Scent of Gods’ Pity
The Gods are indifferent yet occasionally perform minor acts of kindness.
She blushed, then turned abruptly to gaze through the window at the smaller courtyard below so I could not see her eyes. The sun cast sharp shadows from the triple-storey complex, delineating the throng of people gathering for the communal feast of the spring equinox and the Great Goddess’ Rebirth.
With the other noble youths, I had been allowed to follow closely the six ox-carts bearing the illustrious priestesses from Potnia’s sacred glades to the palace. A dozen cattle had been sacrificed an hour later at the end of the grand procession held in honour of the Deity that invigorates all with fruitfulness.
As the meat for the evening banquet was prepared, the Goddess’ female servants retired to change into feasting apparel, discarding the extended flounced skirts and breast-baring jackets.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said unconvincingly.
I clasped her from behind, feeling her heady warmth imbued by the ceremonial scents, taking care not to be seen from the courtyard.
She shuddered, almost imperceptibly, and leaned against me.
“Why must this be so wrong?” she whispered.
“You know why. The Gods consider only themselves, while we have to serve their every whim or risk vengeance.”
“There you go with your blasphemy again!” she cried and tried to disengage, but I held her fast, and after a few half-hearted attempts to free herself, we both desisted so as not to draw attention from the crowd below.
She stepped back, tilting her head, and I kissed her fragrant neck of rose and mint, myrtle and hyacinth, her tresses caressing my cheeks as the finest spiderweb while the blood-red rays illuminated the chamber.
She pushed me away gently, as if removing a feather from her forelocks.
“Go. Join the others below, and don’t stare at me too much. We shall meet afterwards in the dimness of our olive tree.”
I grinned and carefully opened the oak door, peering into the corridor; all sounds were distant. I quickly departed through the semi-light.
A year later, as House Tradition decreed, we were paired with mates deemed equal to our mothers’ standing. She was slightly above me, so she was given a small, sickly fellow who went on to become the Administrator of Bronze.
I was joined with a persistently mournful girl with a soul as thin-walled as her Family’s divine earthenware, cherished at foreign courts. She died two years thereafter in childbirth, and I vowed my chastity to the wind and waves, leading galleys all across the known world, from Kemet to the Inhospitable Sea.
I have watched Her from afar all these springs and autumns, discerning each new line that sharpened the face of the High Priestess of Diktina — the visage in my dreams that smiles at me each night in the olive copse.
The gods and I are reconciled. Have they not pitied me and gifted me memories of her sweet essence for as long as I live?
(Read the sequel: https://medium.com/illumination-curated/the-great-goddess-gazes-south-995d3b09826)
The above texts were first published on Twitter and are © 2023 by David Pahor.
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