Again came the whisper. It was not a voice. It was snakes.
Medusa did not come from this island, but she might have. We were an island of snakes. Some bit with poison and some did not. I looked up. Hanging from the branch above my face, a dozen snakes had twisted into a knot and were leaning toward me.
Medusa is the Shriek made Woman, and although I was not yet a woman, I could shriek as loud as Medusa ever did. But one snake dropped through my hair and onto my sandals, so I wasted no time on a scream but leaped out of the tree, tumbled to the stony ground, rolled to my feet, ran a hundred yards and stopped.
The wind ruffled my dress like a thin curtain.
Again the meadow was silent. Not even the cicadas rasped.
I looked out to the sea instead of back at the snakes and saw that the ships were rowing right up onto the sand.
That is how you attack.
Boats coming home would stop in deeper water and ship the oars.
Yet these were our ships. How could they be attacking?
But Lykos had spent his life at sea. He must know what he was doing. He would have brought me a present, although not the present I actually wanted, which was a puppy.
I looked back at the olive. Silver leaves hid the snakes. I would borrow the long hooked staff of the six-year-old shepherd and use it to pull my sandals out. At the edge of the meadow I leaned over the crag to see where he was.
Far below me, the little shepherd had left his flock, a thing unheard of; a thing that even at six he would be beaten for. He was running—skidding—slipping—down the rocky path toward town. An orchardman dropped his bucket of water—precious scarce fresh water—and also ran, pausing to scoop a toddler into his arms. Old women rushed from huts. Dogs barked and field hands dropped their tools.
Men were vaulting off the red-sailed ships. They carried spears and swords. They swung shields. They had bows and arrows and they had darts.
Too late I understood. Our men had not conquered and sacked a foreign city. They had been conquered. Sailing our ships as well as their own, foreigners had arrived to attack us.
It is how we live, here by the sea. We take, and we are taken.
None of Nicander's men who had sailed away could be alive. Lykos, the captain, was dead, and all his crew, their bodies hurled into some distant sea; their oars and blankets the property of pirates; their hopes and plans as dead as their bodies.
O my king. You should never have betrayed Apollo.
The enemy raced up the zigzag path. From the watchtowers of the palace came no shout of warning. From the mines came no outpouring of men to save us. But the people did not know they were undefended. They ran for the safety of the town.
Siphnos town was designed to fend off the wicked. The high wall was unbroken by windows, the great gate curved to slow an enemy. He would emerge at an angle from which he could aim no arrow. And he could not enter the gate to start with, because its thick wooden doors are braced with bronze.
But on this day, the gate lay open. The men with sufficient strength to close the doors were not there. The soldiers who knew how to fight were down the wet shaft of a failed mine.
The snakes had been a sign from my goddess. I had called her name, and yet not listened when she whispered to me.
I too was running now. My bare feet were shredded by the sharp rubble. Below me, people were pouring into the town in the hope of safety, but the enemy was pouring in at the same time, cutting the people down.
Now the gold miners began climbing desperately out of the rocks. They massed together, running toward the town. They were unarmed. The pirates were between them and their weapons. They would have to fight with their hands or their mining tools.
And so they did: pickax against sword.
I could hear the singing zip of darts and the death whistle of arrows. Our men ran uphill while the pirates took easy shots down on them. How quickly the bodies began to fall!
From inside the walls, a few men leaped to the parapet. Each carried an armload of spears and swords. They did not attempt a defense, but threw themselves and the weapons over the wall and ran to aid their brothers. The fall was far enough that one man broke a leg and was cut down in some amusement by the enemy. But the rest gathered up the weapons and raced downhill to arm the miners.
Not one made it.
The enemy darters threw mercilessly, and the sharp points of those light weapons pierced the backs of our men, who fell upon their own stacked spears.
“O my goddess,” I cried. “Let me save Callisto, who cannot save herself.”
I would circle the palace walls and go in by the cypress garden, where a strong vine climbed up a pillar. I could pull myself up onto the second-floor balcony. I had done it before, escaping the princess prison into which my hostage life had put me.
The pirates would be after treasure, which they would expect to find deep in the palace, in a thick-walled room with no windows and a massive lock. Only my father had kept his treasure beneath the sea. The pirates would have axes to chop through the doors, but they would rather find the queen and put a knife to her throat. She would soon enough hand over the key. Petra might even run to meet them, hoping to delay their finding Callisto; hoping to give Nicander time to destroy the foe in spite of such terrible odds.
I leaped down a terrace wall, ran between apple trees, vaulted down the next terrace and flattened the high stalks of onions.
I would yank Callisto out of bed and push her onto the balcony. We'd jump. I'd carry her into the hills or drag her.
Three pirates were headed my way, but I did not think they saw me. Their eyes were on a big flock of sheep enclosed in the stone fold. Nicander had been planning to sacrifice a hundred sheep to Apollo upon the safe return of these very ships.
O my king.
I swerved from the path, slipping behind cypresses, whose green tips stabbed the sky, and followed a narrow twisty track to the rear of the palace. To the left were laurel thickets and the pillar I planned to climb. To the right, the cliff.
Far below was very deep water. It was the thing with boys to prove their bravery and jump off the cliff. They would get a running start, leap into the air, ball themselves up and hit the water with an impressive splash. Mostly they were fine, just bruised, but a few years before, a boy had died, and the king had frowned upon cliff-jumping since then.
Through the greenery, I saw that the side gate of the palace also lay open.
Piled by this gate were immense two-handled jars, higher than my waist. All were filled with olive oil, stamped with the king's octopus seal, ready to be shipped. Pirates came from both directions through the side gate, saluting one another as they took Siphnos. For the fun of it they smashed every jar spout. Cracked sharp pottery cluttered the stone walk and golden olive oil puddled everywhere.
The next pirate carried a torch to light his way down whatever dark passage led to the treasury.
In the heat of excitement, men forget themselves.
And so with this rejoicing pirate. He set fire to the shattered containers of oil. Flames exploded. In a flash, the side gate was blocked. No man could pass through such fire.
The palace rooms adjoined. Indoor and outdoor halls and balconies were connected by open wooden stairs. The support timbers of the palace were not plastered over, because beams were handy for driving in pegs from which to hang things.
In moments every wall and ceiling was ablaze; every curtain and tapestry. Fire shriveled the vine I had planned to climb; fire took the trellis and charred the pillar.
O my princess. I cannot reach you, Callisto.
The enemy, of course, had planned to burn the town after they got the treasure. They raged, but they too were driven out by the burning heat and they drove the villagers ahead of them.
Our own men were still on the rocks, fighting or dying. Mostly dying.
More pirates were coming toward the Curved Gate, having finished off most of the unarmed miners. The peasants, caught between, were cut
to pieces. The six-year-old shepherd, who could have stayed in the hills and saved himself, fell to the sword. The sheep were herded over the bodies of the fallen and down to the ships, so the pirates could feast after their victory. Some sheep panicked and fell off, baaing until they hit the rocks.
The three marauders who had found my path now found me. The first man drew back his spear. I was close enough to see that he was missing teeth and his beard was filthy and his muscles strong. I bolted to the dizzying edge of the cliff and stepped off.
I had not done it correctly.
I had not thrown myself away from the jagged edges, but just tipped over. I would be torn to pieces on jutting rocks and finished off when I snapped my neck hitting the water. But just in case, I tucked myself into a ball and hit the water kneecaps first and sank like an anchor stone. The smack of the sea was as blunt and flat as the slap of an angry hand. I felt broken.
Down and down I went, and then I opened myself up and began swimming. Pain was present, and terror, but the desire for air was greater than these. I broke the surface, gasping in blessed air and blinking salt water out of my eyes.
There was a sharp squiff, like snakes. An arrow pierced the water at my side.
Squinting in the brassy glare of sun, I looked up. The three pirates stood on the cliff edge, laughing down on me and stringing their bows.
I dove underwater, forcing myself to swim toward the pirates. If I could get close to the cliff, I could shelter beneath the rocky overhang, like an octopus in its cave. I used my arms to shovel the water away from my face and push it behind me, in a stroke the shell divers had taught me.
When I came up, I was not entirely sheltered and had to dive a second time. I waited in the shade of the rocks for some time before I ventured a peek. The cliff edge was empty. I was safe.
Siphnos was burning. The stench of the fire as it took flesh and oil was equaled in horror only by the screams of the wounded.
Then from the sand where the ships were beached came a triumphant yell. “I see him! He's over there! In the shallows below the cliff ! He's mine!”
I was a her, not a him, but a girl of twelve is easily mistaken for a boy of twelve when both wear simple tunics. And few girls willingly throw themselves off cliffs.
“Let him drown!” yelled somebody else. “One boy doesn't matter. There are still men to fight!”
I strained to comprehend their Greek, which was heavy and sluggish.
The first voice moved closer. “Nobody gets away from me.”
Medusa was killed on an island near Siphnos. I do not have Medusa's blood, but I wished I did. I would have turned this barbarian to stone with a scream and the force of my eyes.
Luckily I knew the waters well. There were rocks piled where once, long before, a stone jetty had stretched. Earthquakes destroyed it in the time of my king's grandfather. I didn't like it out there because there were so many octopuses. The boys liked to walk all the way out the sunken jetty—looking as if they could walk on water—and fish for octopus.
Weaving in and out of the fallen stones, I swam underwater, eyes open and lungs bursting. When I reached the only two stones that still protruded from the water, I came up for air, praying to my goddess that I would not be seen.
If I had hair as dark as Callisto's, I would look like a rock or a seal. But my red-gold hair was no asset here.
The pirate hunted for me, but did not find the sunken path he could have walked on. “I must have killed him,” said the pirate sadly, as if he had hoped to do something worse than kill. Indeed, had he found me alive and a girl, he would have.
I floated.
The battle went on.
I was too close to the enemy ships but I had no choice. On their red sails was stitched a twisted blue fish. It was ugly and unforgettable.
Standing high on one deck was a watcher, the enemy poet, I guessed, taking note of the action so he could sing later of deeds and valor. Men pirate for treasure, of course, for women and horses and armor. But they also pirate for fame.
What is better entertainment in the evening than a song about you? Who does not hope for a story so rich that it is sung year after year, and even your grandchildren learn it?
I peered between the rocks.
There was still some fighting on the sand. A few miners had run up the beaches to attack the enemy instead of heading for high ground. Among them was our king. Had he glanced up from his ruined mine and assumed, as I had, that these red-sailed ships were his own?
Our harbor master, badly wounded, was thrown to the ground. The pirate placed a boot on his head, holding down the skull and getting it at the right angle. Then he slit the throat as easily as a priest slits the throat of a lamb.
But my hostage father the king would not surrender. He had a shield, presumably ripped from the body of a pirate he had killed. It was not as large as his own shield. He had a sword also, and whether it was his or another's I did not know.
Most of the pirates wore helmets whose horsehair plumes ran front to rear, extending the line of the nose back to the tip of the spine. But this warrior who fought my hostage father had plumes from side to side, arching around his head like a rising sun. The front of his helmet bulged out in a great metal nose, and the eye openings were vertical slices, like ravines in a mountain.
Nicander was the only one of our people left on his feet. He wore no armor. He had been cut several times.
Of course the pirates could have surrounded the king and done away with him easily. But he wished to die well and they wished to kill well, so the enemy did not interfere with the duel, but paused to admire.
I sang my king's praises in my heart: how he thrust and forced himself forward. He had badly wounded the foe, goring him in the side. Blood cascaded down the man's legs. The foe was weakening. My hostage father would win.
It would not change the battle and it would not keep him alive, for another of the enemy would continue the duel, but at least Nicander would die in glory.
And then a pirate stabbed the king in the back, denying him the chance to die as a warrior. He died as a slave dies.
Even the pirates were furious, especially the crossplumed warrior. “You had no right! He was my man!”
“My brother, you are badly hurt. I cannot let you be killed.” The backstabber yanked his dagger out of my king's back. Tearing strips from his own cape, he bound up his brother's gashes.
No poet can sing of the foe being stabbed in the back. The bard threw up his hands in disgust. His song was ruined. “It is a shivery thing to kill a prince of royal blood that way,” he shouted from the ship. “You will call down the gods' wrath.”
The backstabber shrugged, although it is not good to shrug when gods are mentioned.
The battle ended. There were none of us left to fight. The town burned. The pirates waited for the fire to die down so they could go back for Nicander's treasure. Some of them sat in the sand, cleaning blood and gore off armor and weapons. Others gathered their own dead for a pyre. They sank several ships, which puzzled me until I decided that enough of their men had been killed that they were short on rowers. They were not leaving any ship for survivors to use.
In dories they rowed out those women they were taking captive. They made Queen Petra walk over her husband's body. They did not have Callisto.
The sun slid low in the sky, and the sky turned gaudy red. Great black shadows shot behind the ships.
Grinning, the backstabber kicked Nicander's body. He knew the dead man was a king. He knew kings are sacred. He knew and was glad that a king's body would go unburied, a terrible ending for a fine life.
In the water, circling my legs, was an octopus.
It was not one of the small dainty ones. It was one of the big strong ones, its legs as long as I am tall.
I had a horror of the octopus—its soft swollen body, its hundreds of fleshy sucking cups, its eyes staring in different directions. I wouldn't eat it, although everyone else loved sliced octopus, fried in oil and
served hot and salty with rosemary and thyme.
They say Medusa's hair was made of snakes, but on my idol it is clear that Medusa wore an octopus in her hair, letting the dreadful arms swing about and cling to her skin with their little sticky cups.
As a wanderer on the shore would kick a dead fish into the waves to get rid of the stink, the pirate was kicking the sacred body of my hostage father the king.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes so no sucker would fasten on them and blind me, and sank down beneath the octopus. Gripping the swirling arms of the hideous creature, I put its cool bloated body right on my head and stood up on the rocks screaming.
I was walking on water, gilded by the setting sun.
Medusa.
“I am Medusa!” I shrieked, in their heavy ugly accent. “I come to take your lives!” With one hand I held the octopus and with the other hand I shielded my eyes to catch the pirates in my stare. Hundreds of men stopped what they were doing and stared in horror.
“Look upon me!” I screamed. “Look upon me and die!”
I thought the pirate kicking Nicander might actually die. He slipped on the rocks, whimpering, and scrabbled away as a snail scuttles from the gull.
My snake hair—my octopus—waved.
From the sand the men leaped up, lifting shields to protect their eyes. Frantic, they shoved the last dory into the water and paddled for the safety of the ships.
“You die!” I screamed. “May your eyeballs be eaten by fish when Zeus holds you underwater!”
The legs of the octopus flailed in the breeze, for the octopus hated air. Its legs found places on my bare skin to grip. Curses poured out of me like lava from the spout of a god. “May the waves hold your face downward and your lungs be filled with sand! May your corpse be cast ashore naked and chewed by dogs!”
Men abandoned everything, flinging themselves into the waves, struggling to reach ships that were already sailing away. Their legs churned the water and those who did not know how to swim learned.
I shook my fist, which itself was clasped by two legs of the octopus. “Die!” I shrieked.
Goddess of Yesterday Page 3
