Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

donkey down the path?”

I lifted my head and looked him full in the face.

Disrespectful. What got into me? I think it was that donkey

being beaten every day, on the same path,

by some stupid boy who didn’t know better.

Or maybe it was my soul.

“Your last boy was a fool.

Donkeys are smart. When they balk,

it’s because they think something’s wrong. When a horse is afraid,

it shies and runs away. But a donkey’s different.

A donkey stops to take a look.

A donkey wants to see what’s wrong.

Your boy beat her, and the donkey knew what was wrong.

That path was a bad path,

a path where she was beaten every day.

No wonder she didn’t want to go there.”

He didn’t like the way I spoke.

“You’re right — the boy was a fool —

but it’s not for you to say so.

You’ve a mouth on you, boy, and a savage eye.

You’re not for me.”

He turned away, and the slave trader sang out,

“A hundred and twenty drachmas!”

— but it was too late. The man was walking away.

There was a girl in the marketplace —

when I thought about that later

it didn’t make sense. Athenian girls don’t go to the market,

and she wasn’t a slave, that girl.

Her hair wasn’t cropped, and she walked erect,

Her tunic was short and bright as flame. I’d heard Spartan girls

wear short tunics — thigh-flashers, they call them,

so I thought she was a Spartan girl.

She crossed paths with the man who hadn’t bought me.

She laid her hand on his forearm

and looked into his face. She seemed to speak.

I couldn’t hear her. She was too far away.

The man stopped

as if he’d lost his way. He changed direction,

but she pursued him, matching his stride. She lifted her palms,

touched him, made him look at her.

He came back to the slave trader.

“A hundred drachmas.”

“You’ll beggar me,” complained the trader,

but they went on from there.

“One twenty.”

“One hundred.”

“One fifteen.”

“One hundred.”

“Forget it. He’s strong and he’s healthy, this boy.

They pay more than that at the mines.”

“I’ll pay you one hundred.”

“You’re wasting my time.”

“One hundred. I tell you, I won’t pay more.”

“Are you deaf? I said no!

How can I live if I don’t make a profit?

I’ve children to feed! One hundred and five.”

“One hundred drachmas.”

The trader gave up. One hundred drachmas.

The stranger led me away.

He was a potter and his name was Phaistus.

He spoke in sharp jerks, warning me:

“There’s a proverb. To make pots is to work hard.

I’ll teach you my trade. It takes strength

and it takes skill.

If I tell you to do something and you don’t understand,

you tell me you don’t understand; d’you hear me?

Don’t risk ruining a pot

because you’re too scared to ask a question.

You have to learn.

You’ll treat me with respect. My last boy was lazy,

a fool and a cheat.

I couldn’t turn my back on him. If you’re idle

or you lie to me,

I’ll beat you,

and I’ve a strong arm.

I’m not a rich man. I’ve worked for everything I own.

I’ve a shop and a wife and a slave. Two slaves, now.

As far as my wife goes,

you’ll treat her with respect, too.

If she asks you to help in the kitchen

or weed the garden,

you’ll do it. You’ll tend the donkey,

dig the clay,

do what you’re told, and show me respect.

Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

He led me down a zigzag street

and then another. We came to a shop with a striped awning,

rows of pots on planks,

and a door almost hidden. He took me into the courtyard:

two round pits for clay,

a small house, only one story,

a shed on one side for the donkey.

His wife appeared, a small woman,

thick-waisted, but quick and light on her feet.

I didn’t like her. She clapped her hands at the sight of me.

She smiled so broadly

that one eye squinted and almost vanished.

She scurried forward, led me to the kitchen altar,

and made me kneel down. “Oh, Phaistus, look at his hair!

He’ll be beautiful once he’s healed.

We’ll call him Pyrrhos!” As if I were a dog.

Pyrrhos means fiery.

Half the red-haired slaves in Athens are called Pyrrhos.

I was a new member of the household,

so they poured dried fruit and nuts over my head

and prayed to Hestia that I would prove

fruitful, hardworking, and loyal.

After the ceremony,

the master’s wife — she was called Zosima —

went to the kitchen and tore off a chunk of bread.

She spread soft cheese on it. I felt a dull surprise

that she should give me cheese. The crust was hard.

I was afraid to bite down —

lest my teeth fall out. I asked for a cup of water

and she gave me one. I was so thirsty my hand shook.

They had an old slave, Kranaos,

a man so worn and silent and dry

he was like a dead insect —

he had cheese, too. She wasn’t a good housewife, this Zosima;

she was wasteful. Whatever she and her husband ate,

she gave the same thing to the slaves.

I wasn’t sorry, but it showed she had no sense.

Kranaos slept in the house. When night fell

I went to donkey’s shed.

I made a bed of straw

and pulled my cloak over myself,

but I couldn’t get warm. I was thirsty again,

and everything hurt.

Then she came to the shed: Zosima —

with another blanket, a cup,

and a jar of water. “There’s a sponge inside the jar.

If your face hurts, you can sponge cold water on it.

There’s wine in the cup to help you sleep.”

I stared at her. I couldn’t imagine

why she was trying to take care of me.

There was something pleading about her.

I didn’t understand it. I took the blanket —

it was heavy, thicker than my cloak.

With the straw, I would be warm enough.

“Thank you.”

Her face lit up,

and her eye crinkled shut;

she reached out and patted my shoulder —

as if she were patting a dog.

I gulped down the wine

and felt my head spin.

I wrapped myself up and I slept.

Let him sleep. He thinks he’s alone

except for the donkey. There are mice in the shed,

and a cat on the prowl.

Then there’s you

invisible

following the story,

and me

Hermes, bringer of dreams.

I flick my golden wand,

and his bruised face softens.

He dreams that he’s close to his mother —

but it’s only a dream. She’s far away

dancing off the coast of Skyros.

I’ve been meaning