to stay with the tribes, my fierce warrior woman, to lead them and marshal our allies. You must work like a tigress at that job . . . and then your time will come. No, if she is willing, Myrina is the one who must go to Troy. She knows the city and the land around it better than any of us and, even more important, the princess Cassandra is her special friend. Myrina and her gang should go, and if they can gather a bit of food on their way, so much the better.”

  Myrina’s heart raced. “Yes, I will go,” she cried at once with gratitude. This would do much to satisfy her need for action. Ten years had passed since she’d seen Cassandra. Her mirror-visions told her that the princess was alive and somehow struggling on, but she longed to see her properly, to hug her and speak to her and know how she truly fared.

  Coronilla, Polymusa, Alcibie, and Bremusa clenched their fists in salute, grinning at one another. It was clear that Myrina’s gang were willing.

  Penthesilea’s mouth closed in bitter disappointment but, as was always the case with her, she could not hold a grudge for long. She quickly looked up again and nodded her agreement, clapping Myrina on the back. “Of course Myrina is the one,” she acknowledged with quick generosity. “Sneak inside those walls like the snake you are and take good care of yourself, little one.”

  The council broke up and the Thracians shared the small amount of food that they carried with them. It was only when Myrina returned to her tent to tell Hati what she must do that her heart sank.

  She found Yildiz sitting cross-legged on a cushion, her small fists tightly clenched. The young girl’s face was drained of color and she seemed to see nothing of what was going on around her. Myrina squatted beside her niece and gently stroked her rough, scorched hair. “How are you, Little Star?” she whispered.

  Yildiz did not even seem to hear her.

  Myrina turned to Hati. “I can’t go. They want me to go ahead to Troy, and scavenge for food on the way, but how can I go? What of these two little ones? I am their aunt; I should adopt them as my own. How can I take Yildiz with me into the dangerous city of Troy?”

  Hati shook her head. “You can’t,” she said, “that’s clear—but do you wish to go on this mission, Snake Lady?”

  “Oh yes.” Myrina nodded firmly, baring her strong teeth. “I want to have a chance to get my hands on those . . . But I want to see Cassandra, too—
”

  “Then you shall go, and you will not worry about these little ones,” Hati cut in. “I have been thinking that with so many Mazagardi gone, it might be best if I travel north with Atisha to the Moon Riders’ sanctuary beside the River Thermodon, where they keep Iphigenia hidden away. If you go to Troy, then I shall take the children with me to the safety of that place.”

  Myrina looked up with concern. “Then we will be parted, Grandmother, even though you are all the family I have left.”

  “Not forever, I hope,” Hati told her. “I will wait for you there by the wooded riverbanks, with Atisha and the princess. I hear that Centaurea is there with her and that Iphigenia grows strong and well, studying the healing arts and Earth Mother’s magic.”

  “Yes,” Myrina agreed, “I know that is true. I look for her in my mirror-visions and see that the place where she lives is beautiful and full of peace.”

  “Well, that is where I shall take these children, and I will keep them safely there until you come to join us. I am not such a crazy old fool as to think that I can still be a warrior.”

  Myrina smiled sadly and kissed Hati. “For that I am grateful, Grandmother. I do see that they will be safer with you on the banks of the Thermodon than here with me. It’s a harsh struggle indeed that’s taking place in this dying land of ours.”

  Hati nodded. “You grow both bitter and wise, Snake Lady.”

  The following morning Myrina’s little gang of four got themselves ready to set off westward with her, along the southern shore of the Sea of Marmara. They covered their bows and full quivers with long cloaks, tying scarves about their heads, so that they looked more like horse-driving Mazagardi than Moon Riders in full battle-dress.

  Atisha called Myrina to her side and gave her some practical advice, along with some of the valued herbs and medicines that she made and carried about with her. “You are like to have more need of these than I, Young Snaky.”