Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (easy books to read TXT) 📗

with pleats that rippled open and shut with every stride. The priestess wore a fawn skin over one shoulder and a quiver on her back. Two large hunting dogs followed at her heels: Melisto had never seen dogs so magnificently obedient. They walked with their heads up, stately and alert. When the priestess paused in mid-stride, they stood like statues, ears pricked.

Melisto’s skin tingled with gooseflesh. She felt she was in the presence of the goddess herself. She knew her mother was an attractive woman, but there was something feral about Lysandra’s grace, something that reminded her of a weasel she had once watched kill a snake. The young priestess was flowerlike in her beauty. Her cheeks were flushed, not painted, and her dark hair was unbound. In the wind, her tresses were borne upward; they seemed to move of their own free will.

The crowd fell silent as a priest approached the altar. Libations were poured: milk and honey and wine. A young girl led a goat with gilded horns toward the priest. Like the Bears, the goat had been washed and groomed for the occasion. Its coat shone like silver in the sun. The girl holding the lead carried a basket of grain. From time to time she fed the goat, who nuzzled her, asking for more. The priest sprinkled water on the animal and the goat tossed its head, agreeing to the sacrifice. Deftly the priest reached into the basket. He drew out the sacrificial knife. The goat, suspecting nothing, licked the young girl’s hands.

The knife flashed, cutting the animal’s throat in one swift movement. Melisto joined in as the women in the crowd gave a great cry of mourning and shock. The goat’s knees buckled, and the blood began to flow.

What followed was familiar: the blood splashed over the altar and the swift butchering of the dead animal. Melisto did not watch. The small girl who had waved to her mother was sobbing afresh, undone by the death of the goat.

But the mood of the crowd was relaxed. The mothers of the Bears exchanged greetings, taking advantage of the holiday that allowed them to leave their homes. The goat was cooked, and the meat shared among the people. Melisto was given a mouthful on a spit. She leaned over to eat it so that she wouldn’t drop grease on her tunic. The four women — were they priestesses or only handmaids? — divided the girls into groups of fifteen. A dark-skinned Syrian girl began to play the double flute. The procession took shape: the priestess first, then the dogs, the girls in their four lines, and the handmaids bringing up the rear.

The priestess headed toward the great gate. She did not look back to see if the girls were following her. She trusted her presence to draw them. Melisto fell into step, head high. She was keenly aware of the picture the girls were making, with their yellow tunics, purple ribbons, and crowns of flowers. Like water, they flowed through the great marble columns.

Once they reached the bottom of the Akropolis, the four women collected a pack donkey each. The procession wound its way through the Agora and down to the Sacred Gate. Melisto looked from side to side. Athens was her city, and she wanted to remember everything: tombstones and boundary stones, shops and shrines, forge and kiln.

By the time they reached the Sacred Gate, the crowd had dispersed. The flute girl stopped playing and stepped aside. The Bears passed out of the city, heading northeast to Brauron, a journey of twenty-four miles.

Away from the city, the terrain changed. The road was less marked, and the ground was rough, with rocks breaking out of the thin soil: the bones of the earth cutting through. The air was fragrant with thyme and spring onion. Wildflowers dotted the path: scarlet poppies and gleaming buttercups, cranesbill and windflowers. Melisto snatched up handfuls and tucked them under her belt.

The girls no longer kept to their lines. They formed small clusters and whispered to one another, glancing warily at the women in charge. Names were exchanged: the first seeds of friendship. As the hours passed, the children began to limp, but they did not dare complain. One of the handmaids scooped up a weeping five-year-old and set her on the donkey’s back.

As the sun sank in the blue sky, the mountains loomed ahead. They looked daunting: the slopes so thickly furred with greenery that the shadows appeared black. Melisto had been told that the world outside her city was a wilderness, peopled by wolves and satyrs and centaurs. Now she saw that it must be true. She quickened her pace until she caught up with the dogs.

The path was steeper now. The girls climbed it, crushing stems of myrtle and oregano underfoot. When they faltered, the women urged them onward. Sometimes they stopped to point out a clump of weeds. “Girls, look closely. This is fennel. You can eat every part of it: bulb, stalks, seeds.” “This is cat’s-ear: you can boil the roots and eat them.” At the thought of food, Melisto’s stomach growled. She eyed the wild plants warily, hoping she wasn’t going to have to eat them for supper.

By sunset, many of the children had bleeding feet, and the smallest ones were in tears. Melisto looked down at her well-worn sandals and felt a surge of gratitude to Thratta. During the long hike, she had pulled ahead of the others. She had expected to be as inferior in strength as she was in beauty, but she was not. Once the Thirty had been defeated, Melisto had resumed her trips to the fountain house. Keeping up with Thratta, lugging the heavy water jars, had made her strong.

Her arm prickled. A butterfly had come to taste the salt on her skin. Melisto held still, transfixed. Its wings were dull gray, spotted with black. All at once the creature opened its wings, showing a flash of pure and glistening blue. Melisto