Poems and Short Stories to Read Online

The Story of Helen of Troy told by her sister Clytemnestra

2012-05-28T12:27:00.013-07:00

The story of Clytemnestra, who murdered her husband Agamemnon, is not as well known as that of her more famous sister, Helen of Troy and their cousin Penelope, wife of Odysseus. Yet the lives of these three iconic women of Greek Mythology are woven together as closely as one of Penelope's famous tapestries.
'Playthings of the Gods', a new book by Cathy Smith explores their entwined lives, loves and losses against the backdrop of the epic Trojan War. Chapter One is available to read free below.

Playthings of the Gods

by Cathy Smith

Clytemnestra killing Agamemnon

We are possibly three of the most famous women in the world; one of us – my sister - certainly would rank among the top hundred most famous women of all history. Another, my cousin, is extremely well known too, but my own name and history is largely the province of scholars; I am the more shadowy figure, the one stained by the ultimate guilt. Helen’s name inspires envy and awe, Penelope’s admiration and respect. Mine alone is a hated name, the name of a murderess. Helen was unfaithful to her husband and Penelope waited for hers through twenty years of absence. I am known, if I am known at all, as the one who slew her husband on his return from Troy, Helen’s murderous sister; Clytemnestra.

Who could have foretold, as we grew up together in the royal household in ancient Sparta, that such very different, yet intertwined destinies awaited us? And who could have foretold that the length of the posthumous lives of we three princesses of the Bronze Age would dwarf completely the few short years we lived and breathed on this planet? For three and a half thousand years my sister Helen has been celebrated as the ultimate symbol of the power of women over men’s hearts. She has been acted, sung to, depicted in Art, woven into the fabric of human history like a golden strand among the green and the black. The few dozen years she actually lived were merely the tiny start of her fame and influence...as is true with all our remembered dead. Yet when we were children, playing together in the palace gardens, our own marriages and adulthoods seemed as far away from us as the modern world seems from the times in which we lived then.

I will start with my earliest memories. The first thing I remember is my mother, Leda, leaning over my cot and cooing “Wake up, my darling”. She used to do this every morning. Of course the royal household was full of nursemaids, but I was Leda’s first child, and she insisted on looking after me herself. She was after all only fifteen, and her husband, my father King Tyndareus, was twice her age, and a fierce man who required nothing but obedience from his young wife, as from all his subjects. Her face was beautiful, I can remember that quite clearly. Everyone always said Helen was beautiful (one tires of hearing it), but to me our mother Leda had the tenderest expression and the softest lips and eyes. Her voice was the sweetest, too. She carried me everywhere – I remember sitting on her hip and playing with her long hair as she walked me around. Perhaps I was like a doll to her. She had come from a faraway court, in a distant part of Greece, the third daughter of a King, and matched with Tyndareus to seal the settlement of a long-running trade dispute between the two nations. She must have been lonely, at fourteen, moving to an all-new household, and her baby, when it came, must have been a comfort.

Leda was soft in every way – her voice, her figure, her personality, her face. The Florentine Italian Leonardo da Vinci painted her centuries later; her face was the same as his ‘Virgin of the Rocks’. That is what Leda’s face looked like to me, so tender and soft – especially around the mouth – that you could melt just looking at it. Then only two hundred years before our present time a French writer called Honore be Balzac wrote a novel called Eugenie Grandet; there you can find Leda again in the form of his eponymous heroine; a woman pure and good and governed entirely by tender emotions. Those were my first memories of my mother, Leda.

Those delicious days, of lazing around on Leda’s hip, of playing with her hair, of listening to her sweet voice sing to me...they did not last long. My golden infancy was shattered in one fell swoop, as happens to so many of us, by the cruel and random actions of the Gods. The terrible day began, as such days do, the same as any other. My mother and myself, and our maidservants were bathing in the part of the river that ran through the palace grounds. It was summer; hot and dry, but the riverbanks were lush and green and we had laid out our cloths on the grass. It was not only my mother who adored me, but all the female members of the household, nobles and servants alike –as the firstborn child of Tyndareus I was a valuable little girl, and there were no other royal children as yet. I was merry and funny too, I seem to recall, for I remember making everybody laugh with my little tricks and dances. I must have been three or four years old.

Leda, along with two of the maids, had swum out to a little island part-way across the river, where a patch of camphor grew, that we used in our medicines. They had harvested the patch and were preparing to return, carrying their baskets on their heads, when they accidentally disturbed the nest of a huge white swan. He had not been there the year before, or the one before that, and he was the largest swan any of them had ever seen. Unfortunately, he was sitting on a clutch of eggs at the time – presumably while his partner searched for food – and he was very angry. He leaped out and attacked the three women, beating his great wings and striking out with his beak and strong neck. The carefully-collected camphor was scattered on the ground; the women shrieked and tried to protect themelves with their forearms. And here comes the most dreadful part of the story.

The swan leaped on my mother, Leda, and bore her to the ground. He flogged her with his legs and wings, striking at her tender neck and throat with his beak. Her shrieks pierced the air; we all cried and wept in terror until at last her maids managed to pull her away from under the murderous animal and they struggled off the island, somehow scrambling and swimming with her back to us, wading out as far as we could to meet her. As if it had been me, not her, in danger, the first thing she did when reaching the bank was clasp me to her chest and weep over me, sobbing my name over and over again, telling me that it was all right. But when I raised my eyes and looked across the river, I saw something I will never forget – the swan, standing upright to scream its defiance, its wings outspread, my mother’s blood staining its white feathers.

She fainted, after that, and her maids bore her back to the palace, myself bouncing along, held, carelessly for once, in the arms of a nurse anxiously running behind. News of our disaster had already reached the palace, and the men emerged, armed and with their dogs, setting off to kill the creature that had attacked their Queen. Yet when they reached the spot, and swarmed across the river to the island, they saw the earth trampled flat; the reeds broken and bent and the camphor scattered on the ground. They saw the feathers of the swan and Leda’s blood on the ground. But of the swan, and its nest, there was no sign.

For the first time in my life, I was shut out from my mother’s company. They thought her injuries would frighten me, and so I was kept from her bedchamber. But it got back to me; that her face, neck, belly and thighs were savagely bruised by the creature and that it had drawn blood from her; where I did not know and forever imagined. I cried and cried for my mother but Tyndareus himself had ordered that she be kept in strict seclusion, even from her own daughter. Because the giant swan had vanished, everyone was saying that it was a God, possibly Zeus himself, and our soothsayers and priests were already trying to interpret the omen. And then there was another reason for seclusion, for Leda was pregnant again, and of course it was rumoured that her pregnancy, after three years of barrenness, was connected to the extraordinary event.

It was not difficult to find maids who would testify that their mistress had invoked the gods’ help to bear Tyndareus another child. My father was put in that position which only a man might comprehend, of knowing that his master had fathered a child to his own wife, and of being obliged to be thankful for the fact. What could Tyndareus do? It was rumoured his wife was pregnant by the King of Gods; Tyndasreus was simultaneously envied and pitied, for the offspring would surely be heroes and immensely valuable, bringing him wealth and renown, yet they were not his.

Like many men might, Tyndareus reacted in a duplicitous way. On the surface he professed to be glad, sacrificing to Zeus to ensure a healthy delivery, and giving thanks for his bounty. He was worldly enough to know that the sons or daughters born of this magical union would make him famous forever and assure his continuing dominance over Sparta. He could not afford to cast aside such a powerful story, even if he wanted to. But to Leda he was bitter and cold. Whereas before he had treated her with a distant indulgence, he could scarcely bear to look at her. Under the guise of concern that she be safe from further attacks, he forbade her to leave the palace, and to remain in seclusion at all times. And worst of all, he barred me from her company, again under the false reason of my own protection from her misfortune. The ensuing months were some of the worst in my life. The only comfort I had was Leda’s favourite maid, who was alone permitted to attend her. She smuggled me out sweets from my mother’s hand and kind messages, and kisses, and promises that we would be reunited soon. My life became sombre; my days quiet and reflective. Instead of games and tricks, I was taught weaving, and spent my days beginning to learn the skills of a woman.

I was five years old when my brothers and sisters were born. Leda had swollen to a huge size, and there were rumours that she carried a legion of children within her. I overheard her maid weeping as she told the others how terrified Leda was of what she might give birth to; how she feared she might have some monstrous swan in her very belly, ready to tear itself out with all the violence of its father. Their voices were hushed, but I heard them tell of how her belly leapt and bulged with the activity inside it so that it looked like a living being already, or any number of living beings. It was sworn that shape of a beak, or a wing, or a webbed foot, had been seen stretching the skin across her huge bump.

Her labour began on a spring morning. I was left all alone, weaving on a child-size loom. I had become so subdued and silent that I scarcely needed supervision – I had become accustomed to sit in the spot I was put and do what I was bid until told otherwise; it seemed safest. In her hour of need, the bar on attendance of my mother was lifted, and the finest nursemaids and doctors in the land attended Leda as she began the great task of delivering the unknown burden of her womb. The rest waited anxiously outside, with scarcely a thought for the solemn child determinedly working at the loom; cast, pull, weave and tie, over and over again to block out the screams. It was not as bad as we feared. Within a day, Leda had delivered three infants; a set of twin boys and a single daughter. All appeared to be fully human, for which we thanked the gods fervently, yet there was still a mystery around their birth. The two boys had been born twined together, one grasping the heel of the other, and they were both wrapped in a single white caul - a kind of skin covering them, and the girl had been enclosed in a caul of her own. These white shells were said to be eggs, and it was reported that Leda had given birth to two eggs holding her semi-divine offspring.

The two little boys, identical in every respect, were named Castor and Pollux, and the girl, of course, was called Helen. Not only were these children not monsters, they were supremely fine and beautiful specimens; of particular note was their colouring, for they were white skinned with golden hair, unlike myself and Tyndareus and the majority of our countrymen, who were black haired and swarthy skinned. Leda’s punishment did not end with her delivery of the children of Zeus, for Tyndareus did not relax his campaign against her; if anything he intensified it. He ordered that the children have a special upbringing, as befitted the children of Zeus (he made capital out of his heirs’ parentage whenever he could), and advertised far and wide for the best nursemaids, instructors and teachers to raise these royal prodigies. Their mother was to have no part in their raising; I believe Tyndareus wanted to forget she existed. It was days before I could eventually sneak into her apartments and be reunited with her, and what a tender and sorrowful moment that was...

She had changed, aged by the violence of her assault; the pregnancy and the birth, but perhaps even more by Tyndareus’s cruel treatment of her. She was still beautiful and soft, but she was like a ghost, she was so pale and thin. Her skin seemed transparent and her eyes huge. Yet it was one of the happiest moments in my life when I beheld her expression when she saw me after such a long absence, and I rushed into her arms. At the tender age of five, I knew regardless that I consoled her as much as she consoled me, and we clung to each other like two survivors of a shipwreck cling to a spar of wood tossing on the open seas.

We swore we would never be parted again. I promised to be good and obedient always, so no-one should notice or need to mind me, and then I should come to her quietly, and we might be together often. She stroked my hair and cried many tears, and so did I, but it was one of the happiest times of my life. She begged me to watch over my baby brothers and sister, and to report to her on how they grew, and what they did, and I promised her I would tell her every single thing.

Tyndareus was not angry with me. As a normal, non-divine, dark-haired child in this family of the Gods, I might have been overlooked or made insignificant, but my father still accorded me every respect due to my station, and was openly affectionate to me, more so than to the sons and daughter of Zeus. Perhaps it is easy to understand why. Maybe he knew of and overlooked my visits to my mother; I certainly never gave him cause for worry or concern. It was a measure of his trust that when Helen and the twin boys had been fed and bathed, I was allowed to play with them. I adored this job of nursemaid and doted on the three of them for hours, tearing myself away only to run to my mother and describe every jerk of their baby limbs and expression on their little faces. It must have been painful but sweet for her to hear from me thus every day.

As my siblings grew strong and bonny, so Leda faded. Soon she was too weak to raise herself from her couch, and I would kneel by her, with my head on her shoulder, holding her hand. She could not live in such cruel seclusion and before the offspring of her trauma were three years old she died – no doubt to the relief of my father, for we resent none so much as those we have wronged. At the same time, the twin boys were sent off to be raised in the most healthful and hardening conditions, on the slopes of Mount Parnassas, where men devoted their lives to the raising of Greek princes and heroes. I said goodbye sadly to my golden baby brothers that had always been laughing. And I was left with only my sister Helen as the object of my affections.

Helen was three years old – a spoilt, happy, enchanting child, and I, at eight, was her devoted slave – quiet and sombre from the years of attending my dying mother – and ready to save Helen, for her sake and for my mother’s, from every scratch, every tear and every worry. I knew our father Tyndareus did not care for Helen personally, and she had never had a mother. So I poured all the love that Leda had poured into me back into my cherubic little sister. And soon we were joined by another object for my love. Our cousin Penelope lost her own mother soon after Leda died, and the little girl was sent to join the royal household, by kind permission of Tyndareus and to help his widowed brother-in-law. Penelope was of a similar age to Helen, but could not have been more different. Where Helen was a well formed girl with white skin, blue eyes and that extraordinary golden hair, Penelope was small and angular, her hair black and dead straight, her eyes beady but full of mischief. We both adored her at once and seized on her as a new playmate. The three of us became inseparable, and this was the beginning of the second golden age of my childhood.

I became a surrogate mother and constant playmate to both motherless little girls. For a full nine years Tyndareus was fully occupied with affairs of state, including countless wars and skirmishes with the more powerful of our neighbours. While we stayed safely in the realm of childhood, he was content to know we were healthy and safe, pawns to be used when the time was right, but of little interest until then. Our days typically went like this. I would wake (we all slept in the same chamber) as soon as the sun came up – a habit I have always had. Then I would tip-toe to the bed where Helen and Penelope slept together. I would then spend the happiest portion of my day gazing on their flushed, sleeping faces, both so different and both so beautiful to me. I would bend over and inhale the sweet smell of their breath, and then I would wake them as Leda always woke me, with the words “Good morning, darlings”. Then I would wait in excitement as their eyes opened and those shiny faces came to life, their bright expressions fixed on my smiling face; the first and the last thing they saw every day.

After a breakfast outside, served by our faithful maids, I would lead my two followers out into the grounds, where we had created bowers from the rushes, wherein we were permitted to sit with our maids watching at a distance. There we would perform endless plays, where we pretended to be abandoned children faring for ourselves. I would send them out with tasks to perform, such as foraging for food, and they would bring back twigs and berries that I “cooked” on a fire. After a while, we began to befriend the animals that inhabited our patch of scrubland, and we named and made pets of a series of lizards and geckoes that we smuggled out breakfast too.

After lunch, we were obliged to spend the heat of the day indoors, and there our formal education as Greek princesses took place, for we were once again taught to weave, and not only that, but were taught the meaning and history of tapestry. We were permitted to look at some of the most famous tapestries of our age, created by the most skilful women in Greece. These beautiful tapestries were better than the richest picture book in the dazzlingness of their colours, the richness of their detail, and the intricacies of their stories. Each work was accompanied by a spoken story, and thus we learned the myths of our age and of our ancestors and our history and the histories of our Gods. We learned that the world had been created by the God Kronos who ate his own children to prevent them overpowering him. Only his son Zeus was strong enough escape his father’s murderous intentions and defeat him, taking the crown and title King of the Gods for himself.

Zeus had grown stronger and stronger over the centuries, taking all power to himself, banishing his brother Hades to the underworld and his brother Poseidon to the sea. Married to Hera, queen of the Gods, he nonetheless coupled with any and every female, and sometimes male, that took his fancy. We shivered to recall that our mother and aunt had been the victim of his unstoppable lust, and that Helen herself had Zeus’s blood in her veins.

After that, out games in the bower grew to include the stories of the early wars of the Gods, with myself pursuing the two little ones as Kronos, crying “’I’m going to eat you!” , while they ran away from me with shrieks of laughter. We enacted the assaults of the evil Zeus (for so we saw him) on the many earth maidens he ravaged; and their escapes into plant or animal form, or their subsequent pregnancies, and disgraces and suffering. And during those long afternoons, we wove our own tapestries, for the best silks and looms and teachers were all at our disposal. I was a skilled weaver already, having practised from an early age, and I found the rhythm of the task soothing and distracting. Helen did not take to weaving so well; she dutifully executed her tasks but she did not have the same obsessive interest in her tapestries that Penelope and I shared; she often stared dreamily out of the window and we knew she was thinking of other matters. Penelope, though, excelled beyond measure at weaving. She was extraordinarily quick and accurate, and had an uncanny eye for the translation of the pictures in her head into threads on a loom. Before she was twelve, her tapestries were already being feted across Greece.

After our supper – served, again, in the seclusion of our quarters by our kind maids, we would bathe and then retire to bed, where I would end every day by telling stories and singing to my two little charges, and kissing them goodnight. The maids watched me from the door, they called me “a little angel”. So our life progressed, in blissful ignorance of the storm that was gathering around us. Of course, some news of the outside world did seep through to us. We heard of battles won and lost, and in particular we heard tales of the prodigious heroism and abilities of our brothers and cousins, Castor and Pollux. By the age of six, we heard, they were already accomplished horsemen, showing a mastery of the animals no man has shown since. At eight, they could beat grown men at wrestling, and at ten they had already carried out feats of daring in raids on our enemies that had earned them the laurels of captains in our father’s armies. Of course, we wove the exploits of our heroic brothers and cousins into our plays, our tapestries and our stories.

Were we aware of the myth that was simultaneously growing up around ourselves; in particular around the semidivine Helen? Not at once, although we gradually became so. We did not really understand that the three daughters of Tyndareus (he had now formally adopted Penelope) were regarded as the three greatest prizes in Greece, but with Helen unmistakably the greatest of the three. As Tyndareus’s eldest daughter and his heir, I was a prize in myself. Penelope was renowned for her precocious skill in tapestry, and as for Helen, she was the golden daughter of Zeus, a radiant beauty who took the breath away of all that saw her for the first time. But to me, her golden curls and Penelope’s straight black locks were equally beautiful, and equally dear.

The years passed, and I entered my sixteenth year. Helen and Penelope were eleven. Normally, I would be betrothed and married by this age, but Tyndareus had decided to announce all three of our bethrothals on the same day; so I would have to wait until Helen and Penelope were of marriageable age. This I did not mind at all. The thought of marriage to a fearsome man such as my father terrified me. Sometimes we watched from behind the pillars on the balconies while the men feasted below. How they roared, and bellowed, and shouted for what they wanted! The idea of closeness to such animals frightened me, and made me think of the swan, spreading its wings and screeching.

My father was planning to betroth us all on the same day for maximum advantage in our bridal negotiations. He had also taken the calculated step of making Helen his heir in my place, thus combining the advantages of her rare beauty and divine descent with the throne of Sparta and all the wealth of its land. At one stroke he had made Helen the most desirable prize in all Greece. Every Greek prince and king from Thebes to Ithica sought her hand in marriage, and as her fame spread, suitors began to pour in from overseas, as far away as Turkey, and the islands of Africa. Bride-gifts poured in at the gates of my father’s palace, but still Tyndareus waited, to let her suitors out-do each other.

Penelope and Helen had changed, aware of their impending womanhood, and our childhood plays had subsided. We spent the time talking instead, and at the forefront of our conversations was who our husbands might be. Penelope made us laugh by miming the advances of a gorilla-like husband. “At least it’s not Zeus disguised as a tree” We prayed to Zeus, of course, and the household sacrificed to him daily and we would never have voiced our private thoughts where Zeus himself might get to hear of it – but even Zeus could not hear everything. Our future was rushing upon us, when an event occurred, that was to force Tyndareus’s hand. Helen was abducted.

It happened in her twelfth year, and at precisely that moment when she passed from girlhood to womanhood. Her childhood beauty blossomed into its adult form, and her body looked more than ever like a swan’s, in the curve of her throat, her neck and her back. Even I, who was used to her beauty, sometimes caught my breath in awe when she turned into the sunlight. It is a question I was often asked about Helen; was she personally vain? I answered, of course she was, but no more so than most women. And I am asked, was she catty? Was she kind? I can answer that as a child, Helen was dreamy, accident-prone, and lovable. But she had to grow up fast, at the age of twelve.

The abduction was relatively civilised, by all accounts, but was still a great shock to us all. For once, Penelope and I were not with Helen, being involved in a large votive tapestry for the temple to Artemis, who as goddess of childbirth was our patron goddess. She had gone to the river to bathe, at a spot very near the awful even of twelve years earlier. The rules on bathing had been relaxed gradually over the years, and Helen was escorted by a retinue of twenty maids, but no soldiers. A force of Athenian warriors burst upon the maidens; at their head the grizzled figure of Theseus, the legendary king and hero. His deeds were sung far and wide, indeed part of the tapestry we were making depicted his slaying of the minotaur and the liberation of Crete.

The maids, confronted by the terrifying sight of the heavily armed men, cried and flung themselves to the ground. Only Helen stood erect, knowing there was no point in concealing her identity. At this point, according to the maids who peeked up through their hands, she showed a trace of her divine origins for the first time. She did not cower or try to conceal her nakedness, as any other girl of her age might. She stood erect, calmly and without fear, meeting Theseus’s fierce eyes with her own calm blue ones, and the maids said a shaft of light at that moment pierced the shade, illuminating her body, so it shone like a beacon. The great king approached her and she did not tremble. It was he who knelt before her, and it was his hands that trembled as her passed up to her her garment, only moments before discarded, so that she could cover her nudity. Once she had done so, he took her arm and led her away respectfully, his warriors escorting them, though casting a few longing glances back at the maids; one or two of whom cast longing glances back.

Tyndareus was beside himself with rage. Because Theseus was a hero, he thought he was entitled to any woman he chose – well he wouldn’t have Helen, Tyndareus’s prize and his most valuable asset. He immediately began to raise an army to march on Athens and seize Helen back. At the head of the army were Helen’s twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, both now twelve, but the size of fully grown men, and with equestrian and fighting skills second to none. A message was sent to Theseus ordering the immediate release of Helen into the care of her family, on pain of immediate invasion and death. Theseus replied as follows. “I had heard of Argive Helen and her unsurpassable beauty, and an overpowering curiosity came upon me to see this famous beauty with my own eyes. For this reason I equipped a company of men, for I had quarrelled with my neighbour king of Sparta and he would not allow my suit of Helen, nor let ne in the country. Therefore my men and I travelled at night, and concealed ourselves, waiting for Helen and her maids to bathe in the river. We showed ourselves, only to catch a glimpse of the beauty that had been denied to me. When I saw Helen naked, my heart was seized with passionate love, such that she should be mine at all costs.”

It was nonsense, of course. What Theseus wanted was a ransom, to pay him off for refraining to despoil her, and the kudos of abducting the most desirable woman in Greece from under the nose of her father. Such ploys were familiar to us all. But Tyndareus had no intention of paying tribute to Theseus to regain his daughter; he was too angry and his pride was too hurt. “He’s no son of a God,” he raged, “Her brothers Castor and Pollux are the sons of Zeus, he cannot hope to hide her from their armies.” Perhaps Theseus realised he had gone too far when he heard of the massing of the Spartan armies. At any rate, he deposited Helen on the Isle of Aphidna in the care of his mother Aethra and then departed on another adventure. Castor and Pollux led their troops there and destroyed the Athenian force guarding them, before rescuing Helen and taking the aged Aethra for good measure, to be a maid to Helen and to pay Theseus back for his impudence. Thus it was that Helen was returned to us, unhurt and whole, and that Aethra the mother of Theseus became a maid in our household.

Aethra was a source of great curiosity to all three of us. We had never known a woman so old, who had lived through so much, and we were eager to learn from her wisdom. She kept us entertained for hours with her stories, but warned us not to expect happiness, for the Gods were cruel and capricious. She was especially attached to Helen, having comforted her during her abduction, and she declared Helen a true daughter of Zeus. As for her son, Theseus, she was simply in awe of him. She told us the story of his conception and birth. King Aegeus of Athens was visiting at the court of her father, a lesser king. Eagar to mate his daughter with the more powerful monarch, her father got Aegeus drunk on unmixed wine and then led him to Aethra’s bed. (After sleeping with Aegeus, Aethra told us she was visited by the God Poseidon in her dreams. So perhaps Tyndareus was wrong, and Theseus was the son of a God after all.)

At any rate, Aegeus left, on discovering that Aethra was pregnant, and she raised Theseus on her own for fifteen years, until he was strong enough to roll aside the great rock under which his father had hidden the sword and sandals that were to be his. Thus began Theseus’s heroic career, as he set off across dangerous lands to find his father, and from then on she heard only stories of his exploits. His fame grew and grew, culminating in the slaying of the fearsome minotaur, and when she saw him next, he was a man, and a great king, and had provided for her the island retreat from whence Castor and Pollux had rescued Helen. “Yet nothing is certain in life,” she told us sadly. Her son had unified the country around Athens, and made his city-state the most powerful in Greece, yet he could not cease his bachelor antics. Despite being happily married, he insisted on adventuring with his friends, and in the absence of monsters to slay, would carry off beautiful brides and boys from neighbouring states, daring their outraged husbands and fathers to seize their booty back. “Now I am become a servant, at my age, because of my son’s ceaseless philandering,” she mourned. But Aethra was not really unhappy. Our society was sweet to her, for she had no daughters of her own, and we did not make her work hard or treat her disrespectfully.

The biggest impact of the abduction was the effect it had on the plans of Tyndareus. He decided he could wait no longer to announce our joint betrothals, for what if Helen should be carried off again, and this time not be successfully returned? She and Penelope were twelve now; of a fit age for betrothal, and I was well past the age when a princess might be expected to be married. But another danger remained and Tyndareus went one step further. On the advice of Odysseus, the Prince of Ithaca, he made all Helen’s suitors swear an oath of fealty to her future husband. This stated that, once the engagement had been announced, should any king or prince attempt to abduct Helen away from her husband, the rest of the suitors would put themselves and all their armies at the disposal of her husband, to help win her back. Furthermore, they had to swear they would not desist from the fight until Helen was returned.

Tyndareus took this step to forestall the very real possibility that disappointed suitors might try to abduct Helen if they could not gain her by fair means, and that civil war might otherwise ensue. He made every suitor swear the solemn blood-oath on the altar of Ares; hoping through these means to avoid conflict. The suitors agreed and took the oath, such was Helen’s lure, and the date was announced – a great feast, to which all suitors were invited, and at which Tyndareus would announce husbands for his three daughters.

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If you enjoyed this, and would like to purchase the full (50,000 words) version of the book for $3.99, you can buy Playthings of the Gods online.

Spartan Gymnopaedia and song to the gods

2011-04-05T11:18:00.000-07:00

This description of a Spartan gymnopaedia is the fifth part of the story of Anaxilus of Sparta - read the earlier parts of the story on this blog.

Degas's famous painting of a Spartan gymnopaedia

Cynisca narrows her eyes against the blinding sun.

-Clamistra’s face is definitely the most beautiful. But I have to admit Egoria has the finest body

Cleitagora laughs

-We all know you have a weakness for Clamistra. But you can surely see that Egoria is far and away superior to all the girls, in both body and face

-It’s true she stands above them. But I think it’s a pity; she makes the others look short

They both stare critically at the white-robed chorus of girls, singing their hearts out in the dazzling sun; Egoria with her auburn mane standing out a head taller than the others, like a lioness among a herd of deer. Their voices ring out in praise of the goddess, ascending sweet and high into the mountain air, where two eagles circle lazily, almost too high to see.

The stadium is built on high, level ground at the very foot of the sacred mountain. The ancient Shrine of Hera is carved into the rock above them, from whence the Goddess herself looks out over the sunny fertile plains of Sparta to the mountains on the other side. Today she will watch and judge the performers.

The one thousand Spartans gathered, and the Helot slaves attending them, have begun the day by sacrificing twenty four oxen and giving eighteen jars of unmixed wine to the goddess. The smoke from the sacrificial fires still lingers in the upper air, and now the Helots are busy roasting pieces of meat for the feast. The strongest male Helots have been selected for this duty; partly to keep them under surveillance at a time when they might take advantage of their masters’ absence and partly for another purpose. Archius, Nanno’s husband, is among them.

The females, including Nanno, are busy serving wine and performing other duties of attendance. They do not stop to watch the choir, but they cannot help hearing the song.

Which Goddess is the most beautiful?

That question was asked long ago

Under the golden bough where Paris rested

Aphrodite bribed him, and he named her the winner,

But Hera is the most beautiful to us

And always will be.

Aphrodite, with your white limbs and golden hair

You were so beautiful naked that when the gods saw you

Caught nude in a net with your lover Ares god of war

Trapped by your outraged husband, the smith Hephaestus,

They did not pity Ares his public humiliation

But wished it was themselves in the net with lovely Aphrodite

We are only girls, we cannot compete with goddesses

Protect us, wise and beautiful Hera

For our hearts belong to you alone.

Helen, ancient Queen of Sparta

And daughter of Aegis-bearing Zeus,

Who visited your mother in the shape of a swan

Your beauty was such that when you were found,

After ten years, by your rightful husband Menaleus,

From whom you ran away with your lover Paris

Causing all Greece to go to war to reclaim you,

He drew his sword to kill you but instead

On beholding you naked he embraced you

And betook you to his wife once more and lived with you

For twenty years more, in prosperity and peace

We are only girls, we cannot compete with the immortals

Take pity on us, Hera Queen of all the Gods

Only your love will bring peace to our hearts.

Smile on us, beautiful Queen Hera

Goddess, hear our prayer!

Nanno can not help but look upwards along with the rest of the expectant crowd as the last words of the ancient song vanish into the mountain air. And she sees the shower of blossoms float down miraculously from the rocky grove to land on Egoria’s head and shoulders, with a scattering for the rest of the choir, and none at all coming to Nanno herself. Then she comes to herself quickly, when she is kicked by Cynisca for failing to start to serving wine immediately, for once the goddess had shown her pleasure, all can eat and drink.

-If I sang to the Goddess like that, would she protect me too?

-Goddess! Ha! It’s just some old Spartan men throwing down flowers

The maids whisper to each other

-Maybe she’ll piss on them instead one day

-I would if I was up there

-We should climb up there one time…

* * * * * *

Taking a cup of wine from Nanno, without looking at her, Cynisca sits up eagerly, along with the rest of the watchers as the drums and pipes strike up for the girls dance.

- You’ll see what I mean about Egoria

Nanno serves Anaxilus, sitting between his Aunts. The boy she gave birth to, and nursed till two years old, and who looks more like her every day. He is proud and excited on this day, more so since he will soon be seven, and start his agoge , and perform in the festival himself next year.

The choirgirls have shed their white robes and are running into the ring, nude bodies freshly oiled, leaping and jumping, cartwheeling and backflipping, doing the splits mid-air, and their great finale, throwing themselves high and drumming their heels against their buttocks

-fucking monkeys - says Nanno’s sister Agiana is passing her goblets as fast as she can, to load onto the trays the other girls are taking round.

Cynisca’s daughters are competing in the gymnastic dances but she does not watch them. She watches instead to see who else is watching, knowing the best families in Sparta will be selecting their future wives in this event. Cleitagora is watching her nieces fondly, although it is hard for her to take her eyes of Egoria, who continues to steal the show. Cynisca’s favourite, the diminutive Clamistra, is very bit as graceful and athletic as Egoria, but cannot match the spectacle of the bigger girl. Cynisca, watching, muses that Egoria, at fifteen years old, will soon grow too big and heavy to compete at the highest level, and then Clamistra will come into her own. Her lither, small-breasted body will survive puberty better and she will be able to dance competitively into her twenties.

Her own daughters, Cynisca does not watch closely, only a flick of the eyes to ensure they are performing as they should be, that they are kept well up in the marriage market. It is Cleitagora who pushes Anaxilus forward, whispers

-Look! See what your girl-cousins can do

-Huh. I only like the boys’ dance. Boys are better than girls.

-Well, you’ll see the boys dance next, and you’ll see your two boy-cousins, my sons Giro and Fortunus.

Anaxilus, the only boy at home in a family of women, stirred by the music and singing, is mad with excitement to watch the boys’ dance, and to see his male relatives. Like many of the boys present at the gymnopaedia, he had no father to watch, and to watch him. Spartan losses in war had been heavy over the past years; they were not breeding as quickly as they should; they had never really recovered from the terrible earthquake of 367, when over half their Spartiates were killed. The Helots had seized their moment and rebelled, seizing and fortifying the city of Minicae. It had taken ten years of hard fighting to subdue them, and the bitterness on each side was immense.

At other times of troop shortage, the Spartans had bred from Helot women, making a half-race, the Multhucs, who shared some Spartan privileges. But now, relations were so bad the Spartans didn’t want to consider that option. Yet more and more, they were forced to recruit foot soldiers from the Helots to back up their increasingly small but still virtually undefeatable Spartan Phalanxes of Hoplites. These Helots were necessarily trained in combat, and what to do with them when the campaign was over?

Nanno’s husband, Archius, has fought in a number of campaigns. Today, he turns the spit, easily the biggest man in the stadium, yet with the reputation of a half-wit. He too will be performing today, indeed it is performances like these which have stayed the Spartans from the obvious solution of getting rid of him. It is he who has bequeathed to Anaxilus a magnificent frame; such that at six Anaxilus looks more like ten, and is himself is drawing as many looks from the crowd as the competitors.

-she only had one, but what a fine one!

-he looks like a little immortal!

-hush! Don’t say that!

-and where is she – the mother- I don’t see her here

-oh, she went very strange, didn’t you know? She had three babies sent to the pit, you know. And then she refused to remarry when her husband died, won’t come out of the house now

-no!

-yes, that’s why they won’t let her bring up the boy – you know his Aunts take him everywhere with them

-Cynisca and Cleitagora, isn’t it

-yes. Well – you know how wealthy they are. But Hagesichora refusing to breed like that’s a real blow to the family.

-Don’t Cynisca and Cleitagora have children?

-oh, they’ve had them. Cynisca gave three sons to Sparta, and now brings up two daughters to breed some more. See, the second from the left – that’s hers, and the one next to her.

-what about Cleitagora?

-She has three married daughters and two sons in agoge, you’ll see them presently.

-and Cynisca’s sons - they all died childless?

-yes, it was a foolish policy to risk the childless men so early, it shouldn’t happen now

-five children each…well no-one can say they haven’t done their duty

-five is plenty for a Spartan woman. We shouldn’t be like these Helot bitches, having a dozen brats and dying of exhaustion at thirty

-they’ve got no choice, they can’t control their men

-well, that’s our problem too, the fields are full of Helots with weapons training, that doesn’t feel good to me

The various conversations went round around the stadium to end with a huge cheer at the conclusion of the girls’ dance. Almost immediately it was followed by the music for the boys’ dance, still the pipe and drum but this time deeper, louder, more aggressive. It is a martial display, a killing dance.

Anaxilus is on his tip-toes with excitement. The boys, their hair as long as the girls, their bodies also nude and freshly oiled, leap into the ring. Their movements are stronger, more decisive and the overall effect quite different from the exuberant girls dance. They cry out in step with their dance moves; all moves that a Hoplite must make in battle, and in between they throw themselves into pyramids to show their strength. Anaxilus is beside himself

-I told you! The boys are better than the girls! I’m going there – aren’t I, Auntie?

-Soon, little Spartan, soon.

They give out their war cry, a deep throated and blood-curdling yell, as they all leap simultaneously into the air to deliver an imaginary killing blow to a downed opponent with their spears.

-vicious bastards. You’ll see them again, come October

-nasty little bastards. Catch ‘em stealing all the time, I take ‘em back up the hills and they whip ‘em half to death

-you shouldn’t. They’ll hold that grudge against you when the time comes

The maids are busy now preparing the cakes and salads to go with the roast meat, they whisper, their heads close to each other. Every one of them knows someone who has lost a relative in Krypteia.

Gossip as they might, the maids are careful not to say anything that would get them into real trouble if overheard. The subject most strictly banned was the recent heavy losses the Spartans had suffered against the Thebans. And there was a story, only ever told from one individual to another, in strictest privacy and in the dead of night. This was that there were Helots conspiring with the Theban king Epimandias so that when the Thebans attacked Sparta, the Helots would rise up and help the Thebans to defeat Sparta, thus winning their freedom. It was a story only ever passed in whispers, one to one. But everybody knew it.

Although many of the boys competing have no father to watch them, they are far from being bereft of male guidance. Indeed their whole lives from the age of seven have been spent exclusively in male company. In addition to this, from the age of twelve each boy has a personal mentor from among the men in their twenties; one to advise, protect, guide and love him. Competition, as in all other aspects of life, was fierce between the boys to attract the bravest and strongest of the men to be their lover. Boys, on the other hand, who deliberately chose a rich and influential partner were sneered at, and watched jealously to ensure they did not profit unfairly by their connection.

After the boys’ dance there is a break for lunch before the throwing, jumping and running races in the afternoon, followed by the male choirs in the beauty of the evening. The Helot women begin to serve; the men on the spits are taken off and put into their dancing costumes. These are designed to be ludicrous, with holes at the breasts, buttocks and genitalia, and huge painted heads with abject expressions. Before donning the headdresses, the mens’ heads are wrenched back and a funnel forced into their throats. Down this the Spartan soldiers pour undiluted wine, not ceasing till the Helots are in the final stage of intoxication. Then the giant headdresses are fixed on and they are driven out into the arena, staggering, to another tune, a ponderous and discordant one.

More Helots stand at the side with whips, their job to lash any competitors who do not show the required enthusiasm for the dance, which consists of clumsy and comic moves. But one who does not require lashing is Nanno’s husband Archius. He seems happy to gyrate lewdly to the requirements of the dance music, to thrust his buttocks out; to behave in every way as if he wished nothing more than to thoroughly entertain his watchers. Like many of the men chosen, he happens to have rather large genitals. The Spartan men and women think little of this; they consider small genitals more manly, and say the Helots remind them of apes. The spectacle of the Helots drunken dance is meant to provide a little light relief but also to remind the Spartans that drunkenness is low and beneath them, and to ensure that the crowd sticks to its moderate consumption of mixed wine, even on a feast day.

Another comic dance follows that of the drunken Helots, and this time the victims of ridicule are themselves Spartans; more particularly the bachelor Spartans who have failed to take a wife despite reaching the designated age. They are spared the forced drunkenness, but are obliged to wear humiliating costumes, this time with giant asses heads. Some of them enter into the spirit of it and others are visibly sulky. Their song, which the same Helots with whips equally compel them to sing with gusto, tells why it is right they should go through this humiliation.

-If Spartan men were all like us

Our state would crumble into dust

The women are encouraged to catcall and mock those reluctant bridegrooms, a commodity Sparta could ill afford. Despite any personal preference, it was a Spartan man’s duty to reproduce and it was considered deeply antisocial to refuse; the chronic troop shortage made it even more of an issue.

-Scared to stick it in, soldier?

-Can’t fight your way through a girls’ bush, is that it?

-Try it, we promise not to poke back!

-Bring your mother with you, she can hold your hand on your wedding night!

*next part of the story to be posted soon - Anaxilus leaves for agoge*

Anaxilus of Sparta - part four of his story

2011-04-03T07:34:00.000-07:00

Part Four of the Story of Anaxilus of Sparta, a Helot slave boy swapped at birth for a Spartan baby, Ouo, who is being raised as a slave.

5th century BC marble statue of Spartan Hoplite

Part Four of the Sparta Story

-Mother, see how far I can throw!

Anaxilus, now a sturdy three-year old, hurls his stone across a small stream at the bottom of the kitchen garden of the Spartans’ house, their oikoi. Hagesicora smiles at him and watches as he follows it with a volley of others.

-My enemies are on the other side of that river

-And who are your enemies?

-the wild ducks, that steal food from our chickens

Ouo is squatting in the dust close by. It is his job to bring the best and heaviest stones to place in Anaxilus’s pile. He is half the size of his milk-brother, and his skin is sallow and dark. His eyes are watchful but bright, he has not yet learnt to hide their fire.

Nanno, her belly heavy with her next child, is washing the household’s clothes in the stream. She is helped by her eldest daughter, a timid maiden of seven she calls Kyra, but whom the Spartans have nicknamed Mykes, the shrew. Her two oldest sons are helping their father in the fields. Her youngest boy, not yet walking, lies in a basket close by, asleep in the morning sun.

Hagesichora has been sent to watch over Anaxilus as he plays, he is too old now to be entrusted solely to Nanno. Presently Cynisca steps out from the house, she is on her way to give instruction in gymnastics at the girls school. With her are her daughters Arete and Callistonce, aged nine and ten.

Anaxilus, on seeing his aunt, redoubles his efforts, for it is she who has taught him how to use his throwing arm.

-Watch, Auntie!

He throws with mighty effort. But in his excitement he has misjudged and his throw goes wildly astray. The two girls snicker. Anaxilus flushes. He seizes more stones and begins to fire them over the stream. But he has lost concentration now and his aim is all over the place. His Aunt is disapproving.

-You throw like a girl

-I don’t! Boys are better than girls!

Cynisca nods to her daughters, who stoop down and pick their own stones, which they dispatch across the water with unerring accuracy.

-Correction; you do not throw as well as a girl

The little boy’s face is red with shame and anger

-It’s Ouo’s fault! He gave me bad stones!

He leaps on the Helot boy, rolling him in the dust and pummelling him with his hard little fists. Ouo rolls into a ball, protecting his face and head with his forearms, the way his mother has taught him. Anaxilus give him a final kick and then crows to the females.

-See! I can fight! Girls can’t fight!

Ouo, used to such treatment, remains in a close squat, still guarding his face. Anaxilus proceeds to perform a series of jumps, handstands and clumsy cartwheels, desperate to win praise.

Of the watchers, only Hagesichora’s eyes are encouraging, but she dare not speak. His cousins look at him coldly. They are gymnastic champions, and glance at their mother, hoping they may be called on to show their prowess. She ignores them, her eyes calculating. Finally she says

-To beat a Helot and a girl means nothing. I will set you a task worthy of a Spartiate, and if you succeed, you will have a fine reward

Then, sharply, to Ouo

-You, come with me

She takes the little Helot boy with her into the kitchen. When they come out into the open air again, Ouo is clutching a scroll in one hand and a short bladed kitchen knife in the other.

-This is the contest. Ouo, you must guard that scroll with your life. If you give it back to me at sunset today I will give you lots of honey cakes and a fine cheese. But if you let Anaxilus take it off you, you will be beaten – hard. And so will the rest of your family; your mother, father, brothers and your sister – all of them. Do you understand?

-Yes Mistress

-Very well. Anaxilus. Your task is to take the scroll from Ouo, and give it back to me before sunset. If you do, I will give you a fine present, fit for a Spartan. But you cannot use any weapons. A Spartan boy does not need weapons to beat a Helot. Do you understand?

-Yes Auntie

-Go on, then

Anaxilus needs no more encouragement. He squares up to Ouo, his eyes flashing. He shouts

-Give it to me!

Ouo’s eyes are wide with fear, but he shakes his head. Anaxilus jumps towards him but Ouo stands his ground, waving the knife clumsily from side to side. Anaxilus lunges for it, trying to grab Ouo’s wrist, but the smaller boy wrenches his hand from his adversary’s grasp and the sharp blade draws blood from the soft flesh between Anaxilus’s thumb and forefinger. He cries out and puts his hand to his mouth. Hagesichora and Nanno both gasp and make an involuntary movement towards him but Cynisca stills them with a stamp of her foot. She barks her order again.

-Take it!

The little boy runs forward again, trying to rush his opponent, and Ouo resumes his wild slashing from side to side. Anaxilus backs away and his cousins laugh. Enraged, Anaxilus makes another rush for his milk-brother’s knife hand and this time the blade scores across his inner forearm. His wails pierce the air and Ouo takes his chance to run.

-Don’t cry! Chase him!

Ignoring the blood dripping from his hand and arm, Anaxilus rushes after him and the women follow, Cynisca and her daughters excited and eager; Hagesichora, Nanno and her daughter fearful and alarmed.

Ouo sprints into the kitchen and slides feet first under the heavy wooden dresser in the corner of the room. He wriggles under and from there, pokes out his little blade, still waving it from side to side. Anaxilus skids to a halt.

-I can’t get him! I know, I’ll set it on fire!

-Ah! Now you’re thinking like a Spartan! But no, we don’t want our kitchen burnt down. Come here. I have a better idea

Cynisca whispers to her nephew. His face brightens, and he nods.

Ouo stays where he is all day. He can hear the sounds of the maids preparing the family meal and his belly rumbles with hunger. But he is used to that, and nothing will induce him to leave his place of safety. His mother and sister are in the room, he can see their bare feet. A piece of cheese drops to the floor near him and his mother’s foot kicks it sideways so it rolls under the dresser. He tucks the scroll under his chest and seizes the cheese, stuffing it in his mouth.

Now he needs to pee. The pain in his belly is so bad he wants to cry. But he dare not get the scroll wet, and he will be beaten if he sullies the kitchen floor. Yet he cannot hold it. He cries out as the pee floods out of him, pushing the scroll up against the wall, wriggling his body to soak up the moisture. Still a tell-tale puddle seeps out from under the dresser. The dogs come in to lick it up.

The kitchen is finally deserted as the Spartans eat their meal, and Nanno is sent home with her children, to cook for her own family. Ouo is numb all over. Worst is his knife arm, always outstretched lest Anaxilus should reach in and grab him. His hand is wet with sweat. He switches the knife to his other hand and brings his right arm alongside his body, rolling on it to try and get some feeling back. He is afraid Anaxilus will come at the point, and snatch the knife from his weaker left hand. But Anaxilus does not come.

The air is cooling, and with it the sour puddle in which he lies. He stinks of sweat and pee. He watches the light grow dimmer, the bright shafts from under the kitchen door becoming golden and finally grey. At last, the cicadas begin to sing. Surely his ordeal is almost over.

The kitchen door swings open and he sees the sandalled feet of Cynisca. She is alone. It is truly dusk now and he hears her speak.

-You can come out now

He does not move.

-It’s dusk. Give me the scroll

The little boy grasps the scroll firmly in his hand and, keeping the knife in the other, hauls himself out from under the dresser. Cynisca stands over him, smiling.

Even as he staggers to his feet, his infant brain registers that something is wrong. Why is Cynisca smiling?

The next thing he knows, he is dashed to the floor, Anaxilus landing squarely on top of him from where his has jumped from his hiding place on top of the dresser. Ouo’s face smashes into the ground, bloodying his nose and the knife flies out of his hand and skitters across the floor. Anaxilus wrenches the scroll from his fingers and holds it up to Cynisca in triumph. She takes it, beaming her approval.

-Good boy! That’s how a Spartan thinks! Strength and cunning!

Anaxilus’s reward is better than a cuddle. Cynisca pulls from behind her back a small but perfectly made javelin, and presses it into his eager hands.

-My little Spartan man!

And Ouo is ordered to run home to his mother, being also instructed not to forget to bring his family to the house first thing in the morning for their promised beating.

Dawn’s blush is rising over the mountains while the Helot family trudge through the mist that still coats the valley floor. There is Nanno, and Kyra who carries the baby. Nanno’s two elder sons, not yet adolescents, are solidly built boys who resemble their father Archius, who they walk behind. Ouo walks some distance away, his father has offered to carry him but he has refused, heavy with the responsibility of his failure.

Archius is a big man but he moves with a slow, shuffling gait, his hands hanging loose at his side, his mouth permanently half-open. The Spartans call him Nios, the halfwit. Because the Helot slaves are of the same race and culture as the Spartans, they share the same names. But the Spartans dislike this, so they habitually give the Helots derogatory nicknames based on real or perceived failings or imperfections. Cleitagora and Cynisca, for example, commonly call Nanno Huo-Ona – scarface.

When they arrive at the house, Anaxilus is waiting for them outside with two burly Helot slaves each holding a whip. As a further reward for his manly behaviour he is to oversee the whipping; the women watching from a window. But Hagesichora has had a better idea, a plan that her sisters thought most amusing, and have adopted.

One of the Helots has dug a hole in the ground, for Nanno’s belly. She lies in it and her family lie beside her, even the babe in arms, the only one unaware of what is happening. Once they are all face down, Anaxilus orders in his childish voice

-Close your eyes!

The Helot slaves approach with heavy tread. But Anaxilus, signalling them to be quiet, takes the whips from them, one in each hand, and runs up and down the line of prone bodies, laying on the whips, only not bothering with the baby. As he runs back and forth he laughs and cries out

-It’s me! It’s Anaxilus! I whip you hard, but it’s only me! You won’t die…

Hagesichora’s sisters and nieces are convulsed with laughter at his crowing and capering; his wielding of the whip with all his three-year-old strength. It appeals to their sense of humour, that the Helot family, dreading a severe and perhaps fatal beating, should find that their scourger was to be three-year-old child.

-Oh, that’s funny. Look at him!

-It’s a good joke, Hagesichora. A good idea of yours

-Come on, sister. Let’s put an end to it. They’ve work to do.

* * * *

Part 5 coming soon.

(You can read the first 3 parts of this story earlier in the blog)

Fantasy Warcraft Type Story Part Three - The Loot

2011-03-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Part Three of the adventures of Hari in a Warcraft fantasy adventure story set in a world where game avatars can think and feel. You can read parts one and two earlier in the blog.

What's in the bag?

Part Three - The Loot

The bag felt satisyingly full. First, Hari pulled out a sealed document that stuck out of the top of the bag like a white hand waving. Next was a closely folded lightweight woolen cloak, of fine quality and with blue jewels along its collar. Shimmering threads of blue were woven into the grey. Hari stroked it appreciatively. Under the cloak were two food items wrapped in cloth parcels. He opened them carefully. Cornbread and preserved fruit - high quality, nutricious food.
Down the other side of the cloak were two skins; one water, one red wine. Also in the bag was a small throwing knofe and a box of bullets made from a dark heavy metal Hari could not identify.
So far, so good. Hari moved on to the pouch at the front. There he found a set of keys, thirteen gold pieces and a set of paper folders containing reports.
He grinned widely. The loot had been excellent, He had hoped for a better weapon, perhaps, but the cloak more than made up for it, and was more crucial to his needs at the moment anyway.
He slid down into his little home and swept the dust out of the way. Then he sat down with his legs stretched out and spread the cloak over them. Then he breakfasted on cornbread with thick jam on it, spreading and cutting with the throwing knife. He had a small mouthful of wine - which was delicious - and drank deeply of the water, which was remarkably clear and cold.
He wiped the sticky blade on the cloth the bread had been wrapped in, then used the knife to open the sealed envelope.
As he had imagined, it was a quest.
Hari scanned through the quest instructions, barely bothering to take them in. He had no interest in quests, since his own survival occupied him far more at present. The quest, as far as he could make out, involved exploring different areas of the ship and gathering pieces of equipment that were then to be taken to an engineer on B Deck who would fashion them into a weapon that could be used against certain high level monsters.
Way beyond his scope.
Hari stuffed te documant back into the knapsack and then turned his attention to something that interested him far more - the report folders.
He was interested in questing or grouping, but he did want to know more about the ship - its ultimate destination, the length of its voyage; its purpose, and details of the engine room itself. The length of the voyage was of particular interest to him because he wanted to know how long he would have to survive as a stowaway in the ship's belly.
Its destination he already roughly knew - or hoped he knew, but some details on the exact place they were docking would be handy. As for the mechanics of the engine room - well, this would be his world for some time to come. He needed to know as much about it as he could.

Read parts one and two of this warcraft fantasy adventure story earlier in the blog. Next part also to follow soon.

Spartan Women and Spartan Men - part three of the story

2011-02-19T06:39:00.000-08:00

This is the third part of the story about men and women in ancient Sparta. Parts one and two are earlier in the blog - sign up as a follower and catch each new part as it comes out!

A Spartan boy is swapped at birth for a Helot slave boy. This is his story.

Ancient Sparta

Part Three

-Have you been making sacrifices to Artemis every ninth day? I did that through all my pregnancies, and I have never had such misfortune as you

Cleitagora’s hand rests with satisfaction on her own flat stomach. Her latest child, a girl, is not two months old.

Hagesichora lies in bed. Her face is pale and beaded with the sweat of a postpartum fever, but Cynisca does not trouble to soften her irritation.

-To have three feeble babies at your age, it doesn’t make sense. Our family has not even had one infant consigned to the pit before you. It will make it harder for our daughters to get good husbands. It reflects badly on us

Hagesichora groans. Her sisters look impatient, and it is Nanno who holds a cup of bitter herbs to her lips, that will help the fever to abate. Cleitagora says sourly

-I think we all know where the problem lies, and it’s not in our bloodline

-It’s Pausanius. Look what happened to his first wife! She kept producing dead infants, and then she died herself. People said it was her, and Pausanius’s sisters came to us, asking for you for their brother –a fresh young wife for him. And now – exactly the same thing

-One healthy baby out of four. To be honest, I don’t know how he sired Anaxilus

-If you continue to bear his babies, Hagesichora, it will kill you too

Hagesichora groans again. Her sisters’ words are a stream of sound, the room is spinning. Nanno sees the fresh beads of sweat spring to her brow and wants to wipe them away with a cloth dipped in cool water. But she is afraid of appearing too attentive, knows it is best to appear dull and stupid in front of her mistress’s sisters

-Look at you! It’s ridiculous

Cynisca, who has never had a day’s illness in her life. Cleitagora is, on the surface, more sympathetic.

-It’s not your fault. But you must promise us you won’t visit your husband again. When you’re better, we’ll find you a lover, the more virile the better.

Cynisca laughs

-That’ll get you back on your feet! Better than any tonic!

-And Pausanius will agree. He’s bound to see the sense of it. He can’t let you waste yourself on him, you’ve a half a dozen good children in you yet

Neither of them approach their sister, they take their leave from a distance. As they pass through the door Nanno takes up the cloth and dips it in the pitcher of water by the bed. Cynisca and Cleitagora are still talking.

-Who shall we pick for her, sister?

- I have my eye on my husband’s nephew, Lucianus. He’s twenty-one and built like a titan

-It’s essential she starts to breed properly soon. We have lost so many men. Since the earthquake..

-And those cursed Helots, breeding like rats, in their misery. What of that maid – a child every year!

-We should cull her family of its men, as the Gods have culled us of ours

-When they are grown, sister, we will

* * * *

Hagesichora has disobeyed her sisters’ instructions. She has made her way to the barracks in secret and is waiting in her husband’s room. The guards, accustomed to her, have let her in and privately let Pausanius know she is there.

She lies waiting on his straw pallet, the only furniture in the room, just as she did on their wedding night six years before. Then, her head was shaved and she was dressed in a boy’s tunic.

Her hair has grown back now and she wears her own tunic although without the clasp. But still she feels as she did on that night, feels the same thrill of excitement as the door opens and she sees him silhouetted in its frame.

He does not waste words. He falls on her with the hunger of a greedy child who does not know where his next meal is coming from.

Hagesichora, as always, responds without restraint. From the first night they spent together, their mutual passion has astonished them both, and this has never abated. No matter that the fruit of their union - barring Anaxilus – has been weak and sickly, three infants consigned to the pit by the ephors. They do not speak of that; it pains them both but as far as Pausanius is concerned it is none of his business. He does not blame his wife for her failure to bear children, and he has no intention of ceasing to lie with her for that reason.

Yet for other reasons, this is likely to be their last time together. Twined in the spent, tender exhaustion that follows on from their act, Pausanius tells her of his latest posting.

- 300 Spartiates are taking an army to Boeotia, to punish the Thebans for expelling our garrison.

That he would not return unvictorious went without saying. Pausanius had returned from several campaigns already and Hagesichora was not unduly disturbed.

-They are sending only the older men, who have grown sons to take their place, or who are too old to sire more children

At that, she stiffens. His garrison might have to fight to death.

-When do you leave?

-Tomorrow at dawn

Hagesichora says nothing, but hot, shameless tears run down her face. His fingers find their tracks in the darkness, and convey the gentleness his words lack. She presses her body against him, and their cycle of passion begins anew.

By Sabreena

Story about Spartan Boy Swapped at Birth for Helot Slave Boy - Part Two

2011-02-13T07:06:00.000-08:00

This story about a Spartan boy swapped at birth for a Helot slave boy is part two of a story posted earlier in the blog. Become a follower to make sure you don't miss the next instalments!

Demeter, Goddess of Fertility and Agriculture

The cicadas sing and the scent of hibiscus perfumes the night air. Hagesichora, cloaked, slips through a doorway to where Nanno sits on a wooden stool, nursing her son.

-Here

She draws strips of meat, honey cakes and a stoppered flagon of wine from under her cloak, placing them in the goatskin bag at Nanno’s feet. Nanno will take them home to eat, it is too risky to consume them at the villa. Perhaps she does not eat them at all, perhaps she shares them with her husband and children. To Hagesichora, it hardly matters.

-How is he?

-Well, Mistress. He’s feeding well. And his breath comes easier now.

Nanno eases the drowsy baby off her breast and passes him to her mistress. Hagesichora takes him gently. She lays him over her shoulder, where he nestles to sleep.

-He feels heavier

-Yes. He’s doing well

-What do you call him?

-Aeson, if it pleases you Mistress

Hagesichora frowns.

-What possessed you to call him that? A name like that will draw attention to him, and that’s dangerous

-Yes Mistress

Hagesichora strokes the baby as she talks.

-My sisters call him Ouo, the runt. That will be his name, it’s safest. A runt may be annoying but it’s no threat, and once he stops milking they’ll have no reason to hate him.

-Yes Mistress

Moments pass. The sound of the cicadas seems louder, and Hagesichora has said all there is to say. It’s time for Nanno to leave, to spend an hour with her husband and children before being back for Anaxilus’s next feed. Suddenly

-Leave him with me

-Mistress?

-No-one will come. It’s only for an hour. Be back in one hour

-Mistress! It’s so dangerous! If we are found out, I will be killed, and my whole family too

-Go. I have told you

-I did this for you Mistress. I gave you my child so yours might live. Is this how you repay me, with this mad recklessness?

-One hour. One hour only. I have to hold this child once. You know I am not allowed to hold Anaxilus. I have to hold my child for one hour, just this hour

With great swiftness, Nanno leaves the room. Hagesichora is alone with her baby. Only the moonlight shadows decorate the plain walls. She stands, holding him, looking out at the night, breathing the scented air.

-This is madness. I’m completely in Nanno’s power. But if she gives the game away, she and her family will all die. I’m safe there.

-Why am I taking this risk? My son, I’m doing it for you, and for the love I bear your father. You may live to curse me every day for what I have done, but I never wished to destroy you. And I will protect you, I will do all I can to keep you from harm. This is the first time I have held you in my arms for more than a few moments, and it will be the last. I can never take such a risk again. In the future, Nanno will be your mother and I will be the mother of Anaxilus, such as I am. I will never acknowledge you. Nor will Nanno or I acknowledge you to each other, for all that leads to danger.

-But I will be watching over you. Your family will have all the food it needs, and I will keep the Krypteia away, if it is at all within my power.

-And I will make sacrifices for you, to Helen daughter of Zeus, special protector of Spartan women, and to Demeter, who makes the earth winter when her child is gone.

-That they will love you and be kind to you. And to them I will call you by your true name, I will call you Aeson.

Sabreena

World of Warcraft Original Fiction - Part Two of Hari's Story

2011-02-06T04:35:00.000-08:00

This original World of Warcraft fiction story is part two of the adventures of Hari, set in a WoW scenario of the future. Hari is stowing away in the engine room of a spacecraft, and needs to survive.

Can Hari get food from the goblin?

Part Two - the Kill?

Hari had identified a possibility – a gap between a massive silver pipe against the wall to his left. He watched, now, as the bots patrolled back and forth, waiting to see if he could make a dash for it without being sensed. He watched for some time, forging their mechanical routes into his brain so that the timings of the gangway would become clear. Bot One (as he called it) walked away to the right. Hari could advance on its fifth step to a point some eight paces away, then would have to make an immediate left to avoid Bot Two. He would then need to wait for Bot Three to swivel away in its turn before dashing straight for the pipe and scrambling over it. Behind the pipe, he hoped there would be gap enough to stretch out fully. More than that, he hoped the pipe would be warm.

Hari was beginning to get dangerously chilled. He had been frozen on his spot for some time now, long minutes passing as he watched the bots’ threatening dance with calculating intensity. Once he moved, he was committed – one wrong turn, one mis-timing, and he would be dead. Over and over again he watched his opening arise and let it pass, rehearsing his route mentally. And the time was coming when it would be now or never. The cold was starting to seep into his bones. Soon it would cause him to stiffen and slow; his movements would become awkward, unacceptably increasing his risk factor.

Now! It passed in a gut-wrenching minute, his heightened senses making everything stand out with a solid clarity rare to experience. Then he was rolling belly down over the pipe, relieved beyond belief that the pipe was not freezing to the touch but oh-so-faintly, warm. Behind it, hari fell into a darkened, dusty space. The gap between the pipe and the wall was wide enough for Hari to slide through, and then it widened under the curve of the pipe to offer space enough to sit and lie comfortably. The space was bounded on both sides by steel girders that held the pipe in place and reached right to the ceiling of the engine house. It was about eight feet long, and there was no access to it except between the pipe and wall; a space too small for any of the bots, and beyond the reach of any sensors. The floor was covered with thick dust and small bits of debris. With this to cover him, and the faint warmth of the pipe, Hari might even survive another day.

He had not slept properly for fifty hours. First, he collected as much dust and debris as he could and made it into a pile. Then he wedged himself half under the pipe. Debris already under the pipe blocked the narrow gap between it and the floor. Hari pulled the pile towards him, covering his body with it but taking care not to cover his face. He then lay very still, feeling his mind relax for the first time in days. He was pretty sure the pipe and his insulation would raise his temperature to something bearable, and after a few minutes he began to feel a most agreeable physical sensation, a warming relaxation that led to sleep.

Hari slept for a long time. When he awoke, he swallowed the last of the water in his waterskin and ate the last of his cheese. Where on earth was he to get more food and water? There would hardly be a vendor down here (though stranger things had been known). Nor would the bots carry food since they ran on oil and petrol, and...water. Also, water ran through some of the heating and cooling pipes, although some carried gases. So there must be a water source, or ways to get water, down here. But Hari would need to move, to search, to investigate.

But moving was dangerous. Every inch of the floor space was a hazard. Hari pulled himself up so his head poked over the top of the pipe. Everywhere he could see pipes, boilers, engine consoles and other parts of machinery he could not identify. Black bots patrolled, whirring busily, in complicated patterns. Worker bots stood still at the consoles, busy inputting information. And then he saw it – a small, white-jacketed figure – a humanoid. It was some kind of goblin, an engineer or a scientist, but what made his heart leap was its level. It was level 6, just one higher than himself.

A possible kill. Better still, a possible drop. What might it be carrying – food, water, gold, perhaps some potions or a magical necklace? Hari watched closely, feeling the saliva race into his mouth as he anticipated his first kill for weeks. He was fed up of scavenging. And despite his lowly equipment, he felt sure he could take on the little goblin scientist and win. He hadn’t forgotten his fighting skills, had he?

He pulled himself up onto the top of the pipe and crouched there. Now, with prey in his sights he no longer felt scared and vulnerable. He was the hunter now. He rocked on his haunches, feeling the tension in his thighs. He pulled his rusty dagger out of his backpack. Rusty or not, it would do.

The goblin was walking around busily, stopping to tak to groups of bots and then moving on. Hari could hardly believe his luck as it moved closer and closer to him until it was directly below his section of the pipe! He dropped. The goblin never saw him coming. Hari was on its back and the knife sliding into its neck in one swift movement. The strike was critical. The goblin was dispatched, dying with a bubbling cry as green blood spurted from its wound. Hari quickly pulled its backpack from its back and took it with him over the pipe into his safe space, where he could inspect his loot at leisure.

By Sabreena

Read Part One of this WoW story earlier on in my blog posts, and watch out for Part Three - what's in the bag? Follow the blog to be sure you don't miss it.

Soldier poem, by a Child

2011-01-30T06:53:00.000-08:00

This soldier poem to read online was written by a very young child. How does a child learn about war?

6 soldiers off to war

6 soldiers one by one,

March down the muddy path

6 soldiers two by two,

Fell in the murky bath

6 soldiers three by three

Roasted a chicken last night

6 soldiers four by four

Are going off to fight

6 soldiers five by five

Hiding in the mud

6 soldiers one by one

Die and leak red blood

By Sabreena's daughter 2002

Soldier Poem to read online

Spooky Story to Read Online - Demons, Curses and Talking Furniture

2011-01-30T06:40:00.000-08:00

This great spooky story to read online was written by Sabreena's daughter before she was ten years old. If you like demons, curses and talking furniture, read on...

Chapter 1

It was Halloween and Emily was getting ready to go trick or treating. It was around 7 o’clock and she had just slipped into her witch costume.

“Emily, come downstairs! Edwina is arriving!” Called mum. Emily rushed down the stairs still pulling up her zip. There was a knock at the door.

“Here she is, now” Smiled mum, walking towards the door holding Emily’s trick or treat bag. “ Here you go” She handed it to Emily, and Emily walked out the door.

Emily walked up the garden path with Edwina and her mum.

“you two have fun now, come back here at 9 o’clock, OK, Emily?” Said her mum, kissing Emily on the head, and heading back inside.

“Let’s go up my lane first” Smiled Emily. They walked off down Emily’s lane, and knocked on Mrs Thistle’s front door.

“TRICK OR TREAT” They cried, holding out their bags. She dropped 2 chocolate bars into each bag. They made their way up Emily’s lane, then went up

Daisy Avenue

. At the end of

Daisy Avenue

, (which was quite a long road) they arrived at the old McKinley house. The garden was spooky, dark and scary. The house was high, dark and creepy. This house was the most scariest house in the village.

Old McKinley once lived there, now it’s known to be haunted. A girl, called Ella had once trick or treated there. She was invited in, by McKinley, and she wasn’t seen after that. Some say she was killed, some say she was hypnotised. But, there was one thing for sure, nobody lives there now.

“I’m not going up there!” Cried Edwina shivering. “That’s too spooky!”

“Oh, you fraidy cat!” Laughed Emily, pushing her from behind, so she jumped with fright.

“If it’s so un scary, why don’t you go up there?” Said Edwina opening the gate. “Or are you too scared?”

“No!” Cried Emily, strutting up the path. As she was out of sight, she turned back, and saw Edwina, trying to spot her in the darkness. Emily felt coldness around her.

Emily quickly knocked on the door, and instead of silence, the door creaked open.

Emily gasped.

Chapter 2

Emily stepped in. A fire was burning, and the room seemed dimly warm. When she had stepped in far enough, the door slammed behind her. She jumped in fright.

Suddenly, she saw a pale face staring at her.

“Who are you?” Said the person. From her voice, you could tell it was a girl.

“Let me out!” Cried Emily. “Let me out!” She was pulling at the door handle, but it wouldn’t move.

“I’m sorry, new comer, Door won’t let you out, when I’m here” She whispered, putting her hand on Emily’s shoulder.

“What do you mean, he won’t let you go?” Asked Emily.

“She isn’t going anywhere, with me as her door!” Said a big booming voice, coming from the door.

“What’s that?” Whispered Emily, running into the middle of the room.

“ That’s the obnoxious door, sweetheart’ don’t talk to him, ees’ trouble!” Said a strange women voice, coming from the sofa.

“All my furniture talks you see, they are all my friends, except Door, here” Said the girl. “Hi, I’m Ella”

“Ella?” Asked Emily. “Why are you here?”

“I can’t get out, my master doesn’t allow me too” Sighed Ella, bowing her head.

“Who’s your master?” Asked Emily again.

“Oh, he’s the foulest, most meanest and power fullest, demon in this country” Cried Ella sadly. “What’s that, I feel it in my heart! He’s coming! Hide, young girl, hide!”

Emily rushed over to the sofa, and hid beside it, in a small gap between the chair and sofa.

Ella quickly bowed to her knee’s, just in time, as a big black figure walked in.

“Get up ,you lazy goat!” It cried, in a horrible voice.

“Yes, master” Whispered Ella.

“Get me some blood, servant!” He cried, sitting down on the sofa.

“Hey Ella!” Cried the sofa. “Don’t give him too much blood, he needs to loose weight, I should know! He sits on me every night!”

Emily watched in horror, as Ella stabbed her own arm, and blood came dripping out into a blue cup. After it was full, she brought it to her master. He drunk it all, then left.

Chapter 3

Afterwards, Emily came out of hiding.

“Why do you let him do such monstrous things to you?” Asked Emily, angry at the demon.

“He has hypnotised me, to do what he pleases, it’s my curse” Ella sighed, a tear running down her cheek.

“I’ll help you loose your curse” Said Emily jumping.

“You wouldn’t last a day as a curtain over here, leftie!” Cried the right hand side curtain.

“Stop being mean, Righty, let’s hold strings and make up” Said the other side.

“Stop being mean Righty!” Cried Ella.

“Does everything in this house talk?” cried Emily rhetorically.

Every single object in the house cried at the top of their lungs (if they had any, which of course they didn’t) “YES”

“What’s that your reading?” Asked Emily, sitting down on the sofa.

“Ooh! Now, that fat demons but was hard and lumpy, but yours sweetheart is fabulous. Your buts like a feather!” Laughed sofa.

“It’s a spell book” Sighed Ella. “I can’t do any spells with a curse on me, I wasn’t much good anyway”

“How did you get here, and cursed?” Asked Emily. Ella sat next to her on the sofa, holding the spell book in her cold hands.

“Well, I was trick or treating here, and then the man invited me in…it’s all a blur now though” She held her head, then clasped her heart. “He’s coming back, hide Emily, hide!”

Emily squeezed back into her hiding place, and watched as the beast entered.

“I need more blood” He snorted, snuggling himself onto the sofa. “What’s that I smell, human?” He sniffed, while she emptied her blood into the cup. Halfway across the room she fell, with the cup still in her hand.

“Oh, no” Chuckled the demon. “I seem to have drank all her blood, I need more, more, that smell must be the blood” As he said this he left, happily, looking for more blood to devour. Ella lay, motionless, on the cold wood floor.

Chapter 4

Emily jumped to Ella’s side.

“It’s that monster, he’s devoured all her innocent little blood” Cried Sofa.

“Maybe there’s a…erm…spell…yes! A spell! Where is her spell book?” Cried Emily, hopping towards the sofa. She picked up the book, and read the spell to give blood.

Emily bowed her head in towards Ella’s, and opened her mouth, and gently sang a tune. Her voice spread through the whole house, bringing even the most selfish of objects to be beckoned. They all listened, and with out a doubt, liked it. Ella’s head lifted.

“You, you Emily, you saved me!” Cried Ella, hugging Emily.

“She’s alive! My darling little daughter!” Cried the sofa, shaking.

“Daughter?” Asked Emily.

“No, my real mother is Shelley McKim” Said Ella, still squeezing Emily. “Emily, you have magical powers, we can’t explain them!”

“Shelley McKim?” Cried Emily in shock. “That’s my aunty!”

“it can’t be!” Shouted Ella letting go. “That would mean…”

“Your cousins?” Smiled Leftie.

“We are cousins? My mum, Suzan, never told me Shelley had a daughter, let alone child!” Cried Emily.

“Are you going to help me find a spell to unlock that beastly door, and get my curse lifted?” Asked Ella, handing Emily the spell book. “here’s the page! Look, look, say it to that door!” Ella had changed in somewhat ways, since Emily had first met her. She had become more happy, and confident, and now she knew they were related, a bit confused.

“Don’t you dare spell me!” Shouted door angrily.

Emily read the words, and whispered to the door, while pointing her fingertips at it, and the door flung open.

Emily walked out, normally, but being locked inside a house for years, you would want to make the most of new air, new sights…

“This air, is so, windy, and fresh” Smiled Ella, touching the grass.

“and this grass, it’s so…soft, wet, hmmm”

“Hurry up Ella, we need to get to my house!” Cried Emily.

Chapter 5

“Is this your house?” Asked Ella, as they walked up to Emily’s front door.

They knocked on the door, and as her mum opened the door she jumped with joy and hugged and kissed her.

“Where have you been?” She cried.

“We have no time, mum!” Said Emily. “When did you plan on telling me that the Ella girl, was my cousin?”

“You...you’ve found her?” She gasped. “Ella, my niece, is that you? I have to call Shelley!” She pushed Ella to her heart, and they rushed in.

“Quickly, El!” Whispered Emily. They sat down inside holding the spell book.

“So, this is my long lost niece, and Shelley’s long lost daughter. Edwina has been worried sick about you Emily, she was practically in tears, when she explained what happened. And you’ve actually found her, inside the house. How did you get food…and, who looked after, oh, Ella, you’ve grown so tall…” Mum began, the door opened. In the doorway, there stood Aunty Shelley.

She had blonde wavy hair, spotty, (and a little chubby) face. Her clothes were trendy, and she stared at Ella like she hadn’t seen her for 5 years. (Infact, that is pretty much what did happen).

The same looked crossed Ella’s face, and she arose and ran towards Shelley. They hugged and kissed, and mostly cried for about 5 minutes, when Ella fell onto the ground, clasping her heart.

“He’s coming! He’s coming! He knows where I am, help me! Help!” She cried. Shelley fell to her knee’s and comforted Ella.

“He can’t find you!” Emily shouted, sitting with Shelley, comforting Ella.

“Who is coming sweetheart?” Asked Shelley.

“My master, I feel it! It’s the curse!” She wept, curling and twisting on the floor.

“ it’s the curse, she got it from the owner of the old house she was in. It’s a curse, we need to un do it!” Emily said, as Ella sat up.

“He’s gone” She panted.

“The spell book, pass me the spell book!” Cried Emily. Mum passed her the book.

“Mmm…lets see…this spell is meant for two” Sighed Emily.

Chapter 6

“You can do spells?” Asked mum.

“Oh, Susan, you’ve given it to her! She has magic too!” Laughed Shelley, sitting with Ella and rocking her calmly.

“You mean…you know magic?” Cried Emily, surprised.

“Let’s do the spell then” Smiled mum, and they chanted out words together.

Ella started shouting and crying again, he was coming closer, and suddenly it just stopped.

“it’s worked! Emily, oh thank you!” Cried Ella happily.

You’d think that was the end of Ella and Emily’s torture was over, but it was not.

After Emily and Ella explained all about it, mum and Shelley decided it was time to take action and kill the demon.

“Right, Shelley, lets look up the spell to kill this demon” Said mum, flipping through the pages of the book. It was old now, but looked new before.

“This is it…’to destroy evil…use: 3 people” Frowned mum reading the page out loud.

“I’ll do it with you and Shelley!” Cried Emily jumping up and down.

“Oh no dear, I don’t do magic anymore, it’s going to have to be you and Ella, and your mother” Frowned Shelley.

“Me? I can’t! I really can’t mother!” Wept Ella.

“Yes you can, Ella, you can…chant it with them” Smiled Shelley, stroking Ella’s blonde stringy hair.

“Han Key mead...” They chanted over and over again.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and in walked the man. Ella panted in fright.

“Keep going” Whispered Shelley, holding Ella’s hand tightly.

It was being drawn in, Ella got more and more afraid. It was only steps away, and just then, it fell. Dead. On the floor, motionless, he turned into dust.

“You’ve done it! Ella! My sweetheart!” Shelley cried happily. They all cheered, except Ella.

“I wasn’t telling the truth mother, it wasn’t him that stole me, it was orb” She whimpered quietly.

Chapter 7

“Who’s orb?” Asked Emily, sitting down with Ella.

“Its even worse that demon, it’s his father. He is more than thousands of years old! He gave me to his son, Demon. Orb, is the most scariest, I hadn’t seen him for 10 years, until then. I saw it in his eyes. I had never been scared of Demon, that was my curse. But Orb, he took me to the highest level. I’m scared mother” Cried Ella.

“We must find him” Frowned Shelley.

“No! We can’t find him! He’ll kill you!” Wept Ella.

“He is obviously not affected by spells by 3 people. We will have to bring in reinforcements.” Said mum.

“No! I’m not letting you, I’m not going! Good night!” Shouted Ella, going to bed. Every body else went to bed there too.

It was in the middle of the night, Ella was having nightmares. She jumped out of bed, and searched the house. Nobody was to be found. She called out, and Shelley came to her side.

“Where are the others?” She asked.

“Gone out to find this Orb” Whispered Shelley. “Now sweetheart, let’s get into bed”

“WHAT?” Cried Ella. “No! Why didn’t you stop them!”

“Because I was trying to help you” She smiled.

“How is it helping me?” Wept Ella. “The only thing it does is give me a bloody heart attack!”

“It’s helping you face your fear, your lucky we don’t make you kill him yourself” Shelley said. “Now, into bed”

Ella was left crying in her bed, with Shelley comforting her. What

Would happen with Orb? Will Emily and her mother die? Will Ella finally give in and fight Orb, or will Emily, Shelley and Susan have to pay Ella’s price?

By Sabreena's Daughter 2005

Spooky Story to Read Online - demons, curses and talking furniture

Ancient Sparta - a story about Sparta in Ancient Greece

2011-01-27T11:10:00.000-08:00

This story about ancient Sparta concerns a Spartan baby boy swapped at birth with the child of a Helot maid to avoid the infant cull. This is the first part of this story set in Ancient Greece.

Ancient Sparta Story - Part One

-Look! How strong he is!

Cynisca let the days-old infant clasp her forefingers and slowly draws him up. His head lolls backwards but he does not let go.

Cleitagora feels his arms and legs and barrelly torso.

-And how firm

They stretch him out on the table and measure him with their hands

- Over three spans!

-How does he take to the nurse?

Hagesichora lifts herself on her elbows and beckons to a maid standing in the shadows.

The three Spartan women are wearing short tunics in fine white linen. They are open at the sides and belted at the waist, earning the women their nickname, ‘thigh-flashers’. They tie across one shoulder and are held in place by an ornamental clasp with a sharp spike which doubles as a weapon.

The Helot maid, Nanno, wears a similar tunic, but longer and more shapeless, being made of leather. At Cynisca’s command, she undoes the shoulder ties and lets it drop to her waist.

-A fine milk factory there.

-Look, you can see it oozing out.

Cynisca and Cleitagora are fascinated. Only Hagesichora looks away, ashamed. Cynisca uses her finger and thumb to draw milk from a swollen nipple, and lifts the resultant drops to her lips, then nods to her sister, who passes the infant to the maid.

The boy seizes on the breast readily and sucks lustily. The two women watch approvingly, Hagesichora now watching too, unable to look away.

-He’s a fine feeder, that’s for sure!

-She has another one, doesn’t she?

-Her own boy, the same age

Cynisca, a foot taller than the diminutive maid, takes Nanno’s chin in her hand, looks into her tilted face. It would be beautiful, is still beautiful, but for a heavy ridged scar running completely across her face and passing over the bridge of her nose.

-You are to feed Anaxis whenever he wants – you understand? You will feed him until he sleeps or drops off the breast.

She squeezes the chin, fingers digging under Nanno’s delicate jaw. The maid can neither nod nor talk, but speaks her submission with her eyes.

-And only then – only when Anaxis has taken all he can – only then can you feed your own brat. Do you understand?

She twists the face to and fro to punctuate her last words. Nanno struggles to keep her balance and not to upset the baby at her breast. This time Cynisca needs no acknowledgement but her fear.

-Bring the brat here, I want to see it

Cleitagora signals and another maid slips out from the shadows to return with a baby bundled in goatskin.

-Put it on the table

The child is undersized, with dark wrinkled skin. He labours for breath.

-You should throw that child away

-As you would, Mistress

The infant can smell the milk. He opens its tiny mouth wide and begins to make sucking movements with his lips.

-I hope it won’t be a greedy baby, sister, and take milk from Anaxis

He raises his arms and legs into the air and his tiny body begins to convulse. He is building up to a cry. The women watch until the first tremulous wail breaks out of him. His thin cries gradually build to a desperate mewling.

-Mistress-

-What?

-I can take one baby to each breast, Mistress.

-No. You take Anaxis to one breast, then the other. Only when he has had his fill of each, can you feed yours. Did I not make myself clear earlier?

Cynisca’s voice is icy. She signals for the Helot boy to be removed. Out of the room, his cries can still be heard. Nanno moves Anaxis to the other breast, where he continues to suck vigorously.

Cynisca is smiling now. She approaches Hagesichora, gives her sister a rare embrace.

-At last you have done well for the family. The Gods are pleased with us, that they have sent us this fine son. Whatever displeased them before, that is over now. Our family’s reputation is intact, we are all fine bearers of men.

The frantic wails of Nanno’s baby are distant but distinct. Anaxis is sucking slowly now, lingering at the breast, almost sated. Cynisca and Cleitagora watch the maid to see how she will react, with a mixture of cruelty and interest. But Nanno’s eyes are lowered and she does not give to move, even when the baby finally drops off the breast, tiny mouth open, eyes closed in a puffy, satiated face. Only Hagesichora seems anxious, her face wretched.

-I’ll take him to his bed

-Let her do it

-Sister?

-You won’t want to waste time mothering him, not at this age. Plenty of time for that later.

-You need to get your figure back first. Your sister and I were always back to full fitness ten days after the birth.

-Yes. You’ve lain in bed long enough.

Nanno has laid Anaxis in a rush basket beneath the window. She stands and waits, her eyes still lowered. She has refastened her tunic. The screams of the far off infant, are more intense, more desperate.

-Your brat’s still crying

-Yes Mistress

-Got any milk left?

-Yes Mistress

-I suppose you want to feed it?

-Yes, Mistress

-I don’t know why you waste your milk. That thing will die before long

-Yes Mistress

-Go on then!

Nanno runs from the room, and shortly afterwards the crying stops. All three women listen, but it does not start up again.

-She did have some milk left, then

-It’s a pity she did. I should be ashamed to raise a child like that.

-I don’t like it, sister. However we might police her, she’ll be sneaking off to feed her brat whenever she can. Milk that should be for Anaxis.

-We should get rid of it

-We should. But we can’t afford the fines.

-If it were only October…

October was the month of the when Helots could be legally culled, when a word to the right person could remove a troublesome servant, an insolent labourer or an unwanted rival. Remote villages where rebellion festered could be destroyed overnight in exercises that also provided useful military training. And any Helot who was considered too bold or bright, could be picked off at this time, for the Helots were not suffered in any way to compete with the wit and beauty of their masters.

Nanno’s father had been well known in their village for his size and great physical strength. Indeed there had been talk, when he was a baby, of the masters adopting him and raising him as one of their own, but it had come to nothing. A close eye was kept on him nonetheless, and a closer eye still as his sons grew as fine and sturdy as himself. Nanno was his only daughter.

When Nanno was five, during the month of October, the Krypteia came to her house in the night. They killed her father and her three brothers with the implements of their own household. She and her mother were spared. The soldiers inspected the little girl and noted that, even in her distress, she was markedly beautiful. They did not rape the mother or the girl; they considered that to be licentious and wrong. Other Spartans might lower themselves to mate with Helots (incurring a fine at this point in time), but the Kryptes were the Spartan elite, ultimate enforcers of the will of the state. They were the strongest and fittest in body as well as the purest in mind.

So they left the females alone. But before going, one of them held Nanno’s head back by her hair and used the family’s kitchen machete to strike her a blow across the face with its heavy blade.

It was enough, enough to maim but not to kill her, enough to make sure that her beauty would never rival a Spartan maiden’s.

By Sabreena 2010

The next part of this ancient Spartan story will be posted soon.

For more interesting information and facts about Sparta and Spartan women in particular, see my suite 101 articles on wife of Leonidas Queen Gorgo of Sparta and Princess Cynisca of Sparta, the first woman to win an olympic gold medal.

Time Travelling Story by Sabreena

2011-01-23T08:19:00.000-08:00

This time travelling story is a short story to read online, about 1700 words long.
Its title is Bridge Hay.

Bridge Hay

We start, far out at sea. The ocean stretches all around, flat and glittering in the sunlight. We are rushing forward, just above the surface of the waves, close enough that we can taste the salt on our lips and even see the dark shapes of fish swimming beneath them. There is a feeling of mounting excitement as we speed along and sure enough, before long a strip of purple land appears on the horizon. The land comes closer quickly; we can see the white spray breaking against the tumbled rocks and cliffs. Our path is changing, veering; we are making for a break in the cliffs where a wild, semi-wooded valley makes its way down to the sea. All at once, we are high above the valley and by the soft reds, greens and golds of the trees, we can see it is Autumn. As we look down, a spear of sunlight illuminates one particular patch of woodland. To this part of the forest, by the effect of the light on the russet and amber curves of the foliage, we are irresistibly drawn. We fly closer – and it is only now you realise we are indeed flying – and find ourselves descending to the forest’s edge. There, I set you down gently, and then throw myself back into the air, glad to be free of my burden. It is your story now.

You find yourself on a patch of open hillside, covered with rough grass and bushes. Above you, a forest begins; below, at the bottom of the field, stands a large, graceful house. As you rise to your feet to look at it, the memories come rushing back – not in a flood, but in ones and twos – in brilliant images. The name of the house; Bridge Hay. The four children that had lived there, each with a bedroom looking out onto the hillside, and the marvellous adventures that befell them.

You gaze happily at the house. There are chimney stacks reaching up from both sides of the sloping roof, as well as one taller one in the middle. The white-painted front faces out across the valley and the sea, but the back of the house is of brown stone and gives out into the hillside, with the woods only a short distance away. The four identical gable windows, all in a row, are the very windows that the four children looked out of on that winter night so many years ago. Those woods, so sunny and gentle-looking now, are the same storm-lashed forest that they dared to enter.

On that night, the children threw aside their patchwork quilts and climbed out of the wooden cots with carved sides, in which they slept. Shivering, they pulled on clothes, and lighted candles to take with them – but who could keep a candle alight in such a gale? The forest outside had been turned by the storm into a black, howling beast. Yet all four children had answered the summons when it came, for they shared the same adventurous spirit.

The wind flung sheets of rain over them, soaking them to the skin as they crossed the hillside; their way fitfully lit as the clouds opened and closed their angry fists on the moon. As they reached the forest’s edge the roar of the wind through the trees rolled out like the voice of a creature deep inside it, and the darkness ahead was profound. Still they did not hesitate, and plunged into the blackness.

Slipping on wet leaves, whipped by branches, they lost one another at once and their frightened cries rose up to join the wind’s lament. Then they passed, as if through a veil, and found the place that had called them. It was a forest still, but silent now and empty; full of solemn grandeur. They tip-toed, holding their breath, through trees huger and more stately than any they’d grown up with.

Then out of the silence came music, wild music but muted, and they felt themselves growing until their heads were level with the giant trees, and then far above them. Then they looked down, and the treetops were clover leaves, and they were in a sweet sunny meadow dotted with friendly ash and birch. Scattered around were lumps of grey and brown stone. The children began to explore – but, stop. You are a story maker, not a story teller. Walk on, go to the house, see who lives there now!

Obediently, eagerly, you obey, hurrying down the hillside, feeling the ground bump beneath your feet. As the house grows nearer, you become more excited. You can feel the magic pouring off the house, from its doors, gables and window-panes. The trees around seem welcoming and as you breathe in, even the air tastes sweet – just as you remember. Cautiously, you approach the three white semicircular steps that lead up to the garden gate. An oval sign in black, white and pink enamel reads BRIDGE HAY, with a sprig of blossom painted above it.

The front of the house is stately and calm. Tall windows are placed so their panes reflect the glory of the setting sun. The well-tended lawns and gardens slope gently down the hill. After passing through the small white gate, there are two ways to go – to the left, down a gravel drive to the grand frontage, or to the right, up a small, brokenly-paved path. This is the path you follow, leading between two over-heavy laurel bushes up to a kitchen door that looks as if it could do with a lick of paint. You hesitate at the door, knock, and then push it open. You glimpse the kitchen, paved with red flagstones, but before you can observe any more, a crowd of children in dirty pinafores come racing out at full speed, all with their mouths open, and yelling at the tops of their voices. You dart to one side and let them pass through the doorway; whereupon they scatter and their pursuer comes to an abrupt halt.

“Brats!” she screams after them but they are out of sight by now. She is dressed as a housekeeper, and she has a harassed look about her.

“Brats,” she repeats in a much more subdued tone, “How’m I expected to do my work when I’m plagued by such a set of demons?”

She begins, with small touches, to put her uniform and her hair, which is sadly disarrayed, back in place. When she has finished, some of the hectic colour had disappeared from her cheeks.

“So,” she says, “Sit down, stranger, and tell me your news. I’ve work to do, and work must wait on visitors.”

You ask her about the children. Was she still living in the house when they had their famous adventures? The question appears to affect her deeply. She heaves a great sigh. “If only you knew,” says she, “of the battles I’ve fought to keep this house going. Things were different in those days. We had quite an establishment. Oh, everybody used to come here in the old days, when the master and mistress were still here – everybody! And then, of course, there were the children. Such lovely children – and so brave! But still – they’re all gone now. There’s only me left. And those brats from the village, that plague the life out of me.”

“Something terrible must have happened?” you surmise softly.

The housekeeper nods vigorously and meets your eyes with her own full of tears. “If only you knew,” she repeats, “how much I’ve struggled. It used to be a busy house – full of activity. Each in their proper place and all with a part to play. And Christmases – I wixh you could have seen one of our Christmases – the lights, the food, the singing and dancing, the decorations –“

You feel a great compassion for the tired-looking housekeeper. In your wish to comfort her, you tell her how well the house looks, and how none of the old magic has been lost.

“Have you been here before, then?” she asks, a tiny spark of hope kindling in her eyes.

“Yes,” you tell her, “I was born and brought up in this very house.”

Her wrists shoot out from under her cuffs and she seizes your arms in a tight, bony grip.

“Who are you?” she demands urgently.

“I am a traveller in time,” you tell her, “I am exploring my past.”

“Time traveller, can you see the future?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then tell me – will this house ever be full again? Will the owners return and bring the house back to life? Will my labours be repaid, at last?”

Behind closed eyes, you see many pictures. You see Bridge Hay humming and full of people, children playing in the garden. You see it empty, but beautiful, with the housekeeper’s face at the window. You see it derelict, with branches growing in through the windows and ivy creeping over the flagstones. This is the image you concentrate on, and it becomes sharper. You see that parts of the house have tumbled down and that the forest has somehow got closer and now encircles the ruins.

When you open your eyes, the housekeeper is still looking at you expectantly. The words do not want to be said, but in the end you say them.

“Bridge Hay will be abandoned at last.”

She believes you completely. She begins to weep, a luxury she has not allowed herself for many years. She packs her bags, still weeping, and sets off for the open road, leaving behind the charge that has been her master for so long.

You watch her back as she disappears down the hillside. She does not look round and you are glad for her. You sit yourself down in the spacious front drawing room. There is plenty of time. Time to watch the house imperceptibly fall down around you. Time to watch the gradual encroachment of the forest until the tumbledown building is quite hidden from view. And finally time to wait, to wait for four children to discover the ruins...

by Sabreena 1992

To read about the reality of time travel, see my suite 101 article Psychic Tests show the Future can Predict the Past.

World of Warcraft Story of the Future

2011-01-20T10:51:00.000-08:00

This World of Warcraft is set in a not yet imagined expansion of the future. This 700 word story is Part One of a slightly longer short story about Warcraft characters that think and feel.

Part One - Inside the Engine Room

Hari stood very still. The bot came closer and closer, its great snake-like head swaying over him, red ayes glaring. It was six, maybe eight times his height, and made of shiny black metal. Hari closed his eyes and tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he waited for its sensors to pick him up for the annihilating swipe or stomp. The Engine House bot would kill him with one hit. Hari had no armour, no defence, no weapon, apart from a rusty dirk that would inflict a laughable four or five points of damage. He could hear its motors whirring as it paused above him and looked around, and he wondered if he would feel the pain of the crushing blow before he died. He waited, and waited…but the blow did not fall. Hari opened his eyes to see the bot whirling on its axis and beginning to lumber off in a new trajectory. He had evidently been just beyond the reach of its sensors. He let out a long, trembling sigh, almost a laugh, and for the first time since entering the Engine Room, he sat down. Immediately, he began to feel his strength return. Sitting cross legged, he carefully swivelled round, looking at and orienting himself to all the objects he could see. This one small square seemed to be a safe spot, just beyond the patrol radar of the bots. The DMs had slipped up there, but it was not surprising, they were human after all and humans make mistakes.

Hari pulled his knapsack off his back and took out a lump of pale cheese. He ate half of it, taking care to catch and eat all the crumbs that broke off as he gnawed at it. Then he wrapped it back in a piece of linen cloth and replaced it in his bag. Next he pulled out a small waterskin that was half empty. He could easily have drunk it all, but allowed himself only a small gulp to wet his dry throat and help the cheese go down. He sat up a little straighter, and relaxed. Next he pulled out his dirk and fingered its rusty blade. Such a sad little weapon, he could kill no more than a rat with it. Still, it was all he had, and maybe could be traded for something better one of these days, especially if he could get his hands on some gold to smooth the deal. Not that there was the slightest chance of that, down here. Even if by some miracle he killed an Engine House bot, they wouldn’t be carrying gold, only mechanical parts, valuable in the right quarters but far too heavy for him to carry and way beyond his skill to use. Apart from these three items his knapsack was empty. He had been left with the bare minimum necessary to survive. Even his clothing – a brown woollen tunic, worn boots and leggings – was the lowest available, offering so little protection he may as well be naked.

Once again, Hari took his bearings. To his left was a huge engine shaft and in front of him and to his right a row of command consoles with two Worker bots, non-patrollers, operating them. The gap between them was at a 45 degree angle to where he sat. Hari drew a marker line on the dusty floor with his finger. Then he had a better idea. With the point of his dirk he scratched a circle around himself. There. His safe space was permanently marked out now. This tiny square was the only place in the cavern-like room where he knew he would be safe from attack. A room so vast its true dimensions were impossible for him to make out, the far walls and the high ceiling lost in gloom.

The floor began to shake. The giant bot was returning to him again on its patrol sequence. Although Hari knew it would not see him, he still felt his heart begin to pound, the fear rise in his throat. But this time he forced his eyes to remain open, fixed on the terrifying form as it stomped closer and closer. Its eyes glowed above him, but as before it did not see him; only swivelling around and then turning to go. Hari began to breathe again. He felt the impulse to taunt the bot; shout at it, but he resisted. For all he knew it had sound sensors too. Such foolishness would be a luxury.

Fed now, and watered, Hari had two further pressing needs – warmth, and sleep. Lack of both were combining to bring a leaden quality to his limbs; if he did not sleep soon, his energy levels, replenished temporarily by the food, would drop dangerously low, impairing his movement abilities so much that he would never be able to leave this spot. True, he could lie down and sleep where he was, curled into a ball. But the spot was too exposed; there were many sources of warmth in the engine room but this draughty spot was too far from them all. He would wake frozen stiff. What he really needed was a base in the Engine Room, a little hideaway from which he could venture out to satisfy other needs that would soon become more pressing. More water and food, for example. A single safe square on the Engine House floor may be enough for an inanimate bot, but not for him. Besides, the DMs might change the patrol pattern, or the range specification of the bots at any time. And Hari needed the feel of walls around him, the safety and comfort of being able to shut out the world. He needed a base.

He scanned his surroundings once more. He was looking for small, semi-concealed entrances and exits; gaps between consoles, ducts, vents and shafts. Places too small for the bots to access. Hari knew they must be there, and if he could get to one he might survive a little longer. He peered through the gloom, wishing he still had his spyglass with him, x50 magnification. He quickly put the thought away from him. There was no point in dwelling on what he had lost.

He could see something that looked hopeful….

Further Parts to this World of Warcraft story will be posted soon. Follow the blog to make sure you don't miss them!

By Sabreena 2005

Poem about Merlin and Vivien

2011-01-15T01:44:00.000-08:00

Poem About Merlin and Vivien

It was foretold that the magician Merlin would meet a witch maiden who would betray him. Merlin met and recognised her, but still could not resist her.

Merlin’s Song

All my wisdom, all my lore, lies useless as a page

Ripped randomly from some spell book dropped by a careless mage

A hundred years of learning, a lifetime’s mental toil

Thrown aside in ecstasy, a useless clump of soil

None could match or harm me, my skill surpassed them all

And yet for you, sweet child, I fell, and I became your thrall

I knew you were my downfall, yet I ran out to greet

The dreadful fate I’d spent my life attempting not to meet.

Vivien convinced Merlin to tell her the secret of his power, and then used it against him to imprison him forever in an underground cavern.

Vivien’s Song

In an empty cavern, where no warm breeze stirs the air

Only dark and dampness may make their home in there

Powerless and destitute the ancient, fetal, lay

Far from all the comforts of love, and life and day

And up above his head, on green turf I skipped and played

The merry wanton maiden who had his prison made

Rejoicing in my power, that I had conquered then

And revenged for all my sex the arrant juggernaut of men.

By Sabreena

Merlin and Vivien

Poem for January based on John Constable's Watercolour "An Ash Tree"

2011-01-09T11:36:00.000-08:00

POEM FOR JANUARY

John Constable's watercolour "An Ash Tree"

Sad Ash

Tall tree

Bare land

Thin tree

Sad man

Under tree

This is

January.

By Sabreena

For more seasonal poems and quotes see my suite 101 article Quotations and Poems about February

Poem for January based on John Constable's watercolour "An Ash Tree"