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

knees.

She caught her breath sharply;

I’d never touched her, not on purpose.

I raised my head to speak

and found myself talking to her belly.

I knew something then:

I’d been jealous of the child inside her;

in the back of my mind

I’d grudged the life of that child.

“Pyrrhos?”

She was bewildered. She touched the crown of my hair.

My heart twisted in my chest.

“Pyrrhos?”

“I came to beg from you, Zosima,

mistress, despoina.

I have to ask a favor,

and you’re not going to believe me — ”

She hunkered down beside me. She was clumsy, these days,

because her belly kept surprising her,

throwing her off balance.

She pressed her palm on the ground.

“Is it about last night? Did you hear me arguing with Phaistus?

Listen. Phaistus isn’t going to sell you.

I’ll make him change his mind.

In his heart, he doesn’t want to. He cares for you.

He’s proud of you. He’s just worried;

he’s afraid of losing his freedom.

But you have nothing to fear,

and no reason to beg. I’m your mother.

The first day you came to this house, I knew it;

It’s my duty to take care of you, and I will.”

“It isn’t that. No, it is that,

but —

I need you to believe me. I can save us:

all of us: you, me, Phaistus —

I can find him a protector.

We won’t have to go away. We won’t lose the shop,

and someday, I’ll be free. This is my chance;

I’ll help Phaistus, and in turn he’ll set me free!”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you. That’s the trouble.

There isn’t time, and I have to leave the city.

Except —

Phaistus will think I’m running away —

and if the guards see me leave through the city gates —

at this hour — without taking the donkey —

I’m not running away. I swear it.

I’ll be gone less than a week. I’ll come back.

You have to get me past the guards,

so they won’t think I’m a runaway,

and you have to tell Phaistus not to come after me.

I swear by Bendis, my mother’s goddess,

and by Hephaistos, who guides my hands —

I’m not lying. I’ll come back — ”

She shook her head.

“You have to tell me more than that!

What should I say to Phaistus?”

“I don’t know! But I’m doing this to help him.

I’ll find him a protector and come back.

Tell him that. He trusts you — ”

“I don’t — ”

“I can’t explain. It doesn’t sound true.

The one who guides my footsteps is a shade.

I’ve seen a ghost. I know it sounds crazy — ”

She opened her mouth. Not a sound came out.

She laid her hand on her belly,

which was round as a full moon.

People look different in the darkness;

in that dark, she was beautiful,

the veil framing her face,

the gleam of her eyes, the gloss of her skin.

She shook her head.

“I can’t. Pyrrhos,

if I let you go, and you never come back — ”

“But I will come back! I promise!”

I thought of what Melisto said:

Give her the thing she wants most in the world,

and she won’t deny you.

It was as if a wave turned over in my chest,

and the words spilled forth. “If you let me go,

when I come back, I’ll be your son:

Slave or free, I’ll love you;

I’ll love you as a son loves his mother,

and be brother to your child.”

Those last five words came hard,

but the others —

I was making a promise I wanted to keep,

That I’d already kept and kept hidden.

She sat very still,

her head tilted to one side,

a bird hearing birdsong. Then she shook herself,

flattened her hand to the earth,

and shoved herself to her feet.

“You’ll need a cloak.”

3.

We parted at the Sacred Gate.

Zosima bade me farewell before the guard

and gave me a bundle to carry:

a loaf for the journey,

a moist lump of cheese.

She said to come back as soon as I could.

Her voice shook. I promised her,

“I will come back.”

I passed under the arch, wondering what she would tell Phaistus.

Would he be angry? (He would.)

Would he send slave-hunters after me? (He wouldn’t.)

I passed the tombs on the road

and thought of Sokrates,

how he said we could bury him any way we liked —

if you can catch me!

if I don’t slip through your fingers!

Then she was beside me: Melisto.

“Follow me!”

She was off. There were others on the path,

farmers bringing their wares to the city,

pilgrims heading for Eleusis —

they couldn’t see her.

She dodged past them, whirled around, dancing backward,

frisking like a goat. Beckoning,

prancing — I was reminded of

being a child,

of tag, and Do-What-I-Do —

but my goal was to go unnoticed.

I dragged the cloak over my head

to cover my Thracian hair

and plodded after her. I felt like a drunkard the morning after.

Dizzy and dry-mouthed,

I walked with grief on one hand

and hope on the other. It was too much —

but there ahead of me was that hoyden girl,

Melisto.

The sun rose, and the grass was wet with dew,

the wind fresh and gusting;

The poppies were in bloom, scarlet and black-eyed.

Melisto stopped to tickle them. The petals passed through her skin.

She couldn’t grasp them, but the color blazed out,

staining her fingers.

Our path slanted upward. We were headed for the mountains.

Away from the city, the crowd thinned,

until we were alone. Then she bounded forward,

leaping like a dog let off its chain.

I had to catch up. I couldn’t risk losing her.

She ran with her fingers outstretched,

growling like a wild beast, giggling.

I pursued her, my bundle clamped under my arm.

The ground smacked my feet. Pebbles skittered underfoot.

My muscles stretched

air filled my lungs,

and I outran my grief. The world opened up

speed and wind and sunlight. I thought, Freedom,

a thing without pictures,

but this is what sticks in my mind:

the two of us

rushing under the sky,

sharp-edged meadow grass

red streaks of poppies

a wide blue world full of air.

Melisto dashed back

breathless

to point out a patch of hairy leaves.

“These are cat’s-ear. Good to eat!

And here’s wild garlic.” She made me taste.

From time to time, she had me mark the trail,

anchoring sticks under rocks. I pulled threads from my cloak

and tied them to tree branches.

“Here! You can see!

This is where the girls passed on their way to Brauron — ”

Again she pointed

and in my mind’s eye, I seemed to see what she saw,

a trail of molten silver, or shining dew,

the marks of small maidens’