Elektra(82)

Outside, the air is still and dark, the world not yet stirring. The only sound I can hear is the plaintive chirrup of the nightingale, a soft and lonely note in the silence. Her song is so sad. I wonder, does she remember when she was a human girl? Philomela, seized by her own sister’s husband, who tore out her tongue when he was done with her so that she could never speak of it. She wove her testimony into a tapestry instead, and when her sister saw it, she slaughtered her own son and fed him to his father in punishment. Now Philomela has a voice again, transformed by the gods into this sad and solitary bird whose lament rings out alone in the darkness before the first light of day. Her family’s legend is so like the stories they tell of my own ancestors, but no gods have taken pity on me, given me feathers and wings to fly away from this place. I’m condemned as much as she to give voice only to sorrow, but I must bear it in this body.

Again and again, I am drawn to the tomb. Over and over, I leave offerings: a twist of hair, a cup of wine poured on to the ground, the first fruits of spring, which I leave to moulder until they collapse in upon their own spongy rot. I don’t know why I still do it. I ache to believe that my father is there, somewhere in the caverns of the earth; that he knows how I honour him; that it brings him some solace in the grim shadows beneath. But my piety and devotion go unrewarded.

I have wept long and loud at the silent stone entrance, countless times; scratched my nails through the flesh of my cheeks and ground my teeth in despair. But today, the tears that well up in my eyes are effortless; they fall gently and spatter on the ground with no anguish and no rage. My father is not here. If he had lived, I would be somewhere else. I would have children of my own; I would not be trapped in this humble marriage. My brother would be here, not raised by strangers in some distant land. I’ve lived with this for too long, and the weight of my misery is crushing me.

Dawn is beginning to creep into the dim sky. I can’t bring myself to enter the tomb today. I turn away from the arched gateway, into the glow of the rising sun. The sliver of gleaming orange climbing above the horizon dazzles me for a moment, and I squint into the glare of fiery light. A dark shape looms from the dazzle of dawn. The shape of a man. For a moment, I think it is my father, risen and returned to me, whole and entire.

As he steps forward, though, my whole body shakes. Another figure draws close to him.

‘Are you here to mourn the king?’ the first figure asks. His eyes roam intently over me, pausing on the lock of hair I still hold.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

‘Are you a loyal serf of the palace, perhaps?’ He sounds dubious.

I stare at his face. It’s rude of me, but I am so very far past caring about that. In my mind’s eye, I see a frightened little boy, and I will my memory to show me him, so that I can compare his face to the stranger standing in front of me. How could it be anyone else? But he does not recognise me. Am I really so changed by the passing of years? They certainly haven’t been kind to me. The same is not true for him. The man standing before me, strong and vital, is no longer a boy, but I think I can see, in the shape of his face and the set of his features, the child I knew.

‘I am no serf,’ I answer. ‘I look like one, I’m sure.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I am here to grieve my father, Agamemnon, who lies in this tomb behind.’

His eyes widen. ‘You are Elektra?’

I have hardly been able to tear my eyes away from him, but I glance at the figure who accompanies him. It’s enough for me to see how handsome he is, standing so confident and sure. I feel a flush of shame heat my cheeks, at once embarrassed by how unkempt and dishevelled I have allowed myself to become; how much I have revelled in my own disgrace. ‘I am.’ I square my shoulders, tilt my head up in defiance.

‘Then take this as evidence; you are my sister, and I have come back as promised!’ His face shines with excitement and he thrusts his hand out.

A bronze dagger lies across his palm, a tiny golden lion snarling at its tip. The hunters, just as I remember, pressing forward with spears and shields.

‘Orestes,’ I whisper.

He is nodding, his eyes aglow. ‘We’ve come back to Mycenae, Pylades and I.’ He gestures to the other man, who dips his head respectfully towards me.

I feel a panicky kind of excitement. It’s all I’ve dreamed of, the only thing that has sustained me since my father died – and at last it’s happening.

‘Come, sit before you fall,’ he says, taking my elbow and guiding me to the low wall at the side of the pathway. I sit gratefully on the stone. ‘I must make my offerings at my father’s grave; it’s why we came here first.’

‘I come here every morning,’ I answer dazedly.

I wait for them as the warm light of day spills across the ground, the song of other birds joining the lonely nightingale. A laugh bubbles absurdly from my throat, and I clamp my hand over my mouth. I raise my face to the sun’s spreading rays and try to compose it into an expression of serious reflection.

‘Elektra? Are you well?’

I press my lips together, not trusting myself to speak at all.

‘She must be overcome,’ I hear Pylades murmur. ‘This is all unexpected to her.’

Orestes hovers for a moment before sitting beside me. I feel the tug between solicitousness and uncertainty within him; so long has passed since we were together.