Then she said tome, “I've never stared at a cloud in my life. But you are worth staring at. No wonder you try not to talk about being a princess. You are actually a prince in disguise! Show me how to use the slingshot.”
“Mother,” said Maraphius after dinner.
I found it strange that anybody could call Helen Mother. She never embraced or kissed any of her four children. She seemed mystified that they existed. But they, like their father, treated their goddess mother quite routinely.
“Guess what Callisto can do,” said Maraphius. “She can use a slingshot. She's good. And she taught Hermione. We saw. Hermione, show Mother what you can do.”
“I'm not very good yet,” said Hermione. “And Callisto and I are out of stones. Do you have any, Maraphius?”
“Sure.” He handed her a full purse.
“Callisto was brought up as a prince,” said Aethiolas, “because her brothers died when they were babies and so her father trained Callisto in weapons.”
“Callisto always wanted to be a pirate when she grew up,” Hermione added. “She drove off a hundred ships of pirates in one day all by herself.”
Helen turned her long, slow look upon me.
“It wasn't really a hundred ships,” I said. “But it was a lot.”
“Hermione,” said Helen, “return the stones to your brother. Aethra, take the slingshot away from the girl. Girl, sleep in the weaving room from now on. Do not go near my daughter again.”
“Now, Mother,” said Hermione, in exactly the voice Menelaus used. “Father said to treat Callisto as our sister.”
“I hated my sister,” said Helen.
She fixed her eyes upon me and I could not stay in the room with those eyes, but fled into the corridor, and then had to run down the hall until there were safe thick solid walls between me and the stare of that Medusa called Helen.
There did Aethra find me. Gently her twisted fingers took mine. Eighty years of lanolin from spinning sheep's wool into yarn had made her skin so soft that even Helen's was not its equal. I had always thought of my goddess as slender and strong, like the slim whip of a willow branch, but there in Aethra's wrinkles and washed out eyes stood my goddess.
“I was once a queen,” she said. “My son was the great and famous Theseus, who saved the children from the Minotaur in Crete. A warrior finer than Menelaus or Agamemnon could hope to be. And
still
my fate is slavery. My child, to stay a princess, stay away from Helen.”
“How?” I whispered.
But she was not listening to me. She was speaking as an oracle speaks, the words coming out of her mouth from the gods. “Helen has drawn her breath from many fathers. From Madness, Hate, red Death and every rotting poison of the sky.”
I stumbled back from her. The words were too strong. I could not listen.
Neither her good eye nor her blind eye saw that I had moved. “Your goddess of yesterday touched you with magic, my child, but Helen's magic is as a cup of death. Beware.”
T HE FIRST, FOURTH AND SEVENTH days of every month are holy, but fifth days are harsh and angry. On the fifth day of the last month of summer, the Trojans arrived: Prince Paris, killer of that innocent little boy, his cousin Aeneas and a dozen companions apiece.
The three older royal children were permitted to come to the formal welcome, Hermione led in by her nurse, the boys by their squires. I knew I should obey Aethra and stay away. But I could not bear to miss anything. Never before had a Trojan been under the roof of Amyklai.
Trojans are armed to the teeth: sword in hand, spear hanging from the shoulder, dagger clenched in the jaws. But guests disarm in the forecourt, their weapons stored by the host. “It's exciting, isn't it?” Hermione whispered. “I wish we could see Paris and Aeneas with knives in their teeth.”
Paris was as beautiful a man as Helen was a woman. Bare from the waist up, Paris wore a panther skin over his shoulders. His muscles glistened and slid over strong bones.
“Mother,” said Maraphius after dinner.
I found it strange that anybody could call Helen Mother. She never embraced or kissed any of her four children. She seemed mystified that they existed. But they, like their father, treated their goddess mother quite routinely.
“Guess what Callisto can do,” said Maraphius. “She can use a slingshot. She's good. And she taught Hermione. We saw. Hermione, show Mother what you can do.”
“I'm not very good yet,” said Hermione. “And Callisto and I are out of stones. Do you have any, Maraphius?”
“Sure.” He handed her a full purse.
“Callisto was brought up as a prince,” said Aethiolas, “because her brothers died when they were babies and so her father trained Callisto in weapons.”
“Callisto always wanted to be a pirate when she grew up,” Hermione added. “She drove off a hundred ships of pirates in one day all by herself.”
Helen turned her long, slow look upon me.
“It wasn't really a hundred ships,” I said. “But it was a lot.”
“Hermione,” said Helen, “return the stones to your brother. Aethra, take the slingshot away from the girl. Girl, sleep in the weaving room from now on. Do not go near my daughter again.”
“Now, Mother,” said Hermione, in exactly the voice Menelaus used. “Father said to treat Callisto as our sister.”
“I hated my sister,” said Helen.
She fixed her eyes upon me and I could not stay in the room with those eyes, but fled into the corridor, and then had to run down the hall until there were safe thick solid walls between me and the stare of that Medusa called Helen.
There did Aethra find me. Gently her twisted fingers took mine. Eighty years of lanolin from spinning sheep's wool into yarn had made her skin so soft that even Helen's was not its equal. I had always thought of my goddess as slender and strong, like the slim whip of a willow branch, but there in Aethra's wrinkles and washed out eyes stood my goddess.
“I was once a queen,” she said. “My son was the great and famous Theseus, who saved the children from the Minotaur in Crete. A warrior finer than Menelaus or Agamemnon could hope to be. And
still
my fate is slavery. My child, to stay a princess, stay away from Helen.”
“How?” I whispered.
But she was not listening to me. She was speaking as an oracle speaks, the words coming out of her mouth from the gods. “Helen has drawn her breath from many fathers. From Madness, Hate, red Death and every rotting poison of the sky.”
I stumbled back from her. The words were too strong. I could not listen.
Neither her good eye nor her blind eye saw that I had moved. “Your goddess of yesterday touched you with magic, my child, but Helen's magic is as a cup of death. Beware.”
T HE FIRST, FOURTH AND SEVENTH days of every month are holy, but fifth days are harsh and angry. On the fifth day of the last month of summer, the Trojans arrived: Prince Paris, killer of that innocent little boy, his cousin Aeneas and a dozen companions apiece.
The three older royal children were permitted to come to the formal welcome, Hermione led in by her nurse, the boys by their squires. I knew I should obey Aethra and stay away. But I could not bear to miss anything. Never before had a Trojan been under the roof of Amyklai.
Trojans are armed to the teeth: sword in hand, spear hanging from the shoulder, dagger clenched in the jaws. But guests disarm in the forecourt, their weapons stored by the host. “It's exciting, isn't it?” Hermione whispered. “I wish we could see Paris and Aeneas with knives in their teeth.”
Paris was as beautiful a man as Helen was a woman. Bare from the waist up, Paris wore a panther skin over his shoulders. His muscles glistened and slid over strong bones.
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