Dark of the Moon (5 page)

So I inclined my head when Theseus bowed to me, and watched as the guards escorted him out the north door of the arena, which would lead most directly to the Minos's quarters. When his stocky form had disappeared, I hurried back to my mother's room.

She still sat at her table, but now she was strumming the strings of her small lyre. Good; her headache must be better, and when she played music she never noticed the passage of time. I sat next to her. She came to the end of the tune—a song about decorating their homes with green boughs and dancing and feasting that children sing during the Festival of Birth of the Sun—put down her lyre, stretched, and yawned.

"Did you see the Athenian girl?"

I mumbled, "No." She pushed her stool away from the table and stood up, moving stiffly.
If you can keep a secret,
I thought,
if She-Who-Is-Goddess can hide the reason for Goddess's wrath from She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, I can keep my own counsel too.
So I didn't mention Theseus.

"Come," my mother said. "Let's see what Cook has made for our supper." I reached up to push back the curtain hanging over the doorway, and my sleeve fell back. I saw on my wrist a crescent of red marks, already turning purple, made by the teeth of the dog I had last seen trotting quietly behind her master. We continued toward the sitting room, and through the columns the moon rose and hung huge and yellow over the city of Knossos.

ARKAS LANDS a blow on my chin, but it hardly shakes me. He's quick but he's small, and if he didn't have two friends with him, he would never have waylaid me. I aim a kick at his groin, but he skips out of the way and jeers, and then his fist connects with my ear. I swear and manage to punch him full in the gut. He doubles over, gagging. I close in to flatten him, and he whips a knife out of some hidden fold of his tunic and waves it at me.

Arkas has never used a weapon before—not a real weapon, anyway. Rocks, sticks, sheep's dung forced into my nose and mouth while four of his friends held me down, yes, but never before something with an edge. The sight of the light glinting off it wakens something in me, and I grab a large piece of driftwood from the ground and block the knife as it flashes. The blade sticks into the wood, and I hurl the stick far away, the knife with it.

I lunge at him, but his two friends are quicker, and now a fourth boy joins them. They pummel me, as does Arkas when he's recovered his breath, and one of them thrusts out a foot and trips me just as I think I'm about to grab another one by the hair.

I try to get up, but a foot kicks me in the rear and I sprawl forward onto my belly, to the laughter of my tormentors. If I try again, Arkas will just repeat the action, and so I lie flat, panting, and pray for them to go away.

"Bastard!" someone jeers. I don't turn to see who it is; it's what everyone calls me.

"Son of no one!"

It's not fair. I'm hardly the only person in Troizena with an unknown father. Many people live with a crowd of half brothers and half sisters with different fathers, some of them unknown. Yet it is only
my
parentage that causes scorn.

The other women of the village who find themselves pregnant and unmarried are content to admit that they don't know who the father is or to say that he is someone they can't or don't want to marry. My mother, on the other hand, claims that my father was a god—specifically, Poseidon, lord of the sea and of earthquakes—and for this piece of nonsense as well as for what the others call her arrogance for not mixing with them, I must be punished.

Still, it isn't
my
fault. I've never said that Poseidon was my father. If there were something godly about me, surely I would know it. Whenever Arkas or one of his dimwitted followers dared to rub my face in the dirt and twist my arm up behind me until my fingers went numb, I would be able to strike him down—or my father, if he were indeed a god, would come to my aid.

Someone kicks me in the ribs as you would a lazy donkey. They want me to get on my feet. If I do, they'll just knock me down again. I won't give them that satisfaction, so after a few more attempts they give up. They walk past me one by one, spit on me, and leave. Their raucous laughter and shouts continue down the path that leads to the sea, where they will no doubt amuse themselves by tearing the legs off crabs and throwing stones at seagulls.

When I'm sure they've gone, I push myself up and inspect the damage. Not bad, considering how many of them there were. A skinned elbow, a knee in the same condition, a painful red mark on my ankle that I know will soon turn blue. My sore sides are the worst, but when I inhale deeply I don't feel the stab of a broken rib. My tunic, which I wear long and belted like the rest of the boys, is filthy. I find a new tear in the cloth under my right arm.

One thing I don't have to worry about is that my mother will scold me for fighting or even for damaging my clothing. If she notices my condition at all, she won't think it worth mentioning. Nor will my stepfather, Konnidas, say anything, although my cuts and bruises will cause his eyes to soften, and he'll lay a hand on my head or shoulder.

So I go home.

Mother is sitting on the stone bench outside the house, spinning fluffy white wool on a hand spindle while ducks waddle past her in a line, their backsides wagging from side to side as they make their way to the pond. A shadow of something flying overhead skims across the yard, and the oldest duck, mother to the rest of them, quacks in alarm, spreading her wings to protect the others, but it's only a swallow, and after shaking their feathers and discussing the matter, the ducks continue on.

My mother glances up and smiles vaguely before going back to her work. "Hello, darling," she says. "Been playing with your friends?" At sixteen, I am much too old to be playing, and I've never had any friends, but she never seems to know this, no matter how many times I tell her. I merely grunt. "That's nice," she says.

"Where's Konnidas?"

"Out, I think. Or maybe inside."

I should have known better than to ask; the odds of her knowing his whereabouts are slim. I duck my head to go through the doorway, and look inside the house. The dirt floor of the one room is packed hard and clean, through my stepfather's efforts, and coals glow in the hearth, ready to flare into flame for the supper that he will cook. The shelves are filled with dried fruit, cheese wrapped in vine leaves, and jugs of wine. Thanks to Konnidas's prudence, we can last out the winter in comfort.

My stepfather isn't inside. The sun is shining, and the air, although cool, is pleasant. He must surely be checking on the olive trees and vineyard, making ready for the spring. I rummage in the bin and find some of yesterday's bread. It's hard, but there's plenty of it, so I tear off a chunk with difficulty and go back outside.

My mother has let her work fall to her lap and is gazing at two red birds fluttering together on the other side of the dirt yard. "Look at them," she says as I drop down next to her and commence gnawing on the bread. "Like dancing flowers."

I glance at them, and they look like birds. "What are you working on?" I ask around the chunk of bread that refuses to soften.

She appears surprised to see the yarn in her hands. "This?" She gives the drop spindle a twirl and feeds in a bit more wool. The lumpy strand of yarn lengthens. "I'm making it as a kindness for your aunt." I know the kindness is all on my aunt's part. She'll pay my mother good money for worthless yarn, and my mother will complain to Konnidas about her sister's stinginess.

Just as I think of my stepfather, he appears, wearing his long gray tunic, as usual, his hair pushed back and falling almost to his shoulders. He is clean-shaven and is tall and thin. At his side paces the largest dog I've ever seen, cream white and long legged, its elegant face framed by long ears.

"Oh!" my mother exclaims as she rises to her feet, her wool and spindle forgotten. "How lovely!"

Konnidas watches her, a fond smile on his lips, as she lifts the dog's slender muzzle with one hand. She rests her other hand on its head, and then strokes the long, silky-looking fur. "A trader was selling her down at the docks," my stepfather says. "She comes from someplace far to the east and far to the north, where her kind is used to hunt wolves."

My mother croons to the animal. Konnidas doesn't seem to notice that she hasn't thanked him. It always makes him happy to please her, though surely he knows that after a few days of treating the dog like a spoiled child, even allowing it into the house, she will forget all about it, and its care will fall to the two of us. She did the same with an orphaned lamb last spring, eventually neglecting it until it became necessary for Konnidas to slaughter the little thing. She ate it as greedily as a child and pretended to have no idea that the meat came from her formerly beloved pet.

As my mother disappears into the house with her new charge, Konnidas turns to me and starts to say something, but he stops and his smile fades as he sees my cuts and scrapes. "The same boys? Arkas and his friends?" I shrug, surprised that he asked. Usually he lets my injuries go unmentioned. "Did you attempt to defend yourself?"

"There were six of them," I say, even though in actuality there were only four. I'm stung: my stepfather made it sound as if I was a coward.

"Still, if you take them one at a time ... you're bigger than any of them." He's right; I am not tall, but I am broad, and I can plow and cut wood better and faster than the others. It's a little unfair, though, to ask me to stand up alone to six—or even four—boys.

Konnidas has his hands on his hips, and he's staring at me with his lower lip caught between his teeth, as is his habit when thinking hard. He turns to follow my mother.

The bread sits in my stomach like a rock. From inside the house come low voices, first Konnidas's, then my mother's, then Konnidas's again, a little louder and firmer now. I sit up straighter. My stepfather is
never
firm with my mother. I have heard men snicker at him as he goes to the market with their wives while they stay home and work the land, but he never seems to notice, much less care.

My stepfather's next words surprise me: "You must tell him." He can mean only me. Her answer, if it could be called that, is a little ripple of nervous laughter. Whatever he's urging my mother to tell me, I know I won't much like it. Konnidas's next words echo my thoughts. "If you don't, I will. And you might not like the way I tell it." His voice is suddenly clear; he must be standing in the doorway.

"I can't imagine why you're so insistent." She has joined him at the door. I don't turn around, but I picture her laying a hand on his arm. "He doesn't ever really need to know."

"Can't you see how miserable he is?" And then I make out nothing more. Konnidas must have retreated back inside, and the only murmuring after that is in his deep voice, with no reply from my mother.

I know that she'll win. She almost always does, and on the rare occasions when she doesn't, she sheds rivers of tears and then turns silent until Konnidas or I, whichever of us has been the offender, appeases her with apologies and a gift. I once trekked the three miles to the beach and spent all day turning over shells until I found one whose inside was of the soft pink that she adored, only to find that, when I returned, she hadn't noticed my absence. Still, her casual "Thank you, darling" and the accompanying kiss on my forehead made me glow like the shell itself.

So when Konnidas finally emerges and says, "Your mother has something to tell you," I am astonished, and I rise to my feet with dread.

She appears to have forgotten their argument and comes peacefully enough out of the house, the long-legged dog following her. My mother sits down on the bench and picks up her clump of wool and the spindle. My stepfather, however, is clearly determined to discuss the matter at hand. His mild face looks resolute as he says, "Aethra." She makes no answer, although I can tell by the way she doubles her attentions to the misshapen yarn that she has heard. But he will not be ignored. He removes the spindle from her hand, gently but firmly. "No," he says. "You promised."

The few times that my mother has promised something, she has always managed to find a way out of fulfilling it if it was not convenient for her, but I see that for once Konnidas isn't going to relent. I am also aware that whatever she has promised has something to do with me. Altogether an interesting turn of events, and one whose unaccustomed nature makes me nervous.

She sighs and then moves over on the bench, patting it for me to sit next to her. I do so, hanging awkwardly half off the seat. She doesn't seem to notice my discomfort.

"You know, darling, that you are a very special boy." Her tone is one usually used with a two-year-old. "Your grandfather is a king." She pauses as though this is news, but of course I am aware that she is one of the many children of King Pittheus, who rules the small town of Troizena. "And your
father
"—she sounds as if she is about to impart a delightful secret—"your very own father is Poseidon." She claps her hands and nods. "So! What do you think of that?"

"Aethra," my stepfather says again, and I am startled to hear a note of warning in his voice.

"Well, he
said
he was Poseidon!" Her chin juts out. "He came wading out of the water, and darling, there was no ship nearby, so where else could he have come from?"
From farther up the shore,
I think but do not say. "He was surely Poseidon. So tall, so strong and handsome. He stayed for months and months." Her voice trails off, and her eyes are fixed on the ground. When she doesn't go on, Konnidas lays a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him, tears shining in her eyes.

"I know this, Mother." I try to sound patient. "Don't upset yourself."

"Tell him the rest," Konnidas says gently, paying no attention to me.

My mother wipes her eyes and turns to me with a bright but false smile. "Your father couldn't stay until you were born, although he wanted to, because he had things to attend to."
Oh yes,
I think.
Poseidon is always busy, what with storms to raise and the earth to shake and sailors to drown.