She spoke of Brauron,
of how she served the goddess as a Little Bear.
It was the happiest time of her life.
Until she went to Brauron, she was kept at home,
weaving in a yellow room.
She wasn’t allowed to go outdoors,
because she was a girl.
I was surprised to hear myself speak.
“I wasn’t allowed indoors.
Because I was a slave.”
“I used to sneak out.”
“So did I! Back in Thessaly.
At night I taught myself to swim.
At night I used to sneak into the house!
My first master —
he might have been my father — ”
“You don’t know?”
“No, he never spoke to me.
Never owned me. I didn’t care!
Except he had paintings in his house — I cared about them.
I used to sneak inside at night and look.”
We were night-wanderers, both of us,
rebellious,
refusing to stay put.
She told me about her Bear:
how she defied the priestesses
and set the bear free.
“Weren’t you afraid that Artemis would punish you?”
“No! I love Artemis! She didn’t want the bear to die!”
She loved the bear the way I loved horses.
We were rebellious, but we worshipped the gods:
she made garlands for Artemis
and sang to her under the white moon.
I went in secret to Hephaistos,
hid my toys inside his temple;
I prayed he would help me make good things.
I told her about the Kiln God —
who was unpredictable,
and burned my pots.
She listened.
She listened as if I weren’t a slave.
She told me about her father —
her faith was founded on him
as flesh is hung on bone.
She swore he would help me. She trusted him.
She pitied me because I had no father.
“I think Sokrates was your real father.
He spoke to you. He liked to talk to you!”
When she spoke of Sokrates
my heart twisted in my chest.
I ran ahead, so she couldn’t see my face.
“I’m hungry.”
I chose a spot in the shade, sat down,
and tore off a chunk of bread.
Two silver obols fell out of the loaf:
Zosima must have slit the crust with a knife
and tucked them inside.
Melisto flopped down beside me. She fidgeted.
I offered her cheese;
it was warm and runny;
it wouldn’t last. Might as well eat it up.
“I can’t eat. In the stories, they say that shades drink blood —
but I don’t. I only like the smell of food,
the way the gods do, I suppose.
I still don’t know much about the gods.
But I can see how that cheese —
how the strength of the goat
and her mother-love
made the milk . . .
Now you eat, and the goat-strength
flows into you. It brightens you up.
You feel better, don’t you?
I don’t think we should be sad today.”
She pointed at the sky.
Against the clear blue, a bird in flight:
the neck a double curve, the wings silver-blue.
“See? that’s a heron!
and it’s on our right side. That’s a good omen.
There are lots of waterbirds at Brauron;
they’re sacred to the goddess.
I think Artemis will help us. She loves freedom.”
She reached for a stem of grass,
as if to pluck it
and nibble the sweet pale green —
but the blade never stirred. She frowned at it.
Then she laughed.
“I haven’t talked to anyone in such a long time.
It’s been lonely.”
I was afraid to know, but I still asked.
“What’s it like to die?”
She raised her eyes to the mountain,
as if words might come tumbling down the slope.
“It wasn’t how I thought it would be. When I was little,
I’d lie in bed at night, and the dark would scare me.
I thought there might be Spartans under the bed,
and they’d kill me.
I heard stories about the House of Hades —
everything dim and lifeless, hopeless.
It frightened me so I couldn’t sleep.
I thought dying would be a great weight,
a grinding pain that went on forever.
But it happened so fast.
For me, I mean. It was raining so hard, and I was dancing —
and I was soaking wet. My skin was icy;
rain streaming down, and then there was this heat — ”
She shuddered.
“And then I was looking down at myself, and I thought,
I fell down,
and I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get up.
The bear was panic-stricken —
you know how they run,
like a ball bouncing, rocking up and down;
I wanted to run after the bear —
but I couldn’t. I slept,
and my dreams were curious, very clear and bright —
You know how you can dip a pebble in water,
and see colors in the stone you never saw? . . .
My dreams were like that. I kept remembering things,
things I’d forgotten, but now they made sense.
I was deep in my dreams, and I didn’t want to wake;
I wanted to understand.
“The next day came, and the priestesses found me
and wrapped my body in a cloak —
and I thought, They’ll tend me,
and I’ll be well again.
They did things to my body, washed it and anointed it,
and I felt very tender toward my body,
because I thought I might need it later on.
They loaded it on an oxcart —
and brought it back to Athens
so I could be buried.
“My mother was afraid to touch me.
There were burn marks on my skin — see?
The marks terrified her.
She tore her cheeks with her nails. She wept —
but she was afraid of Zeus’s lightning.
Your mother was the one who prepared me for burial.
She didn’t cry, but I felt the love in her hands.
“I was starting to understand: I wasn’t alive.
I had a strange feeling
as if there were somewhere I had to go.
I remembered stories about the underworld,
I didn’t want to go there.
I tried to stay awake, but I kept dreaming —
I saw Hermes, Guide of Souls — oh, he was beautiful!
He stretched out his hands like a juggler,
as if he wanted me to play with him! —
but your mother called me back.
She set her curse on me.
She wanted me to find you and set you free;
that was the deepest wish of her heart.
Your mother was good to me.
I felt I owed her something.
“You know how it is when you have to stay awake?
only you can’t?
I’ve had to hold on; I’ve had to keep myself
from slipping away, like water soaking into the ground.
But I’m awake now. Something’s happening.
I’m not a bystander anymore. I can help you.
I think if I can set you free, I’ll be free, too.
“But I don’t know where
