Sometime later a messenger arrived, out of breath from the climb.
“My lady! I am sorry, my lady,” he panted, “but the queen orders your attendance upon her immediately.”
“The queen?” I asked. I looked up at the man, startled out of my lethargy.
“Queen Acalle,” he explained, embarrassed. “Your lady mother is dead and your sister Acalle is now queen.”
“I see,” I said. “I will come.”
ARIADNE, DESCENDING
LAST NIGHT I SAW MY SISTER, WHO IS DEAD. SHE STOOD AT THE end of a long corridor, weeping.
I did not know her until I drew near. There are some here in the Labyrinth who are strangers to me. I thought her a new servant beaten for disobedience, and I looked at her closely only when she did not move as I approached.
Her body was just beginning to be big with child, a child who never saw the light of day. Her neck was encircled by the rope with which she had hanged herself, yet her face was not distorted and discolored, as the faces of the hanged are, and I could see her features clearly.
“Can it really be you, Ariadne, come back after all this time?” I whispered.
She did not answer, but began slowly to sink through the floor.
I am a dignified and important person now, but I ran like the girl I once was to the nearest stairway. I wished to see if my sister’s feet would appear on the ceiling of the story below. I descended a few steps and looked to see.
They did. My sister was drifting downward through solid stone.
I glanced around to see if anyone else saw what I saw. But no, I was alone. At this hour few walked these hallways in the nether regions of the queen’s quarters. I ran down the rest of the stairs.
“Tell me, sister,” I adjured her, after waiting until her head had fully emerged from the ceiling. “What is your will?” She did not speak but wept silently.
As I watched, fascinated, she revolved twice in the air, as a leaf will when it falls. Still she sank, until she began to descend through the next floor.
“Ariadne,” I protested, “I—” Her head slipped beneath the stone. I hurried down the next flight of stairs. There were two more floors below us. When she dropped through the last floor it would be into the earth and I would see her no more.
“It is I, Xenodice,” I called out. “You fall faster than I run. Stop!”
Her face changed a little then. She made a slight gesture, as of one who says, “I cannot.”
“Well, then, fall more slowly,” I panted, rounding the turn of the stairs.
It appeared that Ariadne was able to stay her downward movement a little. She flowed through the next floor like honey through a sieve.
I pattered down the last staircase. As I arrived, gasping, before my sister, I saw her beginning to sink through the floor and into the ground beneath. She had disappeared almost up to the knees.
Seeing that I had no time to waste, I at once asked, “Why do you come to me, Ariadne? If you wish to atone for your crimes, you perhaps should plead your cause before Acalle, who is now queen.” Thinking that she might not know, I added, “Our mother is dead, and our father also. Three of our brothers—” I broke off and then continued awkwardly, “But of course you knew about those deaths. Do you . . . do you ever see them there, where you are?”
Her head drooped so that her chin touched her chest. The floor had reached her waist now.
They tell us that the Underworld is a place of joy and harmony. My sister did not appear to have found it so. But then, mine was a tactless question; none of my family would be likely to greet Ariadne in the afterlife with great enthusiasm. I should not have mentioned them.
Her breast was now at the level of the floor.
“Our brother Glaucus is to marry Semele of Phaistos in the springtime,” I said quickly, hoping to cheer her. “You remember Semele. You never liked her, I know, but I believe that they will be happy together. They both like to eat so much. Oh, and little Phaedra is to marry—” I broke off with a blush. Of course she did not want to hear about our little sister Phaedra’s wedding plans.
Her face and what remained visible of her body convulsed with emotion and she shook her head “no,” her movements as slow as those of a swimmer suspended in deep waters. I cursed myself for my stupidity.
“Do not go, Ariadne,” I said. I spoke with urgency now, for only her head remained above the floor. “You have not told me what you require of me.” I remembered that she had been buried in foreign soil, without a tomb or the tribute of grave goods.
“Is—is there anything that you need in the afterlife, Ariadne? Tell me and I will make certain that you get it. Only—only Acalle must not know.” Her mouth and nose had vanished; her eyes alone beseeched me, for what I did not know.
“Come back!” I cried. “Come back! I—”
My voice trailed off into silence. She was no more.
I whispered, “I—I miss you, Ariadne,” but no one heard, and no one answered.
It was not until nearly a year after Ariadne fled with Theseus that we learned what had happened to her. Receiving official notice that Theseus was to be married, we were merely surprised they had delayed so long—until we heard the name of the bride: Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Only then did we discover that he had deserted Ariadne on the Isle of Naxos many months before.
Some said that it was an accident. Because of her condition (she was right about bearing his child), she had felt
