Questions . . . I had so many myself. Why did Agamemnon want war so badly? Was he bored, and this was what bored men did? Was he jealous of Priam, with all his sons? Did I want Menelaus to go to war? Would my life be more interesting, or less, if he were gone?
Winter clung with bony, gripping hands to the land, squeezing it pale and lifeless. As we shivered in our mantles and kept the braziers lit indoors, I had the irreverent thought that Demeter did not need to go to such extremes lamenting the loss of Persephone. As soon as I thought it, I hastily begged apology; not knowing the pain of the loss of a daughter, I did not want to provoke the goddess into allowing me to find out.
Gelanor asked leave to return to Gytheum, saying that with little to do here in Sparta he should use the time to gather up the purple-bearing shellfish along that seashore so that when the traders came calling in the spring his family would have a ready supply of them to sell. He said harvesting them was not so difficult in foul weather, if you could be sure of a warm fire afterward.
“Even the Phoenicians do not sail in this weather,” he said. “But they’ll be the first ones out as soon as the storms break.”
I did not want him to go; I always found him so amusing to talk to. The women in the palace talked only of weaving, marriages, deaths, and children; the men only of hunting, trade, and war. Somehow, although Gelanor would speak of these things, it was as if he were standing on a high rock and describing them from above, rather than being part of them, or having any concern for the outcome. Suddenly I had an idea—something that would cure the boredom of both of us. “Take me with you!” I said.
He just looked at me quizzically. “So you can scamper on the rocks and gather the shellfish?”
“No, so that I may see Gytheum. And the sea. I’ve never stood on the shore, nor heard a wave.”
“You are queen of the dry land,” he said. “And so you shall remain, until Menelaus takes you out on the sea. Isn’t his grandfather from Crete? Why don’t you go there with him?”
“His grandfather is ailing, and Menelaus”—Menelaus himself did not like the sea, I realized, and avoided sailing anywhere if possible—“goes there as seldom as possible.”
While we were talking, a gust of wind blew my head covering off. Gelanor laughed. “I’ll take you to Gytheum when the worst of these winds are gone. Now you would only be drenched in sea spray and chilled to death, and Menelaus would execute me for robbing the fair Helen of her health.” He squinted out at the horizon, pretending he could see the sea. “Poseidon loves this time of year, when he can rage and stir up mountains of water and waves, but prudent people keep far away from him.”
“Then why are you going?”
“I never said I was prudent, and anyway, enforced idleness has a way of destroying prudence.”
Menelaus was amenable to my going; he trusted Gelanor. I would say he trusted him like a brother, but I had the feeling that he did not trust Agamemnon, not completely. His only condition was that I wait to accompany him until the worst of the winter storms were past, and that I not take Hermione with us, and keep two bodyguards nearby.
In truth, Menelaus seemed amenable to most things these days; he had a calm air about him. Perhaps at last he was finding that being king satisfied his talents. “Bring me one or two of the shellfish when you return,” he said. “I understand that they themselves have no color at all, but only release that purple fluid when they are crushed.”
“I will,” I promised, my blood singing at the thought of walking beside the sounding sea, at last.
There is a time of year when winter and spring lock themselves in a wrestling match and take turns throwing one another: first one is down, then the other. One day is cold, the next warm. The cautious leaves stay furled; the more reckless open themselves to the sun. At such a time Gelanor and I set out to Gytheum, a very long day’s walk, the bodyguards trailing behind. But I welcomed it, and wore sturdy shoes and a warm cloak. I knew enough to take a face veil. I was used to people staring, but Gelanor was not and it would be a nuisance as we tried to cover the ground as swiftly as possible. I wanted to pass with no hindrance.
“Well, you are quite a sight,” said Gelanor as I joined him just before the palace gates.
“What do you mean?” I looked down at my feet and my cloak.
“I have only seen you bedecked as a queen,” he said. “Never as a wayfarer.” He smiled. “Come!”
He must have had doubts about my ability to keep up, because by the time we had passed the site of Artemis Orthia—that dark and mysterious place where boys had to undergo secret physical trials—he stopped, pulling out a skin filled with water. “My, my,” he said. “You certainly can move. I am a bit out of breath.”
“I once was a runner,” I said. But that seemed long ago.
“Ahh,” said Gelanor. “I am thankful, then, we are not competing.” He passed the water to me.
On down the dirt path to Gytheum. At first we kept to the valley of the Eurotas; the river, swollen by melting snow and spring rains, sought the sea as we did. Along the way were villages, small farms. The fields, sown in late winter, showed barley and emmer, already knee-high. No one paid any attention to us, which delighted me. I said as much to Gelanor.
“Tell me,” he said. “I have never wanted to ask you, as I did not want to be intrusive. But—what is it like to be stared at, no matter what you do?”
“Horrible!” I said. “Dreadful past description!”
“But what of the opposite, the person who wants to be noticed and is always invisible?” he asked.
“How can I know of this? How could I compare them?”
“It is my opinion that these invisible people cause all the trouble in the world. They want to be looked at, and do anything to command attention. They kill, they make false accusations, they brag and lay claim to deeds they have not achieved.”
“That is a harsh judgment,” I said. “Sometimes a very visible person wants even more. He or she is greedy.” I thought of Agamemnon, clearly chafing at his quiet life in Mycenae, though he was its king. “And many simple people are happy with their lives.”
Gelanor grunted. “Still, show me a man who feels overlooked . . .”
* * *
By late afternoon we faced a very high ridge of hills, rearing up like a fence. The sun, hanging over them, made them look formidable. “Just over this, Gytheum and the sea await,” Gelanor said. “And we don’t have to climb them. There’s a pass.”
We trudged over the pass and there, spread out glittering before us, was the sea. It was enormous, spreading out wider and longer than any land. The horizon twinkled far away. It was truly a kingdom: the kingdom of Poseidon.
Just before sunset, we reached the rocks, where the surf was dashing, despite the clear day. “At dawn tomorrow we’ll be back here,” he said. “That’s the best time for gathering.”
I inhaled the odd smell of the sea, a strangely metallic odor, from the seaweed and moss on slippery rocks.
We spent the night at the home of Gelanor’s family. They tried not to stare at me; Gelanor tried not to boast in any way that he served me. They were open and simple people. I could sense that Gelanor was nothing like them, and that was why he no longer lived there.
Cold, dark, wet. Gelanor had insisted that we come down to the shore at this hour, before dawn broke. He was ready to wade out into the water to gather the shellfish while I waited on the shore and watched.
“You said you wanted to do this.” He wagged his finger.
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Until I can no longer find any purple-bearing shellfish.”
I was to mind the sack where he would store the captured shellfish. I tried to guard it carefully, but after some time, when he had vanished behind a set of rocks, I moved it to where it would be safe and he could find it, and clambered off the slippery rock and made for the shore. I could not sit there any longer, staring out at
the horizon, though the sunrise had been glorious. I was shivering and soaked by the sea spray.
I decided to walk along the shore, picking my way carefully between the rocks, hoping that the movement would warm me. I ordered the guards to stay with Gelanor. I shook my legs and tried to walk briskly. There was not another human being to be seen anywhere; it was still too early for fishermen to be out. I watched as the waves broke amongst the rocks and then reached along the beach like searching fingers tipped with foam, frothy and white.
I could see a small island offshore not far away. It was covered with trees, trees that bent with the wind; the island seemed to call out to me.
I walked and walked; the sun came up, hitting my back and warming me at last. Then I saw something ahead on my left, a cave or opening where a cliff appeared on one side of the shoreline. I made my way toward it, I know not why. As I approached it I felt a warm wind coming from inside.
Impossible, I told myself. Caves are colder than the outside air. But I sought it out, stumbling into the dim recess of its mouth. It was warm as summer in there.
The warmth grew. A soft wind caressed me. It smelled of roses. Roses like wild ones I had come across in the fields and meadows—the ones with a hundred petals, the ones that bloomed where they would and perfumed the air, but resisted gardens, refused to grow there.
Roses did not grow in caves! They sought sun, they needed sun!
My heart was hammering. I could hardly breathe. I clasped my throat. The air around me was permeated in roses, was pure roses. I fell to my knees immediately. I knew this was from the gods.
I bowed my head and shut my eyes—less out of reverence than fear. What was I going to see? I could not bear it.
“My child,” a voice whispered. “Listen to me. I have called you. It has been a long wait. Your father disdained me, neglecting my offerings. And you yourself, on the eve of your wedding, forgot me. How could you? As far as marriage goes, I am the goddess without whom you cannot thrive. Hera? Oh, forget her! She knows nothing of what binds a man and a woman. Why, she cannot even satisfy Zeus! She has begged to borrow my belt, which bestows desire.”
“Aphrodite?” I whispered.
“Yes, my child,” she said. “You are my very likeness. I have tried to forget you, because of your and your father’s insults to me, but I cannot. It is not often that a mortal woman is nearly my equal, but you are. So we are kin, and I have come to acknowledge that at last.” She paused. “Come inside. Come inside the cave.”
I had never liked caves and grottoes; they frightened me. But I obeyed and stepped past the rocks guarding the true opening of the cave. Instead of darkness, it was suffused in a glowing light, and the air grew even warmer. A burst of color erupted on either side—banks and banks of roses, all in full bloom, reds as deep as wounds, pinks as delicate as the lining of shells, as exuberant as the swirl of clouds at sunset, crimsons the match of any field poppy. Petals fell as I watched, in a gentle shower. The floor of the cave was carpeted with them, carpeted so deeply that their cool smoothness caressed my ankles and I waded in them.
“Show yourself to me,” I murmured. I needed to see her, to see this goddess.
“That is dangerous,” she said. “To see a god or goddess face to face can kill a mortal.”
“Is it always so?” I so longed to behold her.
“One never knows,” her soft voice said. “Sometimes it is safe. But for you, dear Helen—is it worth risking death? Zeus, your father, would be angry at me if I caused it. You are his only daughter by a mortal woman. He dotes on you. I dare not incur his wrath. Yes, even we goddesses dread it! So, my child, you must take me on faith. But someday, perhaps, you shall gaze safely upon me.”
What did she mean? That I would become a goddess, go to Mount Olympus?
“Do not assume that, for few go to Mount Olympus.”
Her reading of my mind was swifter and more thorough than that ability which the sacred serpents had bestowed upon me, but it was the same gift, in kind.
“Pass before me,” I begged her. “Let the roses stir.”
She laughed, a laugh that was rich beyond honey and deeper than desire. Or rather, it was all desire in a single sound. The roses trembled and moved, and their petals fell. “There,” she sighed.
“Why . . . have you summoned me here?” I asked her, after I had inhaled the wondrous fragrance.
“My child, you summoned me.”
“No—how—”
“You have long sought me, wished for me. My lack in your life—deliberate, I now confess—has been a torment to you.”
“No, not a torment . . .” I had, after all, learned how to live without it, something I had never tasted. Can one truly miss what one has never known?
I heard her low, thrilling, intimate laugh.
“Oh, do not be ashamed. Many people have sought me, many have cursed me—when I ignored them. But you! Oh, I think you should not dismiss gifts you know not of. Those who dwell in a cave—I surmise that you do not care for them—might belittle sunlight, but they have no experience of it. So I need show you what you lack in your life. You lack me, and it is a grievous lack.”
“Then give me your gift. Touch me with it. Open my eyes.” I hoped that sounded humble enough; and as I thought that, I smothered it. She could hear thoughts.
“Gladly. With all my heart.”
“What must I do?” I beseeched her.
“Stand very still, close your eyes. Reach out and touch roses on either side. When you return to the seashore, wade out into the water and wait for a foam-laden wave. Let it wash over you, drench you. Then you will be suffused with me.”
I extended my arms and grasped clusters of rose petals, crushing them. An explosion of scent flooded the air.
“Close your eyes,” Aphrodite said. “You need your other senses now.”
As soon as I closed my eyes, I felt the warmth of the air, inhaled the intense rose smell, heard the whisper of her voice more clearly.
“I touch you,” she breathed by my side. “I give you my vision. Zeus is your father, but I am your sister. And I will never depart from you. I shall be at your side all your days.”
Did I feel anything? A glow, a warmth? No. I only heard her sweet whisper.
“Open your eyes.”
I opened them and the roses were brighter than before; they pulsated with a richness I had never imagined. I looked up at the ceiling of the cave; its dark and shadowy recesses seemed rich and mysterious and full of infinite promise, not dank and cold.
“You now see things through the veil of Aphrodite,” she said. “It is a different vision.”
I sensed that I was being dismissed, that the goddess was through with me.
“Oh, no,” she assured me. “You are my chosen, my daughter as well as my sister. Why . . . I have never had a daughter. About time, I would say. Did you know, gods and goddesses usually give birth to males? So you are alone in being a female among us.”
“But I am not a goddess!”
“But nearly so,” she sighed. “And many will treat you as such. You have certain privileges reserved for us.”
“What are those?”
“Oh, when others would be killed or traded—” She stopped and laughed. That disarming laugh! “But I forget—you mortals like surprises. That is why the oracles speak in riddles. To tell you too much is to spoil the suspense.” She paused. “I would not rob you of it.”
And then, suddenly, she was gone. The cave was dark and dripping. No roses. No warm air.
Why do the gods depart so abruptly? To tease us, to punish us, to laugh at us? I was forced to stumble out, feeling my way. I wanted to grab her shoulders, shake her, say, How dare you treat me this way? But there was no recourse. The gods were as they were; we mortals were as we were. Sometimes we could speak and understand one another; usually not.
Time had not existed, had not passed, in the cave, but when I emerged it was midday. The sun was high in the sky, turning the ocean into a m
irror. I returned to the spot I had left. I could see the collecting sack was still safe; I was thankful for that.
Gelanor was standing near it, hands on hips, looking everywhere for me. I waved at him, although, truthfully, I did not wish to speak to him or anyone else. I wanted to sink down alone on the sand and think of what had happened to me.
“Helen! Helen!” Gelanor was waving his arms, signaling to me.
I walked toward him, feeling the soft give of the sand beneath my feet, smelling more acutely than ever before the sand—sea—salt.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“It was cold and so I left the sack—in a safe place—and walked to warm myself.”
“I told you it would be cold!” he scolded.
Oh, what matter? I wanted to tell him. All those things of ordinary life have passed away.
I came abreast of him. “What have you gathered?” I knew it was a question I should ask.
“I got many.” He patted the bulging sack. Then he wheeled on me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I stared at him. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“You act like a sleepwalker.”
The sun striking the rocks was glorious. They seemed more than rocks, they seemed some special offering of the gods. Why had I not seen it before?
“Nothing,” I repeated. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.” He grasped my arm. “You are ill.”
Just then a huge wave surged offshore—rearing itself up, it crested and raced toward us. I tore away from him, ran down into the tide, stood braced and waiting for the wave to wash over me, arms upraised, as Aphrodite had commanded me.
“No!” Gelanor cried, running after me.
But he was too late. The huge wave engulfed me, swallowed me up in a great green swallow. I gave myself to it, and it was warm, as warm as the breath of someone’s mouth against my neck, as warm as water that sat out in high summer in a clay jar in sunlight. And half of it was foam, light frothy foam, foam that enveloped me, bathed me. The wave receded and I stood coated with foam, white as a spirit.