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In the small peristyle of King Erechtheus’s palace, the women’s quarters grew ever more crowded: one handmaid after another passed along the exciting news that the Thracian guests—those who had sold the king a cargo of timber from Mount Pangaeum—had received permission to display, and, if buyers could be found, to sell the woven fabrics and embroideries crafted by their wives and daughters. Among those who heard the tidings was a young nursemaid of the little prince, a native of the same land as the merchants. For this reason, she was known in the palace simply as Phratta.
Her heart began to beat with anxious hope. She rose, took the child by the hand, and made her way toward the peristyle.
“Where are you going?” grumbled Eurynome, the other nursemaid, who tended the king’s younger daughter, Creusa. She was older than Phratta, and, being Greek, felt herself immeasurably superior.
“To see the embroidery… Won’t you come?”
Eurynome merely shrugged.
“As if you could impress me—me, the pupil of the late Queen Praxithea! Only Pallas herself stood higher than she—hail to her, guardian of the city! And you’d do well not to go either. You already meddle too much with those mustachioed men in trousers.”
Truth be told, Phratta was glad Eurynome did not follow. Still holding the child’s hand, she entered the peristyle, where trade was in full swing. Bargaining, jesting, laughter filled the air. The housekeeper, Nicostrata, tried to maintain decorum, but order was no longer what it had been in the days of the late queen.
“How much for this shawl?” haggled a young slave girl.
“Half a mina.”
“Take thirty drachmas.”
“Only if you throw yourself in as a bonus.”
The crude joke, spoken in broken Greek, brought peals of laughter from the crowd. Seizing the moment, another merchant whispered to Phratta in Thracian:
“Tonight, at the hour when the oxen are unyoked. Understand, Karaksta?”
“I understand. But you, Adosf, won’t betray me?”
“Fear not. But come alone—don’t bring the boy.”
“Of course, I won’t leave him.”
“Very well, then. And now, my beauties,” he called out loudly in Greek, “I shall show you wares you’ve never seen before. You’ll pledge your soul, yet never carry them home.”
That evening, many silver owls passed into the pouches of the Thracians; indeed, they might have carried off all of them, had not the parting rays from Mount Hymettus signaled to the traders that it was time to break off.
“Will you come again tomorrow?” asked one particularly insatiable buyer.
“We’ll come, my beauties, we’ll come,” replied the mustachioed man. “But bring more silver owls next time.”
And so they began packing their unsold goods into crates.
Meanwhile, in the inner chamber, Eurynome rocked little Creusa in her arms. The child wept:
“I want my brother! Where is my brother?”
“Don’t cry, my little orphan. Your brother will come,” and she continued to sing her lullaby:
You’ll be a queenly bride,
A queen’s daughter-in-law.
Where your foot treads, look—
Roses shall bloom and spread…
But the girl would not be consoled. She kept crying:
“I want my brother! Where is my brother?”
2
“Nurse, it’s so frightening all around. Only water, water—nothing but water as far as I can see.”
“Pray to the Nereids, my dear one, and fear will pass.”
“But how should I pray to them?”
“Raise your hands as you always do when you pray.”
“Like when I pray to our protector, the maiden Pallas?”
“Yes, my darling—only stretch your hands toward the sea. And say: ‘Mighty Nereids, grant us a safe voyage.’”
“Mighty Nereids, grant us a safe voyage! Nurse, where are these Nereids?”
“Out there, my child, in these blue waves. We just cannot see them.”
“No, nurse, I can see them. There—and there—and there. So many, so many Nereids. And they’re so beautiful—just like you.”
“Hush, hush, my love! A mortal like me must not be compared to goddesses—they’ll be offended.”
“Are they angry, then?”
“No, they are angry only toward the wicked, but kind to the good, and they save them from storms and cliffs. Our ship would long ago have perished had they not shown us kindness.”
“So everyone here is good?”
The nurse fell silent. She thought to herself that if what she had said were true, their ship would already lie at the bottom of the sea.
“And that uncle who kissed you earlier—is he good too?”
The nurse fell silent and blushed.
“Nurse, where are we sailing?”
“To your aunt, my sweet.”
“What aunt?”
“Have you never heard of your Aunt Procne, your father’s sister? Or of your other aunt, Philomela?”
The boy’s face suddenly took on a frightened expression.
“I have, nurse. I heard the little princess’s nurse speaking of them with Nicostrata. But she said something dreadful, and Nicostrata wept. Tell me, nurse—what happened?”
“Well, your Aunt Procne was married to Tereus, king of the land we are now sailing to.”
“What did he look like, this Tereus?”
“He looked like that uncle who… who is traveling with us.”
“Did he wear trousers too? And did he have such long, funny mustaches?”
Adosf happened to be passing by. Hearing the child’s words, he shook his head in displeasure and muttered something angrily in his own tongue.
“Was he angry too?”
“No, my dear, but you mustn’t laugh at this man—he doesn’t like it.”
“Tell me about Aunt Procne. Did Tereus take her far away?”
“Yes, he carried her off.”
“And then what?”
“Then your Aunt Procne lived with him happily, and they had a little son—Itys.”
“Nurse, I didn’t know I had a brother. I thought I only had my sister Creusa…”
The child suddenly grew sad.
“I want my sister! Where is my sister?”
“Don’t grieve, my love. We’re going to meet your brother. Well, she lived, she lived—your aunt—and then she grew homesick for her sister, just as you are now. So she said to her husband: ‘My beloved, bring my sister Philomela to me.’ And Tereus sailed again to Athens, took your Aunt Philomela, and brought her home…”
“And then what?”
“And then… things turned ill. He wronged your Aunt Philomela. You won’t understand now, my dear, but when you’re grown, you will.”
“Was he angry?”
Adosf passed by again. Seeing the boy, he frowned.
“As angry as this uncle?”
Adosf heard these words and sharply tugged the child’s ear. The boy burst into tears.
“Nurse, how dare he hurt me!”
Phratta spoke sharply to the man in her own language, but he shouted back at her. Then she too burst into tears and helplessly pressed the child to her breast.
“What have I done, gods? What have I done!”
3
The resinous fragrance of the pine grove, steeped in the warmth of the spring day, gently drifted on the evening breeze. The sun sank behind the blue ridge of Mount Pangaeum, casting slanting rays upon a colossal wooden idol of a wild goddess—brandishing two spears, her right knee planted upon the back of a fallen doe. Beneath her sat a man no less wild in appearance, wearing a wolf-skin cap from which a pair of horns jutted menacingly. He addressed a group of men in short, abrupt speeches, among whom was Adosf. A little apart, Phratta sat in silence, holding the child.
At first, the boy curiously observed the idol of the wild goddess and the wild men. What were they doing? Before the horned man lay wooden sticks; after each answer from Adosf, he would pick one up and notch it with a knife. He washed down his work with generous draughts of wine, a practice mirrored by all the other men. It was becoming decidedly dull.
Hush… what was that sound from the bushes? The song of a nightingale. Just like in Athens, in the grove of Colonus. But much closer now—he could clearly see the singer herself. She flitted from branch to branch, gazing at him with bright, intelligent eyes, so friendly and familiar. He felt as if he could almost reach out and catch her. No, she wouldn’t come to hand, but neither did she fly far away, singing on and on—so sweetly, so tenderly. Oh, little bird of the gods, if only I could understand what you’re trying to tell me!
Now she flitted to the highest twig and seemed to call someone. Indeed, someone came flying. Such a comical fellow—brown, with black-and-white wings and a huge crest. He arrived and said, “Hoop-hoop! Hoop-hoop!” That must mean: “Here I am; what’s your command?” And clearly, the songstress gave him an order—he flew off again. Once more, the nightingale’s song filled the grove—tender, sweet, and yet so sorrowful, so deeply sorrowful. It made the boy want to weep.
Hush… a harsh cry echoed from above, and a pair of great wings blotted out the sun. I know: it’s a hawk. Father and I saw one like it on Lycabettus. Dear one, flee! But no, she didn’t even think of fleeing. The hawk, descending, perched atop the pine and gazed down at the boy. It was terrifying! But the nightingale sang louder than before, and its song drove the fear away.
“Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!”
Ah, I know: it’s my old friend from the Acropolis—our dear owl, Pallas’s bird. Now there was nothing to fear. There she sat on the lower, thick branch of the pine—still, watching, and almost smiling with her round face. And even the little bird wasn’t afraid: it hopped right onto her head and began cleaning its beak on her feathers. That must mean: “Hello!”
Ah, they’ve interrupted! But no matter—it’s for the better. They’ve brought a bowl of milk and a chunk of bread. I’m hungry anyway. And I can still feed the little bird with crumbs. Here, dear one! What’s this? She notices, but won’t take the crumbs, only shaking her head. Clearly, she finds them tasteless. And what’s this? A whole flock of finches—two, three, many. And the crumbs are gone—picked clean. How friendly they are here!
“Hoop-hoop! Hoop-hoop!”
Ah, here comes my old acquaintance again. And what a company he’s brought: magpies, jays, woodpeckers, thrushes, wagtails, tits. But the swiftest of all is the swallow: she flies in, lands on his hand, bows her head, and chirps away. Oh, sweet one, how I wish I could understand you—but I cannot.
The grove filled with birds, flocking in from all directions, as if to a council. On every branch sat several—chattering, squawking, singing, each in their own voice.
…But suddenly, another noise shattered the boy’s reverie. Adosf had finished his report and emptied from his wineskin a heap of silver tetradrachms. The horned man counted them—evidently, he was pleased.
“And now,” Adosf concluded, “take your reward and your share. After profit comes plunder. First prize—this woman. Second prize—the boy, an Ionian. Small, but strong; when he grows, he’ll make a fine slave.”
“Bring them here,” said the horned man.
“Come, Karaksta,” Adosf said, “go to the king.”
She sprang up, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“What? Have you lost your senses? Are you selling your own wife into slavery?”
“What wife? As if I’d take a Greek slave for a wife!”
“Adosf! But you swore to me that I would be your wife, and that this child would be our son!”
“And who told you, fool, to believe such oaths?”
“Traitor! Perjurer! May our mighty goddess Bendis punish you!”
“And you? You betrayed your own masters—yet you expect loyalty from a stranger? Move—go to the king!”
The wretched woman wailed:
“What have I done, gods? What have I done!”
And snatching the child in her arms, she fled into the grove like a madwoman, straight into the gathering dusk. The Thracians rushed after her, but their legs betrayed them—too much Ismaric wine had they drunk—and they fell behind. More successful was the aerial pursuit: all the birds flew after the fugitive, but they were no threat.
Further and further, down the wild slope of Pangaeum.
Suddenly, Phratta cried out and dropped the child—the ground vanished beneath her feet, and she plunged into the abyss. One more cry from the bottom of the ravine, and then—deathly silence.
4
But the child did not follow her there. As he fell, he immediately felt something soft, warm, and feathery beneath him. He clutched at it with his little hands—and instantly realized he was holding the neck of the hawk.
The hawk flapped his heavy wings and soon glided smoothly down with his burden to another part of the ravine. The boy stood on his feet.
All around was darkness. Above, he saw a steep cliff; beyond it, the sky studded with stars. Before him—bushes and trees.
“Nurse! Nurse!”
All was silent. Receiving no answer, he burst into tears.
“Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!”
He wiped his tears. Thank the gods—he wasn’t alone. His old Acropolis crone was here too. The call came again. He followed its direction. Strange—it seemed to come from within the rock itself. Ah, now he saw: a cave in the cliff, and from its depths two glowing sparks shone forth. It was she—his guardian, the kind bird of Pallas.
He entered the cave. Dry, warm, fragrant—someone’s care had clearly brought thyme from the upper slopes of Pangaeum. The floor was stone—but suddenly, something soft. He felt with his hand—a bed of dry leaves, covered with soft downy feathers. As if someone had prepared a little bed just for him.
He lay down and instantly fell asleep. The owl flew in and covered him with her broad wings.
So passed the night.
When the sun of the next day peered into the cave, it beheld a strange sight: the owl sat over the sleeping child like a brooding hen, motionless. But with the sun, the nightingale of the previous day flew in and chirped cheerfully:
“You’re still here, Nyctimene? Thank you for warming my boy!”
“I suppose I should be thanked,” replied the owl. “After all, I missed my night’s hunting and must go to sleep with an empty belly. Well, once is fine—but next time, please think of something else.”
“I’ve already thought of something. I sent the jay and the wren to retrieve the woolen chlaina from that poor woman—it’s drying on the anthill now. Then we’ll give it to the child as a blanket.”
“Drying?”
“Yes. She fell straight into the stream, and sand has already half-buried her. Just as well—no need to dig a grave.”
“But how will you feed him?”
“I’ve thought of that too. Grandfather Hyp—him who saved him yesterday—promised to bring me a milk-sack filled with goat’s milk from a Thracian village. And for bread, I sent the magpies—they’re expert thieves. And here they come.”
Indeed, three magpies flew into the cave, each with a ring-shaped loaf around its neck. Immediately, a clamor arose: “Hail, Procne! Hail, Procne! Where is your husband?” and so on. The boy raised his head and rubbed his eyes.
“There, he’s awake,” said the owl. “Now I may rest after a hungry night. My eyes have long been closing—just as we say in Attica, I’ve quite owled myself. Wish me a peaceful day, my little ones.”
And she retreated into the darkest corner of the cave.
“Where is your husband?” the magpies persisted.
“That, my friends, is a secret.”
“We won’t tell anyone.”
“As if I’d believe you. No—better tell me this: where did you leave old Hyp?”
“He flew with us, but fell behind—he’s burdened with his catch. But still, about your husband…”
“I sent him for herbs. Which ones? I won’t say, no matter how much you beg. Nemesis forbids. Ah, Hyp—welcome! I see you didn’t forget yourself—you’ve a milk-sack in your claws, and a chicken in your beak, it seems?”
“One must think of Nyctimene too,” replied Hyp, carefully placing the milk-sack on the floor and taking the chicken in his talons. “Hey, aunt! Wait before sleeping—let’s divide the spoils.”
From deep within the cave came an approving “hoot-hoot,” and the hawk vanished.
The boy still lay half-asleep, rubbing his eyes.
“Hoop-hoop! Hoop-hoop!”
“And here you are, Tereus. Just in time. I see you found the herb?”
“I found it, wife. I scoured all of Pangaeum. Called all the snakes—none knew. ‘Are all here?’ I asked. ‘No,’ they said, ‘the oldest viper is missing—her body is stiff, she cannot coil.’ ‘Then drag her here,’ I said.”
“Wait, don’t tell yet. Thank you, my dears—leave your loaves here and fly to the cuckoo. Say that Procne sends greetings and tells of the fire-tail who hatched a suspicious chick—takes after neither mother nor father…”
The magpies shot out of the cave like arrows.
“Now go on.”
“So I said, ‘Drag her here.’ Two young snakes went, tied their tails in a knot around the old hag, and dragged her. I spoke to her. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there remains one such herb, deep in the lowest ravine of Pangaeum—but how can I crawl there?’ Luckily, an owl was nearby; he wound the viper around his neck and lit the path with his eyes like lanterns. We searched and searched—and found it.”
“Excellent.”
She took the herb in her beak, flew to the half-awake child, and hovering over his open mouth, squeezed it so that its juice dripped into his lips. After three drops, she flew aside.
The boy awoke fully.
5
“Good morning, nephew! Did you sleep well?”
The boy jumped to his feet and looked around.
“Who’s speaking? Nurse, is it you?”
“No, my dear. You have no nurse anymore. It is your Aunt Procne who speaks to you—the one you were visiting when you were once a woman, now a nightingale. I spoke to you yesterday, but you could not understand. Today, I have made it so that you can understand me—and all other birds. But first, have your breakfast—milk and bread.”
The boy’s astonishment quickly faded, replaced by hunger. After eating heartily, he searched with his eyes for his speaker.
“Aunt!”
“Yes, my dear?”
“What shall we do now?”
“We’ll go for a walk. I want to show you my kingdom. Surely you’ve heard: I am queen of these lands.”
The boy stepped out of the cave. The little bird, flitting from bush to bush, from rock to rock, showed him the way. The valley where Hyp had carried him was walled off from the world on one side by a sheer cliff; on the other side of the stream lay gentle slopes, partly wooded, partly covered in green grass. There his guide led him. He asked her about every bird, every flower, and she answered all. Tired from walking, he lay down beneath a bush; the bird hopped onto a branch just above his head and began her familiar song.
Now he understood the song—it was a lament for Itys, lost in infancy, slain by his mother’s hand. Sadness filled his heart.
“Aunt,” he asked when she finished, “how could such a thing happen?”
“In the heat of passion, my dear.”
“In the heat of what?”
“In the heat of passion. Do you know what passion is?”
“No, aunt, I don’t. Please explain.”
“Listen, then. You know I became wife to Tereus, king of Thrace?”
“I do.”
“Now understand: I loved my sister, your other aunt, Philomela—loved her so fiercely I could not live without her.”
“Is that passion?”
“Yes, my dear—that is passion. One of many passions.”
“Aunt, I have a sister, Creusa, and I love her very much. You’ve reminded me of her, and now I feel sad.”
“That, my friend, is not yet passion—it is steady, brotherly love. But I could not live without Philomela. So I said to my husband: ‘Beloved, bring my sister from Athens.’”
“And did he bring her?”
“He did—but there the crime began. He fell in love with her himself.”
“Passionately?”
“Yes, passionately.”
“Was that wrong?”
“Very wrong. Tell me: did your father have a wife?”
“Of course—my mother.”
“Did he love another woman enough to make her his wife alongside your mother?”
“No.”
“You see? But my husband loved my sister just so. And when she refused, he…”
“Wronged her?”
“Yes—terribly wronged her—so terribly I cannot even tell you.”
“But why did he do it?”
“Under the power of rage, my dear. See: rage too is a kind of passion.”
“And then what?”
“I found out. And then something terrible happened to me. I wanted to avenge my sister—to avenge her as no one ever had. To kill him was not enough. I needed something worse.”
The boy looked at her in bewildered silence. He remembered a nurse’s companion he had always feared—she had suddenly vanished, and he was told she had killed a man. So she, he thought, must have been like that then.
“You cannot understand, my dear, but believe me: of all passions, the thirst for vengeance is the most terrible. And yet, I would not have done what I did, had it not been for one more thing…”
“But what did you do?”
Procne answered slowly, deliberately:
“I killed our little son, Itys.”
“Oh!”
“Out of vengeance, of course. But there was something else. You cannot possibly understand—you are still too young. But tell me: did they tell you who Dionysus is?”
“They did: he taught our countryman Icarius to make wine, and Icarius taught others. This was in the time of my grandfather, your father Pandion. Since then, we celebrate annual festivals for him—the Rural Dionysia, the Lenaia, the Anthesteria. They are very joyful.”
“That is not all. Did they tell you of the mysteries of Dionysus, his nightly orgies on the mountains? Though why do I ask—you do not know them yet. But here, in Thrace, they are long known and observed. Try to understand me: in these rites, a man falls into ecstasy—everything seems vast, overwhelming. In such ecstasy I and my sister fell—and together we killed Itys.”
“And he—your husband?”
“He rushed at us with a sword. But the gods took pity. I wanted to flee—and suddenly I felt I was flying, growing smaller, smaller. I looked around and saw the same was happening to them. And since then, I am the nightingale, Philomela the swallow, and Tereus the hoopoe.”
“Praise the great gods! But explain one thing: I saw you with your husband—calling to each other, no enmity between you. I do not understand.”
“That is because, having become birds, we have descended below passion.”
“Below passion?”
“Yes. You heard me lament in song for Itys, whom I myself killed. Yes, I grieve for him, and this grief will never leave me. But grief is not despair, not passion. We birds can grieve, but not despair. So too with anger: what anger can a bird feel? She ruffles her feathers—but the next moment, forgets. No, true passions belong only to you, to humans.”
“How strangely you put it—‘below passion.’ And tell me: are you happier now, living thus?”
“Yes, my dear, much happier. And I have often thought: if the gods performed another miracle, if they restored my Itys to life, I would strive to keep his soul below passion too. And now the gods have performed that miracle—they have given me you, my brother’s son, you, the orphan. Now you shall be my son, and I shall be a mother to you. I want you to be truly happy—and for that, you too must, like us, merge with our common Mother-Earth and live by her laws. And so it shall be.”
She sang again. But now her song was new—a solemn hymn in honor of the universal Mother-Earth. Her trills rose, stronger and stronger, filling the grove, awakening it, carrying it away. And the grove answered the call of its queen; all the birds, all the trees echoed her—no longer a grove, but a magical, colossal lyre, playing the eternal song of the universal Mother, the nourishing Earth. The boy stood enchanted: it seemed the clouds crowning the peak of Pangaeum parted, and he saw beyond them the blessed host of Olympian gods. They heard the lyre of Mother-Earth—and in reply, Apollo took up his own, playing a song of the boundless sky. And these two songs, merging, carried his soul on their wings into the blue, cloud-piercing distance.
6
Procne kept her promise. She never left the boy for a moment: by day she led him everywhere, showed him all things, explained them; and at night, before settling on her branch before the cave to sleep, she lulled him to rest with a lullaby. His sustenance and safety were the concern of Hyps and Nyctimene. Hyps, in particular, proved most effective. Ruthlessly he plundered the Thracian village for the sake of his charge, and especially the estate of the wicked Adosphas, though he was ably assisted in this by the magpies under his command. Nyctimene, for her part, cast terror upon any creature daring to approach the boy’s cave.
Gradually, the boy’s soul became ever more deeply entwined with the children of the Great Mother. As he learned to understand their voices, he began to answer them in their own tongue, and they in turn came to understand him. Inevitably, he thus became attuned to their cares, to all that formed the essence of their light and carefree lives. Slowly, all memories of his distant homeland faded from his mind: though he retained his human form, in thought and feeling he had become a bird among birds—smallest and most ignorant of them all.
Summer passed, autumn’s breath stirred the air—Procne felt the familiar melancholy of the season. She knew this longing, growing stronger each day, would soon compel her to abandon her resting place and fly far away to snowless lands. And doubly sorrowful she felt at the thought of what would become of her foster child in her absence. “How could I not have thought of this before?” she said to herself, finding no solution to her grief. Yet, while she fruitlessly racked her brain and consulted with Tereus and Nyctimene, another Mother—far wiser and more foresighted—took matters into her own hands. After the autumn equinox, the boy grew increasingly drowsy, missed the sunrise, lay down before sunset, barely touched the food Tereus brought him, and scarcely answered Procne’s questions. Then, on the evening when the Pleiades sank beneath the sea, he no longer left the cave.
At first, Procne feared he might be dead. But bending close to his lips, she perceived the faintest beat of his heart beneath his tunic, and her feathers gently sensed his breath. “He has fallen into winter’s sleep!” she said to herself. She summoned all the birds she knew and bade them pluck down from their breasts until a mound of soft fluff covered the boy. Nyctimene spread a blanket over him, and cranes carried stones to weigh it down. Then Tereus and his friends blocked the cave’s entrance with fallen branches, leaving only a small opening for Nyctimene. Procne sang a farewell song to her sleeping son, and then took flight.
Winter came, stormy and snow-laden. A dense white wall sealed the cave’s entrance—within, the little Athenian guest slumbered peacefully on the warm lap of Mother Earth, beneath a warm covering woven by her children.
And when, with the coming of spring, the wall melted away, and the grove turned green once more—Procne returned and awakened her beloved with a summoning song. It took time for him to shake off the winter’s torpor; even rising from his soft bed was difficult. And when he at last succeeded, several days passed before he could fully grasp who he was and what he had been, before he could link this spring to the autumn gone by. But slowly, life reclaimed its rights—life in nature and with nature, light, carefree, and serene.
Again came spring, summer, autumn, again winter with its sleep; and so year after year. The boy grew; Procne, with Tereus and Nyctimene, decided it was time he learned to care for himself. One morning, Hyps arrived clutching a lamb in his talons, stolen from Adosphas’ flock; then a second, a third, several more. The youth was taught to tend them; a stable was built in a neighboring cave, for Nyctimene declared she would not tolerate filth in her own. The boy became a shepherd.
His bond with the earth deepened ever more. He sensed directly all changes in the wind’s direction and strength, in the warmth and moisture of the air; without the birds’ guidance, he could now foresee the weather of the morrow. It seemed to him even that his soul dissolved into the surrounding nature, that he shared in the joy and sorrow of every tree, every bird. He understood why all of nature was happy, even when individual beings suffered. Yes, the mouse feels pain when Nyctimene devours it—but the mouse is but a fragment of nature, whereas nature knows herself not only in such fragments, but in more complete parts, and above all in her totality—as the Great Mother Earth. Men do not know this, he thought; they apply to us their own measure, the measure of individuals, and suppose we too have the unhappy, even that the unhappy outnumber the happy. But it is not so: we are all happy, because we are all one.
Did these thoughts arise within him, or had Procne whispered them into his soul? He could not tell. So deeply had he merged with her that it seemed their dialogue consisted in singing the same melody together. And for this awareness, he was doubly blessed.
Convinced of this, Procne decided the time had come to offer the youth his final trial. She began by bidding him dig beneath the roots of an oak. He obeyed, and found a clay jar containing a leather pouch filled with gold coins of Eastern mint. “Bind it to your belt,” she said. “It will serve you among men.” Then she told him the latest news from Attica—that King Erechtheus, his father, had grown old and would soon die; that he himself was believed lost; that the people looked upon his sister Creusa as their future queen. “If you wish,” she concluded, “you may return to Athens and claim your rights. I shall guide you to the harbor of Nine Ways; from there, ships sail daily to Greece—you will find one bound for Athens. For one of your golden coins, any captain will take you aboard. Do you wish it?”
The youth listened with only half an ear to her tale of his homeland, frequently interrupting to call back a sheep that had strayed too far. Her final question made him calmly but firmly shake his head.
“Long live my fair sister Creusa, future great queen of god-given Athens! To her belongs the house of Erechtheus; to me belong you, and Nyctimene, and Hyps, and all and everything.”
Procne’s heart trembled with joy. “Yes,” she thought, “now you are mine, and mine alone.”
Yet she did not yet know she was mistaken. Nor did the youth himself.
Still, each year he felt more strongly that within some hidden depth of his soul, something undissolved and indissoluble was awakening—and especially in spring, the presence of this new beginning was most keenly felt. What it was, he could not name. A vague longing, a yearning, a sweet torment. The warm, moist southern wind filled his chest with vital force, yet seemed to promise something—something undefined, yet sweet and unattainable. And then he would weep—without knowing why.
Once he had a terrifying dream. That day, the southern wind blew with an especially fragrant tenderness, and the youth was wholly given over to his vague reveries. In the dream, he—who had never thought of his homeland—found himself in his father’s house, clearly seeing a small event from his childhood, long thought vanished from memory. The house was full of guests; his mother Praxithea’s kinswoman, the wife of a certain Metion, had come, bringing her daughter, named after her father—Metionia. Both mothers were proud of their children: one had a daughter among many sons, as Praxithea had a son among many daughters. In jest, they exchanged their children’s garments: the prince spent the day dressed in Metionia’s gown, and she in his little tunic. And now, in the dream, he felt an indescribable bliss in this exchange.
He awoke with the name Metionia on his lips. “Tell me of Metionia,” he asked Procne. She was surprised; then he told her of his dream. “Of Metionia,” she said, “I know only that she is to serve as kithonokos with Creusa at Pallas’ festival, and that many dispute which of the two is fairer. But her father Metion brings much trouble and sorrow to your father; he leads the discontented and openly declares that upon the king’s death, the throne should pass to him and his sons.”
The youth listened impassively to Procne’s last words, only repeating silently to himself: Metionia. Now all the sweetness of his dreams and hopes centered upon this name; he breathed it in with the fragrant moisture of the southern wind. But it was only a name—no definite image accompanied it. True, he often asked himself what Metionia looked like; he tried to answer: “Just as my nurse did”—but immediately rejected the thought with indignation. No, he only felt Metionia, but did not picture her.
He carved her name into the bark of a spreading oak—Procne had taught him to write, showing him letters from an Attic olive amphora stolen by Tereus from Adosphas’ estate. He adorned the name with flowers and poured sheep’s milk upon it on the nights of the new moon.
And the most tender, the sweetest of Procne’s songs he named “the song of Metionia.” She often sang it to him, and he would gaze into the distance, breathing in the warm, fragrant breath of the southern wind.
So three more years passed. The boy had become a youth.
7
And once again, the scent of spring filled the air. Procne, returning from distant lands, sang her usual greeting song over her charge—but this time, she could not wake him. It was a strange, binding sleep; his chest heaved violently—visions, one more restless than the next, endlessly passed before the eyes of his soul.
He awoke in the night.
A strange life surged through the mountain. The wind whistled through the grove, snapping dry, and sometimes even green, branches. Wolves, driven from their dens, darted from the thickets; night birds, forgetting their hunt, flew wildly to and fro. All seemed possessed by the same feeling—searching for something—until suddenly, as if finding it, they all rushed uphill, following the wind. The youth, moved by the same impulse, ran with them. Soon he understood why: through the wind’s whistle pierced the sound of a lyre. There was something irresistibly compelling in those tones: once heard, one could think of nothing else, feel nothing else. The farther they went, the greater the throng became: all the beasts of Pangaeum covered the ground, all the birds darkened the sky, dimming the light of the young moon. Up the mountain! All up the mountain! What was this? Even the trees could not stand firm—somehow they seemed to tear from their roots and silently glide across the green carpet. Now the upper meadow—how many people! All kinds—men and women, some holding smoking torches, others cedar branches tipped with cones. And there, on the rock, stood a sorcerer with a lyre in hand. Now he sang—and the lyre was forgotten…
“Hear all! Be enlightened, people! Far from us are those whose souls are dead, whose hearts do not stir at the sound of my lyre. Let them depart: in my song, they shall find not salvation, but death.”
A wail rose from the crowd; a hundred or two men and women broke away and, heads bowed, walked down the mountain. But the youth remained: his heart trembled joyfully in anticipation of wonders to come.
“Hear all! In my song you shall hear the meaning of your lives. Do you see him? I see him. O mystery of the redeeming marriage—the marriage of the heavenly king and the queen of the underworld. Do you see him? I see—the tempter youth, beauty above beauties, the primal Dionysus.
“We see, we see! Blessed be he! Evohe, Dionysus!”
“Come, fair one! Come, pure one! You shall receive a world defiled by the violence of fathers and ancestors, and in your hands it shall be reborn in purity and justice, and all shall be reborn with it.”
“Come, fair one! Come, pure one! Evohe, Dionysus!”
“Do you see them? I see them. O malice of hidden vengeance! Were the Titans freed from their chains only to raise their bloody hands against him, the fair one, the pure one? Woe! Woe! In their hands is bronze, but not swords, not spears—smooth bronze, shining bronze. It does not thirst for blood, but for image, it sucks out his image, the fair one’s, the pure one’s. He is no longer whole, the primal Dionysus; his power is shattered into twelve forms. Flee, my beloved! Reunite yourself, that reunited, you may renew us!”
“Woe! Woe! Flee, flee, primal Dionysus!”
“Do you see him? I see him no more. He is torn apart, consumed; twelve bodies have devoured his flesh. No more redeemer, no more renewer—the Titans have swallowed the primal Dionysus!”
“Woe! Woe! No redeemer, no renewer!”
“Do you see? I see! Something red lies trembling—this is the last hope of rebirth, the heart of the primal Dionysus. Save it, Pallas! Bear it to your heavenly father: let him take back into himself what he once cast forth.”
“Save it, Pallas! Save Dionysus!”
“O mystery of the renewing marriage—the marriage of the heavenly king and the Theban princess. Lightning strikes—the bridal chamber burns. It consumes the mortal flesh of the mother—grieve not, people! The divine fruit survives; our savior is returned, son of Semele, the second and eternal Dionysus.”
“Our savior is returned! Evohe, Dionysus!”
“Hear all! In my song you shall hear the meaning of your lives.
O people! O blood of the blood of the Titans! Did you not know that two natures war within the shell of your bodies? From the Titans comes all that divides, all that isolates. From them come birth and death, from them the weary cycle of being. But Dionysus is in you too, the scattered fragments of the primal redeemer. He longs to reunite from dispersion into that former, single, great essence.
Do you hear, people, this call? I hear it! This is the call of the second Dionysus, son of the Theban princess, heir to the heart of the primal redeemer. Gather, gather, people! Unite from dispersion, with one another and with me, and we shall recreate the single essence of the primal Dionysus. Then shall the weary cycle of births and deaths be broken, and eternal bliss of undivided being shall dawn.
Gather, gather, people! Taste the bliss of merged, bodiless being! Dionysus calls you to his mysteries; he shall let you taste, in nights of ecstasy, the bliss of the new eternal essence awaiting the souls of the initiated beyond death.”
The prophet fell silent. The crowd, too, was silent, enchanted by his song—but the silence did not last long. Timbrels droned, cymbals rang. “To the dances! To the dances!” And the mountain trembled with frenzied dancing. White hands flashed before the youth’s eyes, flushed, glowing faces—Bacchantes, Bacchae—especially the Bacchae. He warmly clasped those hands, greeted those smiling faces—all seemed one family of brothers and sisters. Words were spoken; he did not understand them, yet the words were kind, joyful.
Indeed, he did not wish to understand; the main thing was the dance, ecstatic, rapturous dance. He felt no feet beneath him: with his whole being he surrendered to this maddening, all-shattering whirl. He rejoiced—and awaited even greater joys—awaited the miracle of merged, bodiless being.
And suddenly—sharp, hostile cries. What was this? Nothing could be understood; yet something alien had intruded, shattering the unified ecstasy. Ah, there they were: a mob of villagers, armed with whips and clubs, crashing into the Bacchae, seizing them. The women fought back, broke free. At their head, a giant with huge, already graying mustaches. Of course they called him: “Adosphas! Adosphas!”
Adosphas! At that name, something rose from the deepest recesses of the youth’s soul—something terrible, crimson. He looked at him: who stood before him? A Thracian peasant? No! Now he felt it himself, though without understanding—within the Dionysian frenzy, the giant seemed monstrous. This was a Titan! A Titan! Ah, so you dared lay hands on the royal infant? Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance for Dionysus! What was happening to him? Oh yes, now he understood: of all passions, the thirst for vengeance is the most terrible.
Adosphas! Adosphas! There he is, the Titan—rushing forward, raising his club. Another moment—and its heavy, iron-shod end would crush his skull. But the youth did not wait. One instant—and the club, wrenched from the giant’s hand, flew far into the thicket; one instant—and the giant himself fell backward; one instant—and the fearsome head with its mustache, spinning and spraying blood, crashed dully against the neighboring rock…
The villagers fled; the Bacchae pursued them. Evohe! Evohe! Again the timbrels, again the cymbals. The youth started to run too, but his legs failed him. He felt sudden exhaustion—and something else, something gnawing, piercing, tormenting. He fell to the ground and wept.
Evohe! Evohe! These sounds he still heard from afar; they faded into the night air. And the wind was gone, the beasts and birds vanished, all was silent. Silent? No—just above him, a song arose. The song of a nightingale. So mournful, heart-rending. Sing, little bird, sing, beloved! Ah, if only I could understand what you wish to tell me!
8
The next night—again the same. No one had planned it, no one commanded it; yet it was a true pilgrimage. The frenzied band streamed down from Pangaeum into the valley, crossed the Strymon, and rushed across the plains of Macedonia toward the blue Pierian mountains. Some lagged behind, some turned back, yet others joined—villagers, and more often village women from the settlements along their path. Like a whirlwind they swept through; whoever could not hide was swept away. Wives abandoned husbands, mothers—children; “To the mountains! To the mountains!”—no one could resist this call.
Now they reached blessed Pieria; Olympus echoed with the joy of nocturnal dances. Our youth was always at the forefront. The bloody night on Pangaeum was forgotten; blood was spilled here too; attackers were everywhere. Now Olympus was left behind: the Peneus was crossed, green Ossa gave shelter to Dionysus’ band. Greek speech was heard; the Bacchic family shared their experiences with the youth. He listened, and sadness filled him. Was he not dancing more wildly than all? Yet however much his soul yearned for the marvels of bodiless being—the god gave them not. Something always lacked to complete the moment, to lift the soul.
“What then is needed?” he asked his joyful companions. “What more is needed?”
“Passion,” they answered, “passion higher than passions.”
Something trembled in his heart. Higher than passions? Someone had once sung to him of the blessed life below passions; that was so long ago!
“But I have known it!” the youth replied fervently. “I avenged the wrong done to me in childhood—terribly avenged. Is this not passion higher than passions—the intoxication of vengeance?”
“For some, yes; for others, no, my friend. You, I think, are not of that kind. Wait until the god calls you, if he calls you at all. For we have a saying: many carry the thyrsus, but few are Bacchae.”
Beyond Ossa—Othrys; beyond Othrys—Parnassus; beyond Parnassus—Helicon; no miracle came, and none.
Like a whirlwind, the band of the possessed swept through Thebes; many joined them there—for Thebes was Dionysus’ birthplace. “But where now? Where now?”
“To Cithaeron! There they await us: our forerunners have already summoned the Bacchae.” “From where?” “From Athens.”
And now at last—Cithaeron’s secret glens and meadows. O, this was different: the youth felt it—something familiar, kin. O, the sweet sounds of Attic speech! With what force they flooded his soul!
Timbrels drone, cymbals ring, hands flash, faces flash—new faces, yet more familiar than the old. And they look differently, smile differently. And he himself had changed. Ecstasy swells, swells. Glances pass, smiles pass! All are welcoming—but where is she who is most welcoming? Ecstasy grows, the god’s power boils; now, now do not deceive me, golden hope! Hands pass, faces pass!—Ah! Are these you, dark eyes, are these you, black curls fluttering in the night wind?
“Is it you, Metionia?”
“Is it you, Cecrops?”
To the dances! To the dances! She is with him—and on all Cithaeron, there is nothing but her. “To the mountains, to the mountains!” Where are you, mountain? Are you there, deep below, lit by those bright points? The points recede—now vanish altogether. Hark, a sound—distant at first, then closer, closer. It is the sea waves, crashing with dull roar against each other. It lies beneath us, this heaving sea: see how it foams in the moonlight. Sing, Metionia! One cannot but sing on such a night. Let our songs blend—our souls have long since merged. Our souls! But they are in this warm, fragrant night breeze, as in another, all-encompassing soul. Do you know, Metionia? This warm, fragrant wind has long sung to me of you; it has brought me your soul, and I did not know.
Our souls? But we are not alone. Look, from everywhere the blessed ones gather to us. How not to lose oneself in their airy dance!… Well then, even let us lose ourselves. Ah, Metionia! How I have longed for this miracle! And now it has come to pass… by passion higher than passions. Do you know its name—do you know, Metionia?
Let us lose ourselves! May we be in all things, and may all things be in us.
9
“Tell me, stranger, what is the name of that stern city rising on this hill?”
“Why, guest, do you not know the walls of Alcathous? Thank Apollo for bringing you here: before you lies a righteous city, glorious Megara. You and your wife shall be safe within it.”
“I see, stranger, that you are a Megarian. Then tell me, who is your king?”
“Our king is Pylas, great-grandson of Poseidon. If you have business with him, I am his herald and may serve you.”
“Then tell him that Kekrops, son of the Athenian king Erechtheus, comes to him with his wife Metionia. We were on Cithaeron with the Bacchae and unknowingly descended into his land.”
The herald shook his head in surprise. Still, he delivered the stranger’s message.
King Pylas received the guests coldly. Yet his suspicion could not withstand the evident sincerity and truthfulness of the youth’s account of his childhood, his abduction, and his life on Pangaeum.
“I believe you, guest,” he said when the youth fell silent, “but my position is difficult. Athens is ruled by Xuthus, husband of Princess Creusa. I understand your claim to the Athenian throne is more rightful than that of an outsider; but understand me too: I would not spoil my good neighborly relations with Athens and its king.”
“Be ever a friend and ally to my homeland, noble king. I submit to the will of the immortals and will not seize power from my sister. Let her reign prosperously, and never learn that her brother still lives. And let Metion’s sons believe their sister perished among the Bacchae. Grant us refuge in your land—a small plot on Mount Geraneia, from where we may see and bless the land of Pallas.”
Pylas’ face cleared entirely. But Kekrops continued:
“It is unseemly for Erechtheus’ son to beg alms; I have means to pay for the land—here is the treasure from Mount Pangaeum.”
He untied his pouch—and a stream of Eastern gold poured before Pylas’ eyes. Gold coins were rare in Hellas then; and though the Megarian king was just, even his eyes gleamed at the sight.
“I see,” he said, “that Hermes favors you; the dearer you shall be to us. Your wish shall be granted—but not as a settler, as a citizen you shall dwell in Apollo’s city. And may your coming bring fortune to us both!”
Soon the cottage on Geraneia welcomed Kekrops and Metionia: a life of labor and toil began for them. But another dweller came too. And when, after daily work, they rested beneath the poplar’s shade in their highland garden, their eyes wandering over the hills of their beloved, forbidden homeland—the poplar’s leaves rang with the ceaseless, now mournful, now joyful song of the nightingale. And Kekrops’ thoughtful face grew yet more thoughtful.
“What are you thinking of?” Metionia once asked him.
“Of what we both know,” he answered, pointing to the singer, “of my quiet childhood in the glen of Pangaeum.”
“And do you long for it?”
“No. I have known the bliss of life below passions—and the ecstasy of passion above passions. But the gods have assigned us a human fate—let us then be obedient to the gods.”