Damascus Page 4

  Every morning, on rising, it was my duty to prepare a meal for each of the deities. The first offering was always to the Mother. Under instructions from the priestesses, my father had planted a pomegranate tree to shade the Goddess. And every morning I would stand under the tree and curse it on behalf of the Mother. The tree that had enslaved Her daughter was now slave to the Goddess. With the end of the winter, and with it the resolution of Her lamentations, I would take a budding fruit from the gnarled branches and bite into it. That hard, shiny skin was often resistant, but there was a blade by the altar that I could use to slice it open. I preferred, however, to bite into the pomegranate if I could, so that the scarlet juice would spurt over my chin and neck. ‘The red juice of the fruit is a blood offering,’ my mother instructed. ‘The Goddess is a woman and Her due is blood. Give the Goddess Her due and She will never abandon you.’ I would smear the pulp across my mouth and lips, and then I’d bow and kiss the brick on which She sat. Once that was done, I’d carefully scoop out six seeds and place them in front of Her. Then I would offer the meal and make my prayers. For Father, for Mother, for my brothers, for my sister, for our household, for our good fortune.

  Then I would take what remained of the food I had prepared and share it amongst Hermes and Priapus. Of the first I asked that He chase misery and sadness from our house. Of the second I asked that He protect us from the evil eye. It was drummed into me from my mother’s first instructions that I was never to touch the sex of the God. That honour, of polishing His splendour with a salve of myrtle oil, the perfume sacred to His mother, Aphrodite, was only to be performed by my father, each morning on awakening and each evening on retiring to the marital bed. If he was called away, that duty fell to Hercules. ‘Never, my child, never touch the sex of the God,’ my mother warned repeatedly. ‘For a woman to do so is to bring great misfortune into our home.’

  It is strange to think how diligent I was once about those rituals. But as an ignorant child I was bonded in servitude to those idols. They were gods and they had the power to call forth death and poverty, malice and pain. Though I feared rousing their anger, I was also proud that my mother entrusted me with their care.

  My sister, Penelope, was jealous that I was the only child allowed this honour. She’d follow behind me, demanding, ‘Why aren’t I allowed to feed them? It isn’t fair.’ One morning, tired of her persistent whining, I let her serve them. Our Goodness was there and reported this to our mother. I received a whipping that drew blood from my back. ‘How dare you insult the gods?’ my mother hissed at me as she brought down the lash. ‘Do you want to bring calamity to our home?’ I was distraught. I had not meant to upset the one I loved most in the world. ‘No, Mother, I promise, Mother. I will always honour the gods.’

  And this is how I came to break that promise.

  My mother was with child. And so was Goodness. My mother grew increasingly cold and aloof towards her, and though it was never spoken about, I realised that her bastard child was my father’s. I bore Goodness no ill will. I gave no thought to the child she was carrying. I was excited about the child that my mother would soon bring into the world. I knew that she and my father wanted another son but secretly I implored the Mother that it be a daughter. I wanted another sister, a little girl I could look after, that I could dress and play with, to whom I would teach the skills of housecraft and order about as I did Penelope.

  As the day of the birth came closer, my mother took me aside and told me that I was to be present at her labour.

  ‘You are nearly a woman, my sweetness,’ she said, stroking my hair, ‘and soon you too will know what it is to give birth to a child. You will do all that the midwife demands of you?’

  ‘I promise, Mother.’

  I was delirious with pride.

  Goodness shook me from my sleep. I followed her to the outhouse, the small room we used to store food and wine. All the provisions had been cleared away and a bed of straw had been prepared in the middle of the room. My mother was lying on it. The bedding was already sodden from her waters. The midwife was an ugly crone whose face was etched with the tattoos of her trade. Rosemary was burning on a makeshift altar to the Mother and the air was thick with its pungent smoke. I rushed to my mother. In one hand she clutched a clay figure of the Goddess. Her face and hair were drenched with sweat, her eyes searched the room as though she was looking for sanctuary but could not find it—it was as though she could not see me. I kneeled by the bed and took her hand. Though terrified, I was determined not to cry. I don’t remember what I said to her. She turned at the sound of my voice and for one moment it was as though she recognised me and was back in the world. Then she jerked in the bed, threw back her head and screamed.

  ‘Hold her down,’ ordered the midwife.

  Goodness came behind my mother and took hold of her shoulders. I still recall the shock of that outrage. And my furious outburst: ‘You filthy beast—how dare you touch my mother?’

  I was on my feet, ready to slap her, when the midwife hissed, ‘Offerings have been made to the Goddess, child—the slave can hold her.’

  For hours, my mother did not cease her spasms. Scream followed howl followed scream: abominable cries, animal cries. I would do anything, fulfil any desire of the gods, if only I could have stopped my mother’s suffering.

  The crone’s hands searched deep within my mother. ‘Hold her legs,’ she ordered. ‘Hold them apart.’

  Blood was everywhere. I prayed incessantly to the Mother. Save her, please save her. After a while my mother’s shuddering and screaming lessened, but the listlessness and moaning that replaced them were even more terrifying. I saw the anxious glances exchanged between the slave and the midwife and felt pure terror. ‘Save her,’ I urged the Goddess. ‘Please, save her.’

  The midwife let out a jubilant yell. ‘The child is coming! Quickly,’ she commanded Goodness, ‘raise her, raise her!’

  And here I betrayed my mother. The sharp odour of the incense, the virulent smoke, the lateness of the hour—all overcame me. I fell into darkness.

  I woke to find myself slouched against the wall. Goodness, strain contorting her, was holding my mother upright while the midwife crouched, one arm lodged deep inside my mother. It was as if Goodness were holding up a doll. The crone was still pleading with the Goddess, her chants unceasing, even as she was lost in the exertion of her work. And then there was a final dreadful bawling. My mother’s face was fixed in a cast of a howl, her jaw stretched in agony. The idol she was clutching shattered as the midwife pulled out her hand and brought forth the child, along with gouts of blood. A hideous black cord connected the infant to my mother. The crone bit into the cord and released the child into the world. With one hand she held the blood-soaked infant and with the other she wiped the blood from her mouth. At that moment the child kicked and released a cry. I cared nothing for that. I was praying to the Mother. Save her, save her. My mother was slumped, she did not move.

  The midwife examined the infant. And then, her voice weary, she announced, ‘It’s a girl.’

  She turned to me. ‘Go tell your father, child: that he has a daughter and that his wife is dead.’ She banged her breastbone to ward off the evil. ‘May the gods have mercy on her spirit.’

  Goodness, her exhaustion terrible, had dropped my mother onto the blood-soaked bed. I rushed to her broken body but the midwife stopped me. ‘Go,’ she said, quietly now, even kindly. ‘Do your duty, child.’

  How did I leave that room? How did I find my way down the corridor? I don’t know, but there I was standing in front of the screen to my parents’ chamber. I called out to my father.

  ‘Lydia,’ he returned in warning, ‘don’t come in. You are in pollution, do not dare come in.’

  Then his voice softened. ‘What news do you have, child?’

  Despite his warning, I dared peek through the gap between the curtain and the doorframe. He was kneeling in front of his god.

  Somehow I said the words. ‘Mother is dead.’
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  A long silence.

  ‘And the infant?’

  ‘It’s a girl. She lives.’

  Only then, with that news, did he release a groan.

  I waited. I did not know what to do. I wanted only to return to my mother—I could not believe she was dead. But I knew I had to have his word. I needed his permission.

  I heard him rise, I heard his steps come towards me.

  ‘Step away, daughter,’ he commanded.

  He would not look at me. I bowed my head.

  ‘Lydia,’ he said, coldly and swiftly, ‘you are the mistress of the house now. Goodness knows the instructions for the preparations of the dead. You will ensure that they are followed.’

  I glanced up at him. He was so very old. His labour at the furnaces had singed the youth from him.

  ‘I will wake your brothers and we will go to the temple and find a priest. You will raise your sister. You will ensure she does as Goodness commands. You have permission to punish her if she does not obey.’

  He started walking towards my brothers’ chamber.

  ‘And the infant?’ I blurted. ‘What should I do with her?’

  His body slumped, as if the weight of the question was an impossible burden.

  His back straightened. ‘We have no use for another daughter. Tell the midwife to have her taken to the mountain.’

  Only then did he turn to me. ‘And, child, you will never mention her again. She was not born and she did not live.’

  My first defiance. Not out loud—I was not then brave enough for that. But silently, inside me, I called out, ‘Mother, may the gods have mercy on your spirit.’ And then, ‘You were born, sister, you lived.’

  As always I rise before the sun. The fire has died and there is only the ash remaining, black remnants of logs and grey scorched bones.

  I’d slept under the trees. It is summer in Antioch, and this far east the heat does not submit to night. I rise and find the surging brook that runs down the mountain. The water is refreshing, and wakes me up.

  ‘Salvation,’ I call, ‘where are you, child?’

  She has slept under the night sky. Even on the iciest winter nights, Salvation prefers to sleep outdoors. She will find the hollow trunk of a toppled tree and watch the stars and the milky shadows of the heavens from her bed. She does not fear night. ‘The one God created it,’ I tell her. ‘He made the stars and all of the heavens.’

  They also call my child a witch. And worse. They are ferocious in their abuse. Monster. Dog. Medusa. Even the charitable say it were better she had been abandoned, better she had died in the womb.

  She cannot answer me in words. She comes up to me, brushes her fist against mine, coos and rubs the top of her head against my chin. It was in this brook that runs down our mountain, in this sparkling water that I baptised her, and brought her to our son, our brother, our Jesus. Always with us, always beside us.

  On seeing her I only see light; I see the true brilliance that the ignorant claim for the gods of the sun and the goddesses of the moon. I do not see the misshappen eyes, the stump that is her right arm, the scaly skin that covers her neck and her shoulders. I see light. I see radiance.

  She tugs at my rags. Urging me. Butting me with her head like a lamb.

  I take her hand. ‘Show me, Salvation.’

  The sun is stretching, rising, and the newborn light casts a golden splendour across the mountain. She takes me on a path that our feet have worn through the cedar forest. Here the trees grow so large that the sun’s light is a faint glow in the darkness. At the edge of the forest we see the city down below, the gleam of the river, the plains that stretch into Syria.

  On a boulder they have left us a bowl of food and a small flagon of wine.

  My brethren, my true brothers and sisters in the Saviour, they have not forgotten me and they have not abandoned my child. She and I crouch in front of the boulder. I am ravenous with hunger’s fire, greedy with its calling, and my hand reaches for a loaf of bread, ready to tear it, ready to stuff as much of it as I can into my mouth. But my child is more devout than I am. She stops my hand. She pats her chest.

  I understand her. She cannot form words, but I understand her. Her light makes whole her meaning.

  I take the bread and as I break it the odour of the sesame grain almost makes me faint. My stomach growls so loud that Salvation laughs.

  I say, ‘And on the night he was betrayed, our Jesus took bread and, when he had given thanks to the Lord, he broke it and said, This is my body, which is my sacrifice for you. When you break bread, remember me.’

  I place bread on her tongue.

  And I say, ‘And then Jesus our Redeemer took his wine after the meal and said, This cup is a new understanding between God and Creation. This wine is the blood that I spilled to seal this promise.’

  I make a cup of my palm, I pour the wine, I offer it to my daughter. She laps at it eagerly.

  After I have also taken the bread and wine, I lift her chin and I say, ‘Salvation, he has risen from the dead.’

  And every time this small miracle. No grunts, no spitting, I hear her clearly. She says the words. ‘Truly, he has risen.’

  ‘He is coming,’ I say.

  And she sings her answer in a voice that must come from heaven. ‘Soon, soon, any day now he will return.’

  As always, she looks up at the sky, and then over her shoulder, down the mountain. Expecting him and not knowing from where he will come.

  We share our feast of love, this blessed thanksgiving. Down below, in the far city, I know that there will be crowds in the market, sacrifices in the temples, drunks in the taverns and fornication in the brothels. There will be the children begging, slaves bowing to their masters, there will be violence and death and misery and suffering. I am with my child, on our mountain. The forest is full of birdsong, the sun is ascendant. Our good brethren have left us bread and wine, but also date cakes and olives. We share our seat on the boulder, looking around us, from the world to the heavens and from the heavens to the world. We witches, we dogs, we madwomen. And our Jesus is always with us, always beside us.

  My mother was dead. I diligently performed the sacrifices and rituals for her passage to the underworld. I instructed my sister on the herbs for incense she should gather and the prayers she had to chant. We washed and dressed our mother’s body, and after her cremation, during which the smoke and ash from her funeral pyre dusted our skins and mourning dresses, we attended the temple of the Virgin to be cleansed in the baths. The next day we scrubbed the walls of the outhouse, burning myrrh and chanting prayers to banish death. On finishing we trudged back and forth from the sheds, returning the harvest stores. I did it all in strict obedience to custom and to the will of my father and the rites of our ancestors. But I was halfway between this world and the underworld and in a daze. I longed to be with my mother. Her guidance, her care and her love had been my only pleasures. I wanted no part of the world of the living.

  The rites of my father’s clan required a full cycle of the moon to pass before we could abandon our fasting and our silence. Once the journey of the Goddess had been completed, meat was permitted to us again and wine could be drunk. And with the shedding of the white mourning clothes, I had to return to the world.

  All through my period of mourning I had kept faith with the deities. I had fed them and offered them my prayers. My mother’s safe passage to the underworld should not be denied because of her daughter’s wickedness. So capricious were the gods to whom I was once bonded.

  On that first morning, knowing that my mother had safely crossed, I prepared the morning meals as usual. I lay the dish before the Mother, I snatched a pomegranate from the tree and bit into it. I extracted the seeds. And then, sitting before the idol, looking at Her ugly pebble head, I placed the seeds in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed them.

  ‘You did not save her,’ I hissed. ‘I owe you nothing.’

  I expected the world to shake, I expected Hades to erupt from the earth and
seize me.

  Nothing happened. There was the mild summer breeze. The chirping of a swallow.

  Next I took the dish to Hermes. And in front of that God I ate it all, every last crumb. I left nothing for Him. Then I went into my father’s chamber. There I did the same with the dish for this God. I wiped the oil from my lips. And then I reached out my hand and touched the sacred wooden phallus.

  ‘You did not save her,’ I cursed. ‘I was dutiful and reverent and you betrayed us!’

  Nothing happened. I could hear my sister at work in the kitchen. I heard one of our labourers call out a morning greeting.

  I shuddered. I could not rid myself of my mother’s twisted and anguished face, the howls of her pain, the bed drenched with all that blood. She was gone—it would bring misfortune even to say her name.

  With the long nail of my little finger I picked at a swirl of grain on the deity; I scratched the wooden cock. So He too could feel pain, so He too could suffer. Now, surely, the spirits must burst forth from Hades and drag me down below to face punishment and torture. In terror, I shut my eyes.

  And opened them again. I was alone in the room.

  I sprung to my feet. ‘Goodness,’ I demanded, ‘where are you?’

  I had to search for her. She was in the outhouse, nursing her bastard. It had been born alive. A son. I looked at her plump breast, the engorged nipple that the brat was loudly sucking on. The sly, proud smile on her face.

  ‘I need you to go to the markets.’

  ‘Darling Lydia,’ she said, ‘I’m feeding the boy. Can’t you ask Penelope instead?’

  I struck her face with the back of my hand so hard that I too flinched in pain. The force of the blow unglued the bastard from her tit. He started to wail. I forced my hand to my side so as not to strike him as well.

  ‘I am the mistress of this house.’