Written in the Ashes (30 page)

Hannah looked around the temple, seeing that Mira was not the only one with such ideas; they were dancing in the eyes of every priestess in the temple.

“I find it difficult keeping secrets from you, especially as I train you to sharpen your intuition.” Mother Hathora laughed. She stood at the dais, the altar of beeswax candles behind her casting a halo of golden light about her shoulders. “It seems I am telling you this evening what you already know. Kolossofia Master Junkar has announced his death.”

Waves of gasps and sighs swept through the temple.

Mother Hathora called for silence. “The Coronation of the Kolossofia will come this Yule, the winter solstice. We have much to do. New robes must be sewn, music composed, and dances rehearsed. Elder priestesses, please take one of these young women under your wing as a younger sister. They will need your help in preparation as they will not have time to do everything themselves. We have only two turns of the moon.” Mother Hathora nodded and smiled, clearly delighted in the coming festivities. “That is all.”

Outside, walking back down the path to the Garden House, the women could not contain themselves. They squealed and hugged and twirled circles in the orchard.

Hannah fell behind the other priestesses, not knowing where her place was. She felt excluded, but not particularly disappointed. She hoped there would be a way to avoid participation in the ceremony, perhaps by offering to clean the temple that night. Or perhaps slaves were not permitted to participate. Hannah leaned her head against a pillar of the temple and watched the other women from a distance, her arms folded beneath her breasts.

“Hannah?” someone asked. Startled, Hannah unfolded her arms and looked around. There to her left stood Iris, the graceful woman Hannah had seen in the orchard that morning. “Yes,” said Hannah.

“I heard you singing this morning on the roof,” said Iris. “It was you, I think. The song was beautiful. You have a heavenly voice. My name is Iris.”

“Thank you.” Hannah looked up and met the eyes of the elder priestess.

“The ceremony is a great honor for us, you know.”

“Not for me,” Hannah said.

“You will change your mind, I can assure you,” Iris declared.

“But I have no talent in dance. And I am a slave.”

“I will help you with your dancing,” said Iris, her words falling like autumn leaves that spin as they catch the breeze. “And you are only a slave if you allow yourself to think it.”

Hannah remembered the way that Iris had glided through the garden like a swan. How much she wanted to be able to move like that. “Thank you. Your words are very kind.”

Iris smiled modestly. “I see something in you that you do not even know is there. And besides, I love to sing and you might teach me some of your songs.”

Hannah nodded. “I would teach you.”

“You will have to work hard, but I think you can succeed.” Iris smiled, placing her hand on Hannah’s back, behind her heart. “I will be your sister.”

19  

Iris proved a worthy teacher. When Hannah could not execute the movement of the veil correctly, Iris would demonstrate with an effortless ease that came with years of practice. Again and again they rehearsed the dance until Iris could begin to see Hannah’s natural grace emerge through her stumbling.

“Slow your steps. Good, now slow your breath. Use your eyes more. Yes, like that. Your thumb and middle finger should long for one another like two separated lovers. No, no. Let me show you.” Then finally, “Good.”

After the practice sessions were finished, sometimes well into the night, Hannah and Iris would sit in the cool grass and sing together. Iris had a plain but lovely voice, and seeing as she could carry a tune, soon they were able to practice some of the Pythagorean harmonics, sometimes singing familiar songs, but more often simply improvising together.

As the weeks ushered the isle of Pharos ever closer to the first day of winter, Iris could see that Hannah still fell far behind the rest of the priestesses in her dancing. She stumbled and tripped on her own feet more often than not, and then gave up quickly afterward. Iris insisted they meet every night instead of every other night so she could help Hannah work through her awkwardness, and sometimes they stayed in the
tholos
to practice for hours after sunset. The rehearsing coupled with Hannah’s regular workload proved exhausting. She struggled to stay awake in her afternoon classes and often collapsed on her bed in the evening without supper.

One moonless evening, Hannah and Iris met and worked on the movements as a cool rain shower burst down upon them and a flock of migrating white pelicans swept down from the sky and took refuge between the columns. The fatigued birds rested as the women pressed on well into the night. Hannah was learning the shimmy, and would not rest until she got her hips and shoulders to swivel and dip. The rain poured down her cheeks and her chest, wetting her arms, her belly. The costume she wore clung like wet petals to her skin and her breath fogged the air. Still she pressed on. The soles of her feet were bruised and her low back ached, but she was confident she could find the movement in her body before it was time for bed.

Blessed dance. It had helped her to forget her grief.

Sometime deep in the night after their practice session had ended, Hannah found herself walking through the garden, and then toward the temple. She tried the doors and found them unlocked. The anteroom of the temple, illuminated in candlelight, held an immense stone statue of the goddess Isis seated on a throne with her baby Horus on her lap, her lips curled into an almost imperceptible smile. Hannah brushed the smooth stone with her fingertips. The Egyptian statue was thousands of years old, and had been brought to Pharos from up the Nile. There was suppleness in her form, and energy in her limbs; even the baby seemed alive. For a moment Hannah felt she should not be there at all, even though the temple was open to worship even in the night.

As Hannah stroked the cold stone feet of the goddess, she decided she could be a Jew in her heart and still appreciate the beautiful traditions of all those around her. Perhaps God was looking on, guiding her even here, to this goddess. Perhaps he had a reason for her slavery, something she could not yet see. What could that reason be? The question troubled her, and she decided to pray.

Hannah lit a joss stick before the beautiful goddess and let the words of the
Shema
wash over her, bringing her peace. She had longed to spend time alone. Overhead the pocked moon, white and round, bathed the world in silver light. Her father had shown her the rabbit in the moon when she was a little girl, and when she asked him why God put a rabbit in the moon and not some other creature he had replied, “Because the rabbit is the only animal that can keep a secret, and the moon has many secrets to keep.” How she missed him.

So.

Hannah awoke in her bed to the sound of the surf pounding the north shore of the island. She had dreamed of Gideon and his dark, mischievous eyes, his kiss, the way his muscles rippled like a stallion as he moved. It seemed like so long ago, yet the dream made their time together seem so recent. She wondered how he was, and where Alizar had sent him to conceal the latest shipment of manuscripts from the Great Library. She wished he would write to her, but knew somehow that he would not.

“
Kalimera
, Hannah. I brought you some breakfast since you overslept.” Mira sat down on the edge of Hannah’s bed with a bowl of fruit and yogurt cupped in her hands. She seemed irritated about something.

Hannah sat up, still in a daze, the dream fading quickly. “Is everything all right?”

Mira feigned politeness. “Of course. Later today in the
tholos
Ursula, Renenet, Hepsut, Daphne and I are going to start choreographing a new dance. You should come.”

Hannah bit into a fresh fig and her lips spread into a smile at the sweetness. “When?”

“Just after dinner,” said Mira, getting up and going to the door. “And do not forget to bring your lyre.”

Mira’s footsteps echoed down the hall, and Hannah fell back onto her bed. Whatever was troubling Mira, she felt certain she was the cause of it. With cold fingers Hannah reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the white alabaster jar that held her family’s ashes. She stroked it, and then brought it to her cheek. The family she never knew. She wondered, were they rich or poor? Was her mother beautiful? Did she have sisters, brothers?

Hannah set the heavy jar on her lap, suddenly feeling guilty for not thinking of her father. Her Abba. He loved her so perfectly. But she felt so angry he had left her. But who could be angry with someone for dying? Hannah closed her eyes.

Anger.

The High Priestess had said she was angry when she first arrived at the temple, but she had been so full of grief she had not even noticed her fury at being left behind in the world. Alone. It was true. She had been angry with her father for dying. Hannah cringed as the compunction spread through her bones. She brought her hands together in front of her lips and kissed the cold white alabaster. She whispered, “Please forgive me, Abba. I love you. I love you always.” And then the bell rang, and Hannah slid the jar back under her pillow. She rose and put on a fresh white robe, tying the braided sash behind her back in preparation for a day of lessons and chores.

The
tholos
was dark and quiet as Hannah approached. Iris was already there, setting candles at the base of the columns and lighting a frankincense joss stick from them. Mira was also there with Ursula, Daphne and Hepsut.

“Hannah, I am glad you are here.” Iris gave her a hug.

Once several other priestesses arrived, they began to choreograph a dance that would highlight the beauty of the twenty-one women who would be participating in the ceremony for the new Kolossofia master.

“It is a terrible number, twenty-one,” said Daphne resting her chin in her fingers, contemplating.

“Not so terrible. We can start in three lines of seven and then spiral into a circle. I think it will be beautiful,” said Mira, practicing a movement with an aqua veil, drawing it in slow motion over her head where it floated, suspended like mist before it fell.

Everyone agreed and soon they had the basic pattern in place. There were questions of symmetry and how to pace the build so that the crescendo would come at precisely the right moment. They discussed drums and other instruments that would be used. Hannah tuned her lyre.

“Do you think he should have a chance to see each of us separately?” asked Ursula, shifting to her toes to practice a movement called the “camel”.

Iris nodded. “Since we will all be wearing veils, how else might he tell us apart?”

“That is precisely it,” Mira declared.

“Do you have any music for us, Hannah?” asked Renenet as she fidgeted with a loose tassel on her hip.

Hannah closed her eyes and drifted back to a bright morning sitting beside Naomi where she had composed a new song that carried a sprightly rhythm. The melody was right there waiting for her.

The priestesses began to explore the movements that the song inspired in them. When Hannah finished and opened her eyes the women stopped dancing and broke out in joyful applause.