Read Online Sappho's Leap by Erica Jong - Free Book Online Page B

,” she said.
    â€œOn top of what I have already paid?” I asked.
    â€œYes!” said Cretaea.
    â€œAll I have is one obolos .”
    â€œThen I cannot help you,” said the hag.
    I sent Praxinoa running home for more oboloi . Cretaea and I waited together in silence, staring into the multicolored flames. Once Cretaea had the oboloi , she stroked them covetously with her reddened claws and answered as ambiguously as any oracle:
Am I the father of the child she carries
    Underneath her bosom?
    A warrior asked. And the wind whispered no
    But the leaves rustled yes
    And the doves cooed maybe
    And the bronze cauldrons rang
    Like funeral bells.
    â€œWhat does it mean?” I asked in a panic. “Does it mean my child will die? Is it yes or no? Shall I tell him or will it hurt the child?”
    Cretaea stared at me with her rheumy eyes. “That is all the spirit said. The interpretation I must leave to you.”
    â€œTell me!” I cried.
    â€œI would tell you if I could,” Cretaea said, smirking.
    â€œGive my mistress back her oboloi , then!” shouted Praxinoa.
    â€œ Oboloi returned carry a curse,” Cretaea said craftily. “Let me only say, heed the leaves in the trees of your garden well. They will tell you.”
    That night, under a full moon, Praxinoa and I sat in the courtyard of our house and listened to the leaves fluttering in the wind. At first they seemed to say yes, then no, then yes again. How could we tell?
    I called for papyrus and reeds and wrote this letter to Alcaeus at the court of Alyattes in Sardis:
My love—
    Why has it been so hard to tell you that the child I carry is yours? Heavy with the fruit of our love, I understand life in a way I could not when we were together. I feel the baby kicking and it is the memory of your love, kicking at my heart….
    What a sappy letter! I would have to make a song to express how I really felt and so I burnt the papyrus and broke the reed!
    But writing to Alcaeus was hardly the only challenge I faced. As my confinement approached, I grew more and more frightened. The cemeteries of Syracuse were crammed with the bones of women who had died in childbirth. Childbirth was more dangerous than the battlefield. Oh, I longed for my virginity now as if it were my native land! How could I have opened my legs—not to mention my heart—to Alcaeus? I was terrified of dying. If I died, what would become of all the songs I had yet to write? I understood the virgin goddesses then, understood Artemis and Athena, understood women who refused the sexual life for the life of the mind. Why had I fallen into the trap of loving a man? Why was dear Praxinoa not enough for me? I had made a terrible mistake by following Alcaeus. Perhaps that was why I could not write to him. Underneath my rapture was rage for having to face a fate he would never face! I wanted him to worry about me. I wanted him to fret. Let him be as miserable in his own way as I was in mine!
    Praxinoa and I made daily offerings to goddesses who ruled childbirth—Artemis and Ilithyia. We also remembered Asclepius, the god of medicine, in our sacrifices. We would have sacrificed to Baal if we had believed it would do any good! That was how terrified we were.
    Thighbones wrapped in fat, rare birds, beautiful garments woven with our own hands—these were some of the things we offered to the gods. No babes walked through flames in Syracuse—though there were certainly those who sacrificed puppies to Hecate on altars at crossroads. Yet mothers had no choice but to endure torture—emerging only if they were blessed.
    Cercylas seemed tamed—not only by my pregnancy but also by my absence in Motya. He was so relieved at my return that he prostrated himself before me, embraced my knees, and kissed my feet.
    â€œI know in my deepest heart that we’ll soon be adorning the door of our house with an olive crown,” he said—like the pompous