Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr Page A

people in Dodona, too familiar with their miracle to find it interesting?
    Her stomach growled. They had been given nothing to eat this morning, and only water to drink.
    She had fasted often enough in her training, but the first day was never easy. She swallowed the hunger and dedicated it to the Mother. It still gnawed at her, but the sense of virtue softened the pain a little.
    The place of the Mysteries lay just beyond the westward wall. There the mountain descended in three narrow terraces, each divided from the other by the steep banks of a swift river. It was a wild place despite its closeness to the town, a place of rock and water and swift-scudding cloud, bounded by the mountain and the sea.
    As Polyxena crossed the worn stone bridge onto the first terrace, she nearly fell to her knees. For all the crowd of people around her and the weight of the town behind her, she felt as if the Mother’s eye had fixed on her and her alone.
    She glanced to either side. No one else seemed unduly disturbed. Some were frowning, some smiling; many looked about, wide-eyed with curiosity.
    Polyxena shut her eyes and let the current of the crowd carry her onward. The scent of thyme was everywhere, green and strong, and the humming of bees, and far away the roaring of waves. The wind was cool on her cheeks; the warmth of bodies surrounded her, keeping her safe. She was as well warded here as she had ever been in Dodona—and that was a thought she needed to ponder, later, after this was over.
    She passed over the river onto the first of the terraces, treading a path that feet had trod for time out of mind. The memory of those older pilgrims was all around her. If she sharpened her senses, she could see and feel and smell them, and hear their voices speaking, echoing down through the years.
    They had all come for the Mother, because She had called them or because they had need of Her. Polyxena would have liked to kneel on the Mother’s own earth and dig her fingers into it, but the current of people was too strong.
    It surged like water onto the first terrace and spread toward and around a hollow paved with hewn stones. In the center stood an altar. Men and women in white waited there, with their heads covered and their faces veiled.
    The altar was banked with garlands of flowers and greenery, piled high on the stone table and tumbling over the sides to the pavement. Acolytes in short tunics gathered them up and passed them to the pilgrims.
    The one that came to Polyxena was of myrtle, deep green leaves potent with fragrance. She breathed it in. It was sacred to Aphrodite, who was one of the many faces of the Mother.
    The priests at the altar raised up a milk-white lamb and a night-black kid. Neither struggled: they rested at ease in the priests’ hands. Their blood sprang across the pale stone of the altar and stained with vivid red the last of the garlands.
    As the smoke of the sacrifice rose up to heaven, a priestess with a deep pure voice began to chant a hymn to the Mother. It celebrated Her as ruler of the wild places, mountain goddess, Lady of lions. Then it shifted, turning to a wilder mode, to sing the praises of Her son who was also Her lover, god of wine and laughter, brother of panthers.
    There was a strong rhythm in the chant, the beating of the heart and the heat of the body as it moved to match the pulse of the ancient words. This rite worshiped Her with dance, and its words and music were meant to stir the blood.
    Already among the crowd, people were moving in time with the chant. Polyxena’s feet had found the rhythm; her body swayed of its own accord. The scent of the myrtle wrapped her about, drowning the smell of mingled humanity.
    As she danced, faces whirled past her, crowned with garlands: male and female, old and young, beautiful and ugly and everywhere between. Dancers came together in circles and skeins, although a few went on dancing alone as Polyxena did.
    Troas and her women spun in a circle,