Written in the Ashes (28 page)

Behind the Garden House and the chicken coup, a long arbor dripping with violet and ruby bougainvillea led toward the temple, though the blossoms were not at their best for the time of year. Just beyond it, Hannah noticed a small path that snaked down to the cliffs on the far side of the island. “That path leads to the
tholos
.” A spirited smile sprung into Mira’s cheeks.

“The what?”

“The
tholos
. The temple where we offer our dances. Ours was built of white marble as a replica of the one in Delfi, with grand Corinthian columns. When the ships pass by we hide behind them so the sailors will not see us.”

Dances. Hannah felt her throat tighten. Would she be expected to dance? She had never danced before; she had a dreadful feeling that she would dance miserably.

Mira noticed the look of concern on Hannah’s face. “You will love the temple dances, do not worry.”

“Perhaps I could just play music for the dancers instead.” As a child, Hannah had sometimes sung and beat a drum for the gypsies who appeared in their caravans in the middle of the night, swishing their skirts and keeping the rhythm with their finger cymbals.

“You play music?”

“Yes.”

Mira looked Hannah up and down. Her limbs curved like the long feather of an eagle, and her thick eyelashes framed the deep sea. Her presence was magnetic, yet she seemed utterly unaware of her beauty. It would make her popular with the others, Mira was certain. She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you from, Hannah? You speak with an accent I do not recognize.”

Hannah became self-conscious. “I come from Sinai. And you?”

Mira looked off into the mist. “My father was a sailor. Mother Hathora says his ship sank in a storm and I was brought here by a flock of gulls.”

“Gulls?” Hannah scoffed.

“I know.” Mira led them down the length of the arbor. “Mother Hathora gives all the children here a story of where they came from. The truth is that the boatmen in Alexandria are paid to bring us, the unwanted babies from the brothels, but Mother Hathora believes that we need roots in order for our lives to have meaning. In a way she was right about me. I long to fly over the sea with broad wings that can carry me anywhere I want to go. When I look up into the sky I feel completely free. And this island, this temple is my nest. My heart always returns here.”

So.

That evening, the priestesses gathered in the temple for a new moon ritual. Hundreds of white candles burned on the altar, illuminating the wide room in a warm, peaceful glow. At the front of the temple, a large brass bowl the size of a birdbath was set on a dais before the altar of Isis. Isis, whose image was painted upon the reredos in the style of the Egyptians, down on one knee, her rainbow wings outstretched, her golden urea gleaming in the candlelight. Hannah found herself instantly captivated by this mother goddess, whose beauty was so soothing and strength so reassuring. But she also felt afraid, knowing her father would disapprove of her being in a strange temple before a goddess. He had raised her to believe in Yahweh. Hannah tried to remind herself that she was not Jewish after all, that she had merely been raised a Jew, but it did little to set her at ease even if she felt inexplicably drawn toward the beauty of the temple, awed by what she saw.

Before the altar, a beautiful glint of light caught Hannah’s eye. On the floor were three large spheres resting in concentric circles at various syzygies. Upon the outermost circle sat a large silver sphere the size of a small child curled in a ball. Next, and slightly larger than the first, was a sphere of beautiful hammered brass, its surface scintillating in the candlelight. The third sphere in the center was the smallest, the size of a round melon and of solid copper, its surface of mottled verdigris. “Mira,” Hannah whispered, “What are those?”

Mira’s lips spread into a reverent smile. “The Sacred Calendar. The large golden sphere there represents the sun. The silver one is the moon, and the copper one marks the beginnings and middles of the seasons. It is an ancient way of keeping time.”

Hannah sat up on her heels to get a better view. The floor around the Sacred Calendar was exquisitely painted with the renderings of the twelve zodiac signs as well as other images of wheat, wine, fruit, and women praying and dancing. “The next ceremony will be the Winter Solstice,” said Mira. “Mother Hathora had the calendar created for us long before I came here. She is Egyptian, but studied as far as Britannia, where all the priestesses have sacred stone circles that keep time the way that this one does.”

“A primitive Celestial Clock of Archimedes,” whispered Hannah, thinking of Hypatia. Then she was instantly overcome by a wave of guilt. She had told Hypatia she would sing for her lectures in the Great Library. Though Alizar had promised he would explain, a mere explanation would never suffice. Hannah felt indebted to Hypatia for the lyre, and so vowed she would use her time on the island for songwriting devoted to Hypatia’s philosophy. That way she would have a new repertoire when she returned to Alexandria. She hated to think
if
.

The temple doors opened and a hush fell over the room as an elegant woman with long silver hair pinned up in a topknot swept gracefully into the temple, her palms held in prayer before her heart.

Mother Hathora.

High on the dais, the High Priestess’s piercing gaze paused to acknowledge every face, a peaceful smile pressed upon her lips. When her eyes fell on Hannah, Hannah felt speared straight through. She swallowed and returned the gaze as best she could.

Mother Hathora bowed and the priestesses all joined their palms in front of their hearts and bowed in return. Then Mother Hathora lifted the long handle of a brass bell and tapped the brim decisively with a wooden mallet. A simple, pure note rang out and began to grow louder, resonating in the stone walls of the temple and the bones of the women. Even after she lifted the mallet from the bell the note continued to pulse in the room. When it had dissipated, the women stood and chanted the traditional opening. Hannah watched them from where she sat.

“Goddess guide the path of my heart,” they said in Egyptian with their hands in prayer at their hearts. Then they brought their palms up to their foreheads. “Goddess guide the path of my mind.” Then they opened their arms out to the sides and circled their palms back to their hearts saying, “Goddess guide me to the source of light.”

Then Mother Hathora sat down in a limestone throne chair behind the dais and invited a spider-limbed priestess called Celesta to lead the women in the invocation of the four directions. The priestesses chanted the positions of the sun, moon, and seasons in the Sacred Calendar. When they had finished, Mother Hathora stood up slowly and stepped back to the dais, closing her eyes. Hannah admired how her long pale blue robes draped around her body, giving her a graceful definition that softened her otherwise angular features. Hannah had a difficult time placing her age until she saw the Mother’s hands, fingers knotted at the knuckles like the roots of her old olive tree. As if she could hear Hannah’s thoughts, Mother Hathora looked straight at her. “We have a new priestess in our midst this evening. Hannah, is it?” Hannah nodded in the affirmative. “Please stand, Hannah, and receive the blessing of our temple.”

Hannah slowly came to her feet, nervous at having been singled out. Then the priestesses all turned their eyes toward her and chanted, “Welcome, child of the Goddess.” Hannah felt a warmth rush into her heart and she smiled in return.

“Thank you,” said Mother Hathora, lifting her hand to indicate Hannah could sit. “You have come to our temple on a fortuitous evening on the night of the dark moon, when we gather to tell the story of our beloved goddess, Isis. May she live always in your heart. She is a wise and compassionate teacher. Learn to serve her and you will be filled by her spirit.”

Two priestesses swiftly walked to the dais and removed from beneath it an enormous codex bound in vellum—a book so large it required two women to lift it. They set it on a tall stone podium surrounded by a number of candles and turned the thick pages to somewhere in the center. The candlelight glowed on the pages of the book, on Mother Hathora’s pale skin, and on the metal spheres of the Sacred Calendar. She placed one hand upon the book and closed her eyes as a large silver moth fluttered around her head.

“It is the Great Book,” whispered Mira.

There was a long, interminable silence before Mother Hathora spoke again. When she did, her voice acquired the cadence of reading. Hannah could understand very little of what was being spoken in Egyptian, but she sat enraptured, imagining the lovers Isis and Osiris, thinking of her night with Gideon.

When the story reached its end, Mother Hathora closed the Great Book and smiled. While she was reading, a soft rain had begun to fall outside, wetting the earth, and the scent of damp soil and foliage wafted into the temple.

The priestesses then joined hands and said the evening blessing and silently departed through the door leading out into the garden.

Mira turned to Hannah. “Mother Hathora is expecting you in her study,” she said, pointing to the courtyard and the steps that led upward. So Hannah turned away from the group of women who were walking beneath the arbor back to the Garden House and entered the little courtyard, thankful she had not eaten much at dinner since her stomach was now churning.

Beyond the fountain lay the stairs covered in thick tangles of bougainvillea. Hannah took a deep breath and began to ascend. Partway up, she wondered how an old woman could climb such steep stairs every day. When Hannah arrived at the top she saw a small door that was left partially open, a soft light streaming through.

“Come in, Hannah,” said a voice from behind the door.

Hannah entered and stood before Mother Hathora, who was seated cross-legged in the center of the room, indicating a cushion in front of her.

The small room was without ornament. A small straw bed in the corner was positioned beside an altar of beeswax candles that were arranged on the floor beneath the one window; a teapot perched on a stand with several earthenware cups stacked beside it, and a brazier glowed in the corner. Hannah sat on the cushion and folded her hands in her lap.

Mother Hathora looked her up and down, then she slid the sleeves of her robe up to her elbows. “So it seems you are a popular girl in Alexandria.”

“Pardon?”

“I received two letters about your admittance here. Both of them hailed your talent.”

“Two letters? Both for me? Are you certain?” Hannah thought only Alizar had written the temple.

Mother Hathora gazed into Hannah’s eyes, unsure if the girl was unworldly or simply naive. Another priestess in her place, slave or no, would have already boasted of her position in the high society of Alexandria. She reached beneath her cushion and withdrew the folded letters and set them before Hannah. “I received one from your master, Alizar, and another from Hypatia in the Great Library. Both letters spoke highly of your ability in music and indicated your education should continue in this vein. Is that what you wish?

Hannah thought how kind it was of Hypatia to write on her behalf. “It is.”

“Very well.” Mother Hathora said, her voice without any warmth of welcoming. “But I want you to know these letters will not grant you any special privileges here. We are all equal in this temple and in the eyes of the Goddess, do you understand?”

Hannah nodded.

Mother Hathora then listed Hannah’s duties in the temple, describing the schedule and her classes. “You seem like a bright girl. I think you will do well here.” Then she scryed into Hannah’s face, her fierce eyes slanted as if she faced the wind. “But you are angry,” she said.

Hannah flushed. “Angry? I am grieving the death of my father. What you must sense in me is sorrow.”

Mother Hathora looked into her eyes more deeply. “No. Not sorrow. Anger.” Mother Hathora glanced at the bronze collar around Hannah’s neck inscribed with Alizar’s address.

Hannah held her breath, looking into the wizened face of the High Priestess, now feeling slightly indignant. She came to the island to flee her past, not be questioned about it.

Mother Hathora simply nodded. “I believe you will find a way to forgive,” she said, and then brought one hand to the top of Hannah’s head in blessing.

A shiver rippled through Hannah’s entire body, and then she was still as a portrait.

Mother Hathora nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “I want you to remember only this,” she said. “That hatred is a poison. You cannot drink it and expect another to die.”

Hannah was about to respond, but then the High Priestess said, “Thank you, Hannah. That is all for now.” Mother Hathora lifted one arm ceremoniously, indicating the door.

Hannah quickly made her way back to the Garden House feeling both reassured and a little unsettled by her time with the High Priestess. The other priestesses were gathered in the common room, some chatting together by the glowing brazier, others playing merles by candlelight or painting henna designs on their ankles. They spoke in hushed voices so as not to wake the younger children.