4.5 In Achaea

In which Atropos sees there is no choice.

‘In the early morning, when the dawn light fell coldly on the ashes of the hall, I walked cautiously among the fallen timbers and the hot sooty rubble, carrying a skin of water for dousing. The stone walls had begun to fall in, and the door frame hung inwards, twisted by the ferocity of the flames. The men from the neighbouring farm had made shelters for my people by the river. Agatha, the old human who was my cook, wept, huddled beside her grandson’s body. Two of the younger women followed me, and worked under my direction, rescuing the remnants of food and broken bowls from the wrecked kitchen. Chickens had roasted where they fell, and my watchdog had suffocated beside her kennel.

‘I penetrated to the heart of the house, and found the olivewood chest in my burnt and blackened bedroom. The chest was scorched but still solid. I cooled its twisted bronze hasp with water and pulled it away from the crumbling wooden lid. Inside, by a miracle from Themis, all my weaving was intact. I breathed a prayer of thanks and pulled out a shroud for the boy.

‘A hissing of flame against hot metal spoke to me as I passed back out through the great bronze doorway of the house. “You can repent. All can be restored. Tell me where they are.”