Dark of the Moon (21 page)

The spectators have leaped to their feet as the boys dance faster, still maintaining unity in their steps, circling tighter and tighter around the bull, who appears bewildered at the swirling mass of dancers, their spears pointing directly at him even as they gyrate and crouch and jump and spring.

The bull lunges. It's difficult to imagine something that huge moving so fast, but in an instant the circle of dancers is broken and the animal is hunched over, butting and pawing at something on the ground. The rhythm of both the dance and the applause is broken as the spectators shriek and the boys blunder out of the way, knocking one another down, tripping over their fallen comrades, and scrambling for the fence that separates them from us. Members of the audience reach their hands over, but not, as I had expected, to help the youths to safety. Instead, it is to push them back into the dirt, where they land sprawling, scramble to their feet, and try again to escape, only to be met by the same resistance.

Ariadne and the Minos are standing and clinging to each other. Ariadne buries her face in her uncle's chest as he clutches her with one arm, his other hand over his mouth.

Nobody makes any effort to save the small figure being buffeted by the furious bull. Given the limpness of his body, I doubt that anything can be done. Still, it doesn't seem human to leave him there to be mutilated. The spectators, quiet now, are staring down as though at a dog worrying a rat, or at a hawk plucking a duckling away from under its mother's sheltering wing.

When the bull has spent his fury, he raises his head. His eyes, dull with blood lust, sweep the arena. The man with the scarred chest, whom I had earlier seen training the boys, barks an order. The boys glance at one another. The man shouts at them. One by one, led by Enops, they pick up their spears and re-form their ring.

The dance begins again, but now the audience does not keep time. Something is more solemn. Even the bull seems to feel this as he swings his heavy head from side to side.

A naked body flashes, and Enops leaps onto the bull's back. With both hands, he plunges his spear between the broad shoulders. A sound between a bellow and a wail trumpets from the huge throat as the bull's head strains upward and the boy leaps down. A hind leg kicks out and lifts him off his feet. Enops flies like Hermes with his winged sandals, black hair streaming, and crashes into the fence, where he lies in a heap while the bull roars and runs and shakes his huge body, to free himself of the weapon that remains in his hump. No one, neither bull nor dancing boy nor spectator, pays any attention to the still form huddled against the fence.

The animal has spent some of his strength, and the dark blood streaming down his sides appears to confuse and madden him. The other boys, emboldened either by Enops's example or by the bull's distress, rush in, and in moments, one spear after another is lodged in the enormous body. The bull moves heavily, ignoring both the boys on their feet who scatter at his approach and the two figures remaining on the ground, one pulling himself up to sitting against the fence and the other motionless in a dark pool.

The beast stops and lowers his head, puffing and scraping the ground, and yet another boy takes advantage of this pause to jump onto his back. I recognize him: it's Simo. His legs aren't long enough to straddle his mount, but he manages to keep his seat as the bull wheels and snorts. The boy yanks a knife from his belt and, bending forward perilously far, in one swift motion cuts the bull's throat. The animal crumples to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head, and the boy leaps off, lands squarely on his feet, and turns his back to the bull in contempt.

The crowd goes wild, cheering and shrieking, "Simo! Simo! Simo!" He bows to them. The tone of the calling voices changes into one of warning, and the boy glances behind him and then turns just as the bull, blood streaming from the gash in his throat, hoists himself to his feet, lowers his head, and stumbles forward. Simo stands his ground, facing his enemy. The bull drops to his knees again, wavers, and crashes heavily onto his side.

The Minos holds up his right hand. Those near him fall quiet. The silence spreads until the only sounds left are the harsh last breaths of the bull and an occasional groan from Enops, still pressed against the fence. Everyone looks expectantly at the Minos. He stands with his eyes closed for what seems a long time and then declares, "It is done!"

IT WAS little Glaukos whom Velchanos had chosen to join him in blessing the people. I knew I should rejoice for Glaukos and praise him. But I could not shake the sickening feeling that it was not so much the choice of the god as Glaukos's faulty eye and his awkwardness with using a spear right-handed that had caused his death.

A true daughter of Goddess would not think these thoughts,
something whispered.
If you feel sorry for the one chosen by the god, you doubt that he died for a purpose. Would it be better if Glaukos had died merely from an accident? Or is it fitting and glorious that his death will make the sacrifice of your consort even more fruitful?

Down in the arena, people were helping Enops to his feet. He appeared shaken, and he might have broken some ribs, if not an arm or his collarbone. A woman pressed his belly here and there with her fingertips, and like her I watched to see if he winced, which would indicate an injury too deep for healing. He did not, although he grimaced as he stood upright, cradling his left arm.
I should see to that,
I thought before remembering that for a few days I would be Goddess and someone else would have to make Enops comfortable until I had returned to my body.

The Minos's face was shining. "Did you see how brave Glaukos was? And he the youngest of all of them. Velchanos must be very pleased." I felt ashamed, wishing I could join him in his pride. "And Simo!" His voice was thick with emotion. "I
knew
that he was more than he appeared." I watched that same Simo trot around the edge of the arena being showered with golden crocuses. Although I did not like to praise the unpleasant boy, Simo had indeed acquitted himself beautifully, and the Minos had every reason to feel satisfied.

The ritual of Velchanos had had the effect of distracting me from what lay ahead, but the relief was only temporary. Worry and fear settled again on my shoulders, crushing me until it took all my will to stand upright. I turned to lead the women from the stands but stopped when I felt the Minos's hand on my shoulder. He squeezed gently. "It will be all right, Ariadne." The unusual use of my name brought stinging tears to my eyes. I turned back and looked at his face, his dear, familiar face with its lines, and its frame of graying curls. He'd apprenticed to Minos-Who-Was for many years, and when She-Who-Is-Goddess who was my grandmother died and Minos-Who-Was retired to his orchard, this Minos had served my mother well. Goddess had always found her, and she had never sickened after the ritual. That Velchanos refused to show himself to her was not my uncle's fault.

"I trust you, brother." I couldn't speak what was in my heart: How could Asterion ever perform whatever ritual invited Goddess into my body? And what was that ritual? There was no point in asking, as the first question had no answer, and the Minos would not reply to the second.

The women were still waiting for me. I forced myself to smile at the Minos and kissed his cheek. Then I left.

We had rehearsed the next steps over and over, and yet they felt new, perhaps because instead of stand-in Goddess robes, I was finally being dressed in the actual garment. I stripped down to my skin, and the priestesses draped the various pieces on me. They were heavy and stiff. Perialla had to pull the laces on the bell-shaped skirt as far as they would go to keep it from slipping off. It was made of thick wool and linen squares, dyed yellow with precious saffron and sewn together in alternating plain and striped panels, and it fit tight over my hips and then fell in tier after weighty tier.

Orthia held the brocaded jacket open behind me, and I cautiously slid my arms into its short sleeves, shrugging to settle the garment on my shoulders. It, too, was large, but I was glad of this, as it meant that the edges came a little closer together over my breasts than they had on my mother. I was still embarrassed at the thought of going out in front of everybody exposed like this, but the priestesses acted as though I was dressed as modestly as a farmer's wife.

Behind me, two of them fumbled with the sash that had to be tied in a sacral knot at the back of my neck. They fussed and tugged, pulling me nearly off my feet, before pronouncing themselves satisfied.

"Sit," Thoösa commanded, and I perched on a padded stool, being careful with my garments. A rip or a tear would not be disastrous; the clothes were so ancient that they had been mended often, but the time was short for sewing. It had taken the boys longer than usual to liberate the god from the bull's body, and we had to hurry a little.

Someone settled the gilded cow horns on my head. I closed my eyes, remembering the last time I had seen them on my mother, the new moon before she died. "Be with me," I begged her inwardly. I waited for an answer, but none came, so I opened my eyes just as the women declared that the headdress was on firmly.

"Stand," Thoösa said, and I rose slowly, worried that the horns would wobble. I rotated and saw them all staring at me, Thoösa with her hands on her hips, Damia with her mouth open, and the others with shining eyes. The sisters Pero, who looked so much like my mother, and Kylissa had their arms around each other's waists. Pero's lower lip trembled.

"She has returned," Kylissa said softly. "She-Who-Is-Goddess walks among us."

"Hush," Thoösa snapped. "Don't you know it's an evil omen to call her that before the ceremony has finished?"

Kylissa's head drooped, and she murmured an apology, which I didn't bother answering. All their concerns and worries suddenly seemed trivial. Didn't they know that the little things people did—the automatic blessings of the food, the gestures to ward off evil, the tiny charms that babies wore—didn't they know that none of these meant anything to Goddess? Goddess was greater than any of these trifles.

"What's the matter with her?" Athis asked. Did she mean me?

Thoösa handed me a polished bronze mirror. I moved it up and stared at its wavy surface. I examined my features. They had painted me with white makeup and outlined my eyes with kohl from Aegyptos. The juice of crushed pomegranate seeds made my lips bright red. My eyes looked larger and darker than I remembered, but perhaps this was due to the kohl and to the whiteness of the skin around them. Someone took the mirror from my hand.

"Come," I said, feeling that I was watching a girl who looked like me. "Come with me to the Minos and make me Goddess." Without waiting, I went to the door, enjoying the sharp sound of my shoes on the floor. The left one rubbed my heel.
I'll have a blister there tomorrow,
I thought, feeling like this was an observation made about someone else.

"Wait!" Thoösa rummaged in the chest at the foot of my bed. Her voice was like a slender thread that almost snapped and let me go but at the last moment held me. I swayed, the desire to complete the ritual warring with the irritating feeling that I had forgotten something. Thoösa pulled out one ball of yarn after another, laying them carefully on the bed. Green, red, blue, yellow, a single black one ... And then I remembered. The priestess lifted out the precious casket and opened its lid.

There it lay: the white Goddess ball. The knots and loops that strayed over its surface looked like the dark spots on the face of the moon. All the priestesses crowded around while Thoösa knelt and held up the box in both hands, as was proper when making an offering.

My right hand moved of its own volition and picked up the ball. It was lighter than I had thought. It was as light as though it were hollow, as though moths or worms—

And just as that thought came to me, the precious ball collapsed in my fingers and crumbled into dust.

I STARED STUPIDLY at the pile of grayish powder that sifted through my fingers, until the priestesses's shrieks of horror brought me to myself. I looked up. Pero and Kylissa clutched each other like drowning women, and Athis's vomit splashed onto the stone floor.

Perialla supported Damia, whose lips had gone so white that they were nearly invisible in her wrinkled face. One bright red spot glowed in the middle of each of the old priestess's pallid cheeks, and her eyes burned like embers as she glared at me. "I knew it!" she croaked. "I knew she was no daughter of the god! See how he shows his disdain!" Her crooked finger trembled as she pointed at the ugly pile of desiccated wool fragments mixed with worm droppings that lay at my feet, and she shook with a weird cackle, torn between laughing and screaming.

"Silence!" Thoösa was so red as to be almost purple. "There's no one else! Would you have Knossos fall?" Damia fell silent midcackle, her bony hand still flung toward the ruin of the Goddess ball. She lowered it but continued piercing me with her faded eyes. The only sounds were Pero's sobbing and Kylissa's murmurs of comfort. The priestesses all stared at me, their eyes wide with terror.

Outside, the conch squealed. It was not an order for me to appear—nobody could order me now—but a reminder that the people were gathering. I knew that the Minos was standing in the sun, and although the air was merely warm and not yet hot, the heavy bronze bull's head on his shoulders and his red woolen robes must be stifling.

Still they looked at me mutely, and I made a decision.

"Bring me wool," I ordered. "One—no, two—skeins of undyed wool, the whitest and finest you can gather in a hurry." They stood like stones. I stamped, and Kynthia started, looking awakened from a dream, and scurried out the door. I addressed the priestesses. "Show me your hands." Looking dazed, they all thrust out their arms. Athis's fingers were the smallest, and I remembered that she had been skilled at the games we had played as girls, when we would pass looped-up lengths of yarn from one to the other in increasingly complex patterns. "You are to help me," I told her.