Swallow's Dance Read online

  Also by Wendy Orr

  Dragonfly Song

  Nim’s Island

  Nim at Sea

  Rescue on Nim’s Island

  Rainbow Street Pets

  Raven’s Mountain

  Mokie & Bik

  Spook’s Shack

  Peeling the Onion

  This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2018

  Copyright © Wendy Orr 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76029 787 9

  For teaching resources, explore

  www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Design by Committee

  Cover illustration by Josh Durham

  Map by Sarfaraaz Alladin

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For Claudia and Olive,

  who bring joy to my life

  Around four thousand years ago, a great Bronze Age civilisation grew up around the Mediterranean island of Crete. To its north was the island of Thera, now know as Santorini.

  In 1625 BCE, Thera experienced one of the greatest volcanic eruptions in human history.

  The island and its prosperous harbour town, which had traded luxury goods and raw materials as far as Egypt, Cyprus, the mainland of Greece, and Minoan Crete, were completely covered by metres of lava, ash and pumice. It was a dead and forgotten place for several centuries, and even when people began to resettle, the original inhabitants and civilisation were forgotten except in strange myths of Atlantis.

  Three thousand years later, archaeologists began to dig through the layers of ash and eventually discovered a sophisticated town of two- and three-storey houses, painted with elaborate frescoes. It seemed that catastrophic earthquakes had heralded the final eruption: the people fled; they had time to bury their dead and remove their valuables. There are many different theories on where they went and what happened in that time; for this story I’ve chosen what makes sense to me.

  The more I studied this civilisation, the more intrigued I became by one of the frescoes – a painting of girls in ceremonial dress picking crocus on a mountain. The girls are so individual that I became convinced they were portraits of real people. There’s no doubt that they would have been from the most privileged class – and yet, if they survived to flee the volcano, they would have had to start their lives again as refugees. This is how I imagined the story of one of the girls in that fresco – the snub-nosed saffron gatherer.

  Kora, Kora, born of the goddess,

  your fleet foot wounded in wars of the gods;

  when swallows fly you across the dark sea

  your mother, weeping, brings death to our land.

  Kora, Kora, your maidens call you,

  your promise is woven in dance and song

  let swallows fly you home in the springtime

  bringing joy to our hearts and life to the land.

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  SONG FOR KORA THE MAIDEN

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nunu says that when the goddess belches, it means change is coming.

  This is the greatest belch I’ve ever heard. We’re halfway up Crocus Mountain, on the ridge where the grassy slope turns to rock; six excited girls and their mothers or aunts or grandmothers, warm now from the hour’s walk, though our bare feet are cold. As the dawn sky streaks pink and yellow over the sea, the earthmother’s body trembles like a wave. It’s still quivering when the belch erupts from her mouth. The stench steams up from the deep waters of the bay like the burp of a man sick from eating three-day-old fish.

  But because it’s the goddess, no one coughs or waves the stink away. We all stand straight, left hands holding baskets and right hands on hearts, until the ground is still.

  We’d danced our way here, toes tingling in the autumn chill; skipped singing through the awakening streets and on the road up the hills. It’s the first morning of our journey to becoming women. In a year we’ll be weighed down with the Learning of the Swallow Clan – the songs, dances and rites that care for our island – but this morning the goddess demanded nothing but joy.

  The mothers danced too: Mama and Pellie’s mama right up to the hills, and Alia’s grandmother hardly at all, but even she smiled and swayed as if her mind was dancing. And they all sang. I never knew women so old could still be girls when they wanted.

  Pellie, friend of my heart,

  born the same spring –

  playing, talking, growing together

  all the days since then

  until she started her bleeding

  six moons ago, in the spring of this year.

  Preparing to enter her Learning,

  wearing her flounced skirt and shift,

  leaving behind the tunic

  and shaved head of childhood –

  and me with it.

  One by one, the girls of my clan

  started their bleeding –

  even Alia, youngest of all –

  till I wondered if I’d be left

  a child forever

  and alone.

  ‘Be patient,’ said Pellie –

  as if she were wise and old

  with barely time to speak to a child –

  for she was deep in the mysteries

  of becoming a woman

  and we could no longer share

  our thoughts and laughter.

  More alone

  than when Ibi married,

  leaving this house for his new wife’s family,

  or when Glaucus sailed to Great Island

  to be ambassador there for our small land –

  because my brothers are so old,

  nearly twenty summers,

  we have shared much,

  but never our thoughts.

  More alone even

  than when Dada sails each spring

  with his ships full of goods

  to trade in the farthest points of the world –

  because Dada always comes back.

  And though Pellie hadn’t left

  I didn’t know if she’d return

  to be my heart-friend again

  if I didn’t start my bleeding

  before this night’s full moon.

  Then my despairing Mama

  when the moon was nothing but a crescent line

  sacrificed a goat to Great Mother,

  collecting its blood in a bowl,

  telling Cook Maid to prepa
re a pudding

  with that red blood

  and singing loudly to the goddess

  till I’d eaten it all,

  my belly full to cramping –

  and the next day, my bleeding came.

  At last, I entered the Lady’s House,

  to live in silence with the goddess;

  my head shaved one last time –

  one curl at the front and tail at the back

  the promise that my hair will grow

  thick and curly as my cousin’s has.

  Released from silence as my bleeding ended,

  washed and dressed in my fine new shift

  I stood before the shrine

  for the Lady to wrap me

  in my wide flounced skirt

  so all the world could know

  I’m a Learner in the Swallow Clan.

  Now Pellie and I

  are on the journey together,

  sister-friends again.

  The earth is still moving.

  Is the shaking all over the island, or just here on the mountain, a sign to her maidens?

  Mama drops her hand from her heart. ‘Gather well,’ she says, not mentioning the belch or the shaking, so we don’t either. We spread out across the ridge, searching for the goddess’s sign that life will renew again now the autumn rains have come. The morning is dawning bright and sunny, and we need to gather the crocuses before the dew dries.

  I find one quickly, pale purple petals blooming against the rocks, yellow stamens and long orange stigmas waving.

  ‘Pick from above,’ Mama tells me. ‘Don’t let them turn upside down.’ She shows me with her fingers, and I pluck my first crocus, laying it gently in my basket so that not one grain of the precious saffron will be lost. Now I know why we had to weave the bottoms of our baskets so tightly. I wove ten before I got it right, and wondered why I couldn’t just take one from the kitchen, but it makes sense now I’m here: my offering in the basket I wove.

  I spy another flower further up the hill, and climb towards it, my bare toes monkey-sure on the rocks, bracelets and anklets jingling. Mama watches closely, but I must be doing it properly because her eyes close in the autumn sun, welcome after days of rain. I climb further. Another crocus and another, higher up the hill and around, ignoring rocks under my feet and prickles scratching my ankles, till my basket is full. When I straighten I can’t see anyone else, not Mama or the other girls or their mothers. The town and its harbour are below; but now I can see the bay again, the deep blue water in the crescent of land, and the rocky islet in the centre where the goddess’s breath hovers.

  A sudden twittering fills the air. A cloud of swallows is passing overhead, leaving us for winter. I call them to stay, because they’ll take the goddess’s daughter with them and there’ll be no warmth till they return – I’m not ready to be stuck inside weaving for long wet days.

  But I’ll be part of the swallow dance tonight!

  It’s almost worth seeing them go. I stand and watch them out of sight, hand on heart.

  I try not to look at the little dots of boats on the bay. I wonder if the boys are out there, on their own quests. We all know that fishing is part of their initiation, just as they know crocuses are part of ours, but the details are secret, and we mustn’t talk to each other during our Learnings.

  But that doesn’t mean we can’t think about them, or that Pellie and I don’t wonder what they have to do, and how they’re going, and most of all, who we’ll choose when the time comes for us to marry – whether it will be one of the boys we know, or someone from outside.

  Mama says the Learning will tell us, and we’ll know when the time is right.

  I hope so. Because I can’t even imagine it.

  I find two more crocuses and balance them on top of the purple mound in my basket.

  ‘Thank you, Great Mother,’ I say. Joy floods through me like sunshine. Ever since I started the tasks that would lead to my Learning, if I do one tiny thing wrong, Nunu tells me how lucky I am to be born into this family, because my skills would never be good enough to be craft-folk. But the truth is that the Swallow Clan’s work is what matters. We offer the rites the gods demand, and the other clans serve us so we can. That’s the only way our home and its people can thrive, because we’re not simply priests and rulers – we’re the bridge between the land and the gods. And today the goddess is pleased with me.

  Then she hiccups again. Her shaking throws me to the ground; I land on my hands and knees, dirtying the beautiful skirt it’s taken me so long to weave. My right hand is scraped and bleeding; pain shoots up my left arm. Worst of all, as my wrist bends backwards, I let go of my basket. It bounces down the rocks, scattering the precious flowers – purple petals, yellow stamens and sacred orange stigmas – across the hill.

  In the silence

  as the goddess stills,

  girls are screaming,

  mothers calling

  and I am sliding

  eyes tear-blurring

  scrambling to each flower

  to brush off the dirt

  and lay it carefully in my basket

  as if it had never fallen.

  Hearing Mama’s voice,

  ‘Leira, Leira!’

  and calling back,

  racing around the rock

  into her arms.

  But the hug is quick

  now she knows I’m safe

  and she calls out to know who’s hurt

  and if all are here.

  Rastia’s mother

  has a twisted ankle;

  Alia’s basket is bent

  because she sat on it hard

  and Pellie’s bitten her lip,

  trickling blood down her chin.

  There are bruises and grazes,

  skirts dirtied and even torn,

  but nothing worse

  and as Pellie and I stare and whisper –

  I show my red wrist

  but don’t mention

  dropping the basket –

  Mama shouts

  that we must return now

  and present what we have

  at the temple.

  Mama has a loud voice

  so people generally

  do what she says –

  and we all need to see

  what’s happened in the town.

  ‘Pellie and I can run ahead,’ I suggest.

  ‘You’re carrying offerings to the goddess,’ Mama snaps. ‘We’ll take them to the temple in the proper procession.’

  Her voice is sharp with fear, the same fear I can feel in my belly – because my belly doesn’t care that the earth is the goddess’s body; it just knows that the ground shouldn’t move like the sea.

  But we’re gathering her crocus! She would never harm us on this day!

  This is the ninety-ninth year since the earthmother’s shaking destroyed the old town. Now we have the most beautiful city on earth. Dada talks about the places he visits on the ship: cities that have been there since before memory. Even when he tells us eye-flashing, hand-waving stories of giant pyramids and other wonders, he admits that parts of these towns are old, dirty and crumbling. They’re not painted in new styles every second generation, like the shrines of our temple and homes.

  ‘Our mothers were painted together,’ I heard Mama snap at Pellie’s mother one day last spring, when Pellie had started her bleeding and I hadn’t. ‘We can’t break the tradition!’

  ‘…but if Leira hasn’t started…’

  Mama gave a huff that I didn’t know she’d use to her cousin.

  ‘She was named for my mother…of course she’ll be there.’

  When I was little, I thought Nunu was my grandmother. Saying so was the only time Mama’s ever smacked me: ‘My mother was Swallow Clan, not a slave!’

  I haven’t got it wrong again.

  Whatever this painting is, I’m guessing it’s in part of the temple that I haven’t been admitted to yet – and that I’ll see it soon. Because
Leira, my grandmother’s name and mine, is the name of the goddess’s autumn flower, the saffron crocus we’ve picked today.

  The goddess shakes again, a long, trembling sigh.

  If the temple falls, I’ll never see what Mama was so upset about.

  It won’t fall. The town’s buildings are strong and new, built to shake and keep standing when the goddess belches.

  ‘Sing!’ Mama commands, and we gather closer together, the women leading us on the path down the hill, along the ridge where we can see the ocean dark and blue on both sides of the island. We’re singing for the goddess, but she helps us in return, chasing away fear with our songs.

  We pass the wishing tree, an olive planted at the spring by the goddess herself with a hole in its ancient trunk just big enough for a girl to slide through, leaving her wish in the tree like a snake leaves its skin.

  No time for wishing today – Mama leads us straight past, barely slowing to salute the sacred tree. Now we have to walk fast and try not to breathe in as we sing, because the wind is gusting up from the south, bringing the stink from the purple works.

  ‘Aren’t you glad we didn’t have to make our own purple dye?’ Pellie whispers.

  I can see Mama listening. I don’t answer, just crinkle my nose in disgust so that Pellie nearly laughs, and her own mother turns sharply.

  But we’d never have to make our own purple. Mama says the Learning teaches us how things work in the world: like making the baskets, we need to understand dyeing so that everything we weave, or have our servants weave, will be as beautiful as it can be. We collected madder roots and weld plants, mashed and boiled them to make our own red and yellow dyes for our skirts, but the few drops of purple came in a tiny flask, like one for perfume, with the smell gone.

  The goddess loves purple in every shade, from the pale mauve-blue of her crocus, to the blood-darkness of the richest murex dye. But the only thing we need to know about the dye is that we’re the favoured few with the right to wear it.

  I sing a little louder in praise.

  When I was small

  I followed Nunu wherever she went

  and on once-a-moon family days

  we visited her brother and his wife.

  There Nunu’s nieces –

  and their husbands and children –

  are always in the workshop,