In those earliest days of my exile, there must have been times when I was terrified—when I lay awake, harried by the nightmares I knew would come, or when I wept in a paralysis of pure, unconquerable fear. But if I did, I don’t recall those moments now. I only remember life on Aeaea as a grand challenge, a rousing joy, right from the beginning.
We adapted to our new home quickly, as if the gods had fitted each one of us especially for that unfettered lifestyle—as if we had never been mortal women, but were nymphs and dryads all along. Only now, far from the conventions of the human world that had trapped us, our true natures shone forth like brilliant suns. On that first night, we built a crude hut from driftwood and downed branches; each of us took a turn standing awake beside our little fire while the others slept close together, sheltering in one another’s warmth. There were wolves on the island and, naturally, we feared them—especially Ligeia and I, who had seen first-hand what the teeth and claws of those terrible beasts could do. But by the end of our first morning, we came to understand that the island wolves were all but tame. They had never seen humans before. Artemis blessed them—and us—by removing the wolves’ fear of mankind. Because they had never known any creatures of our sort, who walked on two legs, they did not thirst for our blood.
We found a grove of fruit trees at the foot of the great stone promontory, and, sure we would not go hungry ourselves, we threw crusts of our hard, unpalatable bread to the wolves who sniffed and played around our hut with curious eyes and wagging tails. We laughed at their antics and, when our confidence grew, joined in their games, chasing and tackling the beasts, howling along with them at the rise of every moon. The wolves accompanied us gaily into the forest when, three days into our exile, we made up our minds to build the largest, most beautiful house we could manage—an estate to rival the one Heliodoros had enjoyed back in Colchis.
Our first house was not grand, being made from fallen bits of wood and the few large rocks we could roll across clearings under our combined power. But it was larger than our hut on the beach, with a tight roof and walls that kept out all but the worst wind and rain. We worked from sunrise to full dark, fashioning stones and shells into crude tools, expanding the small natural clearing we’d found at the island’s heart. Our hands blistered and our bodies seemed to grow wearier each day, but we rejoiced in our independence. Like the gods themselves, we made our own world, tailoring a new creation to suit our whims, our fantasies. There was no one to tell us we could not, we may not. Everything seemed possible and permissible; if we could dream up any wild fancy, we could make it real before our very eyes. The only price we had to pay the sweat of our brows and the aching of our energetic young bodies. No men plagued our island, with their restrictions and rules. No father or brother told us what to do, how to live. No man warned us of all the heights we must never aspire to.
We flourished on that island of blessed freedom. And, having only one another to rely on, we came to love each other like sisters. More than sisters, in truth. Love—and other passions, just as strong—blossomed and withered among us as months and years passed. But although we became so enmeshed and tangled, no jealousy lasted long in our utopia. We needed one another to survive. We could not afford the luxury of petty spite; our small, precious world would have disintegrated like a rampart made of sand if we had allowed envy or hatred to take root. The eight of us worked together seamlessly, and gave all things generously, each to the other—even our lovers and closest friends. Together, we had created a woman’s world, one that belonged entirely to us. We owned it with pride, and stewarded it with care. We would not permit anything as useless as jealousy to shatter our beautiful dream.
As much as we loved our island, we soon came to understand that if we hoped to turn Aeaea into a territory as grand as Colchis, we must obtain more resources. Aeaea could not provide everything we needed, after all. Chrysomallo hit upon the idea of lighting a fire atop the stone promontory. We did, tending the blaze in shifts; eventually the first ships approached our shore, drawn in by our smoky banner. This was a tense time for us—indeed, we never grew used to receiving visitors on our shore, for our suspicion of men grew with each passing month. We feared that men would take our island by force—or take us by force—and ruin our happiness forever. But without better tools, we had no hope of making our most ambitious dreams a reality.
Shortly after our arrival on Aeaea, I coaxed some of my precious cannabis seeds to sprout in a sunny grove near the island’s south shore. Now the plants were flourishing. That precious, potent herb was our best currency in those early days. The first men who came, seeking the source of our smoke, were eager to trade for the dried leaves and sticky, pungent buds. We secured axes, spears, and a fine bow with arrows, for a mere handful of our cannabis. At first, I worried that news of my little garden would spread, and men would come in droves, overwhelming our island and shattering our peace. Instead, my garden proved a sort of palisade. Men seemed reluctant to approach, even though the promise of my plants drew them powerfully. Now, looking back, I believe my cannabis contributed to the rumors about our island—stories of the strange society of women who spurned men, who carried out all the needful acts of life without any masculine guidance. I sat at the heart of those rumors, the exiled daughter from Colchis, cast off from her father’s house for the crime of murdering her husband, and accused of all manner of witchery. No doubt, the rare herb I cultivated became part and parcel of my legend, for it induced a trance-like state of euphoria in all who partook of it. Who but a witch could conjure such a feeling?
With time, we obtained a flock of sheep for meat, milk, and wool; we bred our herd with care until they were hardy and tough, well suited to life on Aeaea. If our friends the wolves took a sheep now and then, we considered it no more than their due. They had been kind to us, when they might have savaged us instead. We traded for spindles and distaffs, then a small but serviceable loom. Eumelia taught us all how to spin and weave; Ligeia taught us to ferment sheeps’ milk into a potent drink. She taught us, too, how to culture the milk into a fine, tasty cheese. Those goods we traded, along with the cannabis, for ever-better tools for our hunting and building, our gardening and shepherding. Furniture and finer things followed as the produce of our island grew.