Sappho's Leap (30 page)

“Have you come to grant us death?” one toothless centaur asked. “We crave the blessings of death, which Zeus has denied us as punishment.”

“What terrible crimes did you commit?”

“Shape-shifting magic, instructing the gods. They want to pretend they learned it all themselves!”

“If only we could grant you death!” cried Aesop. “But we are only humans.”

Unable to stand the smell, I fled the cave.

There on the beach I saw each of the centaurs stroke the maidens with his enormous phallus. An arc of fire went from that organ to the maiden.

Atthis was the first to stir. Next Gongyla came to life.

“Aesop!” I cried. “Our maidens are revived!”

Aesop dragged himself out of the Cave of the Elders. “Now you know why death is a blessing,” he said.

“Now you know in which organ the magic of the centaurs resides,” I answered.

There was no question that Atthis and Gongyla were coming back to life. Atthis stretched her arms above her head and stared at the circle of centaurs in astonishment. Gongyla sat up too.

“Chiron—if you can so restore these maidens with your healing, why are your elders rotting away?”

“Another trick of Zeus. We can heal all creatures but our own kind.”

“Why did Zeus so hate you?”

“We had the power of horses and the brains of men. We knew the healing arts, all magic, and had the power to turn ourselves into any shape as he did. But above all we were more potent than he was, more irresistible to women. Zeus in particular hated that. We had taught the gods all they knew and Zeus wanted to forget where this learning originated. In our early days we were beloved by Poseidon and could gallop across the sea. Zeus took that from us as well. You know that he hates whatever his brother loves.”

Atthis and Gongyla were now fully awake. They leapt on Chiron's back and bade him take them all over the island. I heard them laughing with delight as they galloped away.

“Let's bring the amazons and the centaurs together,” I said to Aesop. “Women love horses better than they love men.”

“How on earth will we accomplish that?” asked Aesop.

“With the help of the gods,” I said.

“If only they could gallop across the sea again,” Aesop said dreamily.

“That's the only I hope I have of ever getting home again,” I said. “On some centaur's back.”

But I was wrong.

I am that Eye of Horus, the messenger of the lord.

I am he that created his name.

—A
NCIENT
E
GYPTIAN
P
RAYER

S
OME DAYS LATER, A
great Egyptian ship with a huge eye painted on its side sailed into the harbor of the island of the centaurs. Since the centaurs had no docks or provisions for landing, the ship had to anchor out in the deep waters. Chiron studied it with suspicion, thinking it was another punishment visited by Zeus on those beloved by Poseidon.

“Perhaps we should sink the ship,” he said to Aesop and me while his circle of centaurs looked on, awaiting his orders.

“It is called the
Eye of Horus
,” said Aesop, who could read hieroglyphs after his long sojourn in Egypt. “It might presage something good. For the Egyptians the eye is the symbol of the Great Mother. We humans are merely tears of the great eye. This may be just the redemption you are seeking.”

“I doubt it,” said Chiron. “Zeus has tricked me in so many ways that I know how cunning he can be. I say sink it.”

“And stay here with your rotting elders, your helpless isolation? Perhaps this ship can carry you to a better fate.”

“All right, then, Aesop, I delegate you to swim out to the ship and speak to them. If you do not return swiftly, we will know they are enemies and we will sink the ship.”

“But I thought you killed no living creature,” Aesop said. “Would you so betray your own philosophy?”

At that moment a small speck began to bob on the sea near the great Egyptian ship. As it came closer, we saw that it was a tender from the
Eye of Horus
. It had a canopy of gold, which glinted in the sun. Four powerful Nubians in white linen rowed it. Under the canopy sat what appeared to be an Egyptian nobleman. But as he rowed closer, we saw that this Egyptian nobleman had golden hair.

I stood transfixed. The boat rowed closer and closer. Two powerful Nubians leapt out and dragged the boat up on the strand. Then they helped the nobleman out of the craft. The two other Nubians detached the canopy of gold and held it over the blond head of the Egyptian lord.

Perhaps it was because he was clean-shaven in the Egyptian fashion, perhaps because so many years had elapsed, but I did not recognize this man until he began to speak in the soft syllables of my native land:

“What land is this, where men are horses and horses are men? Does anyone speak Greek?” It was Alcaeus! I hid behind Chiron, worrying that I did not look good enough to meet my old love. My hair was a mess. I had no paint, no perfumes, and no elegant clothes. In all my dreams of this moment I never expected to look like a castaway.

“Do you come in peace?” Chiron demanded. “Or are you another hostile emissary of Zeus?”

“You flatter me if you think I come from Zeus himself, but the pharaoh sent me, not the king of the gods. I'm afraid my mission is more mundane. My pharaoh seeks a certain Greek singer who has captured his heart.”

“Who might that be?” Chiron asked.

“A woman who sings so sweetly she might be one of the muses. A woman whose hair is so shining and black it might be ebony. A woman who smells of all the perfumes of the East….”

“We have no woman like that here,” said Chiron, who had never heard me sing. I shrank behind his huge flank, praying that Alcaeus would leave before he saw me in this state. I had dreamed of him for years and now all I wished for was his departure.

“I have heard the singer that you speak of,” Aesop said. “She became a legend in Naucratis. She is Sappho of Eresus.”

“The very one,” said Alcaeus.

“We have no Sappho here,” said Chiron.

Alcaeus looked downcast and turned to go. “But perhaps I might refill my water jugs before I sail again?”

I debated with myself. Should I crawl back into the cave of the ancient centaurs and avoid being seen by Alcaeus? Should I make myself known even in my hideous state? My vanity warred with my love.

“You may have water,” Chiron said.

Alcaeus turned away to instruct the Nubians.

“I will return to my ship,” he told Chiron, “and then send my men back with jugs for water. Thank you for the courtesy.” And he turned his back to us and began the short walk to the skiff under his canopy of gold.

My heart was pounding in my chest. The sweat poured down my face.

I could not stay and could not go.

Aesop stopped Alcaeus. “May I sail with you back to Egypt?” he asked. “I may be of some service.”

“And who are you?”

“Aesop the fable-maker.”

“The pharaoh also mentioned you as friend and advisor. Surely you must know what became of Sappho?”

Aesop hesitated. I saw myself abandoned on the island of the centaurs while these two sailed away together and I panicked.

“Alcaeus—I am here!” I shrieked and ran to him, throwing my arms around him. He embraced me warmly, then stood back and looked at me with amazement.

“Well, you certainly look the worse for wear!” he said.

“If you had been to Hades' realm and back, you might not look so good either.”

“Hades' realm! You always did have a tendency to overdramatize your life. Being the favorite of a pharaoh is hardly so horrible.”

“So you two know each other?” asked Chiron.

“We certainly do,” I said.

Later, on the
Eye of Horus
, he took me in his arms and kissed me to make up for all the years of kisses we had missed. Kisses—the sweetest fruits of love—can be lyric or epic. Our kisses were epic. They were the weavings and unweavings of the gods. We caught up on the years. Alcaeus told me about Sardis, about Delphi, about Naucratis. I told him about Syracuse, the amazons, and Herpetia. We told all—or almost all. Yet we clearly left things out. I did not mention Isis. He did not mention Rhodopis.

“I wish you could have shared the court of Alyattes with me,” Alcaeus said.

“I wish you could have seen Syracuse,” I said.

“I wish we had met at Delphi instead of constantly missing each other,” Alcaeus said.

“Let's make up for it now,” I said, “with the prophecies of kisses to come.” And then we were lost again in each other's tongues.

Alcaeus and I were two of a kind. We were too much alike—vain, sensual, wanting to be admired for our cleverness. We always held something in reserve. One. lover was not enough. There had to be another waiting in the wings.

“So, Sappho, you are a widow now. Will you marry me? Or shall I carry you back to your besotted pharaoh?”

“One marriage is more than enough for a lifetime. I hope never to do
that
again. Cannot I just keep you as a plaything?”

“And what about the pharaoh?”

“Let him pay the bills. Pharaohs are good for that.”

We cruised on the great Egyptian ship and made love day and night as if we were the newest of new lovers. We wrote each other songs—all of which have been lost. We devoured each other's bodies hungrily. While we did, the Nubians sailed eastward in the direction of Egypt and Aesop worked busily transcribing his tales on papyrus in the captain's quarters. The centaurs were also aboard, for Aesop had sworn to take them to the island of the amazons. But for all that, Alcaeus and I might have been alone.

There is nothing sweeter than to be on a boat with the love of your life. You inhabit a private world—a world made only for your love. Alcaeus described the court of Alyattes for me and the interminable wait for the Oracle of Delphi. I told Alcaeus of my marriage, of the birth of Cleis, of my adventures with Cyrus, with Praxinoa, with Penthesilea and Antiope.

When I spoke of the amazons and Pegasus, of the Land of the Dead and the failed Utopia that followed it, I am not sure Alcaeus believed me. He looked at me quizzically, as if I had made it all up. But I no longer cared. Lost in the sweetness of sex, I had no energy to argue with him. Desire is its own country and we were its king and queen.

At night, Aesop would tell his tales on the deck, greatly amusing the sailors. Every tale ended with a pithy moral. If only life were as simple as that.

If lovers could live forever in the land of desire, life would have no problems. But desire, once satisfied, makes room for other things. I longed to see my daughter, my gold flower, my darling Cleis. I put it to Alcaeus that we should return to Lesbos—whatever the cost.

“In Egypt, we are royalty,” he said, “in Lesbos, outcasts. Why on earth would we return there?”

“So I can see my child,” I said.

Alcaeus was not convinced.

“And if Pittacus executes us—what good will that do your child?”

“I'm sure Pittacus will be reasonable,” I said.

“How little you know him!” Alcaeus countered. “You cannot go back as long as Pittacus lives.”

We were bound for Egypt, and that was that.

We would stop, of course, in the land of the amazons—which Alcaeus had agreed to because he didn't really think it existed. Aesop had somehow convinced Chiron that the amazons were their natural allies—and Chiron, who desperately sought mates for his men, was ready to attempt this radical solution to the barrenness of his land.

Chiron himself had taken both Atthis and Gongyla as his brides and the other centaurs were restless to have brides themselves. They paced the deck while Chiron cavorted below with his maidens.

“If you will not return to Lesbos,” I said, “I'll escape at the island of the amazons and make my way from there.” But Alcaeus—perhaps because he did not believe any such island existed—was undisturbed by my threat.

My longing for Cleis became the worm in the golden apple of our love. I wanted Alcaeus to want Cleis as much as I did. Nothing but that would do. I planned to tell Alcaeus that Cleis was surely his daughter, waiting for the right moment to make this revelation. I wanted the atmosphere to be perfect. Was I afraid that Alcaeus would somehow regret both me and Cleis if he knew? Was I afraid he would not be a father like my own father? Did I still long to be the ‘little whirlwind' of my earliest days? So much memory flows between lovers. So much time passes in our lives, and yet so little. From childhood to maturity is the blink of an eye—the eye of Horus!

“I want you to myself,” said Alcaeus, stroking my cheek, my breast, my thigh. “I want to feast on you forever. If we could sail away to our own island and never see anyone but each other for all eternity—that is what I would like best.”

“That is what I want too,” I said. But I was thinking of Cleis.

At night I would lie awake next to Alcaeus and yearn for Cleis. I saw her always in a religious procession, wearing a string of figs around her neck. I saw her weaving gowns to robe Athena. I saw her carrying a basket on her head—a basket full of objects sacred to Aphrodite.

The truth is I didn't know whether she was alive or dead. I didn't even know whether my mother had safely made the journey from Syracuse to Lesbos. Nor did I know whether my mother was alive or dead. Nor whether Pittacus was still in power. If my daughter lived, she would be a woman by now. And if she hadn't lived? It was unthinkable!

“Sappho,” Alcaeus would say, “we can have other children. Cleis is not the only child you'll ever have.”

Somehow this rankled more than if he had said nothing. He didn't understand my longing. Again, I put off telling him that Cleis was his daughter. I hesitated and the right moment never presented itself.