Chapter 4 #2
We clear a space and begin, our feet swift, our bodies close, almost scandalously so, until we are flung apart by its wild beat.
My feet stamp and my hands clap a ferocious rhythm.
The beads of my overlay click in time like a crotalum.
The sun gasps its final breath for the day and its exhalation lights the shine of my skin, the silver of my jewellery, and I see it then, in the corner of my eye – the crepuscular promise of my godhood.
My mother can see it too and so does not begrudge me this.
The faces, like bronze plates around me, reflect it back.
Their eyes are keen, honed as weapons, whetting themselves on the curves my body makes.
But Phineus is laughing beside me and so I am not afraid. Step, clap, step step, clap clap.
The drums surge and so do I. The piece is based on the flooding of the Nile and I am full and spilling, the banks of my skin bursting with song; I spin, spin, spin, but I am not dizzy.
Phineus lifts me, and the music and I reach our zenith together.
I realize we are the only ones still dancing, the rest of the court stopped to watch us.
He lowers me and the music retreats, water flowing back over the banks.
Phineus bows before me, his final position held with a slight ripple, the current settling after the storm.
I sink then straighten; I am the flowers, thirst quenched, standing in full bloom.
His eyes find mine, kind and crinkling. My breath catches where I meet them.
There is applause, our court, our guests, but I cannot look away.
This has not happened before. There are murmurs at this, some disgruntled, a slight frisson of indignation.
The question of the foregone conclusion hangs in the air, but it is not so very heavy; if the young princess favours her kin it matters little.
Kings and advisors do not listen to the capricious hearts of girls.
As if to reassure, my mother stands, arms wide as my father’s had been, embracing not the court but me, from afar.
‘My daughter, Andromeda. Andromeda.’ She says my name as my epithet, ruler of men. ‘She will make a fine queen for one of you, will she not?’
The crowd murmurs in agreement. Their suppositions snatch at my face and body. Will she birth well? Will she be fruitful? Will she be dutiful and steadfast and obedient?
My mother continues. ‘Is she not beautiful? Is she not the most beautiful girl in the world?’ Her voice is raised, loudly, almost unnecessarily so.
The room is quiet, her words bouncing off the marble floors, the polished sandstone walls, between the columns and pillars, a volley of vowels and consonants like a game of seker-hemat.
‘Not girl – for my daughter is not just a girl. She is a princess and her father is god-born. See the truth of it light her flesh. She is more radiant than all others.’ I fight the awkward slump, the embarrassed tangle of my limbs, but still my mother continues, even louder, her chest heaving in short, sharp breaths.
‘She is more beautiful than all girls, all women, all nymphs, even! Why – Poseidon’s Nereids cannot compare! ’
It is a silly thing to say. Overblown and overconfident.
I avoid all gazes, even Phineus’, fearing both the pity and pride I might find there.
My skin prickles strangely. The breeze through the front doors stills, the hot open mouth of Eurus snapped shut.
I am suddenly parched, my throat dry and baking.
A ripple of an ineffable something passes over the court.
I think three things in such quick succession that they collide absurdly in my mind.
Something is wrong. My grandmother is here. I ate too quickly.
Achiroe rises from the pool in the central court and strides towards us.
Inside she is incongruous. She erodes the crowd as she walks, clearing a path to my mother.
She snatches me up on her way, pressing me close, her skin smelling of silt and soil, a scent that usually comforts me.
She stops in front of the dais that sets the paired thrones of my parents above us.
My small throne is but a chair comparatively, empty beside them.
Phineus has followed in his mother’s wake, taking care not to trip over the reeds that robe her.
My father has frozen at the sight of his mother, stuttering, his hands full and halfway to his mouth.
My mother, to her credit, does not quail at the look my grandmother gives her.
She levels a glare of cool authority back as the goddess intones, ‘What did you do?’
My mother does not answer. She does not have to.
The storm breaks overhead. The wind is still no more and what begins is a squall, the likes of which I have not seen before. It rages the length of the palace, it roars in my face, sending salt spray through the open doors, upending ewers and sending platters of food clattering to the floor.
Berries roll as though the palace has been tipped on its side and shaken.
This thought has a tinge of prophecy – I taste it, swallow the dread that follows, and throw myself to the ground.
A second later the world beneath me quakes.
I feel a weight on top of me, warm, reassuring, and turn my head just enough to note that Phineus covers my body with his.
My grandmother is the only one who stands tall, shielding the pair of us, facing the lashing winds.
Then the rain comes. And the rain is not alone.