Free Goddess of Yesterday by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

never walked on a road, do not know the names of stars, have never seen a swan. Here is my advice to you. Stay silent. Be fearful of Helen. The daughter of a god pays no price for any action she takes. She cannot suffer and so does not discern the suffering of others.”
    How dare a slave speak like that of his queen? I was angry with him.
    But—
Listen carefully
, said my goddess.
You enter a strange world under a false name. He is an ally. Be thankful
.
    Pyros missed nothing. He was beside us in an instant, eager to inflict pain. “The slave has offended you?” he asked me eagerly, flourishing his whip. I thought I knew how he had come by the name Fire. He burned to hurt Tenedos.
    And then I saw sailing on the Eurotas River several large and beautiful birds whose slender heads turned on remarkable long thin white necks to study me. “In the river,” I said to Pyros. “What are those?”
    Pyros turned but saw nothing worthy of comment.
    “Those are swans, princess,” said Tenedos.
    In such a shape had Zeus visited the mother of Helen.How white Helen's skin must be. How long and slender her throat. How graceful her profile.
    We walked on. I dreamed of swans and cold clear gods.
    “Swans are vicious,” said Tenedos. “Be careful of swans, my princess.”

T HE WALLS OF S IPHNOS were a sheepfold compared to the walls of Amyklai.
    Men standing on the shoulders of men standing on the shoulders of men could not have touched the top of Menelaus' wall. Above his immense gate, stone lions snarled at one another. They were not painted the tawny color of the wild, but scarlet. Their eyes and fangs and claws were laid with gold leaf.
    Had I been six years old, and newly come from a primitive rock, I would have thought the lions frozen where they fought, forced to stand forever with fangs bared and claws drawn. I knew now that the hand of man had sculpted them. And yet the lions had such strength I could readily believe that one day they would leap down and tear to pieces those who tried to pass beneath them.
    That night I met the lion.
    Her name was Helen.
    O Helen.
    Think of hot gold infused on icy silver.
    Think of a soft blue sky over an iron-hard sea.
    The warmest sun and the coldest marble.
    Helen. Swan and goddess.
    But Menelaus did not notice. He gave his wife a mild hug, as if she were his sister. She in turn smiled briefly and returned to her embroidery. Her yarn was green shot through with sun, like the sea underwater. Elderly maids sat by her side, on stools so low their knees touched their chins, and threaded her needle for her.
    Menelaus boxed fondly with his older sons, Aethiolas and Maraphius, who looked about ten and twelve. They were hopping up and down with the joy of having their father home. “Don't go anywhere without us next time, Father.”
    “Let's go hunting, Father!”
    “We've trained new dogs, Father! Wait till you see.”
    “Father, let's—” and they had a great list of things to do together: wrestling, chariot racing, ball games, hunting boars, running the hounds.
    Menelaus tossed his baby boy Pleisthenes into the air and a cascade of giggles came from the pretty child.
    With Hermione, a fragile copy of her beautiful mother, the king was gentle, but Hermione was as wildly excited as her brothers. “I'm so glad you're home, Father!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him and tugging on his flaming beard. “I missed you so. Nobody else will play checkers or pegs or kings with me.”
    “That's because you can't bear to lose,” said her father affectionately. “And nobody but me can tolerate your tears.”
    “I've outgrown tears,” said Hermione haughtily. “I have not cried at the end of a board game in months.”
    “Because you haven't played in months, Hermione,” said her brother Maraphius. “You're still a crybaby.”
    Hermione flew at her brother, her frail fists as effective as dust kittens.
    Helen's long slender fingers searched among the brightyarns spilling out of a