Another girl stripped and leaped in beside her, tossing a hunting spear. She danced forward lightly, and leaned herself upon it, over the heart, again and again. But when she bent away the skin closed bloodless and white.
“Theseus son of Aigeus,” I was thinking, “what have you done? You have seen the mystery which is death for men to look at. Run, hide in the woods, sacrifice to Apollo who frees men from curses. Why are you waiting?” But I answered, “For my life.”
The sun was down; the bellies of the clouds were like glowing embers floating in a cool clear green. Two more girls were dancing, one with hunting knives, another with a sword. I looked into the ring of watchers. She stood silent, her hands at rest while the others beat the time. Her eyes were still. I thought I saw trouble there. Would she dance too? I was shaking, and could not tell if it was horror or desire.
The girl Molpadia was dancing already; it was she who had the sword. She whirled it round her and pricked her bloodless throat; then she stretched out her hand, and called, and pointed upward. In the fading depths of the sky, like a ghostly sickle, the new moon had appeared. The cymbals crashed and a great cry rose from the singers. The music spun like a fiery wheel, the blades glittered and stabbed, the watchers were leaping into the dance, calling their leader. Her eyes as she lifted them to the crescent grew wide and dreaming. Suddenly she threw her cap away, and shook out her loosened hair, like a thick sheet of moonlight. The song shrilled like eagles’ screams.
And then mixed with it came a sound that dashed me awake like icy water. It was the bay of a watchdog that cries out, “Thieves!”
I had not thought of the dogs since they were fed. They had been tied or shut up, as we do our dogs when there is dancing. One must have slipped out and come our way. At his cry, someone loosed the pack.
In the gloaming I saw the rush of whiteness. I leaped to my feet, fighting them off with shield and spear. Then I understood; for my men were fighting all round me. They had grown tired of waiting in ignorance, and guessed I had forgotten them; they wanted to see the dancing. But the dog had smelled them first.
I cursed both men and dogs; we beat off the pack before they could tear us piecemeal, and wounded some, so that they bayed us from a distance, jumping to and fro. Over their noise I heard the music stop in a broken jangle; and then the war-horn.
That sound made me myself again. I shouted to the men, “Take care! They are Moon Maids of Artemis. I saw the shrine. Let no one fight who can hide or run. Don’t force them; it is death-cursed. The Queen …” But there was no more time. The dancers came skimming over the edge, as swift as stooping falcons, bare to the waist, with their weapons of the dance. They seemed to be dancing still; their eyes fixed in the sacred ecstasy.
I cried out to them I don’t know what, as one might to the sea when it bursts the sea-wall. Then the girl with the two daggers was upon me. I tried to hurl her off with my shield; but she squirmed under it like a mountain cat, her fists reaching their blades at me like claws. The love of life we are born with did its work for me; I shortened my spear and thrust. She died pinned through the heart; but there was scarcely a trickle from her death-wound, and her face set in a smile.
The fight was scattered on the hillside, lost in the twilight among the rocks. The dogs fought too. It was like a fever-dream one cannot wake from. Then I heard horse-hoofs clatter, and saw her come.
These were the Amazons who had heard the call with waking ears. They rode, or ran with the mounts of the riders. On their arms were their crescent shields, in their hands their war-spears.
In the dimming west a last cloud burned; a deep russet tinged the mountain. Through this glimmer she rode, her red clothes deepened to crimson, her pale hood of hair loosened and free, her throat bare, as she had made ready for the dance. In her hands was the sacred ax, with the crescent blade of the Moon Maids. Its silver inlay glittered as she swung its slender shaft above her head. Her cold pure young voice sang out the war-call.
I thought, “If this is my death a god has sent it.” But even then, I could not forget that my fate was my people’s and their gods’. “Very well, then,” I thought, “I will live. But I will have her. With my whole life I will it. This I will do.”
As I offered myself to the daimon of my fate, my soul grew steady; my mind was a clear stream, full of quick-darting fish. I stepped forth, and in the speech of the Shore Folk gave the herald’s cry. It is sacred all the known world over; and even at the ends of the earth it was worth trying.
She reined her horse. Her head tilted back against the sky was a thing to stop your heart. With a motion of her shield-arm she halted the troop behind her. In the pause, I heard the yammer of a furious dog choked with a spear-thrust, and the sound of a man’s death-grunt. Then there was quiet on the mountain.
I came towards her. She was delicate and strong as the creatures of the wilderness, the panther, the hawk, the roe. She looked at the fallen dancer gravely and proudly; she had seen such sights before. My heart said to me, “No sighs, no pleading. She is not for cowards.”
She spoke, slowly, in the tongue of the Shore Folk. “We have no herald.”
“Nor we,” I said. “Let Herald Hermes stand between us. I am Theseus the Athenian, son of Aigeus son of Pandion. I am the King.”
She looked again then. It seemed my name had come even here. Harpers will hear of harpers, and so do warriors of their peers. She spoke over her shoulder to the troop, telling them the news it seemed; for they craned to see, and chattered together. But she turned back to me, knitting her clear brows as she felt for words. She knew the language less well than I, and pieced it together slowly. “No men here, no man-gods.” She swept her arm, and spoke a strange-sounding name, as if that told everything. Then she thought, and said, “This is Maiden Crag.”
I said, “And you?”
She touched her own breast and answered, “Hippolyta of the Maidens.” Her head went up. “The King.”
My heart leaped out to her. But I said only, “Good. Then we can speak, we two. I come in peace here.”
She shook her head with an angry jerk. What she meant was “Liar!” I saw her fingers snap impatiently, because she had not the word. She pointed to us and said, “Pirates!” and the troop behind her shouted it in their own tongue. Yes, I thought, and she remembers me.
“In peace,” I said. “While I live I shall never lie to you.” I tried to speak to her eyes. “We are pirates, yes; but it is my pleasure, not my trade. I am King of Athens, and of Eleusis, and of Megara to the Isthmus’ end; and Crete pays me tribute. I am sorry we were insolent by the shore; we are strangers, and the men have been long at sea. But you have taken blood-price enough. Make it peace now, and friendship.”
“Friend—ship?” she said, drawing it out, as if asking was I a madman. One of the girls laughed wildly in the troop behind. She rested her ax on her horse’s shoulder while she got the foreign speech together, and pushed at her shining hair, which fell down over her fingers. “This place,” she said, putting down word on word, “is holy.” Her hand made the word greater. “No man must come. And you—you have seen the Mystery. For that—death, always. We kill you, the Maidens of the Maiden. That is our law.” Her eyes met mine; gray water, gray clouds; yet there was speech in them, beyond the words. “We must die too, maybe.” She turned on her horse, pointing to the shrine. “We are all in Her hand.”
She drew her breath for the war-call. I cried out, “Stay!”