RCG-I Seasonal Salon
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When Destiny Walked the LabrynthChapter 3: In the Classroom“To our North, beyond steep Heria, lies the islands of the Cycliades in the center of which resides most sacred Delos. Even farther northward, we find the lands of Athena and Eleusis.” said Priesera Vasilea, sweeping her arm outward dramatically and gazing into the empty space before her as if addressing the heads of admiring multitudes instead of two rather inattentive girls, “Since the Achaean conquest, however, the world is less beautiful, less peaceful. Mycenae is a city seized in the bloody barters of war. The peoples of the Aegean, over-eager to mimic the rest of the world, are in turmoil. Everywhere is conquest. Great Meter is displeased.” Ansel stifled a yawn, making her ears pop, and wiggled her foot in her sandal. Furtively, she glanced around. The white marble theater seats formed a semicircle around the sunken central stage upon which Vasilea pontificated. Though pretty, the gray-veined steps were remarkably uncomfortable on one’s backside, and Vasilea didn’t allow her students to bring cushions; she claimed such indulgences merely encouraged inattention and sloth. A scholar from the holy Priesera school and principle temple teacher, Vasilea rehearsed her oration for the festival debate, making it today’s class for her two most advanced students, Ansel, and Vasilea’s own daughter, Geneera. Her resonant voice boomed up from the center stage area. Geneera, sitting well behind Ansel at the top of the theater steps, made not even the pretense of paying attention to Vasilea. She sat with her long muscular back to both Ansel and the center stage, resting her chin on her crossed arms. She looked down over the edge of the west wall, scuffing her leather sandal as she kicked. Ansel couldn’t see what her friend looked at, but the lanky girl was clearly absorbed in something she considered more interesting than her Meter. Vasilea, considered a first-class orator in Knossos, would be droning on for a while yet. Sighing softly, Ansel resumed wiggling her toes as she lightly bounced her leg on her knee. She propped her chin on her hand and cast her thoughts adrift. Soon, the voice of her teacher merged with background sounds, of no more import than the buzz of a nearby fly. It is hot sitting here on these wretched stone seats. And it is only early just past mid-day, Ansel thought grumpily. There is not even a little maiden breeze blowing today. The sun is absolutely white. Across the theater to the east, Ansel’s ears picked up a dusty whirl of voices rising from the courtyard below. Classes were usually held in that courtyard, in the shade of an elderly myrtle tree, but today they were moved to the theater area so the servants could set up for the opening feast tonight. Xeronos will have to wear those bull horns he hates so. Ansel stifled a giggle. He says “They look ridiculous and make my neck stiff for the entire Festival!” And me and Gen will see him having to eat with those stupid horns on, too, since we get to go the court feast for the first time. Ansel stuck her finger in her mouth and began chewing a fingernail. And the Kore ritual. We do the Kore ritual this time. I hope I don’t trip or say something really stupid. The Priesera are so solemn and scary. It’s not until the end of the Festival though… “Ansel.” Jolted from her private musings, Ansel started and found herself looking directly into the stern face of Priesera Vasilea, who was not only done speaking but was now standing over and scowling darkly at her student. “Ansel, you have become senseless as a donkey with its head caught in a retsina jug. Did you even hear what I asked you?” Lowering her eyes, Ansel whispered, “No, Priesera. My apologies.” Her throat closed on her. Vasilea grunted with a sound like “harmph.” Louder, she continued, “Perhaps, then, my daughter can answer the simple question I posed.” Priesera Vasilea pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows as if to imply she doubted her daughter capable of dressing herself. But no response came from Geneera. A stolen glimpse over her shoulder told Ansel her friend was still peering over the side of the wall, quite oblivious to her Meter. Ansel winced and tried to silently warn Geneera via thought transmission. Priesera Vasilea quietly climbed the steps to Geneera. When she neared her daughter, she said simply, but with painstaking enunciation, “Geneera.” The girl visibly stiffened. With a deliberation matching her Meter’s, she turned to face Priesera Vasilea. Ansel found herself holding her breath. I hate it when they fight. What is Gen thinking? She is not usually this disrespectful during class. “How do you expect to become a teacher when you pay so little attention in class? Answer this question for me. Did you even hear one word I said throughout my speech?” Vasilea’s voice intimated a careful and infinite patience, yet Ansel knew her glittering dark eyes could cut sharper than knapped flint. Geneera’s face was as if carved of stone. She murmured something Ansel couldn’t hear, but whatever it was enraged Vasilea. The woman whirled abruptly from her daughter, her face scary as a gorgon and said tightly, “I will not permit your insolence to upset me before the contest tomorrow. Class is over until the end of Festival.” Drawing her light garment carefully about her shoulders, Vasilea marched down the steps and exited through the back of the theatre. Not sure whether to be relieved or frightened by Vasilea’s abrupt exit, Ansel rose tentatively to her feet. Gen had resumed gazing over the side of the wall. Only the staccato scuffing of her sandal revealed any tension. Silent and catlike, Ansel approached her friend from behind, cautious of Gen’s strange, fey mood. Her back still to Ansel, Geneera motioned with her chin to what held her interest on the other side of the wall, inviting Ansel to peer with her. On the field below, young women and men dressed in short tunics stretched, ran or waited in line to vault over a stuffed bag of some kind. In another moment, Ansel realized these were the Bulldancers, practicing for their Festival exhibition. No wonder Gen was fascinated. The voices of the athletes drifted to her ears. They called out good naturedly to each other, encouraging and cheering as each in turn performed hand springs over the “bull” bag with calls of, “Good ... Mellissa,” and, “You almost made it... twist, Dion, don’t ... discouraged!” Ansel stayed silent, waiting, not quite knowing what to say, while Geneera occasionally grunted and generally acted oblivious to Ansel’s presence. Finally, Gen said, “They will take a break any moment while the handlers ready the bull. I wish I could speak to the trainer. I have decided I am ready to join the team.” “We could go down there if you like. Class is over anyway.” Geneera turned to Ansel with something like surprise, or perhaps cautious gratitude in her eyes. “Thanks, I would like that. We better hurry, though. The break will be a short one.” Gen’s calculations proved correct. Shortly after the girls arrived, the trainer called for the athletes to take a brief break. Two of them, a compactly built girl and a tall, slender young man, waved and jogged over to Ansel and Geneera. With his twinkling dark eyes and square jaw, the boy was beautiful. His short curly black hair had coalesced into sweaty ringlets at his brow, and his sleek, muscular torso gleamed with perspiration. But something about the girl made Ansel take a mental step backward. Short, yet powerfully muscled, she stood with her legs and feet seemingly planted into the very soil. Her glassy eyes did not reflect the smile on her lips. “Carea,” Gen smiled at the young woman, “and Garin, greetings.” “Greetings Gen; no class today?” Garin offered a brief hug that Geneera returned. Pulling back, Geneera’s face puckered as if she’d been offered citrus. “We were given reprieve.” She replied crisply. “Here, this is my friend, Ansel. And Ansel, here is Carea, the girl whom I told you about from the gymnasia, and Garin who is also a fine dancer.” “For a boy, anyway,” Carea said with a tight grin. Odd, her eyes do not smile though her lips do. Ansel thought. “Greetings,” Ansel said. “We saw you practicing from the theater. The exhibition comes soon, no?” Not wishing to invite a hug from either dancer, Ansel crossed her arms in front of her chest. Garin smiled broadly, flashing strong teeth. “Ansel, grandaughter of Council Elder Thesmas. I, of course, know who you are. He bowed to her with a graceful flourish. Ansel nodded politely, but felt even more shy than usual. Carea said nothing, just stood staring, wearing an unreadable expression. Ansel looked at her own feet then kicked a tuft of grass with her sandal. “We were here practicing nearly every morn for the last several moons,” Garin continued. “And now for the last third, we practice both morn and noon.” Looking up, Ansel found Garin was staring at her unabashedly and smiling. His attentive gaze made her feel very self-conscious; her skin grew warm. Of course you know my Gran. You likely know my Meter, too. The way you are staring, you probably wonder how I could even be related to someone as beautiful as Meta. I wonder if I combed my hair this morning. And wasn’t I getting a blemish on my chin? Oh, Goddess, his lips are still moving and I haven’t been listening. Did he just ask me something? she thought suddenly. “I’m, uh, sorry, what did you say?” she asked, trying to shake the fog from her brain. What ever is wrong with me? She glanced toward Geneera, but she and Carea were walking away toward the practice field, arms entwined as if they were the oldest of friends. Ansel gulped as some unidentifiable, painful feeling jabbed in her gut. She stared at their receding backs. “I said, ‘will you be at the feast tonight?’” Garin repeated, reaching out to touch Ansel’s arm. He stood closer than she realized, and she had to check herself when she almost leaped backward. She felt confused; his touch did not feel entirely unpleasant, but she did not trust him. “Uh, yes, yes, I will. You?” Geneera just disappeared, leaving me alone with this boy. Why did she do that? I only came out here to support her. She knows I’m not good with strangers. Ansel swallowed the near panic that was threatening to overcome her. Her armpits felt damp. “Yes. Perhaps I will see you there.” Noise erupted behind them. They turned to see the rest of the troupe waving and hooting. “Time is up. I must return to practice. I’ll see you tonight then.” Turning, he ran back to the field while Ansel exhaled in relief. Once he looked back and waved, grinning broadly when he saw she still watched him. Reflexively, she raised her hand in a feeble wave. Copyright by the Kassandra Sojourner ~ All rights reserved |
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