Sappho's Leap (39 page)

“Go, Charaxus, never darken my door again! I see you are neither the son of Scamandronymus nor the daughter of Cleis the elder. You must have been a changeling! My true brother would not cheat his kin for a trollop!”

I sternly turned my back and walked away.

And then I heard it. Charaxus was sobbing. He was sobbing great choked sobs. Then he was raging, and he attacked: “You insult me, sister! You have always torn me down! You have always made fun of my passions! At least Rhodopis loves me truly!”

“If you cannot tell the difference between a sister's loyalty and a whore's greed, then I pity you!
Go
!”

“Damn you!” I muttered under my breath. “A fool from birth will always be a fool.” My mind instantly ran ahead to other plans. I would take Dica to Artemisia
myself
. I had no doubt that Artemisia would find a use for Dica's pregnancy. Either she would end it for gold or sell the child to the highest bidder. She knew how to do all these things. She fattened on the fears of women—as Rhodopis fattened on the fears of men. Who needed Charaxus or Rhodopis! I would manage all this myself. Then I would disband my school and go to find Alcaeus, Aesop, Praxinoa—my real kin. I was already making plans to do so when Charaxus returned. He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of my chiton.

“Sappho—you are right. I will do as you ask.”

“Be kind to the girl—she is shaken. Is that a promise?”

“I swear on my son's life.”

So he returned to Mytilene with Dica in tow while I prayed to Aphrodite that he would not weaken when he saw his awful wedded wife.

Why are men so weak? I wondered as I went about my chores. Why have the gods put all their power in their phalli? Why are they so unable to think clearly when a woman commands them? What can be the meaning of this madness of lust? Why do we need it? Why does it so distort our world?

Because of lust, Helen sparked the Trojan War. Because of lust, Odysseus lost his men. Because of lust, Demeter lost her daughter half the year. Wild lust has convulsed the earth too often and killed too many mothers' sons. Why?

APHRODITE:
Because of my father's fury! Know that when I ruled the world with Demeter and Hestia and Hera and even great Gaia and the other goddesses, the world was a gentler place. Then Zeus came with his overwhelming lust and chaos was here again!

ZEUS:
So I suppose women are never cruel!

APHRODITE:
Less cruel than you!

ZEUS:
And what of the way they flirt with and frighten their young
s
ons? And what of the way they taunt and torture us?

APHRODITE:
Our only remaining power. Love is a weapon because we have no other. Beauty is a dagger only when you disarm us. Sex becomes a spear when you vanquish our mothers. When Isis ruled supreme, the world
w
as just. But when the consort overpowers his mother, war comes to the
w
orld. And burns it in fierce flame.

ZEUS:
So have your blessed matriarchy. Rule the world. You will see how hard it is to rule, and how thankless.

APHRODITE:
When women retake the world, we will prove you wrong!

ZEUS:
I doubt it.

I sent the girls home to their families one by one. I closed up my grandparents' house, leaving the caretakers in charge. Then I went to bid farewell to my daughter in Mytilene.

Cleis was glad to see me this time, as if she knew she might never see me again. Hector threw his little arms around my neck and would not let go.

“Tell me the song of Alcaeus again, Grandmama!” And I sang it, slowly, sonorously. He clapped his hands in delight.

“Never forget that you are the grandson of singers, Hector. Perhaps song can't cure the world, but it is the only consolation the gods have given us.”

Cleis looked different. She had a sort of gleam in her eye, a golden radiance of serenity. Had Phaon come to call? Had he taught her the secrets of love's sweet madness? I hoped so. Phaon had his uses. Every girl should have a lover like that before she becomes a contented matron. Every maiden should be aroused by Aphrodite's chosen swain. Then good riddance to him!

“Mother,” Cleis asked, “did you ever find pleasure with a man who was not your lawful husband? Or with a woman?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Pleasure is good—wherever you find it, Cleis, just as long as no one is hurt by knowledge they would rather not have.”

“That's what I thought myself, Mother,” Cleis said, almost singing. Oh, Phaon had been here all right.

As I was bidding farewell to Cleis and Hector, dreaming of Alcaeus and determined to set out to find him, I once again remembered the legend of the rock at Leucas. The wise ones said that if you were possessed by an impossible love, you must go to the isle of Leucas, climb to the shrine of Apollo, and jump off the high white cliff above the sea. If you survived, you would be cured of yearning. And if you did not, you would also be cured!

On my last night in Eresus before departure, I sat alone in my grand-mother's bedchamber and thought about this legend. Then I wrote a song about it.

O Aphrodite, is it true

That hopeless love

Drowns in Leucas?

I must climb to the top

Of that white cliff

And throw myself into

The roiling sea

Because I have lost my one true love!

If you cannot bring me love,

Then bring me death.

I have served you long enough.

I sang that mournful song on the boat that was to take me from Mytilene to Delphi. And the people who heard it cried, “I must learn that song before I die!” How could I know that my fellow passengers would learn it and sing it to Alcaeus and Praxinoa and Aesop in Delphi and that my old friends would come in search of me?

Death is an evil,

Otherwise the gods

Would die.

—S
APPHO

W
OULD LEAPING REALLY CURE
hopeless love? So the legend went. I stopped on the isle of Leucas to see the fabled great white rock, which I had never beheld with my own eyes. I knew only the myths that swirled about it like mist on Mount Olympus. Some said in ancient times prisoners were hurled from the rock to purge the island of evil. Those who perished were presumed to be guilty. Those who survived were pardoned. Later, in the curious way legends are transformed, the place became a lovers' leap. I had always dreamed of seeing it. But equally I feared it.

The cliff was prodigious. One sheer side of naked rock beetled over the sea. The rock seemed jaggedly torn and the wind howled around it. I planned to visit the shrine of Apollo on the promontory, then continue on to Delphi, where my old bones knew that Alcaeus would be waiting for me. And if he was
not
? Then I would do whatever I would do. I refused to fret about it. My life was in Aphrodite's soft hands.

As usual, nothing worked out as I had planned. The ship on which I had sailed from Lesbos waited for another cargo, which was late making the crossing from Naucratis. So I remained on the isle of Leucas far longer than I would have wished, but I kept postponing my visit to the shrine of Apollo on the cliff.

It was good to be in Leucas on my own. Everywhere I went, people sang my songs to me with great emotion. I came to realize that though I was no prophet in my own land, I was beloved all over the rest of the Greek-speaking world—which was, of course, the only world that mattered.

Women came to me weeping. They told me that “gold flower” had made them love their daughters more. Men came to me and said that my songs of passion had won them love time and time again.

So I had not been forgotten—except on my native isle! I was born to be an exile. Lesbos made me, but Lesbos was no longer my home. The world was.

I stayed in Leucas, waiting for the boat to Delphi—delayed and yet again delayed. While I waited, I was asked to sing at many symposia—and I did so, performing all my old favorites. The audiences loved me and my spirit soared.

I could stay in Leucas, I thought, if it were not for my longing for Alcaeus.

After I had been in Leucas several weeks, I finally found the courage to visit the famed shrine to Apollo on the jagged cliff.

Climbing alone in a whipping wind, my whole life passing before me, my thoughts begin to darken. What if I get to Delphi and, as before, Alcaeus has already left? What if the dream of Alcaeus is as vain as in times past? What if Artemisia's tale of Alcaeus, Prax, and Aesop traveling with Chiron to see the Oracle of Delphi is not even true? What if I am doomed to have my hopes dashed yet again? I cannot bear it! To lose him once, twice, was bad enough, but the third time will surely kill me.

Up. Up. Up. I climb and climb. Seeing the bleached white bones of small creatures makes me mutter under my breath,
May the gods bless the souls of the animals.
My golden sandals skitter on the white pebbles. Crawling up the mountain, I seem to be in an endless nightmare. Sometimes I stumble forward and skin my knees and palms.

Below me the sea boils as in a cauldron. Above me the winds shriek like furies. I strain to see Alcaeus in the mist that rises from the rough landmass above the wine-dark sea. I think of all the great singers before me who have sung and died. Homer was not spared by the gods, though his words were. What is the use of life after all? It is a litany of disappointments and regrets. Love cannot stay. Life cannot stay. Better to die than linger on, an old woman at the mercy of her daughter. I remember the chest in which I have carefully stored my papyri in my family's house in Eresus.

“Guard this treasure with your lives,” I had told my caretakers. “When he is grown to manhood, see that Hector gets these papyrus rolls. He will understand his grandmother. He always did.”

Perhaps, when I reach the top, I will test the legend of Leucas. I do not believe I have planned this, but visions of jumping crowd into my spinning brain. As I look down the mountain, I see little boats bobbing below. Lovers would leap to get over unrequited loves as their friends waited below to pull them out of the drink alive or dead. Some leapers surely died upon impact with the water. But many survived, to be rescued. It was all in the hands of the gods. Perhaps I should make my obeisance to Aphrodite and jump. If I were meant to, I would live. And if I were meant to die—so be it!

Now, at the cliff's white top, I look down. My knees want to buckle under me. My breath grows short. I flirt with the edge. Lean over, lean back, lean over, lean back—imagine myself donning wings like Icarus and flying over the foam. Balanced between life and death, I teeter, imagining the icy waters of Hades' realm licking my toes. I tease the gods and myself by thrusting myself over the edge and then suddenly pulling back. I think I am in control, taunting the immortals. But this time I lean too far. And then, without entirely meaning to, I stumble forward and I fall.

The fall seems to take forever. As I fall, I call out to Cleis and Hector. I see a vision of a granddaughter whom I will never hold. I think of Alcaeus in all his youthful beauty and I reach out to him. I think of my mother and how much I loved her. I think of my warrior father, whom I will soon see again in the Land of the Dead. I think of my grandparents—and then the fury of the water rushes up to greet me.

Down, down, down I plunge into the sea. The brine fills my nose and eyes. My chiton grows heavy and drags me down. My golden sandals float away. Am I dead or soon to be dead? Is death Poseidon's realm or is it Gaia's? Am I to plunge forever? Will I drown in the sea or ascend through clouds? Will I find myself in Hades' realm with all those shades who feel nothing and long for the deliverance of touch?

After a long breathless while, I rise up to the silver surface of the water. I see above me the bottom of a little bark. Coming up into the rippling light, I gasp and fill my lungs with sweet sea air. I swim into the sun.

Leaning over the edge of a little boat are three familiar faces: Alcaeus, Praxinoa, and Aesop.

“Thank the gods who bring us together again!” Alcaeus cries.

“Blessed be Aphrodite!” shouts Prax.

“My heart nearly broke when I saw you leap!” shouts Aesop.

Half drowned but keenly conscious, I draw the air into my aching lungs. Utterly naked, dripping with seawater, I climb into the boat with my three true kin.

Of mortal creatures, all that breathe and move,

Earth bears none frailer than mankind.

—H
OMER

S
O WE LIVE ON
this small sunny island with the centaurs and amazons. Chiron wants to call our island Centaurcadia and Praxinoa wants to call it Amazonia—but otherwise they have no quarrel. Unable to decide on a name, we call the island nothing, which keeps people away. Apparently, if you are nameless, no one wants to visit you. We like this very much.

Alcaeus and I have mended our love. Aesop is our dearest friend and lives with us in perfect harmony. Prax rules the amazons justly and wisely, sharing her power equally with Chiron. We live in peace, make songs and fables, and cultivate our gardens. We grow grapes and olives here and catch fish from the rich seas and make cheese with the milk of our goats. We lack for nothing. Nothing is missing in our lives. Except. Except…

Alcaeus knows Cleis is his daughter and that he has a grandson named Hector. He learned that in Delphi from the oracle. Apparently the oracle appears as each one imagines her. Was my oracle really Aphrodite in disguise? Alcaeus and I discuss this often and can never decide. Alcaeus longs to see his grandson.