The Crown of Thira
Kettledrums boomed in predawn darkness, setting the pace for a line of mourners climbing the mountainside. A thousand steps were hewn from the stone, from the lagoon below to the peak above. Each step gleamed pale white in the starlight. Along the sacred path, statues of winged maidens faced the sea, and bas-reliefs of deer and wild animals emerged from black basalt. Among the carvings, three-faced, six-armed goddesses peered out. The women walked slowly, heads bent, each bearing a lighted torch.
Carried at the head of the procession was a chair of ivory and horn, wrapped with garlands of white lilies. In the chair rode the living body of the girl Krista. Above her floated a canopy held aloft on long poles by unsworn maidens. Torchlight gleamed and flickered on the cloth of gold as if it were a sheet of living flame. The spiritless girl's hands were folded on her lap, holding fresh-cut peonies. A flowing samnite gown draped her limbs; her rich, dark curls were bound up with ribbons of gold and pearl. She stared straight ahead, gaze unwavering.
The steps ended and all around, the horizon bent away into darkness. Six muscular attendants walked to the center of the platform. Gracefully, they knelt and set the ornamented chair on the ground. The rest of the mourners entered the circle, pacing to either side until they filled the edges of the peak. The torches wavered in a slight wind, casting moving shadows on the stones.
The drums ceased, the drummers laying hide kettles on the smooth flags. Flautists and women with bells and triangles halted their gentle noise and knelt. A ripple passed through the maidens standing near the head of the stairs and they parted, like the white sea before the prow of a black-hulled ship. The Matron entered, her face hidden by a wax mask, her fine white hair loose around her shoulders. Two others accompanied her, a younger version of herself and a slim woman of indeterminate age with pale golden skin. They too wore masks, all the same visage of a stern woman with curling hair.
The bearers brought forth urns of oil and pitch, then waited while the Matron entered the middle of the circle and stood before the seated girl. The Matron bore a pomegranate, a quarter cut away, revealing red seeds. Her voice was firm and strong from behind the mask:
"Here is a pyre a hundred feet in length and breadth.
Borne aloft, the corpse is laid with aching, heavy hearts.
Droves of fat sheep and shambling crook-horned cattle
Are led before the pyre, skinned and dressed.
Here, the great-hearted goddess flenses fat from all,
Wrapping the corpse with folds, from head to foot.
Then she heaps the flayed carcasses round the corpse.
Here are set two-handled jars of honey and oil beside her,
Leaned against the bier."
The night wind softened as the Matron sang, and then died as she finished. Her two companions joined her, each facing out, standing back to back. The Matron raised her hand and the bearers approached the body of the girl. Singing softly, they anointed her with oil from the urns and poured pitch around her feet. Shallow channels in the stone captured the dark liquid, which spilled into a triangle.
"Here is our sister, fallen in battle, heroic and glorious. She died honorably, striving to cast down our foes. Let all praise her and remember her name! She is Krista, daughter of Anna, child of thrice-blessed Achaia."
The assembled women gave a great, deep shout and held their torches aloft. In the still air, the brands sputtered, sending up aromatic white smoke. The Matron turned so that she faced the north. The golden-skinned woman faced the chair and the girl. Now the bearers wrapped the spiritless body in lengths of waxed cloth with gentle fingers.
"But the pyre does not burn," Mikele sang, lilting voice rising like a flight of birds. In her hands she held a chalice of beaten gold, worked with hawks and falcons around the rim.
"The swift runner thinks, what to do?
From the pyre she prays to the two winds,
Zephyr and Boreas, West and North-promising splendid victims
Pouring generous, brimming cups from a golden goblet,
Begging them to come, so that the wood might burst in flame
And the dead burn down to ash with all good speed.
Iris, messenger, hears her prayers, rushes the message on
To the winds that gather now in stormy Zephyr's halls
To share his brawling banquet."
The Chin woman poured thick wine into the channel at her feet. It mixed, swirling ruby and black, with the pitch. The bearers finished with their task, leaving the girl wrapped in gentle cloth, covering her limbs and body, all save her face, which was calm and still, staring out upon the mourners.
The three women turned again, and now the Matron's disciple faced the girl. In her hands there was a slim candle of beeswax, unlit. She, too, sang, her eyes closed.
"No time for sitting, cries the swift-winged messenger to the assembled hall.
I must return to the Oceans running stream, the Aetheopian's land.
They are making a splendid sacrifice to the gods,
I must not miss my share of the sacred feast.
But hear me, I bring the prayers of the daughter of Artemis!
She begs you come at once, Boreas, blustering Zephyr,
She promises you splendid victims-come with a strong blast
And light the pyre where a brave warrior lies in state
And all the Argive women mourn around her!"
The young disciple touched the lit candle to the dried flowers. Around the circle of the platform, the mourners raised their voices in song, all in harmony, ringing like a great bell. Fire flared and sparked in the petals, leaping up in orange and green. The disciple stepped back, as did the Matron and Mikele, and cast the candle into the pitch.
Flame roared up, licking along the circumference of the seated girl. The wax cloth dripped and then caught, burning a clear blue. Within an instant the center of the platform was a writhing column of fire and smoke, leaping towards the sky. The faces of the assembled women gleamed with firelight.
The massed voice of the sisterhood sang:
"At that hour, the morning star comes rising up,
To herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake,
The Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,
The funeral fires will sink low, the flames dying.
And the wings will swing round, heading home again,
Over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells will moan.
Then at last Artemis, turning away from the corpse fire,
Will sink down, exhausted. Sweet sleep will overwhelm her,
Giving her ease, sending these dreadful thoughts away."
The Matron turned her face away from the pyre. She walked slowly, stiffly, to the head of the long stair. Her old bones would feel every step as she descended to the city hidden below. One by one, each of the women on the mountain peak approached the raging fire and bowed, throwing her torch into the conflagration. In the end, as the rising sun filled the east with pink and gold, only Mikele remained, watching the dawn.
The funeral ash rose up in a gray cloud, thick and heavy, then scattered to the west, across the jagged cliffs and steep slopes of the island, lost amongst tumbled boulders and black sand. Within a few grains, the platform was swept clean and the Chin woman turned her face from the rising sun, cold, swift wind nipping at her gown. Then she, too, descended.