Just Myrto by Laurie Gray

compelled to chisel and pound away until nothing remained but a pile of dust and gravel.”
    â€œI’m afraid it’s true, my dear,” Socrates agreed. He drew me in even closer to the radiating warmth of his body. “I did a little better when my father at least told me what he envisioned for the stone as he did with the Graces, but we all knew that I wasn’t born to be a sculptor.”
    â€œWhat were you born to be?” I asked, ready to pursue this topic further. But we had reached Piraeus Gate, marking the end of our morning walk and our entrance into the city.
    â€œFather is a born lover of wisdom,” offered Lamprocles before our conversation vanished in the crowd. Socrates did not disagree.
    At Lamprocles’ urging, we left Socrates in the Agora and walked toward the Parthenon. But we did not stop at the Parthenon. We continued walking south with the sun rising over our left shoulders, leaving Socrates and the crowds far behind.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked. My mind remained fixed on the book in Lamprocles’ satchel, and I was anxious to begin our studies.
    Lamprocles responded in verse reminiscent of Homer’s
Hymn to Artemis:
    When Artemis is satisfied
    Her huntress heart well-cheered
    She journeys to her brother’s house
    And slackens her great bow.
    Oh, Muse! Oh, Grace! It’s time to dance
    With her dear Twin Apollo.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” I asked impatiently.
    â€œIt means that if we are to study midwifery, we must find a place pleasing to Artemis,” said Lamprocles. “The Acropolis is a place for men. We must seek out another place—a place of women, inspiration and wild beasts.” He pointed to the pine-green Hills of the Muses. “There.”
    We walked in silence to the very top of the tallest hill and found a small clearing that overlooked the Parthenon. Finally, Lamprocles removed the book from his satchel and handed it to me. “Now,” he said, “let’s read.”
    I began. We did nothing but read the whole day through. We read reverently without discussion, taking turns whenever one voice grew weak. A growing sense of wonder engulfed me as we read about the mysteries of the female body and the miracles of life and healing.
    Theano showed no disrespect for the gods, yet they were oddly absent from the actual cause or cure for illness, injury and disease.Hygeia, Panacea and Iaso, goddesses of cleanliness, prevention and healing, responded to all equally. There were no stories about how Apollo saved their father Asclepius by cutting open the womb of Koronis or how Asclepius grew in the art of medicine, using the sacred power of snakes for healing.
    Nor was it all about the female body and childbirth. There was a strange mixture of male and female and the body’s own healing power when kept clean and properly nourished. I studied Lamprocles’ body as he read and marveled at how his hands held the book for his eyes to see and his mind to comprehend and his mouth to voice the words aloud. Each part worked together as a whole with such natural ease. It was no harder, really, to accept that each of us holds within us the ability to re-balance the four humors of blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm.
    We read about using citrus to reduce phlegm, how the crushed leaves of lemon balm can be rubbed on the skin to repel insects or brewed into a relaxing tea. We read that dry treatment of wounds is best, and we should only use water or wine to clean wounds when absolutely necessary. We learned the importance of keeping our fingernails trimmed and clean and the meanings of different fevers, pains and excretions. We began to understand the implications of subtle changes in complexion, movement and pulse and the value of keen observation.
    Both light and darkness shimmered in each word, with shadows looming behind every moment of enlightenment. The book told of the need to survey carefully