Dark of the Moon

chapter 25

OF THE NEXT DAYS I remember little, and that little is in pieces that don't connect with each other.

The Minos ran into my mother's chamber for the first time in my memory, calling her name. The women scurried away like birds at the approach of a hawk. The sight made me laugh, bringing concerned frowns to the priestesses' faces.

The baby cried. I went to tend to her, and at first I was restrained by Perialla, who seemed to think I would harm the little thing. Did she imagine that I blamed Phaedra for my—our—mother's death? No, Goddess had killed her, and Goddess now tormented me. She had tortured my mother for years, and then She took her from me. Goddess had sent the baby early, when I would be unprepared and before I had a chance to learn more of what I needed to know.

No, Phaedra wasn't responsible. Poor little thing; if she lived, she would grow up without knowing our mother. I finally convinced Perialla to release me, and I picked up the tiny body. The red face, screwed up to cry, smoothed as I crooned to her. Something wet splashed onto her face. I realized it was my tears.

That first night, a whine at my door made me sit up and look; in the darkness, I could make out a large white shape. My heart leaped—with joy or fear?—at the thought that it was the spirit of my mother, but the next instant I saw that it was Theseus's dog. Artemis came to me, her head and tail down as she ambled across the stones, her nails clicking. She sighed and flopped down. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her warm fur, inhaling the animal scent that finally drove the stench of the birthing room from my nostrils.

The body of She-Who-Is-Goddess, washed and dressed in finery, was shown to the people outside the shrine. Damia later told me that I was present when the ancient stone burial chamber in the cleft between two hills was opened and her body was put into it, but I don't remember that. I do remember Theseus telling me that she had returned to her mother, which was true, but I think he meant the earth. Strange people, the Athenians, who think the earth, and not the moon, is our Mother.

For three days, mourners screamed and wailed. Were they frightened because there was only me left, and I was still only She-Who - Will-Be until the Festival? Did they fear that I would fail when the time came to lead the ritual?

If they were frightened, they were not half as frightened as I. Thoösa was reinstated as priestess to make the full complement of twelve, and my lessons with Damia changed. No longer was I being reminded how to serve as a priestess—I had to learn how to officiate. I needed to do all this without ever having seen the most secret rituals, without repeating the words after my mother until they were firm in my mind, the way she had learned them, as had her mother before her, since time was time.

"She should have taught the girl." Damia's bitter voice sounded like reeds scraping together in the wind. "It wasn't right that she left it for so long."

I was in the women's sitting room. Cook set bread and preserves in front of me, but I couldn't bear the sight of food. I pushed the plate aside and took a sip of warm honey water. It briefly chased away the bitterness in my mouth. I took another sip and picked up Phaedra, who lay on a large pillow looking at me solemnly. I rocked back and forth. The baby had no need of comfort—she rarely cried—but holding her made the hard feeling in my chest ease.

Thoösa said, "You know how she was. Thought she knew everything. Thought she'd live forever. No need to teach She-Who-Will."

I couldn't bear to hear them blaming my mother for what Goddess had done. But my mother was now Goddess. Would She continue punishing me for being the child of a lovesick woman who had killed a man for no reason, a man who thought his death meant life for the people? "Hush!" I called out, and instantly they fell silent.

Theseus told me about his journey to find his father, when he encountered bandits, murderers, and wild animals. I couldn't help thinking that he was embellishing the tale to amuse me and stop my mind from dwelling on my troubles. It was a kind thought, but it didn't help.

The worst of the splintered memories is of sitting next to my brother in his fetid chamber, which no one had thought to clean since my mother died. He was whimpering with hunger when I arrived carrying bread and cheese and fresh water. He ate and drank, tears and snot running down his face, and when he had devoured everything, I tried to make him understand that our mother would never come to see him again. "Ama?" he asked hopefully over and over, using his word for her. "Ama?" It shredded my heart.

"Ama is no longer here." How could I make him understand? "Ama is in the sky." I pointed upward, and he turned puzzled eyes to the ceiling, where a fat spider had caught a buzzing fly.

"Ama?" His astonishment surprised me into laughter, even while tears ran down my face.

Through it all, there were endless lessons about when to hold the white ball of yarn, what to do with it, what to say to the priestesses. How I must fast for three days before the dark of the moon to make a hollow inside me for Goddess to enter, how to acknowledge the people, what words to say at what times. I repeated the chants after Damia and Thoösa, and they seemed pleased, but I had no idea of the meaning of the words.

They told me that the Minos would wear the head of a bull through the ceremony and that when I found Velchanos, the bull's head would be transferred to that man to show that the god's spirit had entered him. "I know that," I said, impatient that they thought I had not been to Planting Festivals every spring of my life. They exchanged glances. "What?" I asked, but they didn't answer. An odd quality to their silence filled me with dread. I wondered if it was something to do with the Ordeal of the Snakes, but of that I heard no mention, and I did not ask.

And night after night I stood between the columns of the Great Hall and looked at the moon as She reached her full roundness and then dwindled, nearing the time when She would disappear and Goddess would come to me. Would I somehow know the moment that my mother and her mother and all our Mothers entered my body? Would I recognize my mother's presence?

I won't fail you, I thought every night as I watched Her. When the time comes, I will see the god. I will. And no matter whose body he has chosen to inhabit, I will acknowledge him. "Are you really there?" I whispered, searching the gray spots to try to find something of my mother, but the blank, white eye stared down at me coldly without answering, and I returned to my chamber, where I lay sleepless until dawn.