Dark of the Moon (22 page)

Kynthia reappeared, bearing two skeins of decently smooth and decently white wool. I took one and sat on a stool. I held the spindle between my knees. It twirled as I wound fluffy yarn quickly into a sphere. No time to work the central knots; that part would be concealed by succeeding layers, and making it right would have to wait until after I had become Goddess and then turned back into myself.
I'll do it with all reverence,
I promised Goddess.
Just help me now.

I didn't know what the people would do if I appeared in front of them without the Goddess ball in my right hand, and I didn't want to find out. They would be terrified at the sacrilege. I wouldn't be surprised if they tore me to pieces to please Goddess.

She must be angry with me to have caused such a disaster—or maybe it was a test. This thought gave me a sliver of hope. Maybe the Pasiphaë part of Goddess would forgive me for her own mistake if I could make my fingers do the work correctly.
Someone
had made the ball, and that someone must have been She-Who-Is-Goddess who was my many-greats-grandmother. My mother was now Goddess along with that ancestor, and I had to trust that she loved me too much to condemn me for a sin she herself had committed.

Help me now,
I begged again. I nodded at Athis, who was sipping a cup of honey water. She still looked shaky, but she put down her cup and pulled up a stool to face me. She sat on it with her hands out. "Spread your fingers," I commanded. Manners, too, would have to wait. I made a loop and hung it over her middle finger, then made another, twisted it, and hung it next to the first. I closed my eyes, willing my hands to remember my mother's motions as she tried to puzzle out the mystery of the Goddess ball.

The conch sounded a more urgent note. I opened my eyes, smiled reassurance at Athis, and continued.

Soon, a white ball of the correct size lay in my right hand. As far as the people were concerned, this was the same Goddess ball that my mother had held and all our mothers before her. Still, I wanted it to be correctly made, not for their sake but for the sake of Goddess.

I stood. "We must hurry." I was surprised at the firmness of my own tone. "The Minos is waiting."

Once we arrived at the inner chamber, shielded for now from the view of the people, everything moved swiftly, one step following another as smoothly as in one of Daidalos's strange mechanisms. I didn't have to think; I knew exactly what to do.

The air was heavy with aromatic smoke pouring from censers hanging on the walls. It felt harsh in my throat, but with a purifying harshness, scouring something from me. I nodded, and the door to the portico swung open. People would be standing on the festival grounds straining to see in, although it was impossible, outside in the sunshine, to make out what happened inside the dim chamber.

The room darkened further as a form loomed in the doorway. I knew it was my dear uncle, my brother, the Minos—but even so, my courage failed me for a moment. The figure was formless, a mass whose horned head I saw only in silhouette against the spring sky. He moved, taking one slow step, then another, then another, until he stood facing me. He cradled a bronze cup in both hands. I eyed it uneasily and then searched the impassive mask. He could not have been looking through the eyes of the bull, which were set with shining black stones and which in any event were too high up and far apart for a man to use. Then I spotted two small holes in the bull's neck, directly under its chin, and looked at them.

The Minos spoke the ritual words of greeting in the ancient language, "Blessed is Karia," and I answered, as I had been taught, "Blessed forever."

I caught a glimpse of the familiar hands of the Minos for just an instant before he put the cup down on the table, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and stepped back. He opened the door again and the priestesses filed out, only to return almost immediately carrying the heavy clay jars, each woman placing one hand on the pot-lid in case its contents were lively, and taking care not to cover the holes pierced around the top. No sound came through the door, although I had the sense of a large crowd waiting tensely outside.

One by one, the priestesses deposited their jars at my feet. For an awful moment, I was afraid that Damia would be unable to rise again unassisted, but she managed, and then she joined Thoösa, who already waited at the door. Orthia followed, then Kynthia, and then the others, in order of seniority. Athis, the youngest, put down her jar. She seemed ready to faint with relief as she took her place next to Perialla. I reached out my hand, and as I knew she would, Damia placed the cypress branch in it. I dipped it in the sacred water, brought down from Goddess's mountain spring at the last dark of the moon, and shook drops of it over them.

Thoösa spoke, her cracked old voice sounding as loud as a bull's roar in that silent room.

Long, long ago, before time was time, the island of Krete lay dead.

She told the story of how Karia had come to Krete—how
I
had come to Krete. I closed my eyes, hearing the priestesses intone "Blessed be Goddess" at all the right moments. WhenThoösa finished, I opened my eyes. Was I Goddess now? How would I know?

The priestesses backed out, careful not to ruin everything by tripping. Athis cleared the door and turned, relief shining from her like a light as she nearly skipped across the portico to the stairs.

The door closed behind them, silencing the noise from the crowd: excited voices, hushed laughter, what sounded like questions. The priestesses would be giddy with relief that their part in the ritual was over. People would be asking them how I had behaved.
Don't tell anybody about the Goddess ball,
I silently reminded them, even though I knew they would not. Someone might proclaim that the only way to cleanse the Goddess stone after such a disaster was with the blood of the priestesses. Even the most pious among them would hesitate to risk this.

Now the Minos and I were alone. This was the moment I had been dreading most of all; for the first time since my arrival at the shrine, I had no idea what would happen next. I stood with my hands clasped in front of me like a little girl, bowed my head, and said the only words that came to me, "I place myself in your hands."

I SUPPOSE the bull baiting was exciting; as I said, I have little taste for the sport, so I'm not a good judge. I stand outside the door to watch the spectators pour down to the field alongside the palace. Enops comes out, leaning on the shoulder of a companion. His friend is teasing him, and the boy makes a brave effort to smile.

I'm about to follow the last of the thinning crowd, when a dozen solemn-faced men appear wearing only red loincloths. They wield knives, most of them flint but a few that shine with the glint of bronze. Some also carry large baskets woven of rushes. Each man bears a tattoo in the shape of a pair of bull horns spreading over his shoulder blades like sinuous blue wings. In contrast with the gaiety and even hilarity of the rest of the locals, these men appear intent on their business. I lurk a little longer and then peer through the doorway into the arena, trusting that they won't see me.

The men stand motionless around the massive body of the bull. They seem to be waiting for something. The dirt under the red-brown body is dark with blood, and flies are already buzzing near the corpse. One of the men shifts from foot to foot. The others glare at him, and he subsides. Then, from somewhere under the stands, a large figure emerges. Its huge head is crowned with horns that sweep wide, and its shoulders are massive. As it emerges from the shadows, I see flaring nostrils and small, glittering eyes on either side of a broad muzzle.

Artemis whines softly. I drop my hand on her head to quiet her. I see now that this isn't a magic bull walking on its hind legs, as I had first imagined, but rather a person—a man, to judge from the height—wearing a mask in the shape of a bull's head, and long red robes that sweep the dirt up into a cloud as he strides forward. It must be the Minos.

He carries a bronze wine jug. The waiting men bow, then straighten. The priest says something, and the men fall to, butchering the bull so rapidly that despite their apparent skill I wonder if they fear for their fingers as their neighbors slash and slice in grim silence. One of them holds a bowl in which he collects blood, and he then pours it into the wine jug.

Faster than I would have thought possible, the large baskets are heaped with glistening dark red meat, slippery-looking purple entrails, yellow fat, and gleaming white bones. The scent of blood, and of manure that spilled from the intestines, is heavy in the air. All but two of the men depart, carrying the baskets by their handles, the baskets themselves bending and bulging with the weight of what is inside them.

The two men left are now bent over the hide, scraping off the last bits of flesh and fat with long flint knives. The Minos stands motionless, apparently watching them, although it's impossible to tell exactly where he's looking. When the butchers have completed their work, they fold the hide over and over itself until it is a long, neat packet on the bloody ground. They place the bull's horns and hooves on it and pick up the bundle, each supporting his half on both forearms. The Minos turns and leaves, the two men with their burden following him.

I realize that I have witnessed a ceremony that was probably not intended for the eyes of a foreigner—or perhaps even of anyone not consecrated to their god—so I take care not to be seen as I move away from the door and then follow the path in the grass to the large field, a path beaten down by many feet. It's a cool afternoon, perfect for a festival, with a light breeze moving a few clouds across the blue sky. Fires burn under large cauldrons. The sound of chatter and laughter, the sweet smell of wood smoke, and the sight of children running and playing turn this day back into something approaching normal. I wander among the celebrants, exchanging smiles with some, a few words with others.

An undercurrent of unease runs through the busy crowd. Nerves and worry are always present at a festival, of course; something might go wrong at any time. A priest could forget the words of the ritual; a holy fire could go out. It appears that everything went well with the bull baiting, though. Even Glaukos's death seems to be something to celebrate. I wonder at the tension coming from the people around me.

I'm
the one with something to worry about, in any case. I don't know if Prokris's plan has any merit, and I don't share her confidence that shy little Ariadne will choose me as her consort. Artemis seems to pick up on my mood and keeps close, pressing against my leg whenever I pause. She is occasionally tempted by the smell of one cooking pot or another, but she doesn't stray far.

After a while, I see a crowd of men gathered near a fire, around the scarred old man who had trained the boys. They seem to be at the center of the vague sense of unease that I feel. Their voices are tense, and occasionally one man or another speaks too loudly and the others shush him, looking around to make sure no one has noticed. I draw near, unnoticed.

"He's been a good Minos," the trainer—Lysias, I've heard him called—i's saying. "His bloodlettings have always been swift and seem painless." This is good news to me, if Prokris's plan succeeds. "And whatever he does to She-Who-Is to bring Goddess to her, he does it just right. I've heard that in past times, sometimes Minos-Who-Was was clumsy and Goddess-Who-Was couldn't perform her duties. But this one hasn't had that trouble."

"Except that one time," puts in another man. He leans forward to poke the fire, and I see his face: Simo. He wears an anxious expression, and he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. I move a step closer, hoping they won't notice me.

"We don't know that for sure," Lysias says sharply. "It might not have been his doing. She—Goddess-Who-Was—was young. They can all make mistakes. If she thought she saw the god, she had to say so."

Simo chews harder at his cheek. "My sister told me. My sister Perialla. She said..." He lowers his voice and looks around. I don't move. "Perialla said that after Nikanor was killed by that falling beam, She-Who-Is-Goddess went raving through her apartments saying that it was her fault he'd died shamefully and that she should have spoken the truth."

"I don't believe that," another man says.

"Are you accusing me of lying? Or my sister?" Simo looks angry now.

"Neither. Just—why didn't you mention this earlier?"

"Nothing to do about it while we had the Minos. But he's nothing but Minos-Who-Was after tonight."

"Why didn't he choose a boy to apprentice with him?" bursts out a young man who stands with his arms crossed angrily over his chest. "That's happened before. My grandfather used to talk of a Minos who was not born of Velchanos and She-Who-Is-Goddess, in his own grandfather's time."

"That was only because She-Who-Is of that time bore no living boy," Lysias says with an air of authority. "Asterion was born at the Birth of the Sun in the darkest night of the dark of the moon and he still lives. He
is
Minos-Who-Will- Be."

Simo mutters something. "What?" Lysias asks sharply.

The young man raises his head with a defiant air. "Then that's a mistake, a mistake that someone should correct." A miserable silence settles over them.

"Is there no hope that the boy can be trained?" asks another young man, barely more than a boy himself.

Lysias snorts. "As much hope as there is for that pig there to put on a bull's head and speak the proper words." We all watch as a squealing black and white pig is dragged to the slaughtering area. The block is stained with fresh blood, and the pig seems to know what fate awaits him. He digs his trotters into the earth that has been churned up by the hooves of the creatures led in before him. A man expertly slits the pig's throat, cutting off his protests in midsqueal, and then the portly body is swiftly sliced up, and the pieces are sent off to the roasters.

Just then, Lysias notices me. He salutes. His voice is civil but strained as he asks if there's something he can do to help me.