Helen of Troy by Margaret George Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed to float over the ground, and in joining them, so did I. I lost my parents, lost my brothers and sister; I left the Helen that had to wear a veil, and keep hidden, and obey, and soared free. I felt Persephone take my hand. I heard her murmur, “When they take you away, it is not captivity but freedom.” I could sense the brush of her sweet soft hand, smell the richness of her hair. Although I could not see it, somehow I knew it was red-gold.
    At once everything grew still. The dancing ceased, and the priestess held up her hands. I could barely see her in the dim light.
    “You have drunk the sacred beverage,” she said. “You have taken the goddess into yourselves. Now you must recite your secret promise.”
    The rumble of hundreds of voices mixed, impossible to decipher. But the pledge was thus: I have fasted. I have reached into the sacred basket and, having worked therein, left a residue in the ritual basket. Then, withdrawing from the ritual basket, I have returned to the sacred one. I can recite it here, knowing that it is incomprehensible to those outside the mysteries. I betray nothing.
    Satisfied, she motioned for us to make a huge spiral on the sacred dance ground. Its tip would go first into the initiation hall, and the rest would uncoil behind it. As we entered, we were to douse our torches in a large stone trough just outside the building. Each torch plunged into the water made a last, singeing protest.
    Inside, it was utterly dark. A deep and dreadful dark, like the dark of the tomb, like the dark when you awaken and know not if you still live. Only the press of the other bodies around me reassured me I had not died, was not lost.
    “Happy is he among men upon earth who have seen these Mysteries; but he who is uninitiated and who has no part in them, never has a good portion once he is dead, down in the darkness and gloom,” a faraway, echoing voice cried.
    “Bow before the goddesses,” we were directed. I felt, rather than saw, a movement in one direction, and I followed. Ahead of me I heard sighs and moans, and as I approached I could barely make out the dim shapes of statues of Demeter and Persephone. The mother, dressed in radiant color, was in front, and behind her, shadowy in black, was the daughter. We passed before them quickly, not allowed to linger, as we were herded into another, smaller hall.
    An overpowering scent of flowers filled the air. I was not sure which ones, it seemed that there were several blended together. Were there irises, hyacinths, narcissus, piercing sweet and crushed? But it was not the season for those flowers, so how could the images of the goddesses have come by them?
    “These were the last flowers I gathered before I was taken,” a ghostly voice spoke, floating in the heavy perfumed air. “You can feel what I felt, smell what I smelled . . .” The voice trailed away sadly.
    We were plunged into even deeper darkness, as if we had descended with her into the chasm. I felt myself falling.
    At the bottom, where I landed after a long glide, I was alone. I pulled myself to my feet, and fought to know where I was. All around me was black, dark, smothering night.
    “This is what all those above must face.” A soft voice whispered against my cheek. “But for you—you need never come to this place of darkness. That is the fate of mortals.”
    “I am mortal.” I was finally able to frame the words.
    “Yes, somewhat.” Now a gentle sigh, almost a laugh. “It is up to you how mortal you are.”
    The voice . . . the presence . . . I had come for the Mysteries, and they promised that the divine epiphany would manifest itself. It had happened, then. “I do not know what you mean,” I said.
    “Your mother has done you a great disservice, then,” she—I knew it was a she—said. “She should tell you the truth of your engendering.”
    “If you know, I beg you, tell me,” I cried. I seemed to be alone with her, having a private audience. There was no one around