by Wendy Orr
and a girl to each side.
Luki grabs the horns,
but the bull tosses left like Brownie,
and instead of a flip
Luki one-hand cartwheels
down the bull’s neck to his tail.
This time Aissa hears the crowd
loving Luki
and his skill.
The bull charges Kenzo
and the dance rushes on;
they leap
one by one –
and though the bull is still fresh
the dancers aren’t;
when he charges Sunya,
her flip is neat
but she lands
flat on her back.
As if he knows
his end is near,
the bull wants more,
charging Kenzo again,
who cartwheels along his back
as Luki did at the start.
Now Aissa is in front –
but just as she’s ready
to reach for the horns,
the bull sees
Sunya lying still
and veers towards her.
‘Sunya!’ Aissa screams with her mind,
and Sunya jumps up
so fast that she startles the bull
and he turns back to Aissa –
who’s not ready,
not balanced
as she grabs his horns;
she sees Luki and Kenzo
and Sunya, more slowly,
run ready to catch her –
knowing the bull
will throw to the left.
But as Aissa braces
to spring with the toss
the bull shakes his head
and Aissa feels
what her friends can’t see –
that this time the bull
is throwing right.
Her body’s still poised
to be thrown to the left
as her hands
slip from the horns;
if she could shout
her friends could run
in time to catch
but Aissa’s voice
is not ready to save her.
Her heart sings goodbye
to Luki and
her brother and sister of the dance
and she catapults
like the rock from her sling
that killed the wolf;
she tries to tuck
into a roll
but her arms and legs
are wrong,
the ground is nearing,
and the layer of sand
will be nothing on stone.
Aissa closes her eyes
against coming pain
and lands
safe in the arms
of Kenzo and Sunya
and Luki –
while the bull,
chest heaving, mouth frothing,
stops and stares.
‘We heard you,’ says Sunya,
‘like a voice in our hearts.’
‘Now leap!’ says Luki,
and as if they’ve planned it,
he lifts Aissa to his shoulders,
gripping her ankles
so she stands as she did
in the acrobat dance
three seasons ago.
Luki tosses her up –
Aissa flies free,
somersaults in the air –
and lands on the bull,
hands high.
And as she leaps off
the sweat-soaked
quivering bull
folds his knees
and sinks to the ground.
The screaming crowd,
standing, cheering,
throwing gold and flowers
just as they did
for the real bull dancers –
but Aissa and her friends
are too tired to care
too tired to know
that they
are the real dancers now.
They want nothing more
than to hide and rest.
‘Stay!’ orders the Mother,
as she crosses the courtyard
behind the bull-headed king with his axe
carrying her sharp bronze knife
and golden bowl
to fill with blood.
26
FROM THE GREY-GREEN BUSH
The sacrifice is made; the bull lies lifeless, and the Mother holds up the bowl of dark blood.
‘Come!’ orders the king.
The four young dancers approach.
Does the Mother know I called the others? Aissa wonders in sudden panic. Will we be sacrificed after all? Sunya hesitates, her eyes wide with fear.
‘Even you,’ says the king. ‘That ugly fall could have sent you to slavery – but I have never seen an ending as elegant as that catch and leap. The bull’s sign was clear: you are all free.’
He steps back as the Mother dips her hand into the bowl of blood and traces the sign of the sacred axe onto their foreheads.
She looks deep into Aissa’s eyes.
She does know!
‘It seems you’ve learned to control your gift. You made your choice well.’
Whatever else she might have said is lost in the roar of the crowd. The young priestesses dance into the courtyard and the young nobles leap over the fences. Aissa and her friends are still reeling, still trying to comprehend the meaning of ‘free’, still trying to realise that they’ve survived, but the cheering lifts them high, filling them with life and joy: ‘We’re the bull dancers now,’ says Kenzo.
‘We’re free,’ says Luki. ‘We can go home.’
The men with ropes start hauling the bull’s body away, Mia runs out cheering, Niko follows with his dragging leg, and the priestesses whirl around Aissa, touching her face, smearing the blood. They swirl away, faster and faster, as the power in each of them joins the gods in celebration and thanksgiving. Aissa feels the power of their dance swirl in her, the same energy she’d felt leaping from the bull.
Mia and Niko are hugging them, kissing their heads, bandaging cuts they didn’t know they had – the blood isn’t all from the bull. Aissa has a long gash down her right leg, and grazes on her elbows and knees. She can feel them now that Mia’s found and soothed them with healing oil. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t know what matters anymore.
Young men fight for the honour of lifting the dancers onto their shoulders and parading them around the courtyard. Aissa doesn’t feel real. This seat feels more dangerous than the bull’s back.
They are carried through the maze of halls to the open west court.
More people are waiting outside, packed tight as pebbles on a beach, from the steps to the road and into the olive groves on the other side. Aissa didn’t know that one land could hold so many people. Because these are not the palace folk; they’re not richly dressed with flounced skirts and tight-waisted kilts; no gold glints in their hair. These are the working people, the farmers, herders and fishers, wharfmen and sailors, weavers, potters and craftsmen making things for everyday people. And they’re all waiting for her, for Luki, for Sunya and Kenzo – for the chosen ones who have danced with the bulls and pleased the gods.
The palace guards step in close behind them, and the dancers are deposited carefully on the wide stone steps.
People pushing through the crowd,
fighting to touch them,
holding up children
to catch the dancers’ god-luck;
so many hands,
so many arms.
Despite the guards,
they’re separated,
swept up in the throng
charging the steps –
Aissa afraid she’ll drown
in this sea of adoration;
her skin tender
from so much touching –
she wants to run,
to get away and breathe.
But a woman
holds
a baby for her to kiss
and strokes her shoulder
till Aissa looks at her face –
a face worn with trouble,
bronzed from the sun,
much like
the faces around her
but a mole by her mouth
like a dot
that Aissa loves –
and she looks
into dark
remembered eyes.
‘Mama!’ cries Aissa.
The woman pales,
shrinks back,
then clasps her tight,
the baby squirming between.
‘Aissa!’ says Mama.
‘I always knew,’ says Aissa,
‘you were alive,’ says Mama.
‘And that I’d find you,’ says Aissa,
hearing her own voice
with its crack of surprise
and the low-pitched music
of a strong young woman –
not the child’s voice
that she hasn’t heard
since Mama said,
‘Don’t make a sound
till I come back.’
And now Mama is back.
Hugging and crying,
kohl mingling with bull’s blood
to run black
down her face;
wailing so loudly
the guards come
to chase Mama away.
‘No!’ says Aissa.
‘This is my mama.’
Even with
a bull dancer’s power
a voice is useful.
Mama’s words rushing
wanting to hear
all that’s happened to Aissa
since she hid her
under that grey-green bush –
but it’s too much to tell,
too much grief to bear,
Aissa doesn’t want
Mama to hear it,
doesn’t want to tell it
in her newfound voice
in the midst of the jostling,
buzzing crowd.
But Mama tells her,
between the sobs,
of being sold as a slave
by the raiders
but later bought
and married to a farmer –
she has a new family.
Grown-up Zufi
has worked for his freedom
as a sailor on a ship
trading over the seas.
But Mama has never
seen Tattie again
and mourns her still.
Mama’s surprised husband
takes the squirming baby
while they hug:
his wife and a bull dancer
who was once her daughter.
All Aissa wants
is to be that daughter again,
to stay with Mama
now and forever,
close beside her as a baby,
a child
safe at home.
But first
there will be a grand feast
with every good thing to eat
and meat from the bulls,
to honour the dancers,
and Aissa’s heart cracks
because Mama
with her farmer’s dress
and work-broken nails,
will not be allowed
at the party –
and what if
she never finds her again?
‘I’ll come in the morning,’ says Mama,
to take you home.’
27
THE BULL KING’S PROMISE
Mia and Niko,
and last year’s dancers,
as well as older ones
who no longer dance
but have saved their gold,
rich traders and artists,
owners of villas,
priests and priestesses,
the Bull King and the Mother –
all will be at the feast.
But first,
Aissa and Sunya
Kenzo and Luki,
must be bathed and perfumed,
wounds re-dressed,
hair and make-up redone;
Aissa wishes she could wear
her fine priestess dress
with everyone else
so beautifully clad,
but people want to see
dancers in their bull-leaping shorts
as if they might do
acrobatics again –
though they’re so tired
they can hardly stand.
The great court too
has been cleansed,
swept,
washed;
the fences removed,
the blood smell purified
with the stink
of burning sulphur.
The halls around it,
with folding doors opened,
are set with chairs,
small tables
lamps and flowers,
while servants offer
cups of wine
mixed with honey and water,
platters of food:
poppy cakes and small fried fish,
octopus and oysters,
raisins and cheese,
fresh greens
and the roasted meats
of the bull,
which the dancers must eat
though it sticks
in Aissa’s throat.
When they’ve eaten,
and washed their fingers
in silver bowls,
the Bull King speaks,
without his mask
but with all his power.
He calls the dancers
to his throne.
Aissa shrinks
at the people staring –
but,
‘We’ve faced bulls,’ says Kenzo –
and instead of death
the crowd brings flowers,
gold and jewellery,
scented oils and perfumes
in crystal phials,
embroidered robes and woolly fleeces –
and offers:
‘A room in my home,’
‘A suite in my villa,’
because everyone wants
to share in their god-luck
if they go on dancing.
The other-year dancers
make no offers
but explain:
‘If you choose
to return to the ring
you can live in luxury
and save your gold –
you can have a house,
slaves of your own,
if you live and are lucky.’
But Luki stands tall
salutes the king and the Mother,
and says,
‘Great ones, rulers of the land,
we, the dancers,
were told
that to survive the year
would set us free
to return to our homes
and free our lands from tribute.
This is what I ask,
for myself and my friends.’
Smiling gravely, the Bull King nods.
‘That is the promise.
But you must decide –
do you return
to a poor life, a poor land,
or stay
with all that’s offered
for a life of glory?
Your people have already
mourned you –
they’ll never know
that you serve the gods here –
and the tribute we ask
is little enough
to protect your homelands
from wandering raiders.
So think and reflect
before you make up your minds.’
Luki salutes,
though his choice is made.
And, heads spinning
with fatigue and wine,
th
e thrill of fame,
confusion of promises
and broken faith –
the bull dancers leave the party,
led by servants
to the great guest chamber
in the palace.
For Aissa,
finding Mama and her voice
is the happiest
bewilderment of all.
It’s hard to remember
that she can speak,
her voice so strange and new
she doesn’t know
if it will come out loud or soft
or how it will shape
the sound of words
so it’s still easier
to stay silent –
and besides,
she knows what she wants:
to live with Mama.
She doesn’t want
to live with strangers;
doesn’t need more gold –
there’s enough in her hands
to buy a goat –
one like Spot Goat, maybe two,
and a dog like Brown Dog
who died with Dada –
to take as gifts
to Mama’s small farm.
And no one can say
how much gold is enough
or how many seasons
a dancer needs to survive.
So she listens
as they sit together
in the great guest chamber,
with the finest linen
and the softest fleeces,
and Sunya says,
‘My family gave me to the palace
to pay their taxes –
I’ll take bulls and glory
rather than go back to them.’
Kenzo’s story is much the same –
an orphan
with nothing of his own:
‘What’s there for me if I go back?
The honour of freeing my town
won’t give me land.’
Luki doesn’t care
that he won’t own land,
knowing the farm will pass
to his sisters one day,
as long as he can live in the hills he loves.
‘We were sent by the gods
to free our island,’ he says,
and waits for Aissa’s sign.
Aissa thinking
that if Luki returns
the island is free –
there’s no need for her
and no place either;
servant to the wise-women
is no longer enough
if she’s despised by the people.
‘I’m staying here,’ says Aissa.
‘With Mama.’
Aissa’s friends look as shocked as if a bull had spoken. Luki grabs a torch from the wall to shine on her face. ‘You can talk!’
‘Ever since I met Mama,’ says Aissa, in her strange new voice. ‘After the dance. I forgot to tell you.’
‘You forgot!’ squeals Sunya.
‘I wasn’t sure that I could do it again,’ Aissa admits, but the others are laughing too hard to hear.
‘If that was your mama on the steps, how can you sing beasts like the Lady?’ Luki asks.
‘And you sang us!’ adds Sunya.
So Aissa has to explain what she’s almost never said in her mind, and never dreamed of saying out loud. ‘Mama raised me till the raiders came. It was the Lady who bore me – but I wasn’t perfect.’
