The Kalai
Sally Cobau
Isle of Lesbos, 590 BC
As for you girls, the gorgeous ones,
There will be no change in my plans.
--Sappho
We are here under the honey sky—well, actually there are bees, so honey is abundant. Tonight is the night we fall under the moon’s spell, a ritual that makes us shiver with anticipation, but for now we’re roughhousing in the hot orchard. Throwing apples at each other. Worried that the friendly bees will turn on us and sting, and one did, and that made Kleis cry. She’s too sensitive. Not that we would like to be stung by a bee. Her finger puffed up and we had to make a compress for her, but she’s OK now. Who would think that a sting would go this far?
S has given us instructions and we follow to a T, when we can, when we’re not giggling. Her messages are written down, but we also memorize, that is the best sort of training for the mind. But there is also the way we feel we will burst when we think about fat penises, the wedding poems, that make us dizzy. We have not seen fat penises up close. Only possibly Kleis, but she blushes when she talks about it. We don’t believe she’s done anything naughty, but still the boys trail her, hoot and holler, when she walks past.
“Kleis, Kleis, what’s it like? A tongue in your mouth, swirling?”
“It’s nothing, nothing. The green twig gets sharp and immense if you put your hand to his hair.”
We fall again in a pile of laughter. We are here to rehearse our dance and song, but motivation slides backwards under the blinding, sparkling sun. Zoe, the strictest in our group, gives us a chop-chop to begin.
“Order in the courts,” she says, an expression from some faraway place. What courts is she talking about? But she, alone, likes to rehearse.
“Kleis, you stand here,” she says, pointing under the luxurious bough of a tree blooming with tiny, white flowers.
“I’m too tired,” Kleis retorts. “And my pinky hurts.” Again, she lifts it up.
“OK, just relax and watch,” says Zoe, clearly frustrated. She has a lyre propped up beside a tree and a tortoiseshell pick given to her by S because she is the best musician.
“Let’s at least warm up,” she says. We try our best to be obedient. We stand in a lopsided circle and begin.
“Ahhhh,” we feel as if we are at the doctor’s, opening our clean, red throats to receive medicine.
“Ohhhhh,” we sing.
“Ommmmm,” we hum.
Zoe picks at the lyre and we begin the proper rehearsal of the songs we will perform tonight. Eventually Kleis gets on board too. She is needed because she’s our highest soprano. Her song is like a nightingale, at least that is what S says, which makes us all prickly with resentment. How she is favored so!
Olive stretches out her low notes. She’s almost a baritone, and has a throaty, wizened sound that elongates, echoes. We look at her legs, full tree trunks, with spiky, little branches. She’s almost part boy and can throw a ball farther than most. This ability is strange, just like her name, but she’s from one of the wealthiest families, so gets away with it.
Zoe claps her hands fiercely because we are goofing off again, throwing branches at each other.
“Stop it,” she says. “We need to get the dance right. First we go here.” She points with a long twig to a place three feet away; then two of you go here. And when you go there, you lift your dress and bow. Like this.” She lifts her dress so we can see her pretty ankle—slender and perfect—and then she takes a long, low bow, almost touching the ground. We know it’s very pretty. But she’s too proud of her choreography.
Kleis starts romping like a monkey, then she slithers like a snake on the ground. We have to admit, she is very snake-like, and it’s uproariously funny.
“Oh, look, my dress is covered in grass,” she says casually when she stops slithering and pops up.
Zoe, clearly annoyed, says, “OK, now we can lift you up, Kleis, like you are a princess. Well, you are a princess.”
There are some moans and complaints—“Why does she get to be lifted up?”; “We want to be lifted up.”
Zoe claps her hands, “OK, we will all be lifted up. You are right. One at a time. All twelve, so it will take some time to promenade, but the audience can wait, and it will be a celebration of us girls. A maiden’s dance.”
We love the idea. We work on this with more enthusiasm than we’ve had since we were given this dance. We touch the bottoms of feet--we have taken off our sandals and some girls need to bathe; we lift each other to the sky and toss each other towards the sun. It’s scary and some of us shriek because we are not used to this. Also, our dresses twist in the air and we wonder for a moment if we should cut the dresses with shears, but that seems too risky. What we are doing is risky enough. It is a form of acrobatics like the boys do in their school. We work on a pyramid for our ending. Of course, Olive is on the bottom, as well as some of the sturdier girls. Olive embraces this role and flexes her arm showing her keen muscles. Her skin has turned bronze in the sun and we wonder what S will say about this burnished color.
We go through the movements several times with Zoe strumming at the lyre. The piece begins slowly, but ends with momentum and flying movement. Those of us who are “tossed” cover our breasts with our arms as we spin. Then two things happen. The first event happens to Thea. We are actually resting at this time, between practices, covered in sweat. Thea is resting on Zoe’s lap and Zoe pets her hair. Then we see the blooming of red on her clothes. We know what it is, of course, because Thea is one of the last. But still it causes commotion, shrieks and uncertainty. We don’t have supplies—that distasteful word our mothers use. But we can find the flower’s fluff at least to absorb it. As we go about doing this, Thea moans that it hurts. We tell her to strip off her dress, she does, and we go down to the river to wash out the stain. She is shivering in the sun, under the tree, naked except for her underclothes.
Olive pulls something out of the air—her satchel, really—some medicine for cramps—and Thea gulps it down.
“You can have a baby now,” asserts Kleis, something we all know already.
Thea begins to weep, “I don’t want a baby.”
“Well, you know what you have to do to have a baby,” sings Kleis. She begins dancing around Thea:
First love,
Then marriage,
Then baby
In a cloth bound carriage.
“Ughh,” says Thea. “Uggh, ugh, ugh. I will never get married.”
“Oh, will you be like S, always playing with everyone?” asks Kleis.
“I don’t know,” admits Thea. We lay her dress out in the sun. It’s rumpled and will be stiff when it dries, but it’s the best we can do. We decide to go through another rehearsal, allowing Thea to rest, of course. And that’s when the second event happens. We’re tossing Kleis in the air, but when she comes down, Olive catches her, but the catch is awkward and Olive falls to the ground. It’s her ankle. Maybe S’s favorite part of the body, though Olive’s is not the slender form she adores.
“Oww, oww, oww,” cries Olive, wincing in pain. “I think I broke it.”
We hover around her. It’s too much—first Thea, then Olive.
“Can you move it?” asks Zoe.
“I don’t think so. It’s swelling.” Although Olive is very brave, she begins to cry.
“It’s OK,” says Zoe, “seriously, though. You’re tough, Olive. Remember when you hunted?”
We all do—Olive is a serious hunter.
Olive nods. “But, I don’t think I can dance, and we are all supposed to dance and sing tonight.”
Kleis is looking solemn. She hardly ever looks this way, she’s such a jokester.
“What?” asks Zoe.
“Well,” says Kleis. “I think I might know of a replacement.”
“But—what the--? We’re the gorgeous ones. Who else could there be?” we ask.
“We need twelve,” muses Kleis. “To make the dance work. So, I just have somebody in mind.”
“Oh, don’t be coy,” says Zoe. “Just tell us.
Aphrodite, who is usually very quiet says, “We don’t like surprises.”
“I will bring her later,” says Kleis. “You will all adore her.”
“That is fine and good, but will S adore her? She’s picky, you know.”
“Well, that is why we will disguise her.”
“Kleis, you think of the craziest things,” we say.
“Possibly,” says Kleis with a mischievous wink. “But I get away with a lot, as well.”
That is true; we’ve seen Kleis weasel her way out of a lot of things, like music practice, though she’s artistic when she wants to be.
“We need a rest,” we say. Zoe agrees and we go for naps in the orchard. We feel the soft breeze blow through our hair; we gather flowers—roses and marigolds and irises—that we will braid into garlands later. The air is sultry, as if before a storm, though the sky is blue and there is no storm coming, just the gauzy texture of the air. We fall into each others’ laps, hide in pairs around the orchard, as we call to Eros, whispered delight. The honeybee’s sting: ecstasy. Roused out of our coma, at last, when we hear the nightingale’s song.
And Zoe is calling us from far away. We are the muses, regaining our limbs from the loosening we felt in the grass. Coming to, again, after a long slumber. We relent.
We walk back across the orchard to our spot. But Kleis is there with a new girl—a farm girl, awkward, in old-fashioned, dorky clothes. So, out of fashion that we laugh.
“Stop it,” says Kleis.
“But what is she doing here?” we ask, wondering if Kleis and her were also in a coma in the far fields?
“She will take Olive’s spot. She’s strong. From farm work.”
We don’t know her. Maybe her parents farm grapes for wine? It’s possible, but she’s not our sort and S would not approve. She’s low class. Not of our ilk.
“No,” we say. “This isn’t possible.”
“But why?” Kleis has her hand on her hip and her eyes narrow. Yes, she has done something with this girl—that’s why her eyes shine so. She can’t hide it. No one can hide ecstasy.
“Because she is not of our sort and we have to sing for the wedding tonight.”
“She can do it,” Kleis retorts. “For the symposium and the wedding.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” we ask, though we know.
“Stop being silly. We will join the women’s symposium and then promenade to the wedding.”
We’re nervous. Will she wear a mask? Look how dark her arms are from the sun. And she smells of dung.
“Oh, please,” says Kleis. “You stink. Do you know that? Well, at least teach her the dance.”
Olive shows this new girl—her name is Kora, but we call her Gorgo, which we know is a taunt, but still—where to stand and how to throw us in the air. We have to admit that she’s strong and willing and doesn’t even seem to care that we call her Gorgo. Zoe seems pleased by the way she can lift us, like she’s lifting feathers.
After practicing a few more times, we know we have to prepare for the night’s festivities. Refreshed from our earlier comas, we gather the flowers and head towards the city where we find a place to weave our garlands, oil our hair with myrrh, and make ourselves lovely.
There are conventions for all actions, even love-making and this is one of the things we learn—the grace involved in the care of our bodies, the glittering headbands we place in each other’s hair, the soft pillows we arrange for love’s consummation. We will feast later, but for now, it is the perfection of the moment. We are taught to think of the circular, the beauty of the self that is not released until it is touched by another. Only then will the circle be complete.
When we were young girls, we made circles in the dirt with sticks. We played with balls and ran up steep hills. Now we have all of that in our bodies as we prepare for what is next. Our maidenhood which will move into adulthood. We understand so little.
We lean on the soft pillows after anointing each other with drops of frankincense.
“Do you think this is how the courtesan lies?”
We don’t have to ask which courtesan—it is S’s brother’s courtesan, of course, the wine merchant brother who spends too much time loading his wine in the south where his lover waits for him.
This is one of the few things that makes S angry—really obsessed. She thinks the courtesan is beneath him, socially. But we’ve heard she’s very beautiful with raven black hair and eyes the color of irises.
“No, I think she lies like this,” says Kleis opening her legs a bit. She grins, and we throw pillows at her.
“Maybe you lie like that with Achilles,” we jest.
“Who is Achilles?” asks Kora.
“Oh, hasn’t she told you about the boy she’s in love with,” we ask. “His name is Achilles and he’s the strongest and fastest of the boys.”
“And he’s the one who could put the gods to shame with his strength,” we say. “He’s only the best catch is all.”
Kleis shrugs.
“He’s Kleis’s boyfriend,” we say. “Or soul mate. Is he your soul mate, Kleis? Do your hearts connect as one and pump blood together.”
“Stop it,” says Kleis. “I don’t know.”
“But we will guarantee you this, Kora. She will be the first to be married.”
“And have the little twig put into her slipper.”
“Stop it,” says Kleis again, who is turning red.
‘Is this true?” asks Kora.
“Sort of—not really—I---I-- STOP IT,” Kleis says to us.
“OK, OK,” we say, backing off. “We are just joking. You will have your virginity for a long time. You will slowly become a woman and we will always remember this time.”
“That is so sentimental,” says Olive whose foot is now wrapped and propped up on a pillow.
“You don’t like sentimental?” we ask.
“Hardly,” says Olive. “And I can’t imagine ever being with those pesky boys. PESTS!”
“Well, maybe you won’t be; after all, S…”
“We don’t know what S has or wants or has had… men or women…”
“Only that when she was in exile it was so difficult for her-“
“Because she couldn’t have her luxuries.”
We’ve heard the story a million times, though each time S tells it, it brings a new wave of feeling for us—our teacher, without her glittering adornments. Unthinkable!
“But you will meet Achilles tonight,” we promise Kora. “Because it is his brother who is getting married.”
“Is that true?” asks Kora. “Why am I even here, Kleis?” She whips off her headband and throws it to the ground.
Kleis smiles like a cat. “Kora, come here, pet. We are young and nothing has to be settled. He is just a foolish boy to me, though he is mine.” She makes her hand into a fist for emphasis. “But you are mine, too.”
Kora is obviously pouting as we make our way to symposium. Zoe leads the way, a quick-legged jaunt through the streets. We think about Kora—Gorgo. She has value, maybe?—she has brought the anise plant which we have braided into adornments. They string up our arms, these embellishments, as well as sit brightly on our heads. We have decided that some of use should be masked, so as to hide Kora’s identity. So, half of us wear masks made of linen and wood. We have even threaded some with valuable silk from Olive’s collection. Olive is loose with her possessions and doesn’t care; she’s practically royalty, that girl who limps beside us.
But it is Kora’s limbs that might stand out—they are so bronzed—and S will notice like she notices everything.
We have put white paste on her arms, but the effect is not that good. We did not have enough time to get it right and we wonder if this plan, this trickery, will fall apart and bite us in the ass. As we walk towards the symposium, Kora pauses to collect a feather. Her arm is looped with Kleis and they stop here and there to kiss each other’s cheeks. If we weren’t so tense about the situation, we would think it sweet. The feather looks dainty, perched on Kora’s headband, jaunty. We could call her Raven instead of Gorgo. We suggest this, but some nicknames stick and we go back to Gorgo. We are curious about farm life; it is so outside our comfort zone.
“Do you actually work in the grape vineyards?”
Yes.
“But don’t you get tired?”
Of course.
“Don’t you wish you could be with us in school?”
Yes, but I can’t.
“We hate to admit this, but we love your skin; it looks like the sun, welded into your skin.”
She smiles. Another kiss with Kleis. Will Achilles accept this? For all his good nature, he might have a temper underneath. He’s probably never been challenged in his life—always the best at ball games and sprints. But Gorgo looks like she has been through some things. Her arms are bruised, probably from lifting so much. But the bruising makes us think of her strength, what she has endured as a lowly farm girl.
She lacks artifice. She is what she is, which is probably appealing to Kleis, but is not what we’re here to master. It confuses us, her willingness to be entirely herself—blunt and unruly. She lowers her tunic so we see the valley of her breasts. Well, after all, S might like that…
When we arrive at the women’s symposium, we are hungry and thirsty. No sign of S. Our teacher has vanished. The house is cool, inviting, but before we can enjoy the earthy texture of the seats, we are led outside to the garden, where we are to perform. Our Moms are there. Drinking a ton. Our Moms’ lips are red, cheeks flushed. They are laughing at the littlest things, the goblet of wine, which has fallen to the floor, but scooped up by another Mom. We’re glad they can enjoy themselves. They are as beautiful as us, mirrors of us. They are here for song and intellectual conversation.
Talk of war and Helen’s conundrum. They are arguing of the merit of staying true to one man. Or woman, counters one of our Moms. True, true. But love is abundance, says one of our Moms, and can’t be slivered. Why use the word slivered? Asks another. They ponder this question like their lives depend on it. Cut. Slivered. Diced, offers another. Ha, ha, ha. They crack themselves up.
“Where is she?” they finally ask, conversation dwindling.
“Perhaps she is with—“
“It cannot be.”
“She should be more discrete.”
“But does it matter.”
“She burns brighter than us.”
“That is true.”
Who is she talking about? whispers Kora-Gorgo to Kleis.
“S, of course.”
“Oh, yes. I’m scared of her now,” says Kora.
“Don’t be. One of her truest parables is to be brave.”
They hold hands.
“Well, sing for us, girls,” says one of the Moms.
“Oh, OK.”
We move over to the edge of the garden. The perfume from the plants is making us heady. We sing some verse we know the Moms will enjoy, fragrant songs of spice and love:
The canoe is lovely
Takes us over the wide river
But you are a canoe
Your womanly body
Curved and new
Our Moms clap. Kleis plays a lovely solo on the flute. Her mouth is made for the instrument and we see her lungs fill with air. It’s a trill like a nightingale, beauty immortalized. We clap when she’s done and she takes a bow.
“I wish I could play,” sighs Kora.
“You can. Join our group.”
“You know I can’t,” whispers Kora back. “My life is not meant for that.”
Kleis touches her hair.
We play and sing five more songs. The last song is not melancholy, but festive, getting us in the mood for the wedding we’ll be going to. The Moms seem satisfied and rather drunk; their faces are flushed and their eyes are wide, their hips buoyant as they sway to our songs. Some day we will be with them; S is preparing us for the moment, and in some ways it is easy to see us as mothers and even as old women. We’ll have the same personalities as always—Olive’s cockiness; Aphrodite’s shy reserve; Zoe’s ability to lead us here and there. And the rest of us…
“We want to show you something,” we say. “Before we leave. Our finale.”
We begin the crisp, dynamic gymnastics that we practiced under the apple trees earlier in the day. We twirl in the air and float above the flowers like mad humming birds. We topple like dizzy bees. Then we end in our crooked pyramid. It still needs work, but the Moms love it. They clap and put their heads together, say, We could have done that when we were younger. If only we had courage from S…
“Go, go,” say the Moms, shooing us out of the house. “S wants you at the wedding now. We just got a message. You’ll be late. Hurry, hurry.”
We have spent too much time with our Moms, but is that really our problem? They are our mothers after all, and we like seeing them when they unspool from dignified to unruly. We kiss them on the cheeks and leave. Thea complains of her cramps again as we wander to the wedding. Olive shuffles on a crutch the Moms have provided. Kleis trails in the back with Kora; their kissing is annoying and they’re going to make us late!
We arrive sweating at the gates of the house where the wedding party is to be held. We already hear loud music. Before heading in, we arrange our masks, which have turned askew. We need the masks now.
Achilles’ brother, Alex, is marrying a girl named Daphne. Daphne was in S’s classes with us just a year ago. We do not know if she learned the verses well because she was always sauntering off to be with Alex. She’s a large girl, big-boned, yet somehow she looks delicate, sitting at the long table beside her new husband. Alex looks puffed up like a peacock. Don’t worry, we’ll take him down a notch when the wedding songs begin.
There are other boys there as well—a glut of boys—looking smug, full, and energetic. So, it looks like they’ve eaten already. We wonder why Daphne chose Alex out of all the strong boys with their white teeth and apple cheeks. Alex has bad teeth and likes to wear this black cloak which he thinks makes him look cool. He has even pierced his ears and placed chips of rocks in the holes. It makes him look metallic. He also likes to sing very loudly and bangs spoons on things. I guess Daphne likes that. Doesn’t she know that her destiny is to be secured to the earth, her roots, keeping her in one place for, like, forever? We know our stories. And yes, we are kidding. Truth be told, this is a rushed wedding because of the baby seed wiggling inside Daphne, but you would never know it to look at her.
The boys rush over like they’ve never seen girls before. We can’t help it—they make us giggle and laugh. Their teasing delights us, though we frown. They pet our hair and ask who we are under our masks, though they clearly know us. We hold hands with some of them. Olive pouts. She has no use for the boys.
When S arrives, there’s a hush. The whole banquet gets quiet. Although our esteemed teacher is admired, adored, and loved, she is rather ugly. Her nose is sharp as an eagle’s claws and she’s very short. She’s got a round body. Her hair is rough and coarse as the whiskers on an old lady’s chin. But she’s adorned with graceful flowers in her hair, a ring of bright marigolds and lilacs. And her smile is infectious, beautiful. When we walk near her to get some food from the laden table she smiles and inspects us. She is sitting in a seat of honor. She smells good, as always of the rich earth, myrrh. She is alone. No lover. But she talks with the men, feasts on the olives and meat. Grins and moves her beautiful, white hands. We know she is wondering about the masks which are not customary, and perhaps she is counting us. We try to fold Kora into one of us, so she doesn’t even notice she’s here.
We eat with the boys, sitting at the long table in the back. There are many toasts to the new couple. Daphne blushes, though we think that is silly—her being demure—when we know about the trysts in the fields. But, it is all part of it we suppose, the performance of marriage.
Achilles sits on one side of Kleis and Kora sits on the other. Kleis is left-handed, so her elbow bends in to Kora’s whenever she takes a bite. She pays more attention to Kora, laughing and pointing at the newly-weds—than to Achilles, who begins to pout.
“Who even is this?” asks Achilles.
“We’ll never tell,” we say. “A girl we like.”
“And why are you wearing masks? I can’t see your lovely faces.”
“You’re so funny,” says Thea.
“We forgot to laugh,” we say.
Achilles bangs his spoon on the table and the newlyweds kiss. He is drinking some wine and he passes the goblet around. We are thirsty, after all, parched from our performance. The red opulence of the wine delights. Wine probably shipped back from S’s brother. He is at the party, but looks glum, probably because he misses his prostitute. Most of us don’t know heartbreak, not yet. The wine goes to our head.
It’s just as well because it’s easier to sing the wedding songs when you’ve had a few. It’s dusk when the couple—Daphne and Alex—rise up and walk towards the door of the banquet. As customary, the boys and us trail behind them as we walk to the small, yet elegant structure where the consummation is to take place. When Daphne walks inside she smiles knowingly and we clasp her hands. Alex is puffed up as usual and gives the boys fist pumps.
Who knows what they are actually doing inside? We are a hooting, raucous cheering section, singing songs about cocks and virgins.
We have intermingled with the boys at this point. We sing:
Get your twig ready, Alex,
Raise high the roof beams.
The roof beams could never be
High enough for your size.
We doubt this is true, that Alex has a massive cock, but it’s fun to shout about, in the dusk, as light filters through the trees. We sing so loudly, but the parents don’t care. They are still at the banquet. After a while, it becomes a competition between boys and girls, who can chant louder, who can come up with more clever lyrics. We think that the girls are much more clever.
Then, the competition becomes a little surly. The boys start flexing their muscles and saying how weak we are. We frown back at them, show our own muscles.
“Well, why don’t we make this competition REAL,” says Achilles, glancing at both Kleis and Kora. “We can see who is more fit.”
“But how?” we ask. “It’s not like we’re in the Olympics.”
“We’ll have some competitions. We’ll run and we’ll lift things. See who is actually stronger and faster. Girls or boys.”
“If only I wouldn’t have sprained my ankle,” wails Olive. “I could snap you all like a twig.”
“You wish,” says Achilles. “And if I win, well, Kleis, you’ll be my girlfriend, right?”
Kleis looks at Kora, who nods.
“Are you sure?” asks Kleis?
“I’m sure,” says Kora. “I can do this. WIN.”
And she has reason to be sure because she sets about beating the boys in all categories—strength, agility, speed. We even throw javelins and heavy steel balls. We do pushups and little Aphrodite amazes us. Zoe arranges all the events and keeps score with a stick in the dirt.
Of course, it’s a team effort, so we have a relay as well. We have decided to make the relay the last event—three runners: three boys; three girls. By this time, parents have come to observe. They are cheering us on, yelling our names to the night sky. It’s almost dark now, but a thick line of white rims the sky. A pink blush presses down on the white. Then there is black. Except the moon has come out.
We have agreed to have the three runners sprint down to the river and back, one at a time, for our relay.
“But, Kleis, I don’t think I can run with my mask,” says Kora. “But I can win if I take it off. But S will know who I am if I take it off.”
“It’s OK,” answers Kleis, reaching towards the mask and peeling it off. “Show us what you’re made of.”
“Nothing sweet,” says Kora. “I’m made of strength.”
“You are,” we say.
There’s a gasp with this reveal. The parents know who she is, after all, this poor, lowly farmer’s daughter. S, who was cheering louder than anyone else, turns away. Now there is silence, except for the piercing trill of the nightingale. That’s lucky, we think.
S frowns. She looks like she’s going to call it all off, but a woman beside her touches her arm, speaks quickly, perhaps convinces her of something.
First Kleis runs against a boy named Orion. Kleis’ hair blows in the wind as she pushes herself to the river, then flies back. Regardless of her speed, Orion wins, getting the boys in the lead. Next comes, Thea, regardless of her period she’s one of our fastest, against a long-legged boy named Hermes. This tightens the margin just a bit, but still the boys lead. It’s a ways down to the river and it’s almost impossible to see the runners now. The crowd lights lanterns to see. And last: Kora versus Achilles. First Achilles takes off. He’s running like he’s on fire and he even has his special running shoes on, the ones he wears when he competes with the boys. But then there goes Kora in her bare feet. Feet that are calloused, but strong. She’s gaining on him. We look at S. S is completely still, then she begins to smile. Both Kora and Achilles bend and touch the river at about the same time. But Kora’s turn is quicker, more agile, and as she runs towards the crowd, we know she’s going to win. There’s nothing holding her back—not time, nor class, nor any other wall put up to keep her out. She runs across the line in the dirt, panting, and falls to the ground, with Achilles, a smidge behind her.
“Second place isn’t so bad,” mocks Kleis, to Achilles. He’s mad as sin, kicking his feet on the ground, demanding another run.
“Maybe tomorrow,” says Kleis, glibly.
We’re showing off our dances to the grownups, displaying the throwing moves, cartwheels, and pyramids.
Kleis falls to the ground where Kora is still panting and rolling, out of breath.
“I think I might throw up,” warns Kora, and then she does.
The parents move away in clumps after hugs, and the boys walk down to the river where they skip rocks and toss a ball. We need to get ready for the moonlight ceremony. This is the first for us because we have only been in S’s class for half a year. But the time is right. We have pulled ourselves together after our remarkable feat—beating the boys. We can feel that S is beaming with pride.
“Ladies, please gather around,” she begins. “Do you know why you won?”
We don’t. Luck?
She presses her hand to her chest. “Heart, Ladies, heart. Your team had more heart.”
We touch our chests like her, feel the quick beating, the blood pulsing through our bodies. Zoe, our leader—always our leader—takes a pitcher of drink and douses S with it. Sopping wet, she laughs, and tells us to put our hands in the center.
We do. We reach into the circle, scream, “One. Two. Three. Kalai!” Then we fall into a messy dogpile, all feet and long limbs, and we’ll surely be bruised in the morning, our bodies pressing into the grass and dirt. S looks at Gorgo.
“Gorgo, you may join our group,” she says. “If you are so inclined. I have sent word to your parents, whom I know a bit already. You will join us on scholarship. I would like you girls to compete with the boys. We need your strength.”
S shrugs. “It just makes sense.”.
A ripple of joy goes around our circle. We are holding hands, and we see that Kleis gives Kora’s hand an extra squeeze. Achilles throws a ball and it lands by Kora. She lunges, picks it up, and throws it with bullet-speed back towards him. “Hey!” he says, disgruntled when he can’t catch it, and it lands in the water. The game of toss ends, and the boys’ gazes linger on us as it always does, as it always will, as we prepare for the ceremony.
There’s so much more to tell. The moon has a pull and power that S talked about. But mostly we’re still so keyed up—too keyed up to listen to a science lecture and a song about gods and goddesses. There are other things we learn about that night as well—secrets about life that echo through the ages, that rustle in the wind. But what we learned that night is for another time.
