Before I could think of a sensible reply, Anthousa stormed out of our stone-and-timber house into the cool night. A gust of air blew in as she slammed the door behind her; it guttered the flames of our little clay lamps. The air smelled of cold salt, and tasted like bitter tears.
After that evil day, Anthousa spent almost every waking hour with her falcons. We had traded for a breeding pair of birds four years ago, and Anthousa had taken to the falcons straight away, making them her specialty. She taught herself to fashion hoods and anklets out of soft pigs’ leather, and habituated the fierce creatures to wearing all the trappings of their bondage. When they reproduced, Anthousa reared the downy white chicks by hand, and, when they had grown as large and strong as their parents, she trained her birds to hunt sea birds and ducks. We often ate well, thanks to Anthousa’s falcons—and after Chrysomallo’s death, I was doubly grateful to the birds for the distraction they offered. All of us were content to leave Anthousa to the company of her falcons until her spirit had healed its deep and terrible wound.
Several weeks after the disaster at Anthemoessa, I found myself repairing the fence of the swine-yard for the third time in as many days. One of the posts was rotted through where it sank into the muddy ground; I shored up its base with stones, but it seemed a dubious fix. Even if the post managed to stay upright, the slats pegged to that post seemed spongier and weaker than ever. I sighed as I straightened, working my knuckles into my back to ease my aching muscles. We realized early on that we must be careful to use wood sparingly. It could only be obtained by trade, which was sporadic at the best of times, or by harvesting some of our trees—and if we cut down too many trees, we would quickly strip Aeaea of the forest that sustained us.
I prodded a softening plank with the toe of my shoe; a bit of wood flaked away beneath that gentle pressure. Perhaps after all, I thought, it would be best to sacrifice a few trees to the cause. This year’s herd of swine was getting large and strong—a rare blessing, in this season of ill luck—and I doubted whether the old, oft-reused planks could hold the beasts for much longer.
Chrysomallo had been far better with fences and walls than I. She had possessed a fine mind for solving puzzles and building sturdy, weather-proof structures. My strengths, aside from gathering and administering herbs, ran more toward spinning and weaving. I had seldom been without a spindle in my hand since we’d brought our first sheep to Aeaea; without my spindle now, I felt clumsy and useless as a fish out of water. As I stared dismally at the stones piled around the base of the fence post, the pain of Chrysomallo’s loss swept over me again, a suffocating wave. How long would it take us to learn to live without her?
Beyond the swine-yard, at the edge of our wide clearing, Anthousa spun a lure for one of her young falcons. She was teaching the bird to dive upon its prey, attacking when it heard her whistle. I watched woman and bird for a moment. The lure was a stuffed bit of rag, sewn all over with the battered gray feathers of a gull; Anthousa whirled it round and round, high above her head, by a long, thin strip of leather. She gave the command, a high, piercing whistle that was like the shriek of a harpy. The bird did not dive; it circled ever higher over the clearing, emitting a repetitive cluck. The falcon sounded distinctly upset.
Anthousa cursed.
“What has happened?” I called across the clearing.
She let the lure fall into the weeds, then coiled the leather thong in her hand. “I don’t know. Something has caught Cloud’s eye. He doesn’t like ships; he squawks at them whenever they come too close to our shore.”
“There must be a ship coming in for trading, then.”
“I suppose that must be it.”
I climbed gingerly over the pigs’ fence and went to Anthousa. “We need more wood for the swine yard. If it’s traders, I’ll welcome them, so long as they have a few planks to spare. Let’s go up to the promontory and see who has come.”
It took a quarter of an hour to make our way through the forest and climb to the high, bare peak of our rocky overlook. By then, the ship that had angered Anthousa’s falcon had drawn quite near. As soon as we reached the promontory’s crest, we saw the vast tanbark sail of the newcomers’ vessel. In the afternoon sun, the sail glowed red—wide as a field of blood, blocking all sight of waves and beach below. We crept nearer to the edge of our overlook and peered down.
The ship was so huge, it almost seemed an island unto itself. The pitch-darkened hull sprouted at least two dozen pairs of oars from its sides like the legs of a centipede. There was something sinister about the prow, with its sharp backward curve above two painted, glaring eyes. Just below the foam that danced along the ship’s forward edge, I could see the long, black jut of a wicked ram.
“Hestia’s mercy,” Anthousa muttered. “I’ve never seen a boat like that before.”
“A war ship,” I replied. A superstitious shudder raced up my spine.
“There are no wars here—not that I’ve heard. And we would have heard, Circe; we trade often enough that word of any battles would have found its way to Aeaea.”
I nodded, but did not speak. Words seemed inadequate, faced as I was by that monstrous, lumbering invader. Silent with awe—with dread—I stepped away from the promontory’s edge.
“They haven’t come to trade,” Anthousa said.
I shook my head.
“If it is a war ship, perhaps someone on board is injured or sick. They’ve come for your remedies,” she guessed.
“Perhaps,” I said faintly. Then I shook myself. Whatever the reason for the visit, we must make ourselves ready to meet them—we, seven women, exiled on our small island. We must face a war ship full of men, alone. I hadn’t the luxury of retreating into fear. I must think clearly, if I had any hope of seeing my friends safely through this encounter. “The sooner we find out what these men want, the sooner we can send them on their way. Come; we must gather the others and stay together in our house. We’re safest there.” With our high walls and sturdy doors, we might hope to hold them off for a time.
“Right.” Anthousa led the way down the trail, back toward our familiar clearing—the center of our world.
Praises to the gods, all five of my other companions were hard at work in the clearing outside our farmstead. It took only minutes for Anthousa and I to assemble the women.
“What has happened?” Emelia asked, wide-eyed. “You both look as if you’ve seen a demon!”
An uncomfortable thought, sluggish with the weight of premonition, dragged across my mind. Perhaps we have seen a demon. I pushed my fears away. There was nothing any of us could do now, with that great, dark ship landed on our shore. We had to forge ahead together, facing whatever fate the gods had wrought for us.
I said only, “Visitors. Coming to trade, I suppose.” I hope.
Ligeia asked, “Oughtn’t we to go meet them on the shore?”