Amber and Clay Laura Schlitz (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

I’m going,

or what it will be like.

I want to tell you the things I never told anyone,

in case this is my last chance.

When I was alive, I didn’t talk much.

So much of what I felt was a secret.

I think that’s what I loved about the bear.

Neither of us had any words.”

I put the last lump of cheese in my mouth.

It was salty. I turned it with my tongue,

wishing I had a drink of water.

“I don’t talk, either.

If you’re a slave, no one listens.

No one asks questions. Except Sokrates.

But even Sokrates . . . I wanted him to think I wasn’t stupid,

so I was always trying so hard — ”

She nodded fervently.

“I know. I know.”

Then she looked at me,

waiting for me to go on.

I held up my left arm. “I have scars, too. Tattoos.

My mother made them. They’re a mark of honor,

a sign of my kinsmen back in Thrace.

My mother was wellborn. She wasn’t always a slave.”

I told her about my mother,

how she used to teach me and play with me.

I counted to ten in Thracian.

She spoke of her mother, Lysandra,

who was like Menon:

carrying hatred like a hidden knife.

“I always knew she hated me.

She knew it, and I knew it,

but no one else was meant to know. It was a secret.”

She told me. She was a citizen’s daughter,

but she knew what it was to be slapped and pinched

and yanked around. She’d had her arm broken.

I pitied her because of her mother;

She envied me because of mine.

“But it isn’t just parents who shape our lives.

It’s our children. They say a girl who dies without giving birth

will never rest in peace, because she isn’t whole.

I don’t think that’s why I’m a shade,

but it might be. Here’s what I think:

I died before my first woman’s bleeding,

so I’ll never have a baby,

but I gave birth to the bear,

because I set the bear free.

And I’ll set you free, Rhaskos,

and in time, you’ll give birth,

so I’ll have grandchildren:

clay animals

and pictures painted on clay, red and black:

pictures of the gods that live forever.

Maybe one day you’ll marry Zosima’s daughter,

and have children with her —

they’ll be my children, too,

because I set you free.”

“Zosima’s daughter?

You think I’ll marry Zosima’s daughter?”

“No, I’m teasing you!

I don’t know the future.

Even the gods can’t tell what’s to come.

I don’t know who you’ll marry, or even if

— if you’ll really paint pots,

if you’ll ever own a horse.

“All I know is, that baby smells like a girl.

Phaistus will be disappointed.

Zosima won’t.”

She knew Phaistus and Zosima. Why wouldn’t she?

She’d watched me for three years.

She didn’t know about my life in Thessaly —

that was before she died.

She’d ask a question, and I’d answer it —

and when I ran out of breath —

because the path was steep —

she’d talk, telling me about her life —

— and I’d interrupt her, and our voices overlapped.

We told our secrets, and they shifted shape,

changing into stories. She led me to a stream,

and I drank cold water till my stomach ached.

On the bank, I drew her a horse,

and she breathed admiration and said:

“Oh! That’s good.”

I turned my head to hide the grin on my face.

We headed up the mountain track.

The sun-horses raced across the sky.

I couldn’t believe how easy it was, being with her.

She was a citizen’s daughter,

and she was a girl. I’d never talked to a girl in my life.

I thought they were different,

But she was more like me than anyone I ever knew.

The sun-chariot blazed and plunged over the mountaintop.

We found another spring.

I gathered the plants she showed me,

dandelions, asparagus, and wild onions.

I gnawed them till my jaws were sore.

She showed me how to strip pine boughs from a tree

and make myself a bed.

She sat close to me as I slept,

a torch in the night.

4.

She woke me in the middle of the night.

“Rhaskos?”

“What?”

“Get up! Come with me!”

I wanted to sleep,

but she stuck out her hand;

that touch that sent sparks flying,

crisped the hair on my arms,

and set my teeth on edge.

“What is it?”

“The sky!” She leapt up and pointed:

the heavens aglitter:

stars singing and trembling

like bees near a hive.

“See? The Great Bear! Get up!

I have to teach you the Bear Dance!”

She was after me then,

tracing patterns in the sky.

The Great Bear, the Little Bear, and Ariadne’s crown.

I rubbed my eyes. I had no idea

which stars she was pointing out.

Who teaches constellations to a slave?

I wanted to sleep. I yawned and grumbled,

but she was adamant,

stretching upward, fingers splayed

as if she meant to scoop down the stars,

stab them with her forefinger,

and pin them to the earth.

She made me see the patterns.

Then, all at once, she was dancing —

“Your hands. Like this. Like claws.

Stamp your heel on the ground,

heavy. Curl your toes!

Lift your hands to the sky!”

By the gods, she made no sense,

but I obeyed her. It was as if some god

made her teach me that dance,

It was as if some god

made me learn it.

I danced as a Bear,

hruffing and snorting and clacking my teeth;

my knees drawn inward,

my claws held high,

the stars caught between them.

So Melisto danced on the night she died;

so Melisto danced with the bear she loved;

so Melisto danced when the god struck her down.

I danced till my body was slick with sweat,

salty and ripe.

I stank like a bear — I know that —

but at last she dropped her arms

and sighed

and let me go to sleep.

5.

Morning came. I ate the last of the loaf,

wiped dew off the grass, and licked my palm.

I was still hungry,

but the sky was stippled with saffron and milk,

and the wind was fresh. Again we walked

and talked. I never talked to anyone like that.

No one ever talked like that to me.

I talk to you still, Melisto.

I’ve been talking to you ever since.

We spoke and we were silent;

the path was steep,

robbing me of breath.

She pointed out caves in the mountain —

narrow entrances I might have missed.

“On the way back, if it rains — ” Looking back,

I see both of us knew

I would come back alone.

She was less giddy that second day,

more thoughtful,

gnawing her upper lip.

The caves reminded me of Sokrates,

and I told her what he said,

that maybe we were like