THE CHILD PRIESTESS
Theria’s room was small, hardly more than a closet. Like all Greek
bedrooms, it was windowless, but opened on a sunny court.
She was glad to be alone. The coming three days seemed hardly enough for
her prayers and importunities to her god. The Athenian danger possessed
her. She felt inspired and strong. She stood in the middle of the room
lifting her hands. They almost touched the low ceiling.
“O Paian, dear Son of Leto. Am I not thy supplicant? A supplicant thou
canst not refuse? Have I not given all my jewels, Apollon, Apollon? If I
had more I would give all to thee.”
Here the old house mistress entered without prelude.
“You are to take off that gown,” she said, “and put on this, the simple
garb of the Pythia.”
She held forth a sort of long shift. It was fine-fluted in the ancient
fashion and yellow, the accepted colour of the Apollo priesthood.
“Send me my tiring woman,” said Theria.
“Your tiring woman is gone home. You will have the usual temple slave.
The Pythia has no touch with outside folk.”
“Baltè is not outside folk. I will refrain from all speech with her, if
that is the rule, nor will I allow her to speak.”
“That makes no difference,” said the old peasant woman, joying in her
authority. “It is against the law.”
Theria’s heart bounded with anger.
“How dare you mistrust me, woman? Have I not the good of the oracle at
heart more than you? Go at once and fetch me Baltè.”
The house mistress bowed and went out. And presently the Pythian slave
appeared, very timid, and eyeing her, secretly amused.
Theria looked hard at her.
“Go out,” she commanded. “How dare you enter my room when I have not sent
for you?”
The woman withdrew but Theria was conscious that she lingered in the
court.
Never in all her life had any one dressed Theria but Baltè. It was quite
unthinkable that any one else should do it. Theria was a spoiled child in
this.
Awkwardly she unpinned her white robe herself, folded it away, and donned
her Pythia habit.
But anger is the arch destroyer of prayer. Theria could not pray now.
Besides, she was mortally hungry.
In her excitement last night she had eaten almost nothing. Now she must
fast for three days to come.
She supposed, of course, that the hunger would grow worse and worse. She
walked up and down the room when she should have remained still, saving
her strength.
“What do I care for hunger?” she kept saying proudly. “For mere hunger
when Athens is in danger of burning!”
But it was only by an effort that she could hold her mind on Athens. Her
thoughts kept rising, floating away like clouds.
Eëtíon, where was he to-day? Somewhere in the Precinct? Was he thinking
of her? Surely of naught else. Word after word of his came flashing back
to her, snatching her breath with joy. Now his very touch, his trembling
kindness filled her with a new and terrible longing. Only one dear hour
of love in all her long life would she ever have to treasure and remember.
Suddenly with a wrench she brought her thoughts back to the present.
“Love of Leto, how the poor little Pythia moaned in her room across the
court.”
It was impossible for Theria to be near suffering and not try to help.
She hurried across the court and entered the room. Aristonikè lay upon
a couch, her eyes staring and bright. She was thin as a blade of grass,
looked a mere child with her poor little cheekbones so prominent and
white and her tiny chin so pointed. Theria came and stroked the pathetic
face.
“Poor little Aristonikè, poor little girl,” she said.
The wandering eyes fixed themselves upon her.
“Who?” she whispered.
“I am Theria, daughter of Nikander. Where is your pain, dear child?”
“Not anywhere—all over.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Theria. This thought was so present with herself.
“Aach,” said the little creature, turning with disgust.
The slave who sat at the bedside answered for her.
“She will not eat these many days, Mistress; and she never sleeps, never,
after an oracle.”
Theria gave a low-toned order to the slave, who presently brought hot
milk. To Theria in her hunger it smelt like nectar itself. Aristonikè at
sight of it hid her eyes.
“But if you will take it,” pleaded Theria, “I will send out your slave to
buy a little living bird for you, a linnet in a cage.”
Aristonikè uncovered her eyes. “Will it sing?”
“Ah, how it will sing! high and low and chittery. But you must awake
early in the morning for then it will sing best.”
As Theria talked she fed her the milk and Aristonikè sipped it before she
knew.
They were still at this when the old dame Tuchè appeared.
“Mistress Theria here! What are you doing in this room?”
“You see what I am doing!” Theria answered.
“You are to keep your own room. I supposed you knew that.”
Theria rose in alarm.
“Have I broken the ritual? Oh, I hope I have not broken it.”
Aristonikè began to moan again.
“Do not go, oh, lady, do not go.”
She caught Theria’s dress, clinging to it as with little claws.
“I did not think the god would mind,” spoke Theria anxiously. “Is it not
for his priestess to heal if she can?”
Old Tuchè’s armour was not without its flaw. She loved the little
priestess child. She gazed at Aristonikè and her face curiously changed
as if some sweet were trying to mitigate its sour.
“Well, mayhap ye can stay, Mistress Theria,” she grudgingly consented. “I
don’t say it’s not irregular. But, well, it’s to-morrow an’ next day for
your silence. Is the child eatin’?”
“When you stopped her she was eating,” Theria made answer.
So Theria stayed. Aristonikè gazed at her, and slow tears began to pour
down sideways from eyes upon her pillow.
“What use is it to be better?” she said fatally. “Whenever I am better
they come again and, oh, they put me in the smoke and then it begins.”
“What begins?” questioned Theria.
“Oh, the ecstasy of the tripod,” she whispered, frightened.
“But, Aristonikè, I am Pythia, too. Did you not know that? I am going to
the tripod in your stead. Then you will grow well.”
Again the little claws caught at her, but in a sort of protection.
“No, no, not you!”
“Yes,” said Theria, nodding confidently. “I am strong. Me it will not
hurt. Think not of the tripod, little one. There, there. You will not
weep any more.”
And presently beyond hope, the tired little priestess, with her hands
clasped in Theria’s strong ones, fell asleep.