The priestess let them onward. The dogs and the girls followed. In a few minutes, Melisto heard the sound of trickling water. She was thirsty.
They had come to a spring in the foothills of Hymettus. The priestess bent and scooped up the water, dashing the drops at the children. She was purifying them so that the nymph of the spring would let them play in the water. She spread her slender hands and announced that they would camp for the night.
The girls took off their sandals. The promise of rest and the sight of bubbling water refreshed them. They stepped in gingerly, cooling their aching feet. Then they waded deeper, up to the knees. Silence gave way to squeals and splashing. The little girl who had cried so hard on the Akropolis caught sight of a frog and began to chase after it, laughing.
Melisto waded in with the others. High up on the bank, the priestess of Artemis was kneeling, uprooting tufts of grass. Melisto left the water so she could watch her. She flattered herself she was inconspicuous, but the girl’s dark head came up. She looked directly into Melisto’s face.
“If you want to ask a question, ask it.”
Melisto’s mouth fell open. Swiftly she gathered her wits and spoke before the priestess could change her mind. “What’s your name?”
The priestess smiled. “Korinna,” she answered. She reached into the quiver at her back and took out a digging tool.
Melisto risked a second question. “What are you doing?”
“Digging a pit for the fire.”
An idea flashed into Melisto’s head. She could find no fault in it, but she hesitated, afraid to risk the friendliness Korinna had shown her. “I could dig, if you want. That way your dress — ” She indicated the pleated masterpiece that was Korinna’s peplos.
“I don’t fuss over my dress,” Korinna retorted. Her smile was the smile of a goddess: tender and radiant. She held out the digging tool as if it were a scepter. Melisto snatched it and dug for all she was worth.
Once the pit was dug and lined with stones, she looked up. Two of the other women had dug firepits, and the girls had been set to gathering sticks. Most of them had never seen a fire kindled. The hearths in their homes were kept burning in honor of Hestia; if the fire went out, a slave went to the Temple of Hestia to fetch live coals. Here there was no temple. Civilization had been left behind.
Korinna knelt by the firepit. She reached into her quiver and took out two stones; Melisto was close enough to see that the larger stone had a deep cleft in it. The priestess opened a leather pouch and withdrew what looked like a dried mushroom. She held the grooved stone tightly, on top of the mushroom, and struck the larger stone with the smaller. There was a scraping noise. After some moments, a wisp of smoke crept up from between Korinna’s hands.
The priestess bent forward and blew on it. A flame the size of a teardrop rose from the pitted surface of the mushroom. The children pressed forward. This was magic.
With a sharp knife, Korinna sliced off the smoking part of the mushroom, setting it in the firepit. She fed the flame with pine needles and twigs. Once the flames grew strong, the oldest woman came with a dried branch and carried it to the other pits.
The women unpacked the donkeys. To Melisto’s relief, they brought forth loaves of barley bread — there was a little round loaf for every child — dried figs, hard cheese, and honey cakes made with sesame seeds. When one of the children complained of thirst, the older woman waved her toward the spring.
Melisto stood by the donkeys until she was given her share of food. Some of the girls sat in clumps, chattering as they ate. Melisto climbed up the bank and sat between two pine trees. She ate slowly, relishing the food. When she had licked her fingers clean, she unbraided her hair and shook her head, like a horse freed from the bridle.
The air was cooling. The handmaids had tethered their donkeys. Now they prepared the children to sleep. They led them to a space some distance from the water, where they could relieve themselves without fouling the spring and offending the nymphs. The girls turned their backs to each other so they could unknot the cords that fastened the cloaks to their shoulders. The cloaks would serve as blankets for the night.
Melisto watched as they laid out beds around the fires. She reached behind her back and tugged at Thratta’s knots, working her own cloak free. The himation was saffron yellow and thickly napped, like an animal’s pelt. When she spread it out, it was twice as long as she was tall. She was later to learn that a girl like herself had woven it, and that she would have to make one for a Bear who would come after her.
Some of the girls draped their himations over tree branches to make tents. Melisto chose a hollow for her bed and gathered armfuls of pine needles to make it soft. The pine boughs were thick above her head, but she used her belt to lash them together, making a roof. As she spread her cloak over the pine needles, a faint whimper reached her ears.
It was the child who had cried that morning — the same child who had laughed so merrily as she chased the frog in the stream. In the firelight, her face was shiny with tears. Like a moth she flitted from bed to bed, looking for someone to pay attention to her.
Melisto got off her knees. She brushed
