CALLIOPE OF ATHENS- A HISTORICAL FICTION SHORT STORY

Evelyn Deeds

Calliope of Athens- A Historical Fiction Short Story

I don’t have long here before I will perish along with all of my memories, so I’ll have to make this quick. Hear my story, and spread my words. I’ll begin my story when my first memories were formed. I was a young girl living in Athens, Greece. I have not, and never will, see outside of Athens. I used to dream of seeing other and more beautiful places, but dreams are dreams after all.

I was seven years old when most of my childhood playmates started going to school, and were therefore unable to play outside with me anymore. I didn’t notice that those playmates all happened to be boys until I asked my mother when I’d be able to go to school. She seized my arm, wrenching me towards her. Her answer was harsh, and I was told to never ask something so foolish again.

It took me until twelve years of age to fully understand why boys went to school and I could not. The answer is simple really; I am a girl. I am weak, dependant, and stupid. Twelve was also the age that I was no longer allowed to go outside. My mother said that a woman had no business being outside. She also said that only my father could take me out of the house until I married. I only disobeyed this rule once.

It had been months since I’d seen much more than the dull grey walls of my house-shaped prison. There was one day in particular when I had finished my chores early and judging by the sun, guessed that I had half-an-hour before I’d be needed again. I saw the glorious opportunity and took it.

I lowered myself out of the small square window, feet dangling, until I dropped onto the soft grass that I missed so dearly. The bright sun shone above me; its beautiful rays warmed my bare arms and the top of my head once again. I looked upwards. A few clouds hung precariously in the mostly-clear periwinkle sky. They were quickly moving in the direction that the wind pulled me towards. I let it lead me through the village.

The dew-covered grass clung to my bare feet and the wind played with the skirt of my peplos at my ankles. The fresh scent of soft salt flakes and a recent tropical rain clung to the warm air, and I inhaled deeply. It seemed as though no time had passed before I stood in the yard of the schoolhouse that I had yearned to attend for so many years. I stood there for a few seconds before the doors bursted open, startling me. I stood quietly, making myself small and willing myself not to be noticed. My attempts at being inconspicuous didn’t work well enough.

Among the twenty-some boys was Artyom, an old playmate of mine. He spotted me.

“Calliope?”

I reddened, “Artyom, Hello.”

“Calliope, I haven’t seen you in years!” He looked around me, “Are you alone?” It took me a beat too long to answer.

“Yes.” I feared his reaction, and instantly I wished to take the word back.

He gasped, “You are not allowed outside.”

Fear pinched my chest. “You won’t tell?”

“I cannot promise you that Calliope, you are a woman.”

I was stunned. “I am more than just a woman. I am your friend, Artyom. Surely you remember when we used to play as children?” His nose tipped up and his brow scrunched.

“You are my friend no more. You are a woman and I am a man. We are no longer merely children who play.” He said the word ‘man’ with a sense of pride; he spat ‘women’ with scorn.

I asked, “Why does that matter?”

His face hardened and paled as he stepped closer to me and his voice seethed, “You need to leave.”

I angered, and said back harshly, too insulted to mind being polite, “I need no man to escort me where I please.”

He made a guttural sound of disgust like he might spit. A few of the other pupils walked over to where we stood. “Who is this girl, Artyom? Where is her escort?”

Artyom spat his words in my direction. “She does not have one. She believes that she is more than she is worth. She thinks she is better than us.”

His words stung me badly. I begged him with my eyes to take them back. Another boy laughed, “Then someone must teach the brat her place.”

Only when I layed in bed that night did the tears begin to fall. Both the actions of the boys and my mother’s beating had left me in a state of numb shock until finally the dam holding back all of my rage, fear, and grief begin to crack. The tears flowed in streams that joined at the base of my neck, forming a wet patch at the collar of my nightdress as I hugged my knees to my chest. They wetted my cheeks and molded into the cracks of my lips, flavoring them of salt. That moment is when I truly began to see myself as those boys saw me.

I never again disobeyed my mother’s rules. Over the next few years, I did only as I was told. I no longer dreamt of visiting those marvelous places that I used to invent in my head. My tears were reserved for only the quietest of nights when I truly felt most alone.

***

I was to be married at sixteen to a man nearly twice my age. My mother said that I was lucky to receive such an offer. My father complained about the fortune it lost him to get that offer. I was old for a bride, and my husband showed his reluctance.

He was a freeborn man, which meant he worked in the large stone government buildings at the center of our village. From what I had been told, he was good at his job. He had learned art and history and philosophy back when he was a boy. This was the only thing that I envied him for. I was dumb and he knew this. He was a government worker; I had never felt more helpless and alone.

Memories of what those boys did to me not so many years ago came flooding back every time his gaze met mine. He had the same look in his eyes as they did, a mixture of disgust, malicious intent, and that disturbing, needy way he looked me up and down like he was choosing which sweet he would engorge in at a banquet. He made my skin crawl.

The night of our marriage, I sobbed into my woolen pillow, back turned to his large sleeping form. As hate and sorrow competed for dominance within me, I weeped until tears could no longer form.

I spent my morning at the bathing house. I scrubbed my skin red and raw, but it seemed as though no amount of scrubbing could rid me of him. I felt dirty.

I began to feel ill, and nearly a year later, I gave birth to a baby. I looked at the young baby, only to realize that it was a girl. She was small and rosey, and because of this, my heart was pitched into grief for her. When she opened her eyes, I witnessed only admiration and pure, beautiful innocence staring back at me. Panic and dread filled my chest like a heavy metal ball.

That night after my husband had fallen asleep, I brought her to the bathing house. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the baby nursed for the last time. I kneeled at the side of the basin and lowered her into the water. She looked up at me with her wide brown eyes.

My hands began to shake as I held her small, helpless form at the surface. I watched the water envelope all but her head and chest. She began to cry. Sorrow and despair filled me. I softly sang her a lullaby as I braced myself, for when the song ended, I would hold her under. My voice cracked and broke, and the verses escaped between sobs.

By the last measure, her cries had quieted. I slowly lowered her, but stopped. I pulled her from the water, and held her to my heaving chest. Sobs wracked my body and blended with her cries. Hysteria bubbled within me.

After I had calmed and all of the energy had left my body, I stiffly stood up and dragged myself home. I cradled her to my chest all the while.

Her first years were the hardest on me. I named her Elpis, for hope, and she loved me with all of her heart. I did not know if I hated myself more for attempting what I did the night she was born, or not being able to follow through with it. All I had wanted was to save her.

She clung to me always. The only time that her small hand wasn’t clutched in mine was when her father would get home from work. Every night I told her to play outside. He was always angry; he had every right to be. After Elpis, I would not let him touch me, and I often shared a bed with her instead. I made it clear that he was not welcome. Still, Elpis did not need to know where the bruises that she often asked about came from.

Although she did not have a particular attachment to playing or being outside, I still feared the day when she would lose that freedom. I did not yet know what I would do when her father came home and I could no longer send her out. I loved Elpis with all that I had within me.

***

Although I was happier now, I still toyed with the idea of drowning myself in the bathing house. The action of it would be so easy, yet the repercussions would be catastrophic. If not for Elpis, I would have, but to leave her to face the world alone and vulnerable was unthinkable. I never did more than toy with the idea, yet I was still wracked with guilt for even considering it as a possibility.

Every single morning, I woke up to her radiant smile. She was my joy; I was there to protect her, to make her happy. I craved nothing more than to hear her laugh. Although I protected her from the world, she protected me from myself. She made me stronger, and gave me a will.

One evening, all of my fears were confirmed when her father came home from an exceptionally bad day. Elpis was no longer allowed outside without being escorted, and that was the first night that she had seen him hit me. My heart broke at the sight of her as her wide, tear-filled eyes screamed with fear. She was only twelve years old. Before I could stop her, she stepped between us, and he struck her across the cheek. A hatred so intense ripped throughout my body that it tore me to shreds and I lunged at him.

That night, he beat me worse than he had before. As my ribs cracked beneath his boot, I knew that I would not recover. Elpis and a neighbor brought me to the small hospital near the schoolhouse after he had fallen asleep. No one asked me how I had gotten to such a state; they all knew.

Elpis could not bear it. She sat by my side as I lay on the cold clay floor, with nothing beneath me but a wool blanket. Her small, delicate hand shook in mine as she spoke to me.

“Mama, you will be okay, for me, I know you will. I have hope mama.”

“Oh Elpis,” I said between painfully sharp, shallow breaths, “Save your beautiful hope for after I am gone. That is when you will truly need it.” Her tears fell on my cheeks, mixing with mine.

My pain began to fade, and my limbs grew heavy. My sweet girl began to sing the lullaby that I had sung for her all those years ago. The lullaby that nearly ended with her life; the lullaby that would now end with mine. I took one more deep breath, one more beginning, before one more end.

One more end.