Sappho's Leap (13 page)

I knew these things, but I banished them from my consciousness, as I tried—unsuccessfully—to banish thoughts of baby Cleis and my beloved Alcaeus. Driven by the desire to hoard gold to protect myself, I followed Cyrus' lead. Or was it that I loved performing so? I was intoxicated with my own singing. Each time I ventured to transport the crowd, I transported myself. Perhaps their laughter and shouts of encouragement were dearer to me even than their gold. When the floor was swept for my performance, when I took up the lyre and cleared my throat, when I saw the spectators sitting rapt, I was transported to another realm. Yes, the truth is, performing made me feel equal to the gods because I could so manipulate the feelings of my spectators. I thought I was as powerful as Aphrodite. I thought I held the keys to her enchantments. I sang of her, but secretly I sang of myself.

That much-quoted line—
I don't expect to reach the sky
—was written in a fit of remorse after one of these lucrative symposia in Syracuse. It was the night before we sailed for Delphi and I was disgusted with what I had become.

“I began by honoring the gods,” I said to Prax, “and now I honor gold. Something terrible will surely happen.”

“What can be worse than what has already happened?” asked Praxinoa.

The voyage to Delphi was harsh. Fog banks stalled us. Storms pummeled our vessel. The gods tossed us around like corks in the sea. I had never been prone to seasickness before, but on this occasion I was.

We have all heard the minstrels sing the adventures of Odysseus—but the women in the legends of our founders sit and spin. Penelope weaves and unweaves. Helen is captured for love—but where is there one woman who sets out on the sea to earn her wisdom? I would be that woman.

From Trinacria to Delphi was fierce open ocean, unbroken by islands. There was no way to hug the shore, to stop overnight, to stop for provisions, to stop for rest. It was cloudy that night; the captain could not steer by the stars. After a time we realized that he had no idea where we were headed. We were as likely to wind up in Hades' realm as at Delphi.

Still worse, the captain and sailors had heard that we were rich in gold and they were determined to have it and then throw me into the sea. When I protested that all my gold had been left in Syracuse, they did not believe me.

“Surely you must have some aboard,” the captain said.

“Not enough to content you—but if you take me back to Syracuse alive, I will show you my hoard of gold and give you all you wish.”

They debated among themselves, thinking this was a plot to outwit them. But Cyrus intervened, denuding himself of all his golden ornaments and promising more upon our return to Syracuse. I think they were divided among themselves about what to do. The captain attempted to convince them to follow Cyrus' plan, promising them riches beyond measure if they returned to Syracuse—which was easier said than done. The wind had begun to blow in great gusts and a heady storm was brewing. All future plans were forgotten as we clung to the craft for our lives.

I thought I had known rough seas—at Pyrrha, sailing to Syracuse, at Motya—but I had never known the full power of Poseidon before this. The boat heeled so far over that men were lost overboard with every pitch. I clung to the side of the ship as the waves buffeted me, but it was only by entangling my feet in the lines that I managed to stay aboard. Alcaeus had taught me this—and it saved my life.

The captain was lost, and most of his men. Overboard they went—their pockets filled with. Cyrus' gold, which had no power to save them. The bottom of the sea must be paved with gold, I thought, and the bones of those who died diving for it.

ZEUS
:
I would let her perish right there—unlikely heroine that she is….

APHRODITE:
You have no patience. This woman will be a myth for three millennia if you let me finish her story.

ZEUS:
I see no point….

APHRODITE:
You never see the point of women's lives unless they bear you children.

ZEUS:
I can even do that myself. Drown Sappho, give me Cleis. I'll sew her up in my thigh, give birth to her again, and then we'll start fresh with her story.

APHRODITE:
I will not silence the only woman's voice that reverberates through time.

ZEUS:
Who cares?

APHRODITE:
I care! And so will others.

ZEUS:
Then you save her.

APHRODITE:
I will, with Poseidon's help—if not with yours.

ZEUS:
Poseidon! My brother always was a pest. Look what he did to Odysseus.

Praxinoa was struck by a wooden crosspiece from the mast ripped loose by the wind. She was knocked unconscious. Cyrus of Sardis held on for a time, then went the way of his gold. I clung on through the storm, wishing for unconsciousness but remaining damnably awake. Then, by the grace of the gods, I slept.

I dreamed I was Odysseus being pummeled by Poseidon and not knowing which way to turn. Then the white sea goddess, Leucothea, appeared to me as she had to him.

“
Get clear of the wreckage, Sappho
,” she said to me, “
for it will kill you more surely than the sea. Ride the steering oar as fit were a horse. Take this magic veil and cover yourself and Praxinoa with it. It will protect you both as you make your way to shore.
”

“But there is no shore!” I said. “This is open sea all the way to Delphi.”

“
Trust me
,” the sea goddess said.

I ditched my heavy clothes and stripped the sleeping Praxinoa naked as well. Catching her up in the magic veil, straddling the steering oar as I'd been told, I paddled with all my might. Out of the corners of my eyes, I seemed to see white dolphins pulling the magic veil, but perhaps this was a dream.

When at last I reached the sea-lapped shores of a tranquil island and put Praxinoa gently down, I was certain I was dead. Were these the Elysian Fields?

Three women were dancing gracefully together on the edge of the sea. One was Helen, her luxuriant red hair still singed by the burning towers of Troy. The second was Demeter, with her crown of fruits and flowers, and the third Athena, with her battle helmet. They were all voluptuously naked and fair. They seemed to welcome me.

“Is it best to live for love?” Helen asked. “We have been discussing this. Can you resolve it?”

“Motherhood is what I live for,” said Demeter, “and so must all women.”

“Intellect is best,” Athena said. “Love and motherhood will drag you down into the mire like animals. Only virginity and a warrior's pride can save a woman from her fate.”

“But without love we are only half alive!” Helen exclaimed as if she were Aphrodite.

They danced around and around as their argument went around and around. They seemed to have been dancing forever.

Praxinoa awoke. She couldn't believe her eyes.

“We are among immortals!” she cried—half in delight, half in fear.

“Then join our debate,” said beautiful half-immortal Helen, with her breasts like ripe pears, her pubic thatch like fire, her white thighs the color of cream rising.

“Shall we live for love or motherhood or intellect?” the daughter of Zeus and Leda sang. Her voice was as beautiful as her face.

“Motherhood and all its joys and woes,” Demeter sighed. “Without it there would be no people on the face of the earth.”

“The brain above the heart,” Athena said, “or we are all beasts of the field.”

“Love,” said Helen, “for love alone inspires all things to grow—even children and the glory of war.”

“Look where love took you,” I said, “and the world!”

“I would do it all again!” said Helen. “I regret nothing!”

Praxinoa was laughing, laughing, laughing. I was afraid she would offend the immortals.

“Look at you all,” she said, “arguing like free women—not even dreaming that liberty is at the root of your choices. What if you were slaves?”

The dancing stopped and the three lovely ones looked quizzical and perplexed.

“Liberty is at the root of all we want,” said Praxinoa, “for only free women can participate in this debate. Choice is the luxury of the free.”

The goddesses and Helen danced away. Praxinoa and I woke up on a sandy beach with salt on our lashes and seaweed in our hair.

I know the number of grains of sand and the extent of the sea;

I understand the deaf-mute and hear the words of the dumb.

—
T
HE
O
RACLE OF
D
ELPHI

A
FTER THAT MEETING WITH
immortal beauty, motherhood, and wisdom, our luck turned. The weather grew fair and bright. Helen and the goddesses had vanished, but we were picked up by a Phoenician ship bound for Delphi and continued on our journey there as easily as if the gods themselves had decreed it. Cyrus of Sardis was gone. Our gold was gone. But Delphi was the source of all wisdom, so we were hopeful about the future. There our luck would surely change! There we would surely find Alcaeus and a prophecy about Cleis! If what Cyrus had told us was true, Delphi would reverse our fortunes and make us whole. But we were soon to discover that Cyrus had
not
told us all we needed to know.

Across the sea to the Gulf of Corinth, the weather continued beautiful and breezy. Our hearts pounded in anticipation. Delphi was the oldest of the old. It was said that gods had been summoned there long before the Olympians ruled the earth. Gaia had been worshiped in Delphi by Cretan priests and priestesses. Dangerous chthonian deities had been defeated and destroyed at Delphi by Apollo the lawgiver and his
prophetai
. In Delphi wisdom ruled if it ruled nowhere else in the whole civilized world. We were going to the fount of all wisdom and civilization, the place where we could truly learn what the spinners had in store. No wonder we were so excited!

We left our boat at the foot of Mount Parnassus and gazed up to see its top buried in billowing clouds.

“This is the place where we will learn our destiny!” I said to Praxinoa.

“It's a long way up,” Praxinoa said.

Everything about Delphi was calculated to fill you with awe. The climb up Mount Parnassus made you so short of breath that you could not help but see gods and goddesses in the mist. The owls' screeching and the hollow footsteps of giants who had come before you intensified the atmosphere of the supernatural. Often the sky filled with tumultuous black clouds and lightning flashes as if indeed Zeus were hovering near. Then all at once the skies would open up and radiant rainbows would arc across the mountaintops. The sun would pierce the clouds. You knew then you were in the presence of Apollo.

Three springs rush through a cleft in the sacred mountain. There at the confluence, where the mist rises almost as thick as fog at sea, is Apollo's chosen spot. Some say it is called the great
omphalos
, or navel, of the earth because of the hills that rise around it, trapping sacred mist and intoxicating vapors. Some say Delphi was already a sacred place in days of old, when our ancestors worshiped the earth goddesses who were later dethroned by Zeus and his children. It feels like a sacred place—as if magic can be worked there. The heart beats faster, the limbs grow cold, you draw breath with difficulty and not only because of the altitude. As you climb the sacred way, you see other pilgrims—the rich riding in their slave-carried litters, the barefoot poor begging worn-out sandals and crusts of bread, the prosperous city merchants aping the manners of the aristocracy.

The temple of Apollo is built over this vaporous cleft in the living rock. Apollo's statue—all ivory and gold—stands wreathed in mist as if the god himself were there. The Pythia, we were told by other pilgrims, sits on a tripod over the abyss, crowned in laurel, chewing laurel leaves and raving in fragments of various dream languages. She inhales sacred fumes in a special chamber only priests can enter and then she rises on her tripod to rave again.

“You will think you hear Egyptian, then Phoenician, then Phrygian, then bits of Greek—then gibberish,” said one rich pilgrim from Samos whom Praxinoa and I met coming down the mountain after his audience with the oracle. “The Pythia tantalizes you by seeming to speak sense, then sinking into nonsense. There are many complex rituals to perform before you are allowed into her presence—or even into the presence of her priests. But you might as well turn back here, because women are not allowed to see the oracle.”

“But the oracle
is
a woman!” I protested.

“Still, women are not allowed into her presence,” the pilgrim said.

“That seems illogical,” I said.

“Well, women are illogical,” the man said, displaying what passed for male logic.

“What can we do?” Prax asked. “We
must
see her.”

“Then grow a phallus!” the pilgrim said, laughing as he continued down the mountain as we were climbing upward.

“We will disguise ourselves as men, Prax. Don't worry.” For the Samian pilgrim, growing a phallus was a joke. But this joke gave me a good idea.

“We'll dress as men,” I said. “Who will be the wiser?”

“The oracle will know,” Prax protested.

“As long as her priests don't know, we'll be fine,” I told Praxinoa. As usual, I pretended to a confidence I didn't really possess.

Everyone came to Delphi: founders of cities; would-be bridegrooms—no brides, of course, due to the prohibition against women; generals who wished to pursue wars against their king's neighbors; tyrants like Pittacus who wished to overtake cities and rule their inhabitants; wise men, stupid men, stupid wise men.