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

olives dark as plums;

I was riding Phoibe,

heading for the river to dig clay,

and there he was.

Facing me. Alone. Motionless. His head up,

his eyes open

but unseeing. His arms hung at his sides;

it sent a shiver down my spine.

I know there’s a thing called a stroke.

A man can be struck down by a god;

afterward, he can’t speak.

He loses his voice and the use of his limbs.

I thought Sokrates was struck down.

I didn’t stop to think: What could I do against a god?

I jumped off Phoibe

and ran to him. “Sokrates! Sokrates!”

He didn’t hear me.

A slave doesn’t touch a free man

unless he’s given orders.

I yanked his hairy cloak,

tugged on his hand;

I jiggled it;

he went on staring

at the Invisible;

he was like a corpse on its feet.

I screamed, “Sokrates!”

I thought of the river.

I’d scoop up water,

splash him, sprinkle him, drizzle it down his throat —

I darted forward,

stubbed my toe,

fell —

“Rhaskos!”

His voice: deep and calm,

and peaceful. I raced back to him.

“You were standing there —

just standing there, Sokrates!

I couldn’t make you hear me!”

All my anger, nursed for weeks,

blown away

like smoke sifted by the wind.

“Rhaskos, I’m afraid I startled you.

You caught me when my daimon was upon me.

I have a daimon, you see, a spirit,

a kind of sign;

it comes to me, and I have to pay attention.

The rest of the world falls away. I’ve had it since childhood.”

I know what a daimon is. He didn’t have to tell me.

A daimon’s like a mule,

half god

and half something else.

“I know about daimons,” I started to say,

“but I’ve never met anyone — ”

Then I stopped.

My thoughts began to spin

and wobble

like a pot caving in on the wheel.

I blurted out, “Is it a girl?”

Sokrates gazed at me in wonder.

You probably think I’m boasting. I’m not.

That very first day, when I drew the square

he looked at me like that,

as if I were something

he didn’t know a slave could be.

“I’ve missed you, Rhaskos.

One of the things I enjoy about you:

you never ask the same question

everyone else asks.

People have asked if my daimon is bad, or good,

or why I should have one

when other people don’t.

But no one ever asked if my daimon was a girl.

The truth is, I’ve never seen it.

It’s like a voice I can’t hear.

I seem to be listening. I am full of expectation,

but it never tells me what to do.

It stops me in my tracks.

It’s a kind of holy obstacle.

I don’t understand it,

but I believe it comes from the gods,

so I obey it. But tell me:

Why did you think it was female?”

“I’ve got one,”

I said, and I don’t know why,

but that was funny,

so we laughed.

Again, my tongue was freed:

he was listening. I could tell him things, even crazy things

because he was a little crazy.

I told him about you, Melisto.

He followed me to the river

so I could dig clay.

He sat on a sun-warmed rock

and listened while I worked. He asked me questions.

We wondered if you were a god. He made me laugh, because he said,

when someone talks about a kettle, that’s easy,

because every man means the same thing

when he talks about a kettle.

But when a man talks about something important —

like courage, or justice, or the gods,

half the time,

he can’t say what he’s talking about.

The higher and finer a thing is,

the less men can say what it is.

So it stands to reason that the gods —

who are higher and finer than anything else —

are almost impossible to talk about.

But he thought we ought to try.

He thought we should ask questions.

There wasn’t anything so holy

that he wouldn’t ask questions.

“The gods are said to be beautiful:

is your daimon beautiful?”

I stopped with my spade in my hand. “She isn’t grown up yet.

Her hair is mussed up,

and she has scratches all over her legs.

But I want to look at her. Her face has meaning . . .

If I saw her clearly, it would be like finding out a secret.

That’s as close as I can get.”

“And you’re quite sure she’s someone you never saw before?

In Thessaly, perhaps, when you lived with Menon?”

“No. I never saw her there.

I’ve wondered if she might be a ghost,

but she’s got nothing to do with me.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that, Rhaskos.

You say she follows you,

and she visited you in a god-sent dream.

Ghost or goddess or daimon,

she must have something to do with you.

Could she be one of your ancestors, perhaps

a Thracian girl?”

I wedged my spade in the earth. “She’s dark-haired.

I think she’s Greek. Her skin is sunburnt, with mosquito bites.

The more I think about it,

the less she seems like a god.

Why would a god put up with mosquito bites?”

“A very good point, Rhaskos. Why, indeed?”

“They wouldn’t.

Even a daimon wouldn’t.

She’s not like a ghost. She doesn’t look dead.

Not pale or sickly or shriveled.

Though she has scars — ”

“Scars like yours? Thracian tattoos?”

Trust Sokrates to have a sharp eye!

I looked at my arm —

crusty with dried clay —

it was hard to see the marks that disfigured me.

“My mother made those scars.

I don’t know why she cut me.”

“I do. They’re clan symbols,

the marks of your tribe.

I fought with Thracians in the war.

Many of the men had tattoos.

They’re a sign of noble birth among the men.

Another Thracian could read them, and know your lineage,

and where your people come from.

I haven’t the knowledge. But I’ve seen two Thracians meet,

examine each other’s tattoos,

and throw down their swords. A warlike people, the Thracians;

fine musicians and good horsemen.”

I shook my head from side to side.

My head felt like a beehive. There were too many thoughts

buzzing and zigzagging —

Shadow flashes of that darkest night,

the soot-black stall,

the weight of my mother on top of me,

pinning me down,

cutting me,

rubbing my wounds with ash,

shock

blood

disfigurement.

Now Sokrates was saying I was of noble blood.

My darkness became light:

My mother knew she would be sold —

she knew we would be parted —

she wanted to give me a name. A clan,

a birthright, proof that my forebears were noble;

I was too young to understand,

so she carved the truth on my skin.

“Rhaskos?”

(You no longer seemed real to me, Melisto.

Even Sokrates wasn’t real,

but I knew he was asking me a question.

A slave answers when he’s spoken to.)

“Her scars aren’t