Mood Riders Read online

  They walked past stalls piled with mackerel, oysters, and sea urchins. Sea urchins’ eggs were offered to them as a delicacy, which Hati ate with relish. Gray pots stood row on row, alongside bales of wool and yarn and fine linen dyed in expensive Syrian purple. The scent of coriander and cumin filled the air and again they were surrounded by the confusing babble of different tongues. The shopkeepers held up strong vessels of copper and bronze, crying their wares. It was a very busy, noisy place, and at last Hati was satisfied with what she’d seen.

  “I’ll go back to rest on that soft bed, after all,” she said.

  After they’d rested, Gul came to help Myrina dress, braiding her hair and fastening patterned scarves and girdles across her chest and hips.

  “She must look beautiful,” Hati insisted. “I’ll have nobody look down on my granddaughter.”

  Isatis wasn’t awed, even though her mistress was. Luxurious scents of food, wine and perfume drifted into the courtyard, where a statue of Apollo stood in the center. Priam, his eldest son, Hector, and Prince Paris sat with Menelaus under a canopy, nibbling at fruit and sweetmeats. Clytemnestra sheltered beneath a separate awning with Hecuba, Priam’s chief wife, Iphigenia, and Cassandra at their side. Myrina was amazed at the richness of their clothes—even slaves and servants were beautifully dressed. She was used to getting better attention from her audience and felt disconcerted.

  Hati helped her onto Isatis’s back. “Do they want to watch me ride?” Myrina complained. “Or do they simply want to talk and gobble food?”

  “You will make them watch you!” Hati said. Then she picked up her drum and beat a sudden loud drum roll, which shocked and silenced the crowd. Myrina rode forward with an angry burst of determination. She threw herself into the performance trotting, galloping, twisting, and turning while Hati beat time on the drum. Waves of applause greeted her as she swung backward and sideways, so that girl and horse seemed to move as one. She finished with a handstand, causing her audience to gasp with admiration then burst into wild shouts and whoops of appreciation.

  Priam and his court rose to their feet, cheering. The king turned to beckon Aben forward. “Come and sit at my table,” he ordered, leading the way into the banqueting hall. “You must be descended from centaurs, to produce such a child.”

  Seated at the women’s table, Gul kept turning her head, keeping a strict eye on what her husband was up to. “Stop it!” Hati told her. “Who wants to sit with the men anyway?”

  Myrina was so relieved to have finished her performance that she felt drunk with joy, even though no wine had touched her lips. The walls of the hall gleamed with burnished metal shields and gentle music came from the flutes and lyres of slave girls. As the meal progressed, the slaves carefully mixed wine with water and served it to the guests.

  Cassandra came to congratulate Myrina. “Menelaus was stunned,” she told her. “And even Queen Clytemnestra was impressed. My father is in such a good mood that I knew I could ask him for anything.”

  “So what did you ask?”

  “I begged that I might come to see your springtime dances at the full of the moon. And he has agreed! Chryseis will come with me.”

  Myrina was pleased but surprised that a Trojan princess should so much desire to see the Celebrations of Mother Maa.

  “Where is the princess Iphigenia?” Myrina asked, noticing that Cassandra’s devoted shadow was missing.

  “Fast asleep, curled up on my couch,” she smiled.

  Suddenly there were voices raised on the high table and chatter ceased.

  “Oh no,” Cassandra whispered. “Has Paris upset Menelaus again?”

  All eyes were turned to the smaller, middle-aged brother of Agamemnon. Menelaus, King of Sparta, was not quite as important as his elder brother, but still a powerful man to offend.

  “No, no.” Paris was shaking his head and smiling, oozing charm. “I am sure that your wife is beautiful, very beautiful—as is her lovely elder sister.” He bowed to Clytemnestra, who was not impressed at being called the elder sister.

  “No. That is not enough!” Menelaus thumped the table, still angry, his face rosy with wine. “She’s not just beautiful. My Helen is the most beautiful woman in the world. Ask her sister, ask Clytemnestra.”

  Clytemnestra shook her head, weary of hearing Helen’s praise.

  “How I long to see such beauty.” Paris was silvertongued again, not at all put off by the dispute, though his father was anxiously trying to catch his eye.

  Menelaus leaned forward and grabbed Paris by the arm. “Then come,” he cried. “Be my guest and stay a while in Sparta. Then you may judge Helen’s beauty for yourself. No! No! I shall be offended if you refuse.”

  Paris hesitated, looking at his father. Priam gave a brief nod. “I should be most honored to come with you,” Paris agreed.

  The amicable solution brought relief and the sound of cheerful conversation was quickly restored, but Myrina glanced at Cassandra and saw that her cheeks had turned deathly white. “What is it, princess?” she asked.

  Tears spilled down Cassandra’s cheeks. Myrina stared at her uncomfortably. This princess was truly quick to weep.

  “The smell! So foul!” Cassandra clapped her hand over her mouth and nose in distress. “It stinks in here . . . smells like a slaughterhouse!”

  Myrina was fearful that the princess might faint or vomit. All she could smell was the delicious food and sweet perfumes.

  Cassandra keeled forward, blood suddenly pouring from her nose, splashing down in great dark drips to stain her lovely gown.

  “Let me help,” Myrina begged, ready to pinch the bridge of her nose as Hati had taught her.

  But just then a tousle-haired Iphigenia came toward them, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I wondered where you’d gone,” she cried, grabbing hold of Cassandra’s arm. “Ah . . . you are bleeding!”

  At once Cassandra sat up, wiping the blood away. “It’s nothing,” she reassured the child. “Just a silly nosebleed. There . . . it’s gone!”

  Myrina was amazed. The bleeding had stopped as soon as the words were spoken and Cassandra was smiling again. “Come here.” She made space for Iphigenia to sit beside her, putting her arm around the younger girl. “Now we must talk. You know that we must say good-bye in the morning, don’t you?”

  Iphigenia nodded, her eyes full of sadness at the thought.

  “Remember this,” Cassandra told her, solemnly taking hold of both her hands. “Though we are apart, I will always be your friend. I will always be thinking of you, so that you will never truly be alone. Do you understand that?”

  Iphigenia nodded again. “Never alone,” she whispered.

  Watching it, Myrina felt a great lump well in her throat. Cassandra was a peculiar young woman, but she was also full of kindness and seemed to sense others’ emotions and feel them deeply. For a moment Myrina regretted that she must leave to join the Moon Riders; a longer stay in Troy might have been interesting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Night of the Old Woman

  IN THE MORNING a great procession set out through the Southern Gate, heading down to the Bay of Troy. Menelaus’s ships had arrived from Besika Bay, a little to the south, where they’d been anchored. They were rowed into the shallow harbor, ready to take the Spartans aboard and set off home across the deep blue Aegean Sea. Paris rode beside Priam at the head of the procession. He’d travel in his own fine fleet of ships that his father had built for him. First he’d take Clytemnestra safely home to Mycenae; then travel on to Sparta as Menelaus’s guest.

  Myrina and her family rode at the back of the procession, but soon turned away to the east to head back to the Place of Flowing Waters.

  As they reached the higher land, Myrina looked back and saw the high-prowed ships setting off. The sea was calm but beaten white by the precise lift and dip of each set of fifty oars moving in perfect time. As they watched, the oars were hauled in and sails set; the wind was blowing in Menelaus’s favor.

 
They arrived back at the spring gathering before the sun went down, and found Tomi faithfully guarding their home tent.

  Aben was still excited by the honor of sitting at Priam’s table and full of knowing gossip. “That was no trading visit,” he told Gul. “What an excuse, Menelaus bringing his sister-in-law to buy her clothes? I swear by Maa, there’s more to it than that.”

  “What’s the truth then?” Gul begged.

  “He was sent by Agamemnon to cajole Priam into removing the heavy taxes on Achaean ships.”

  “And was he successful?”

  Aben was thoughtful. “Hard to tell. Priam is all courtesy and concession, but underneath I sense a stubbornness, an iron will.”

  “What will come of it?”

  Aben shook his head.

  Though she saw her parents’ concern at the doings in Troy, Myrina could think of nothing but the exciting new turn her life was taking. The next few days passed quickly and one afternoon, a few days before the full moon, Grandmother Hati came into the tent in a hurry. “They’re coming,” she whispered, her voice shaking with excitement. “The lookouts have seen the dust rising in the south. The Moon Riders come for you, Myrina!”

  Sounds of distant clapping and hooting from outside told them that the Old Woman with her train of traveling dancers would soon arrive.

  Myrina got up and her stomach lurched; suddenly she felt that she couldn’t bear to leave her family. How would she manage without their care?

  First Gul then Hati went to kiss Myrina, fiercely. “I’m not going yet!” she cried. “Mind my nose. I’m going to scratch! I’m going to scratch!”

  “No, you are not.” Hati held her granddaughter’s hands. Her voice was low and serious. “You are Myrina, sister of Reseda, daughter of Gul, granddaughter of Hati. You are thirteen years old and a woman—pain means spit to you!”

  Her grandmother spat energetically onto the flattened earth outside the tent.

  “Weariness means spit to you!” And again the spittle went flying outside. “You are the flower of our rocky pathways. You are the pride of our tribe. You are a dancer!”

  “She is a dancer!” Gul echoed with joy.

  Myrina smiled fiercely at them, her doubts fled, and her belly filled with pride. She ignored the burning desire to scratch and instead gracefully raised her arms, twisting and turning her hands as she’d been taught, shaking her hips, so that tiny tremors went running through the lower part of her body, setting all her trinkets tinkling.

  “Remember this!” Her grandmother’s voice dropped low and Myrina stilled her movements, recognizing the importance of what was to come. “Such a one would never scratch!”

  They went out with Aben to welcome the Old Woman. Now as darkness began to gather about the tents and horse enclosures, the tribes lit torches to welcome the priestesses. At last, a party of strong-armed young women emerged from the rising dust. They were about sixty strong, all on horseback, their eyes and body pictures gleaming in the torchlight. Long hair of many different hues streamed wildly behind them as they cantered through cheering, saluting crowds. Atisha, their leader, rode at the front, her mount the only stallion in the Moon Rider’s herd.

  The gathering was filled with wild excitement. The priestesses only stayed for seven nights, but it was seven nights that the tribes dreamed of all through the hot dry summer and the bitter winter.

  The young women dismounted and fed and watered their horses, then set up their tents, aided by the young lookouts. Only Reseda, laden with jewels and gifts, was returning to her family this year. She left her companions to greet her family noisily, hugging each family member in turn. Shrieking excitedly, she showed off the wonderful collection of goods she’d amassed as her dowry. Gifts to the Moon-maidens brought luck and long life so no young woman left the service of Maa without a collection of valuable goods that added to her desirability as a wife and gave power in her choosing of a husband.

  The Mazagardi traditionally gave the Moon-maidens their finest dancers, all trained by their mothers, who’d been dancers with the Moon Riders themselves. Respect between the tribe and the dancers was mutual.

  Hati went to hug her old friend Atisha and share a pipe of tobacco. After they’d all washed and eaten, Hati begged Atisha to tell them a story. The Old Woman was willing and called for her special folding chair that elevated her a little, for she was small and thin in stature, though her turban stuck with peacock feathers gave the impression of height, and her loose, swirling robes gave the feeling of width.

  Two of the older Moon Riders lifted deer’s horn pipes to their lips and the deep thrumming notes brought everyone gathering about them.

  A hush fell and Atisha threw a handful of incense grains into the fire, so that plumes of scented smoke rose and floated in the air. A touch of magic drifted in the smoke and the atmosphere changed. Suddenly the worn, wrinkled face of Atisha was alive with mischief, her glance traveling quickly around the eager faces, her memory sharp. “This is the story of the beautiful dancing maiden Hati and the stupid robber.”

  There was a ripple of amusement from the Mazagardi. Hati beamed with pride. “You’d better get it right, Old One,” she warned.

  “Oh, it will be true.” Atisha cackled. “Though the truth may be of dreams, rather than bright day. Now then, this young Hati was a wonderful dancer and her favorite performance consisted of a fierce stick dance in which she swung and swished a silver dancing cane.”

  Atisha’s voice rose and fell, cleverly taking the parts of the characters in the story. She told how the stupid robber had been seen emerging from his neighbors’ tent, stuffing stolen goods down inside his tunic. Though he was a fat man, the stolen goods made him look even fatter and only stayed in place because he had a good strong belt. Hati had said nothing but kept her eye on the man, and later that night when she performed her amazing stick dance, she saw that the robber stood at the front of the crowd, his belly still bulging. She twirled and whirled and swung her stick so that the audience was enraptured by her skill and the robber more dazed than any. Then suddenly, with a powerful flick, she swung the tip of her dancing stick so that it sliced away the strong clasp that held the man’s belt in place. Of course all the stolen goods came tumbling down, rolling all over the dancing space, with everyone there to witness the stupid robber’s disgrace.

  Whoops of appreciation followed the telling and Myrina leaned close to her grandmother’s ear. “Was it the truth?”

  Hati laughed. “It was the truth and a little bit more than the truth,” she said.

  Atisha got up from her chair wearily. “And now it is time for us all to go to bed,” she told them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dancing for the Moon

  DESPITE THEIR EXHAUSTION, Myrina and Reseda whispered together through the night. The elder sister stroked the carefully wrought silver snake pattern that coiled about the edge of Myrina’s mirror. “Aye, this will work well,” she whispered. “I shall be sorry to see my own mirror gone.”

  Myrina nodded with sympathy. Tomorrow Reseda must hand back her own deer-patterned mirror to Aben and watch him melt it down, making the gleaming liquid metal into a marriage bangle instead. Myrina knew that she too would grieve on the day she had to hand back her fine snaky mirror.

  “Father polished it for months,” she told Reseda. “Though I still don’t understand why it’s so important.”

  Like the other women, Reseda would not spill the secret. “Atisha will teach you,” she said.

  “What is it that she teaches? I can ride and dance already!”

  “Only the Old Woman can tell you.” She shook her head. Then she laughed mischievously. “But you and I have been closer than you knew, little viper girl!”

  “The golden brown viper?” Myrina murmured in surprise, remembering the day that her snake picture was made. “Hati has told you!”

  Reseda just smiled.

  On the evening of the full moon, horses and armed Trojan guards arrived, carrying a richly decorat
ed, closed litter. It seemed that Cassandra had been serious in her intention to see the sacred Celebrations of the nomadic tribes, and once again King Priam’s tent was raised by the Flowing Waters.

  As the Celebrations were about to begin, Myrina turned around to scan the gathering crowd and saw that Cassandra and her companion Chryseis were settled beneath a rich awning at the back, but well placed and raised a little to give them a good view.

  “Now,” Atisha announced. “Before the Moon-maidens dance to bring us the strength of the growing sun and the gentle timekeeping of the moon, I think you have something for me!”

  A ripple of pride passed through the Mazagardi at Atisha’s request; heads turned to Myrina. She rose to her feet with a thudding heart, realizing that the “something” that Atisha wanted was her!

  The moment had come at last. Gul and Hati led Myrina forward. Two flaming torches had been set up in the cleared space beside the fire. Myrina stood between them, taking a pose, her heart thumping. What if she faltered in the dance? What if Atisha refused her? Her family and tribe would be ashamed. But there was no more time to build up fear, for Mother and Grandmother took up their drums and Aben began to strum on his oud.

  Myrina moved a little shakily but she caught sight of Tomi’s face, his eyes wide with admiration. Then, as the familiar rhythms lifted and carried her, she began to enjoy the dance, forgetting the importance of the occasion, carried along by the enthusiasm of the huge crowd that surrounded her. She twirled wildly, jumped, and swayed, cheered by the tinkling of her ornaments, and the high-pitched tongue-trilling that came from Reseda and her friends. Then as the dance progressed toward the end, loud whoops and cries rewarded her.

  Atisha nodded her head until the tall feathers in her headdress shook. She pointed at Myrina. “Yes,” she said. “You dance like a gazelle. Tomorrow, you come with me. Now we will perform the sacred dances of the night.”