Dorkas sighed with relief. Hades must have been waiting, hidden by the rock. He had snatched Kore and carried her away. Curious now that her fears of meeting the King of the Dead were allayed, Dorkas followed Kore’s footsteps and examined the area. It did not take long for the jeweled flower, still lying in the hollow of the rock, to catch her eye. She caught it up with an intake of breath.
Perhaps, she thought, what she had done was for the best, as Zeus had said repeatedly. Perhaps there even was a Great Mother and She approved Kore’s delivery into Hades’s cold hands and his possession of her. She fingered the tiny gem. If she had not seen it, one of those who would be sent to search for Kore would surely have found it, and the fact that Hades was her abductor would soon become known to all. That would be a disaster for her own plans to become high priestess; Demeter would surely insist that Zeus demand her daughter’s return, and Zeus would be forced to do so because he could not admit that he had suggested the abduction.
Dorkas tucked the exquisite bauble into her sash and frowned thoughtfully while she bound the thongs that held her purse around it so it could not slip or drop out. It would be better, she decided as she secured the jewel, if no one suspected an abduction at all, and that was possible enough because Kore was known for disappearing for hours in the temple’s extensive grounds. A quick glance at the sun told Dorkas that she still had some time. No one would question her if she came back breathless at the last moment. All would believe she had been searching for Kore. And no one would see what she was actually doing because the road and the whole area around the pool were forbidden to all except the priestesses during the sacred laving.
With a broad smile, Dorkas returned to the road in a meandering path, actually picking a flower here and there. She crossed the road and wandered about on the other side until she came to the bank of the small stream which had its beginning in the pool farther along the road. She picked a few more flowers, then dropped the whole handful into the water to be carried away. Finally she retraced her steps, taking care not to bruise any more plants in returning than she had marked on her way. That took a little longer than she expected, and she ran all the way back to the pool, arriving pale and out of breath just as the sun touched the edge of the pool.
“I could not find her,” she gasped. “She picked flowers all over the meadow and I think the lazy girl was hiding from me. Just the other day she was complaining about always being the one to have to wash Our Lady’s clothing, as if it were not the greatest honor.”
“But it is time now!” Aglaia cried.
“Lay out the garments,” Dorkas said. “I will do the washing. I am sure the Lady of the Corn will accept my good intentions and not punish us all for Kore’s carelessness if I do not perform the ritual perfectly.”
She looked over her shoulder at the novices and saw that they were in their proper half circle, the littlest centered with taller girls on each side, the tallest at both ends so they formed a horned crescent. Dorkas lifted a hand and looked back into the pool, which was now flushed with diffuse light. A moment later, the bright edge of the sun showed in the water. Dorkas gestured sharply and the girls’ voices rose in a paean of praise. She hurried to the first garment and began the ritual washing. Aglaia took the wet garment from her hand, laid it on the grass, and all the other priestesses knelt to fold it into the elaborate pleats in which it must dry in the sun.
Although she knew the ritual as well as or perhaps even better than Kore, Dorkas deliberately faltered twice. She had decided it would not do to allow anyone to guess that she had been studying it in private. She realized that she need not have been concerned about that when one of the attending priestesses hissed at her for handing one of the washed garments to Aglaia with the wrong hand. Her mind had wandered from the ceremony she knew too well to Demeter’s reaction when they returned without her daughter.
When her part in the ceremony was over, Dorkas grew more and more nervous and several of the other priestesses clearly shared her discomfort. Instead of playing with the novices or laying out the food that had been covered by the Goddess’s garments in the baskets, they kept running to the edge of the road to look for Kore. Finally Dorkas stood up.
“I am very worried about that foolish girl,” she said. “Since my part of the ceremony is over, I am going to walk back along the road and look for her again. If I cannot find her, I will return to the temple and tell Demeter what she has done. You must keep a close watch on the little ones, Aglaia, and see that the others fold the garments correctly.”
Until she was well out of earshot of the others, Dorkas called out to Kore as she went, bidding her return at once, telling her they were all worried and she should not play such cruel tricks. By then she was suffering such pangs of anxiety about what Demeter would do to her, that she was really sorry when Kore did not answer. Her distress was easy enough to read by her pale face and her shaking hands when she arrived at the temple and sought the high priestess.
“I am so sorry,” she cried, after breathlessly relating what had happened. “It never occurred to me that your daughter would actually miss the ceremony. I thought she was teasing us. I looked for her, but there are so many places to hide if she wished to hide. I almost came too late myself, and none of the others knew the rite.”
Demeter stared at Dorkas, her blue eyes cold as deep ice. “You should have watched her better,” she said. “You know how restless she has been.”
Dorkas bent her head beneath the rebuke and bit her lip, but that was more to hide a smile of relief than because of the blame. Demeter was angry but not worried, and it was only fear that would make her vicious. She had no suspicion that the mischief was not of Kore’s own making.
“But what should we do?” Dorkas asked. “Should I go into the city and ask for men to make a real search?” She widened her eyes. “But then Zeus will hear that she has run away, and he might say—” She clamped her mouth shut.
“Kore has not run away,” Demeter snapped. “She is very childish sometimes, and takes a delight in making me worry. No doubt she was watching you rush about frantically looking for her and thinks I will do the same. I will teach her a good lesson this time and ignore her. She can come to no harm in the valley. When she is hungry enough or it starts to get dark, she will come home.” She paused, staring hard at Dorkas and taking deep breaths. Then she slapped her hand on the carven arm of her chair. “As for you, you have been derelict in your duty and have doubtless offended Our Lady with your clumsiness in performing her ritual. You may spend the next two days fasting and kneeling to her, begging her pardon.”
“I am sorry, so sorry,” Dorkas murmured, but she thought the punishment a small price to pay for the success of her ploy. Even if Demeter did begin to worry about her daughter, she would wait a long time before she admitted to Zeus, who had often complained that Kore was too much confined, that the girl had fled her control.
“You will have company in the shrine when Kore returns,” Demeter said. “Go!”
When the offending priestess was gone, Demeter slumped in her seat and let the tears she had fought against rise to her eyes. Ungrateful child, she thought, she does not care a bit that I have spent half my life smoothing her path and guarding her against pain. She wants “freedom”; she wants “love.” How often have I told her that love only opens a door to misery. Men! If they do not leave you, they die. Did I not hang on Iasion’s neck and beg him to stay safe beside me? No, he would defend his city! Idiot! Cruel idiot not to care that I would be left to grieve.
She rose and paced restlessly. If only she could be certain that Kore was being spiteful and had hidden herself to avoid the rites and to wander freely outside of the temple. It might be so, Demeter assured herself. The child had complained about performing the rites over and over and about being held a “prisoner.” Demeter sighed. She had explained again and again that there would be much less chance of anyone challenging Kore’s accession as high priestess if she were the only acolyte who had p
erformed the rites. Not that the explanations had done much good. All the silly girl had said was that she did not want her mother to die. Naturally not, but one must look ahead, even many, many years ahead.
As far as being held prisoner… Demeter stood still and bit her lip, staring sightlessly ahead. It did not matter what Kore felt or wanted. After this escapade she really would be a prisoner. Never again would she leave the temple grounds. Demeter sighed. She had tried to temper necessity with mercy, but Kore was unreasonable in her demands and it was impossible to yield to those. She did not dare allow the child to mingle freely with the people of Olympus. Aside from her beauty, which drew far too many eyes and would make half the men in the city into seducers who would only break Kore’s heart, there were far too many mages. Sooner or later one of them would discover that Kore had that most precious of all Gifts, the ability to enhance the power of others. They would tear each other—and her—apart to own her.
No, Demeter thought, moving blindly forward in the direction in which she had been staring, she would not throw away the treasure the Goddess had given her to guard. She needed Kore’s strength herself. Why should she share it with others? She had given the child life with her own agony, and despite Kore’s whimpers, Demeter knew that what she had planned for her daughter was the best life a woman could have.
When she stopped, sensing something in her way, Demeter found herself beside a window. Although she knew she was being foolish, she murmured, “Open,” to release the spell that kept out everything but light, and leaned out, hoping despite knowing better that she would see a graceful form in spring-green silk running across the temple grounds to beg pardon. Twice she tensed and stared as green-clad forms caught her eye, but not for long. She could not deceive herself for more than a moment about the spindly, barely pubescent girls dressed in green. Even at this distance she knew they could not be her tall, richly curved daughter.
Lips tight, Demeter snorted and turned away. A mature body did not tell the whole tale. Some children developed physically long before they were ready to take up the burden of being adults. Kore was only a child, but her lush body was the source of a fear Demeter could not push out of her mind any longer. She had seen the young men ogling her daughter during the celebration that welcomed the coming of spring; worse, this spring she had seen Kore look back. She is only curious, Demeter assured herself. The child could not yet know desire; nonetheless, curiosity could lead to trouble.
Demeter turned her back on the window and resumed her restless pacing. For years she had warned away every man she had seen who showed any interest, made it plain that Kore was consecrated to the Goddess and that severe punishment would befall any man who touched her. But a man driven by lust seemed blind and deaf to warnings and to fear, and she had not been able to watch Kore every moment. If the ungrateful girl had yielded to some fool’s pleas and managed to make a tryst… Biting her lip with vexation, Demeter shook her head. It did not matter. Restless and rebellious Kore might be, but her daughter did love her. She would return.
But the slow hours passed and there was no sign of Kore. Demeter thought again of the option she had so swiftly dismissed—demanding that Zeus order a search of the valley so her daughter’s seducer could be caught and punished—but she quickly rejected the idea. Perhaps the search parties would find Kore and her lover, but Zeus would be far more likely to insist on marriage than on punishment. That would be a disaster. Racked by fear and helplessness, Demeter wept and cursed the spirit in Kore that she did not dare try to break.
As high noon passed, however, she began to feel more hopeful that Kore was simply idling away the day in freedom, wandering alone. Surely if she had met a man, she would have hurried home after their love-making. With any luck, she would have been disgusted by the actual happening compared with her dream and eager to conceal what she had done under the small mischief of evading her part in the laving of the garments. Even if she was thrilled with her lover, she should have been willing to confess in the expectation that her mother would then agree either to her marriage or to bringing her lover into the temple as other priestesses did. So compelling was Demeter’s hope that for the first part of the afternoon she was able to turn her attention to the order in which the ploughed fields were to be blessed with seed.
Later still, as the sun sank in the western sky, it occurred to Demeter that her daughter might not have run away willingly. Her initial reaction to the idea was denial. No man in Olympus, not even one of the great mages, not even Zeus himself, would dare take by force the daughter of the high priestess of the Corn Goddess. Zeus would certainly have done so years ago if he dared. For all his handsome face and merry laugh, he was the crudest and most lecherous of all of his kind, she thought—and caught her breath.
The connection in Demeter’s mind between Zeus’s lechery and the term “years ago” had suddenly become significant. Years ago lust had not been involved in their contest over Kore. When Zeus had adopted Kore and had the audacity to ask that she come to him freely as a girl might to her father, the child would not have appealed to his lechery. She was gangly and awkward then, her body all hard angles and her nose too big for her face.
Demeter had not suspected Zeus of designs on Kore’s body but of wishing to control her heart and will. Once he had cozened Kore into affection, Demeter suspected he would have arranged for an “accident” to take her mother’s life. Probably he would have fastened his ultimate chains to Kore’s soul by comforting her for that loss. Then the temple of the Corn Goddess would have been as much his to command as the city of Olympus.
Recalling that she had won that contest of wills, Demeter, who had stiffened in her chair, relaxed a little. Zeus had not mentioned Kore in years. Then she pushed away the scribing tablet she had been working on and rested her chin on her clasped hands. She had been a fool to forget how Kore had changed. Zeus might well have been inflamed by seeing her during the rites of spring. Demeter cursed herself for allowing the child to play so prominent a role and promised herself that when she had her back Kore would never again leave the temple grounds. It was for her own good, she thought bitterly. Zeus, like other men, would only notice the ripe body; no man would care that Kore was really still a child. And lust was the one thing that could blind Zeus to consequences.
Rising slowly to her feet, Demeter smiled. No other mage in Olympus would dare take Kore by force because Zeus would be forced to help find his “daughter” and add his power to her mother’s to recover her. Ergo, if Kore had been abducted, it could only be by Zeus himself. No doubt lust had added a spur to the arrogance that had been growing in him since he had overthrown his father and become Mage-King of Olympus. Probably he had thought she would not dare confront him now because she had feared to object to his adoption of Kore. Demeter drew a deep breath. How wrong he was! How very wrong!
She had started across the room when the door opened and a little novice stuck her head around. “They are serving the evening meal, Mother,” she whispered. “Will you come or should I bring something to you here?”
“Evening meal!” Demeter echoed. Her eyes widened as a Goddess-inspired answer was granted to a problem that had not yet occurred to her. It was now clear how to prevent Zeus from suppressing her complaint. “No, I do not wish to eat,” she said to the novice, her voice soft with awe, “but I will come down.”
* * * *
In the refectory, she stood before her seat at the head of the priestess’s table. The chair at the foot of the table, where Kore sat, and Dorcas’s place on the bench at her right, were vacant. Tears sprang to her eyes at the sight of Kore’s empty chair, but she forced them back and struck the brass wheat sheaf that lay beside her plate against the bowl that symbolized the earth.
When the compelling bell tone had shimmered into silence, Demeter said, “Kore has been stolen from us. When Dorkas told me she had run away to play like a spiteful child, I was fool enough to believe her. If harm has come to Kore, I will be justly punished, for I
should know my daughter better. She might complain or tease me, but she is devoted to the Goddess and would not willingly offend her by failing to perform her rite.”
A murmur of distress, particularly from the younger girls who were not jealous of Kore, rose and fell.
“Dorkas is praying to Our Lady to be forgiven her sin,” Demeter went on, “and I am going to Zeus’s palace to demand the return of my daughter. Even the Mage-King must know that the servants of the Lady must not be offended. No seed will be blessed nor sown until Kore is returned to us. Aglaia, come with me.”
The room was so silent that the brush of Demeter’s skirt against the leg of her chair was clearly audible. Shock held the forty-seven girls and women frozen, their breath suspended. Never in the history of the temple had the blessing and sowing been withheld. Even the year when Zeus had overthrown the Mage-King Kronos, when the ploughing had all too often turned up half-rotted corpses and the ploughers and the sowers alike had been racked with grief and fear, the seed had been blessed and planted.
“Aglaia!”
The voice was like a thrown javelin. Aglaia leapt to her feet, banging her belly against the table. Breaths were drawn, but no one spoke and only the heads of the very little novices turned to stare wide-eyed at the high priestess. Indifferent to the silent disapproval, Demeter hurried from the refectory and from the building, Aglaia panting in her wake. The priestesses might be horrified; but they were powerless to rebel.
Only the high priestess and her three acolytes knew the spells for blessing and sowing, and Dorkas and Aglaia had never actually cast the spells. Demeter had always enlivened the seed and the earth herself, supported only by Kore, or let Kore perform the rite, because in that rite lay the real power of her Goddess. Zeus had forgotten that. He might rule Olympus, but the lightning he cast killed only one at a time. If her power did not bring the corn in manyfold richness from the earth, thousands would die unless the secrecy that protected Olympus from the native tribes were breached and her wealth expended to buy food. No, Zeus would not dare hurt her or deny her demand for her daughter before the many dinner guests in the great hall.
Dazzling Brightness Page 5
