Aureillia's Lament

Story by: Theresa C. Dintino

Artwork by: Susan Sedon Boulet

From the perch on the tall hill overlooking the harbor I see them. More and more come to the island everyday. Their banners—black and red—large, growing larger as they come closer.

Arms at my sides, head dropped, spine curved, my bare feet begin to move up and down, down and up on this dry earth—pounded smooth from so much stomping—stomping up and down until they pulse fire; until they become claws.

I have seen him watching me. He is one of them. One of the men from the large land to the north; from these boats—a man from Arcadia. I have watched him back. His strong, dark body; shoulder blades moving as he pulls upon the ores; thick chest heaving as he tugs at the ropes. He smells of the sea.

From Arcadia they will come to destroy us, I said. I said it. And so it shall be.

Dancing's fire moves up through my legs; knees become involved—bending, lifting fire into my hips opening, air ballooning into my chest where fear has closed me. I swing. I sway. I rock.

To Minoa these ships have always sailed. Always Minoa has opened her shores—her long arms stretching—welcoming trade. More come now than ever before. They carry a different people, engaged in far more than trade. Where in their eyes once lived awe, inspiration, now lives greed; wanting.

Once my hips and chest are open, I arch back and begin the movement in my shoulders, my neck, my head. Ready to receive, I raise my arms slowly out, out, up, fluttering, fluttering my wide feathered wings to flight.

* * *

“What is that?” I say, grabbing the arm of the well traveled Deanos, and pointing. Up on the hill above the harbor, a winged woman dances.

“That is the Prophetess of Darkness,” he says, looking up at her. Others push past us to get off the boat. Deanos comes and stands closer to me “They say she dances to release her anger,” he continues, “anger over things she foretold.”

“Of which darkness did she foretell?”

“An end to Minoa. The murder of the Goddess.” He says, throwing a rope to the men in the water. “Something like that.”

I stand still, watching. My eyes will not let her go. Her wings—wide, feathered—float up and down as her feet move in rapid dance.

“Only in Minoa would you find a woman like that,” Deanos says, clicking his tongue and laughing.

I have not been a sea person for long. The lands of Arcadia left me longing. I yearned for something I could not name. I decided to try the sea. I have been to Crete a few times. For everyone on the ship, it is the favored stop. Something special about Minoa, they all say as we approach, referring to her wide, paved streets, deep caverns and warm waters. But for me, there is something more. That thing I cannot name, tugging at me more fiercely every time we push off for departure; watching the silhouette of the dancing bird woman grow smaller and smaller.

The harbor with its peaked roofs and rambling gardens leads up into Knossos in wandering walkways, up to the Center building where the First Fruits festival we have been invited to attend is taking place. Within the public courts of this huge, sprawling building—and spreading out into the groves and fields surrounding it—are people and music, wine and foods for the taking.

I have never seen this many Minoans assembled in one place. They are a very attractive people. They exude an energy: a magnetism, excitement. Hanging down upon their chests, from cords strung around their necks many of them wear exquisitely crafted amulets. They are made out of various stones: serpentine, obsidian, amethyst. Each has an image carved into it; different for each individual.

Minoan artisans are well known for their talents and graceful designs. It is for their votive offerings and finely crafted ceremonial double axe that we travel here most. These amulets I have never seen.

We have missed the procession bearing offerings of first fruits in which she must have participated. I find her in the court above me dressed in ritual attire, a tiered, ankle length skirt swinging below a tight fitting bodice pulled open in the front to expose her breasts. Golden armbands circle her strong, muscular arms; a crown of snakes adorns her head.

She is with the fair-haired man. I have seen her with him before. It matters not to him that I watch her; that she turns herself toward me and with her deep brown eyes, explores me. I stand up, my body feeling the look. The air stretches between us.

“Forget about her,” Deanos says, pushing me back to myself. I move over to allow him room at the table beside me. His plate is overflowing. He could never eat all that he has taken. “Minoan women are a strange breed,” he says.

“Deanos,” I say, looking at her. “What are these amulets they wear upon themselves?”
“Amulets? Ah, Amulets of the Oracle,” he says, chewing open mouthed on a piece of mutton.

“An oracle?”

He washes the mutton down with wine. “Some artisan. You want one? You can get one. Sure, they'll give you anything around here. You just have to find him, somewhere in there,” he says, pointing to the Center building. I return to gaze at her. The space where she stood stands empty.

* * *

To First Fruits they come. All are welcome. Minoa is divided. There are those who wish to exclude them. I wish to exclude them. They enjoy our wine, our food. All the gifts She has bestowed upon us, they share. My body tightens bitter at this sight. I leave the festival early.

My walk is stopped by him standing in the path in front of me. He is my height. Our eyes meet evenly. We would fit perfectly together.

“A woman who is also a bird?” he says, though I wear not my wings. “I have seen you dance.” He reaches his hands out toward me. With the tips of his fingers, he traces my breasts. My breasts which I have exposed in sacred gesture to the Goddess.

“It is a violation,” I say. I remove his hands.

“A violation?”

“To touch the breasts of a woman before she presents them to you. It is a violation.” I repeat. Anger runs strong within me.

“I did not mean to violate you,” he says. He is smiling. On his face is the most vile smirk.

“My body will be given, not taken,” I say calmly, my feet digging up power from the earth below me.

He looks into my face. The smile dissolves.

“How is it that you do not understand?” I ask. His short, dark hair encircles his face; small eyes, pouting lips, looking up at me in confusion. A chill passes through me.

With my two hands upon his shoulders, I move him to the left of the path that I many continue my walk.

* * *

“I will take you in any manner you wish,” I say to her the next day when I find her finally. She is sitting alone upon a rock in a small cove. Her hair blows fiercely around her. She wears a long, purple dress. An amulet hangs around her neck. It is round, black marble. On it is an engraving of a dancing bird woman. Her wings spread wide around her as her feet dance in rapid movement. She wears the tiered skirt and exposed breasts of a priestess.

She sees me looking at it, clasps her hands around it. She looks up at me. Her eyes are sad. My hands long to reach for her. I hold them steady at my sides.

“Though you try,” she says, “your words betray you. You understand not.” Her gaze moves toward the water. “I have claws and I have wings and sometimes, the dance is not enough.”

“Why a bird?” I ask.

“When we forget that we have wings, the earth shall suffer,” she says. She stands up. Her body is close to mine. Her face is at my face. Her damp, musky smell enters my nose. A memory stirs within me; something buried rising up, pushing.

“I will leave tomorrow,” I say, though I do not know why. The air between us is tight.

“We will say our good-byes now,” she says. She says, “Good-bye.” She turns to walk away.

“Please,” I say. “I mean you no harm.”

“I cannot say the same about myself,” she says. Then she bows. She bows in sacred gesture toward me; head lowered, hands crossed upon her chest.

From up along the crest of the hill above the cove, a young girl appears calling to her. She waves her arm toward the dark child who runs toward her calling, “Mother! Mother!” The word echoes through the silence within me.

The owl. She was huge, hot, suffocating. She hovered over me, her face in my face, yellow eyes shooting anger, as her sharp claws sunk into my chest.

I sat up, crossed my arms around my still shaking legs. Below me the stars sparkled within the blackness of the waters. I heard a rustling of wings. I smelled her in the night air surrounding me.

This center is long and rambling; maze like. It leads me through tunnels and stairwells and steps down.

“Yes. Yes. Continue on this way,” people say to me when I stop them in the corridor, asking for direction.

But I feel I am being misled—tricked—as I stumble forward, the hallway curving, stretching, teasing.

“Please,” I say, stopping yet another woman, “Please, the workshop of the oracle?”
“Yes, you have made it,” she says, smiling, pointing to a doorway on my right.

Inside a man sits with his back to the door. He leans forward over an enlarging glass standing up on the table before him. He chips away at something beneath it. Shelves full of materials—stones, metals, tools—and boxes, line the walls. There are several other tables with stools around them, enlarging glasses upon them, scattered around the room. An impressive, full sized, obsidian mirror stands on the left of the entryway.

“Yes,” he says, his back still to me. “I can feel you there. I will free myself for you in a moment.”

Something about his voice frightens. I want to flee. He sets his tools down, pushes his stool back with his legs, and turns toward me.

“It is you,” I say, the shock registers in my voice as I recognize the fair-haired man I have seen her with.

“Yes, It is I,” he says. He presses his fingers against his eyes. “Who am I?”

“I have seen you…I have seen you with her—the bird woman.”

“Ah, Aureillia,” he says, lowering his hands to his knees and looking at me. “Yes, I spend much time with Aureillia.”

“Aureillia,” I say, naming her. My heart pounds loud within me. I back away. “Forgive me,” I say.

“What nonsense,” he says, shaking his head. His face is clean.

I continue backing away, hoping for the door. I intend to leave this place, so small am I.

“Wait,” he says, getting up. “You are forgetting something.”

I stop.

He goes to the shelves to the right of the table he has been working at. He rummages through some boxes. He whistles.

“I made this for you,” he says, approaching me. He presses an amulet into my hand, folding my fingers around its smoothness. He says, standing tall above me, “You need to learn to dance. Aureillia will teach you. It is good.”

A voice, timid and unknown crawls out of me. It says, “I do not know a man like you.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, turning me so suddenly by the shoulders that the reflection of my own self in the obsidian mirror frightens me. He lets go leaving me dizzy; wondering if I can stand.

I open my hand to look at the amulet. It is ivory. On it is a man. He has on the ringed bottomed, ritual shorts of a priest. He skips in a dance of joy and lightness. Long, curly, ram horns hang back off his head. His arms, stretched out wide to his sides, are giant, feathered wings.

“A bird man,” I say, under my breath. I touch my fingers to it, to his work, precise and flowing—to the movement he has created. I look up and see myself in the mirror; behind me is his back, leaning energetically over another piece of stone into which he carves for someone else. I squeeze the amulet within my hand.

* * *

He is not wearing the amulet Danelle made him when he comes to me. This is my first sign. It is probably hanging inside the small pouch that hangs off his waist belt; the one he must have taken off his ship before it sailed.

He stands before me at my perch. He asks, “Teach me to dance?”
I reach my right hand out, then the left, taking his into mine. “Start with the feet,” I say. I say, “Move them. Move them until they become claws. . . .”