Snakehead, Page 2

  “Blah, blah,” I said. “Yackity-yack. Go ahead and talk, it doesn’t bother me.”

  Then he said something else about Moumi, involving our so-called king, that I could not ignore as childish filth. The rest of them sniggered. I glanced around, to make sure the stranger had made herself scarce. She was still there, her black eyes snapping.

  “I’ll hold your tunic,” she said. “Take it off.”

  She was right, it was a good tunic and it would get wrecked. So I stripped, and went for the foul-mouthed toad. All the fury and shame in me, over those poor people on the waterfront, came boiling to my fists. I used them coldly. A couple of his friends decided to pitch in, which was their mistake. They talk about me, but they never learn.

  The hangers-on picked the losers up and hauled them away. I dressed again and sat on a post, mopping the light sweat I’d worked up. “Will they be back?” asked the girl in the red dress. “Shall I fetch the port police?”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m sorry you had to see that, but now at least they won’t bother me on the ship. Guys I’ve knocked down tend to avoid me for a while.” I looked at her, mugging apology. “I’m not proud of it.”

  She laughed, really laughed, and it was like the sun coming out. Her clear-cut face was suddenly radiant. “Yes you are,” she said.

  I fell in love, at that moment. Was it because she laughed at me, because she saw through me? I don’t know. It was like lightning, and it had struck us both. I saw the same jolt in her eyes; it blazed in the air between us.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded urgently, as if I had a right.

  “Oh.” She stared, and shook her head. “Just call me Kore.”

  Now Kore is a Greek word, and it just means “girl.” It wouldn’t have been so strange if we’d been speaking the language of the islands, which is called “Minoan.” But I knew Mainland Greek, of course—we all do—and she was a foreigner, so I’d assumed she didn’t know our language. We were speaking Greek.

  “Your name is Girl?” I said, bewildered. I saw her blush, and I felt like an oaf. She didn’t want to know me; I was wrong about that lightning. It was time to quit. I tried to do it gracefully.

  “All right, er, Girl. I’m Perseus, as you may have gathered. I’m from Serifos, from Dicty’s taverna. If you’re ever passing—”

  There was a sudden frantic blowing of conches and shrilling of whistles. Afroditi was at the dock, and the Port Authority police were marshaling the heavy vehicles. Huge oxcarts, managed with daring and style, and drawn by four and six pairs of massive, fiery beasts (you may think an ox is placid, but not these animals), came thundering down the breakwater and crashed up the great gangplank. It was a sight I loved, this mad, dangerous and totally unnecessary race, but the noise was tremendous, the rush of their passing overwhelming. When I looked around, when I could speak, she was gone.

  The sun had gone down, and the stars began to glow in the sky above the ship. My mother was talking to friends. Something remarkable had happened. Our pal Taki the shipping magnate, owner of the Blue Star line, was on board. He’d taken pity on the most hopeless of the refugees, the ones the Naxians refused to keep, and taken them on board. Taki was not known for his kind heart! People were saying that the Holy Sisters must have threatened him with divine vengeance: like all sailors he was terribly superstitious. I was on the upper deck, on my own. I listened to the boom-swish, boom-swish of the oars, the crack of canvas in the breeze. I felt the timbers beneath me taking life, from the ocean that gave the Goddess Afroditi herself birth. The girl who had changed my life forever was on board this ship, but I was a tongue-tied fool: I didn’t dare to look for her. A little wooden crate went bobbing by, far below on the choppy dark waves. I shuddered and backed away, stumbling.

  “Not got your sea legs yet, Perseus?”

  It was the girl in the red dress, holding a shawl around her head and shoulders against the cool of the evening. I noticed she wasn’t wearing her bracelets anymore.

  “It’s nothing. Just something I saw in the water.” I knew I was looking sick. I leaned on the side again, and she came to stand beside me, her elbow almost touching mine. Her nearness made my throat close up; my head started to spin.

  She looked down. “A wooden box?”

  “Anything small, floating, makes me queasy if I’m not expecting it. I don’t really remember why. It’s because of something a long time ago.”

  She looked at me; I looked at her. The feeling between us was so real I could hardly breathe.

  “I’ve been talking to your mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “I need a job, I need somewhere to stay, in the islands. She thinks I can work at your taverna. I’m very grateful for the chance.”

  “That’s good,” I croaked.

  “I was Sbw’r …,” she said abruptly, in Minoan. Something that hardly sounded like a word, that I couldn’t try to pronounce. “It’s my temple name. I can’t use it. I can’t use my real Greek name either, at the moment. Will ‘Kore’ do, on the islands?”

  I felt incredibly privileged. I knew what a “temple name” meant in Egypt and the East. It was a special thing, rarely shared with anyone. I knew what she was trying to say: she trusted me; she felt the fire too, but she had her secrets … as I had mine.

  I nodded, choked by the fire in my blood. “Kore will be fine.”

  And she left me.

  My mother and I slept in our blankets under the stars, with the rest of the commercial travelers and deck passengers. The cabin class slept below in airless dens. The staterooms, usually reserved for the filthy rich, were given over to refugees. I didn’t know where Kore was. At dawn I went to check the mules. Dolly and Music were good travelers: they were bored but comfortable. Brainy was convinced he was going to feed the fishes this time, but I managed to cheer him up.

  When I came back, Moumi was talking to Taki and the Afroditi’s first officer. I joined them in time to hear that it was a wealthy cabin passenger who’d convinced him to get all charitable. “As the young lady said, it’s good to be known as generous,” explained Taki. “It’s excellent advertising.”

  Nobody was talking about the earthquake itself. That would have been a very ill-omened topic. Moumi and I winked at each other, and the first officer gave a cough he hid behind his hand. “How did she persuade you?” said my mother. “Come on, ’fess up.”

  Taki looked smug. “Well, gold did come into it. My personal generosity, plus a fair weight of well-worked gold, extremely pure.”

  I remembered Kore’s bracelets. They’d struck me as very Egyptian, very flash, maybe gold leaf on wood. Solid gold on her arms? And looking for work in our taverna? What kind of mystery was this? Moumi shook her head at me, just barely. I understood I should keep my mouth shut; but I didn’t need to be told that.

  “Oh, Taki,” sighed my mother. She glanced wryly at the Blue Star Marines, in full armor, who were sharing the foredeck with us. They were necessary. Every ship that put to sea these days had to be ready to meet pirates, or worse. “Do you really need more treasure? You should have got her to pay you in water.”

  Two generations before I was born, the island of Fira had exploded in a gigantic volcanic eruption. It must have been like the end of the world. No one alive now could remember that day, but the old people, the ones who had heard the tales from actual survivors, said that our world would never recover from the Great Disaster. The winds were not the same, and the wells had dried. That was the real reason why there was no more peace or plenty for the islands of the Middle Sea.

  Taki laughed. Very rich people, I’ve noticed, are often great optimists. The fat of their wealth cushions them from rational fear. “Don’t be silly, Danae. How can we run out of water?” He spread his muscular arms, and his fine copper armlets glinted ruddy as flame in the sun. “The sea is all around, the fountain of life and joy! The mighty sun draws up the salt water and it falls again as sweet rain, for ever and ever. The Great Disaster was a long time ago
. Probably it wasn’t so bad, and soon there’ll be no one alive to moan about ‘all the changes,’ which will be a good thing! Life is what you make it! If there’s really a drought, you landlubbers just have to figure out which Supernatural you’ve annoyed. Sacrifice a few pretty young people; that’ll fix it.”

  Nice. Human sacrifice was Taki’s idea of an efficient, modern solution.

  The name of the girl in the red dress was Andromeda.

  To her dismay the earthquake victims all chose to disembark at Serifos. She understood a few words of their language, she’d heard them talking about it. Either their hearts failed them, at the thought of a longer journey to nowhere, or they were afraid to stay on board when their benefactors were leaving the ship. They knew about the generous offering that had been made on Naxos waterfront. She hoped they didn’t know how their fares had been paid; she’d asked Taki for discretion.

  The ship Afroditi was too big for the island’s harbor. Flat-bottomed lighters came out to collect passengers, animals and freight.

  The girl drew her shawl over her face as she descended into the crowded boat—although she did not think she could be recognized.

  The waterfront was very small, quiet and strange to her eyes. Naxos had been familiar compared with this. She asked Danae, the lady with the golden hair, “Where will the refugees go?” She was angry with herself because she’d given all her treasure to the shipping magnate, which had surely been unnecessary; and now she had nothing more to give. She did not know how to haggle; she was so ignorant of real life.

  “The sisters will look after them, for now,” the lady said. “I’ll get someone to take them to the Enclosure.” She saw that Andromeda didn’t understand. “The Great Mother’s Enclosure is our temple,” she explained, in a friendly tone. “Our only temple—we don’t worship the Achaean Divinities in Seatown.”

  “They will be granted sanctuary,” said Andromeda carefully, in Minoan.

  The lady smiled. “You speak our language, Kore?”

  “Yes. A little.”

  The waterfront was lined with shady tamarisks and planes. Under the sweeping plumes of one great tamarisk a boy took the laden mules and led them off. Andromeda followed lady Danae and her tall son through a wicket gate. At the back of a terrace set with tables and chairs, more tables stood in a well-proportioned room decorated with faded murals. There was a counter down one side and a stone hearth in the center, where a red fire glowed on this summer’s day. Meat was roasting on spits turned by an urchin who leapt up crying, “Papa Dicty, Papa Dicty! Here they are!”

  A small, spare man with a seamed face like a walnut came out of the recesses beyond the hearth, wiping his hands on a white linen apron. He had a fringe of gray hair around his bald head, but he did not move like an old man. He embraced the lady. “My daughter.”

  Perseus did not kneel, which shocked Andromeda a little—because in spite of the apron Papa Dicty was obviously the master. But Perseus bowed very low; and then he too was embraced. She heard a murmur pass among the three of them: the lady and her son, and the older man. “All well enough? All well enough …” It sounded strange in this quiet haven, like the password of an armed camp.

  “And who is this young lady?” asked Papa Dicty, looking at her with great attention, and speaking Greek. She knelt, pushing the shawl back, and faced him unflinching—though she felt as if he knew exactly who she was, and what she’d done.

  “This is Kore,” said the lady. “We met in Naxos. She’s traveling to see the world, but she would like to earn her keep. We need someone else for the dining room, since Nika left. I’m hoping she’ll stay with us for the season.”

  “Good,” said the master. “Very good. On your feet, my dear. Come back into the kitchen, all of you, and we’ll do the interview there. I’m at work that can’t be left.”

  The kitchen was another old room, though the thatch and the beamed roof were new. Hams and bundles of herbs dangled; sunlight poured in from a yard where chickens scratched and another huge tamarisk stood. There were stove tops and ovens. The scrubbed counters were laden with fresh greens, pumpkins, cheeses, roots, vivid-colored fruits.

  In the midst of the room stood a marble-topped table. Papa Dicty returned to this and plunged his hands into a pillow of soft white dough, which he flung about as he spoke, in the most remarkable way. A girl with hair tied in a linen cloth, who wore a yellow, one-shouldered tunic with great smudges of flour all over it, was pushing lumps of the same dough into a metal device.

  “We’re making wheat ribbons,” said the master. “One of our specialties, and my own invention. Only our hard grain, for which Serifos is famous, will do. The flour must be milled extra fine, then we add eggs and oil. The proportions are secret, of course. Anthe, please keep turning steadily! This is a kitchen, not a theater show.”

  “All right, all right,” said the girl with the device, frankly staring at Andromeda.

  She was afraid that the questions must start now, and how could she lie to decent people? She had not prepared herself for this; she had no idea what story to tell them. But instead, they started talking, in a mixture of Greek and the island language, about the offering lady Danae had made to the Holy Sisters of Naxos.

  The master approved. “You have a receipt?”

  “Of course,” said the lady, and showed him a tablet. “Sealed and dated, by the Holy Mother herself. The Africans will all know our name.”

  “Well, that’s nice,” said Anthe, rolling her eyes. “You could hang it up in the dining room.”

  Andromeda was amazed at the girl’s insolence, yet there was something attractive about her. She was small and stocky, with strong eyebrows and a wide mouth. She kept on turning the handle as she spoke, without looking at the device, which was spilling sheaves of slim dough-ribbons into a metal hopper.

  “We could use something humorous to lighten up those murky old wall pictures.”

  “Anthe, I’ve told you a hundred times, I will not have my establishment cluttered with stuffed puffer fish, smoked mermaids, dirty old net weights, sea-urchin shells, rude pictures and worthless foreign money.”

  “Oh, excuse me! Of course, the valuable receipt must be buried in Great Mother’s Enclosure. Maybe we can use it to ransom ourselves, next time pirates come.”

  Andromeda stared at the painted walls. She saw the dim shapes of court ladies in tiered gowns, bull-dancing maidens, a pleasure-boat parade, lifelike flights of swallows, a frieze of crocuses: all moldering softly, patches of bare plaster showing where the paint had fallen away. They must date from before the Disaster. Was this once a palace? she wondered. Was life here once as stern and formal as at home? A side of meat lay wrapped in muslin on a cold slab; the scent of pungent cooking herbs filled the air. A red hen trotted in from the yard, gave a squawk and ran out.

  “Well, now, can you wait at table, my dear? Have you been trained at home?”

  She started. Papa Dicty had divided his dough into smooth batons, ready for that ribbon-making device. His penetrating gaze was fixed on her again.

  “No, but I can learn. And I have been trained in other domestic arts. I can clean, sweep, dye cloth, spin and dye yarn, do laundry.”

  “That’s the spirit. Any special skills?”

  “I weave, a little.”

  The master looked thoughtful. “You can’t sing, by any chance?”

  “N-n-no.”

  “Play a musical instrument? Regular music gives a place ambience.”

  Anthe snorted. Her elbow jogged a bowl, which went crashing to the spotless, stone-flagged floor, spilling a trickle of gooey yellow.

  “Anthe! Pay attention!” Papa Dicty swooped on the broken pot, and smacked the girl gently on the head with it. “Don’t you know, every single time you break a pot, I have to buy a new one. The potter has to make a new one, and we add between us to this island’s mountainous, appalling burden of shattered crocks? We are drowning our Mother in rubbish! She will bite back, you know! There’ll be another Gr
eat Disaster, here on Serifos, and you’ll be the entire cause!”

  “It’s clay!” protested Anthe. “It’ll just melt into the earth!”

  “Oh, certainly. In a few thousand years, for sure, maybe, when your bones and mine are dust. And now see! Those ribbons are crooked!”

  “And now I have egg on my head cloth, sir! I didn’t deserve that!”

  “I’ll show you to your room,” said Perseus. Andromeda realized that he had been watching her, and her cheeks grew hot. She looked for the lady, but Danae was talking to a handsome young man who’d come in from the dining room.

  “Don’t mind them,” said Perseus as she followed him into the yard. “The boss is training Anthe to be a cook; he says she’s very talented. But he has to put egg in her hair sometimes, to keep her in order.” He led her up a flight of stone steps to a gallery lined with doors. “Guest rooms,” he said. Another stair, wooden this time, took them to a flat roof with an extra room standing in one corner like an upturned white box. He lifted the door latch: she saw a small, clean and bare space. The walls were whitewashed; there was a bed frame, a window that looked toward terraced hills, shutters to keep out wind and rain, a niche for a lamp.

  “This was Nika’s,” he said. “Our head waitress, she left to get married.”

  Andromeda nodded. She was wondering about the refugees. What kind of shelter did they have? What about all the other people who had fled? It struck her, horribly, that she was going to be ashamed and guilty now, forever.

  “I’ll bring you a mattress,” said Perseus. “Bed linen, a water pitcher, oh, and a lamp. Is there anything else I can do?”