Helen of Troy by Margaret George Page A

Swimming serenely on its surface were three large swans, circling one another in stately majesty, their curving necks held high, their gleaming white feathers looking impossibly pure against the murk of the water.
    I stopped, holding my breath. Behind me Clytemnestra came to a halt.
    “They are so beautiful,” I whispered, as if they did not truly exist and the smallest sound could make them disappear.
    I had never seen swans this close before, but I was held motionless by their imperious, conquering grace. I stared and stared; they glided past as if they were spirits, never acknowledging any other creature on the river.
    One of them then turned his head, swiveling it around smoothly and fixing his surprisingly small eyes on me before he swam in our direction. He was making for a grassy spot on the bank, an inviting one with irises and violets making spangles on the green.
    He seemed to have a purpose, seemed deliberately to be coming toward us. Honored and excited, I stepped back one little step and grasped Clytemnestra’s hand. The swan, the largest of the three, I now saw, was not stayed by the little, distracting motion I had made.
    His eyes held mine with a dark stare.
    We had dogs at the palace, hunting dogs, and my father and brothers had told me, “An animal will always look away when you stare at him; he will drop his eyes first. That is because man is master over the animals. Unless, of course, he isn’t an animal at all, but a god disguised . . .”
    Gods were fond of disguising themselves as animals, at least they were in olden times, when the stories we love so much were born, but this swan was of my own time. And he was bold.
    He was almost up to us; he was making for the bank where we stood. His face was turned toward us; and above his black and orange beak his eyes were closeset and unfathomable.
    “No!” Clytemnestra cried, and rushed forward, waving a stick. “Not again! Don’t come here again, you raping, cruel creature!”
    The swan halted, then swam furiously toward us, raising his wings and clambering up on the mud, emitting a harsh sound.
    He was huge. With his wings spread, he dwarfed Clytemnestra, who backed up and found a stone to throw at him. It hit his beak, turning his head.
    Any other creature would have fled, but the swan attacked. Hissing, he flew toward Clytemnestra and, ramming his neck back and forth, pecked at her in a series of jabs and bites. She fell face downward in the mud and threw up her hands to protect her head. The swan trapped her and started pecking at the back of her neck and her arms, all the while making the most horrible rasping hiss, like steam escaping from a boiling pot. The other two swans continued their serene circling in the water.
    I rushed forward and flung myself on the swan’s back. What else could I do to save Clytemnestra? I clawed at his feathers. They were thick and shiny and smooth, and I felt the power underneath, and the muscles. This was no pillow or cloud, but strength and glory and pitilessness under the misleading beauty of the white feathers and the grace of form.
    “Leave her! Leave her!” I cried, and then I grasped the swan’s neck—a swaying tube that felt like a striking snake.
    As if my hands had no strength, he turned that neck beneath them and looked directly at me. His little black eyes seemed to expand until they filled all my vision, holding me in their power.
    “Stop it,” I whispered, my lips almost touching the hard beak.
    The beak opened and grasped my cheek. There were little ridges inside it, tiny points, and I could feel them pinching my flesh. He held the skin gently, swaying his head a bit, as if he were caressing—or kissing. Then he let go and pulled back to look at me again. He ruffled his feathers, making them rise up and unseat me, so that I slid off. He stood for a moment, regarding me. Then he arched his neck once more and patted my hair with his head. He then turned and reentered the water, floating serenely