Read Online Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr - Free Book Online Page A

afraid. He was with her as surely as if he had been there in the flesh.
    *   *   *
    She was almost sorry when a hand fell on her shoulder and a voice said, “Rise; follow.” Polyxena raised her head and opened her eyes, blinking in blinding light.
    It was a lamp, flickering in a woman’s hand. The priestess was veiled in white, faceless and all but formless. Polyxena rose stiffly, stumbling until she had her feet under her.
    She had no sense of where she was or where she went. The light illuminated nothing beyond the priestess’ body. The path on which she guided Polyxena went straight ahead and then sloped sharply upward.
    Then at last Polyxena had the sense of walls: they closed in all around her, so that she had to stoop and crouch, then crawl on hands and knees. The taste of earth was in her mouth. Roots brushed her cheeks.
    The priestess’ light led her onward, but she could no longer see the woman who carried it. The tunnel narrowed until she wriggled on her belly like one of the Mother’s snakes.
    She began to wonder if she would be trapped here; if the Mystery was slow and suffocating death in the deeps of the earth. She was not afraid of death, though the pain of it might give her pause.
    She pressed on as she did everything in this life, with all the strength she had. She clawed through roots and burrowed in earth.
    She burst into light: moonlight, firelight, and the low hum of voices chanting. The mountain’s shadow rose above her. The sea glimmered below. Robed figures surrounded her.
    They all wore the dark belt that bound her own waist; on the finger of each left hand, the dark circle of a ring stood out, distinct in the firelight. Part of her recognized the lower terrace of the Mystery. The rest laid no single name on this place. It was all holy places in one, a long shallow curve of stony ground set apart from the world by the swift torrent of a river.
    A figure loomed by the fire. Her heart stopped and then began to beat hard. He was tall, taller than a mortal man, and his horns spread wide beneath the moon.
    The Bull of Minos waited for her, that mingled monster with his man’s body and his bull’s head. His shoulders were massive, gleaming as if with oil; his breast and belly were thick with curling hair. The phallus that rose at the sight of her was as great as a bull’s.
    She walked through a shower of fragrant petals. The garland of myrtle was still about her brows; its scent rose again around her, as strong as if the garland had been made new again. As she walked, her garments unraveled, falling away from her body.
    She made no move to cover herself. Her skin was as hot as if she had stood in the fire. Her hair escaped the last of its knot and slithered down her back.
    A shrouded priestess appeared in front of her, rising as if out of the earth. In her hands was a mask. It was old beyond age, carved of alabaster, featureless but for the slash of nose and the long slits of eyes.
    It fit to her face as if it had been made of skin and not of stone. The age of it, the power that was in it, froze her briefly where she stood. If she brought down the mountains here, where would she go? What shrine or nation would take her?
    The earth held its place. The power that filled her was pleased to stay within the bounds of her body. The Mother’s arms embraced her. Whatever strength she had, this place was strong enough to contain it.
    The Bull’s horned head rose above her. The smell of him was pungent yet pleasant, compounded of sweat and musk and surprising sweetness: honey and thyme, sharpened with smoke.
    Her hands ran down his arms. They were massive, but the skin was unexpectedly smooth. The heat of his blood matched hers.
    He trembled under her touch. He was afraid: he, the great bull. She smiled behind the mask.
    She was dimly aware of the circle in which they stood, the priests and pilgrims beginning a slow chant. The words did not matter. The