Lost in the Labyrinth by Patrice Kindl (ereader with android txt) 📗

becomes restive. He turns in the darkness and tosses his horns, and the ground above him quakes and buckles. Buildings crumple and fall, and the fire of the Bull’s breath sweeps through the ruins. Many of our people die when the Bull is angry.

“When your grandmother was a girl,” said Graia, “the Bull in the Earth grew so furious that much of the Palace of Knossos was leveled. Hundreds died in the wreckage of the Labyrinth, and thousands died in the countryside around, and in the towns and palaces of Malia, Zakros, Festos, and Kydonia. The palaces are rebuilt now, grander and larger than before, but we do not forget.”

She explained that since there is little we can do to urge the Lady Potnia to visit her lord if she does not choose it, we perform many ceremonies to appease and entertain the Bull in the Earth, hoping to keep him quiet and amused in the event that his lady should be absent longer than his liking. He is a fierce creature, and his pleasures are likewise fierce. So, several times a year, bulls are sacrificed in his honor amid much ceremony. And once a year, in the early summer, there is the Festival of the Bulls.

My brother Asterius is the son of the Bull in the Earth. They say that my mother, in her grief over the death of Androgeus, begged the Goddess to help her get revenge against Minos for leaving her son to die in a strange land.

She Who Made All Things would not lightly refuse such a request from her high priestess. The Lady therefore entered into my mother’s body and took possession of it. As one they descended into the Underworld, where the Bull dwells. And in due course my brother was born, half man and half bull.

That is why my brother appears before the people once a year at the Festival of the Bulls.

The Bull Festival would be very different from yesterday’s brief, sad rite of the Presentation. It was a happy occasion and one of my favorite festivals; I looked forward to it the whole year. Nor was I alone in this: all over Kefti young women and men had been preparing their entire lives for the festival, when they would face the bull before the entire court of Knossos.

The bull dance is glorious. However often I see it, it makes me want to weep for sheer pleasure. It is everything in life that is beautiful and brave.

When Icarus and the Athenians hailed me the day before as “Bull Rider,” they were being kind. I had performed only the simplest of the feats to be displayed here—that of riding the bull without injury—and I had done so without grace or style. The great bull dancers and those who admire them would have thought little of such an exhibition.

What a crush of people filled the Bull Court! I sat with my family—except Ariadne, who was preparing to perform the Dance of the Serpents for the opening ceremonies—on a balcony off our living quarters. Servants moved silently about, offering barley water and wine, grape leaves stuffed with spiced meats, delicate pastries, and platters of fruit.

The array of balconies around the court were crammed to overflowing. Here and there I could see a familiar face—those places were reserved for people of wealth and influence. Up on the roofs and lining the walls of the actual Bull Court were the common people. They would stand in the grilling sun without food or water for hours today Some would faint from heat and thirst and be carried away, allowing others to push forward and take their places. Those in the Bull Court itself were in some danger; the bull occasionally charged the audience. Yet in spite of all this there were always more than could be accommodated. Tomorrow those lucky enough to be present would go home to their villages basking in reflected glory.

In contrast to yesterday, the throng was a blaze of color and fanciful design. Some of the costumes worn were like old friends—I had seen them year after year—but others were new to me, made especially for this occasion. I scanned the crowd, seeking out past favorites and new creations. I laughed to see a man dressed in gray with the mask of a hippopotamus, and then admired a woman with a headdress fashioned like a grove of trees with little silver birds swinging from the limbs. The men wore their most richly embroidered kilts and robes of many hues today, and any woman who could afford a ceremonial dress had it on.

I was dressed in ceremonial attire myself for almost the first time. These dresses were different from ordinary clothing in that the bodice was cut down low to the waist to expose the breasts. I had only just made blood sacrifice to celebrate the commencement of my monthly bleeding during the last rainy season, so I was still uncomfortable in women’s dress before this great crowd. My breasts were small and pointed, like the teats of a nanny goat. Graia said that they would grow, but that was meager comfort today, feeling that everyone’s eyes were upon me.

The seer Polyidus had been given a seat with my family, I noticed. Neither he nor Glaucus had been improved by their brush with the mysteries of death. Polyidus sat there grinning and bowing and nodding his head at everything that was said, while my little brother capered about, boasting wildly before the servants.

“Stop, Glaucus,” I said, annoyed, as he lurched against me in one of his rough games and nearly tore my dress. “Sit down and be quiet.” The monkey Queta—who sat on my lap, securely diapered to prevent her from soiling my clothes—fluffed up her fur and screamed at him.

Mother drew Glaucus to her. “Darling,” she said, stroking his hair.

The musicians began to play, and slowly the buzzing, rumbling crowd quieted, waiting.

Ariadne entered first. This was the first Festival of the Bulls without Acalle,