Hymenaios, or the Marriage of the God of Marriage - 4. Part IV. With Luck and Blessings Too

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Part IV. With Luck and Blessings Too

 

Upon the chosen day of festival,

Myiscus knew his wait was impatient,

Shuffling his feet, scanning the gathering

For his harebrained friend to make a debut –

But as what? That was all the mystery.

Myiscus lent a gown of his sister’s,

Yet still nurtured hope Hymenaios would

See better of this folly and its peril.

Bright noise vied for his attention as he

So turned to see girls line up in the street.

Not alone yet, they patiently withheld

Griping sneers and eye-rolls for the preening

Their doting mothers and nurses bestowed.

Tears were one-sided, and so too the wails

Carrying “My little girl!” to the winds;

But in general, a holiday mood

Prevailed upon the crowd in welcoming ways.

Children giggled to see their teenage sis

Made up in finery; good food wafted

From the margins of the group where vendors

Hawked vittles while decrying rivals’ food

As unfit for the goodness of the folks.

These, the most holy rites of Artemis,

Were reserved for girls just about to leave

Their homes, mothers and fathers, to go off

And live with a stranger in his own house.

But before investiture in marriage,

Before she had even met with a man,

The daughters of the city’s high elite

Had chance to go on one ritual retreat –

With each other and a priestess to guide –

To discover the most guarded secret

Of what power her femininity

Possessed upon the workings of the Earth;

Of where it came, and to what it might lead.

For like a hibernating mama-bear,

This strength was asleep, but still vigilant

Within the breast of the full-grown woman.

In a young girl this power is more like

The coiled spring of a cub napping upon

The fresh-born grass of her golden summer.

The rites of the goddess were for the girl,

Her initiation to womanhood,

And her one chance to know prowess most strong

Before it slept again in matronhood.

‘Mid the commotion, young Myiscus thought

The traditions for these sixteen-year-olds

Was similar to that for Cretan boys,

Although younger, they were ‘kidnapped’ by men

Arranged by families as best matches

To seduce the lad in the countryside

And teach the ways it means to be a man;

Obeyance and restraint chief amongst them.

Such a feeling Myiscus felt right now.

Not being made of stone, his heart could shift

Towards the one who professed love to him

And to the one who stoked his core within.

Slowly, sounds of the festival faded.

Myiscus, given to himself alone,

Smiled warmly thinking of Meleager.

So too a moment later – sounds returned –

He grew aware how the thought of the man

Roused his own hibernating cub downstairs.

“Sir, bestow a donation for our cause?”

A girl with her face half-hid by a veil

Jangled her open palm to Myiscus.

The boy, most embarrassed, put on the spot,

Replied, “You’ll have to excuse me, young miss,

For I brought no coin with me here today.”

The girl struck his shoulder with shocking force,

But laughed demure, closing her veil tighter.

“Stupid boy! Come you to such an event

With no votive to offer The Goddess?!”

“Well, I—“

Her voice turned sweet, lashes flutt’ring.

“If you brought no gold, young man, silver’ll do;

If no argent you possess, then copper

Will stand you a tiny favor from She,

The Great Artemis, favored like a man.”

Myiscus blinked, stunned his catechism

Had omitted a startling fact about

The goddess of the dark woods and hunting.

While thus amazed, the brazen dame pinched him,

His cheek instantly sore from the assault.

“You may be dumb,” she said, “but you’re quite cute.”

The obvious dawning upon him, he asked,

“Hymenaios, are you behind that scarf?”

“Lower your tone, young man.” Hymen’s real voice

Cautioned Myiscus’ total surprise.

“But, buddy”—he stumbled—“you’re beautiful.”

And so his friend was in his sister’s gown.

From his mother, Hymen borrowed a wig,

Which fair of color and comfy of fit,

Enhanced Hymen’s fine, natural allure.

“Are you sure of this plan?” Myiscus asked.

“All our time,” Hymen replied earnestly,

“Upon this dark Earth, as Sappho termed it,

Is wasted if not a moment’s valor

Places us on our heart’s valiant journey.

We must either try or prepare to die;

No other than these two choices have we.

Now, friend, please wish me luck on my attempt

To win me the heart of the girl I love.”

Hand landing on Hymen’s shoulder, he said,

“You go with my luck and my blessings too.”

At that moment, a tinny trumpet’s call

Heralded all the processional girls

To gather as one at the starting point.

People on the move, a shadow of doubt

Shaded Hymen’s otherwise sunny face.

He took his buddy’s arm while gesturing

To the muscleman seeming all in charge.

“Now,” the boy said, “all I have to do is

Get past the guy who is taking down names,

Join the parade, and then, I’m home free.”

Before his friend could protest and add more,

Hymen ratcheted up his falsetto.

“Or at least I will be past the first trial

Of my nascent maidenhood.” He giggled,

Latching tighter and moving them along.

When they got to him, the man’s “Name?!” question

Be-startled Hymen so, he locked in fear.

Now Myiscus, the ever best of friends,

Escorted the girl past, saying calmly,

“My sister, sixteen-year-old Hymena.”

“Hold on!” he said. “Let me get a gander.”

Obeying the command, the sweaty brute

To Myiscus’ sense of prideful duty

Offended all he considered manly.

“Where ya goin’, sweetheart”—the cad licked lips—

“Formalities first, you ripe little plum.”

“Hymena,” Myiscus replied. “Daughter

Of councilman Miletus and sister

To me, family heir and son.”

“All right; all right.” The grimy man wrote down

The relative details on his tablet,

Licking his lips again, eyes undressing

She cagy shy to his authority.

“Can’t be too safe, little girl; some might try

To intrude and steal one of you himself.”

He wiped his nose with his hand. “But you’re clear!”

Myiscus planted his friend right next to

Kathros comforting her preening nursemaid,

For the girl sent ‘way returns a woman,

And the maid’s hankie accepted her tears.

With that, he disengaged their limbs to leave,

But Hymen pulled him back in for a kiss.

His cheek still hot from his buddy’s bussing,

Myiscus heard: “Now take this thank you, for

No one has a brother more loving than me.”

He left his companion and went to find

A place best suited to watch the parade.

All of the girls, eight of them in total,

Were lined up in two side-by-side columns.

Attendants and parents were shooed away

As the priestess of Artemis appeared.

While last-minute preparations were made,

The mind of Myiscus drifted a bit;

He wished the best for his friend but worried

An exposure might be the death of him.

Tingles on his neck made him lift his head

As if someone were keenly watching him.

Scanning the crowd only took a moment,

For a sad pair of eyes were locked on his.

Myiscus unguarded, before he knew

What he was even doing, sent a smile

Of solace sailing to Meleager.

Now the priestess was preparing to speak,

And once during the long drone of her words,

Myiscus happened to glance back and sigh.

His friends were still there, but Meleager

Had mercifully disappeared someplace.

Disappointment and relief fought in him…

But both disappeared a moment later.

For there by his side, several inches taller,

Had slipped the handsome young man and poet.

Clanging with trumpets’ call stirred the crowd up,

And as shouts trailed behind them, the procession

Began its march towards Athena’s Gate,

Beyond which the vast countryside opened.

A last worried look for his dear Hymen,

And Myiscus felt the swarm around him

Wander this way and that, about their day.

The blue poet could not be here ignored,

But in silence, Myiscus turned his gaze

And led Meleager to a hushed spot.

Twenty paces later they had arrived,

And both young men placed hands on the guardrail

Surrounding the city’s white clocktower,

The Horologion – Tower of the Winds.

“Why do you like this boy, Meleager”—

The voice of Myiscus was plain and bare,

His gaze then holding onto the poet’s—

“What makes me special somehow in your eyes?”

Meleager was tall, striking and bold;

His cinnamon-brown look revealed a soul

Too honest for this world of deceivers;

What one saw in the poet was sincere,

But the wavy mop of tan hair he met

Could do with a trim and expert combing.

It was all Myiscus could do not to

Pull the twenty-three-year-old down to him

And straighten him up now as the breezes

Transformed him into their boyish plaything.

“Why?” Meleager said. “Because…because –

You are always you. You never mislead;

You never dissuade, ridicule or lie.

And, you’re beautiful, both inside and out.”

Funny, Myiscus thought through amazement,

But those qualities are what the poet

Struck Myiscus to be in his thinking.

Almost as self-defense, he stammered out:

“But I’m no one unique; that much I know.”

The poet moved to stand behind him, so

Myiscus leaned his back on the handrail;

The sun now as well as winds played sweet

With this sweet Meleager’s wavy locks.

“I’ll tell you, comrade dear, to me you are.

If you think I’m honest, then you must know

Every word of my epigrams speaks true

When of you they praise my profoundest love.”

Despite himself, Myiscus shyly smiled;

No heart of stone was actually his.

Standing, he bid the other follow him,

And together started a leisured stroll.

They drew near the spot at the tower’s base

Where the clockmaker placed an inscription.

Myiscus, feeling more secluded stopped,

Eyeing his would-be wooer with a grin.

“Tell,” he laughed, “I bet when you were my age,

You had to beat off suiters with a stick.”

Meleager smiled too. “How did you guess?”

“Look at you”—Myiscus tried not to tease,

For he was earnest—“who wouldn’t want you;

So confident; blessed with intelligence—”

“And modesty,” Meleager added,

Which made Myiscus laugh outright. “That too.”

The happy young poet folded his arms,

Leaning his weight against the handrail

By the boy who had given him some hope.

“Do you know what the clockmaker inscribed?”

“No.” Myiscus then shook his head, turning

To watch his potential tutor tell him.

“I think Andronikos Kyrrhestes said:

 

Help me, masons of the divine,

Capture just one moment of life

Written forever here in rock

With the name of the boy I love.”

 

At first, wide-eyed wonder from Myiscus

Proved how youthful and innocent he was,

But by slow survey of the poet’s face,

He came to realize he was the subject

Of the spurious epigram quoted.

His reaction was that of a true boy,

For he stood and struck shoulder playfully

Against the earnest chest of the young man.

Then pulling his companion to his feet,

The two continued their leisurely walk.

Meleager, a fount of wisdom spoke

While gesturing up to the wingèd men

Personifying the eight-compassed winds.

These were in large relief below the roof

And featured life-sized, angelic figures,

Wings outspread in the full flight of breezes.

“Do you see, Zephyros is a naked youth,

His springtime bounty gathered in the folds

Of his slackened tunic off his body

To return warmth and goodness to the land.”

Slowly rounding to a shady corner,

Meleager gestured to the next ‘Wind.’

“But Boreas guards winter, that sad time

When hope sleeps and hibernation’s a batch

Of hearts like mine who fear spring will ne’er come –

Do you wish to be the North Wind to me…?”

Myiscus stopped. That was a good question,

Because now he recalled how past actions

Had cast a wintry pall on his admirer

Who used to be so cheerful and funny.

“Do you expect me to change, just like that?

Meleager, to say I never cared

Would be like fooling me as well as you.

You are so wonderful—” Myiscus stopped,

Frightened by what he was about to do.

But now Hymen’s words about being bold

Caused the dark boy to then extend his hand.

The poet, in shadowy disbelief,

Reached out and enveloped it in his own.

“My heart,” Myiscus said, “is done sleeping.

No one has ever roused it like you do.”

A sight almost too choice to be believed,

A speechless poet raised the beloved’s palm

And kissed, slow tears like relief in his eyes.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Meanwhile, the dusty sunlight shone on the road

And its group of pilgriming young ladies

Marching merrily through the afternoon.

When they had arrived at the city gate,

Each novice to the will of Artemis

Had been given the means to camp the night:

A small bundle to sling upon her back –

Wherein parents had packed food for three meals –

And a taper to light once the sun set,

But whose length made for a good walking stick

Until such time as one end would be lit.

After the crowds had let them through the gate,

Signs of city turned into other sights;

A string of hamlets first, then open fields.

Past midday, the angled sun grew cooler

As travel-sore hours passed one by one.

And yet for Hymena, joy bounced her step,

Knowing she tread next to her dear Kathros;

In fact, she now realized happiness

Had never walked with her before today.

She stole a shy glance and quietly thought,

‘What more is there to want upon the Earth,

Than the chance to love and have it returned.’

As they rounded a bend the road required

To hug the side of a grassy hillock,

The group’s mistress pulled ahead a little,

Giving the tired girls some breathing room.

From behind Kathros and Hymena came

The chatty tones of a fellow wayfarer.

Because her voice was hushed so the leader

Would remain unaware from up ahead,

Kathros and Hymena bent open ears.

“Who knows what will happen to us tonight?!

I’ve been told we will be blindfolded,

Standing assembled against a cave wall,

And then, one by one, she’ll take each of us

To strip, kissing her way down as she goes!”

Upon the same instant, Kathros and she

Who trod beside her left-hand side,

Turned to the girl with the startling intel.

The tattletale nodded her head quite strong,

Inviting the girl behind her to say,

“That’s certainly not what I have been told.

A friend of a friend’s cousin’s sister said

We’ll find in the Goddess’ Grotto placed

The thing acolytes call the Sleeping Bear.”

Into the dramatic pause, Kathros asked,

“What is this hibernating ursa then?”

“It is,” the second girl confided low,

“The covered oaken dildo, of great size,

Carved in the shape of The Goddess’ thumb.”

The four girls were shocked, Hymena grabbing

Instinctively her veil to hide her blush.

“But what,” inquired she, still quite shaken,

“Have we all to do with such a timber…?”

The brazen girl in-the-know smiled and winked.

“After we’re prepared,” she said, “we must each

Deflower ourselves in Her holy rite.

Only upon her hibernating thumb

Will we learn of our feminine pleasures –

Before we wed a man; then it’s too late!”

Kathros aghast, three pairs of eyes soon looked

 

Towards Hymena, who confirmed with her reply;

A deep-set titillation exclaiming, “Oh, my!”

 

 

 

 

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