At the end of the year when the cliffs rise up before you

[sovay]

So this is a question primarily for those who have read Mary Stewart's My Brother Michael, but I'll even accept the help of those who haven't. I am attempting to learn how a story ends. A dubious proposition at best, and made even more difficult in this case as the storyteller has certain ominous motives of his own; one must always look for the slant. As our narrator Camilla Haven tells it—

"These rocks," said Dimitrios, "are called the Phaedriades, the Shining Ones. Always I tell my tourists the story of the Shining Ones. Between them flows the Castalian Spring, whose water is the best in Greece. Have you tried the water of the spring, mademoiselle?"

"No, not yet. I—"

He came a step nearer. I was between him and the edge of the cliff. "They stand over the shrine like guardians, do they not? Because that is what they are. They were not only the protectors of the holy place, but they were themselves the place of execution. There were people executed on these cliffs—for sacrilege, mademoiselle. Did you know that?"

"No. But—"

Another step. He was smiling, a smile of great charm. He had a pleasant voice. Beside me in the dust I saw Danielle lift her head. I saw that her eyes now watched me, not the man. She was smiling at me with the utmost friendliness, her eyes for once bright, not tired at all. I moved back from him a step or two. It brought me within four feet of the edge.

Dimitrios said suddenly, "Be careful." I jumped and his hand came out to my arm. It was gentle on the flesh. "You are not here for execution as a traitor to the god, mademoiselle." He laughed, and Danielle smiled, and I thought suddenly, wildly, Why the hell can't I just pull my arm away and run? I hate the pair of them and they frighten me, and here I stand because it isn't polite to go while the damned man's talking.

"I always tell my tourists," he was saying, "one particular story. There was a certain traitor who was brought up for execution. Two of them came with him to the edge . . . just there . . . to throw him over. He looked down . . . yes, mademoiselle, it is a long way down, is it not? . . . and then he said to them, Please will you not send me over face first, please will you let me fall with my back to the drop? One understands how he felt, mademoiselle, does one not?"

His hand was still on my arm. I pulled back against it. It slid gently up the flesh to the inside of my elbow. I noticed that his nails were bitten to the quick and that his thumb was badly cut and crusted with dried blood. I started to turn from him and to pull my arm away, but his fingers tightened. His voice quickened a little in my ear, "So they threw him over, mademoiselle, and as he fell, he—"

I said breathlessly, "Let me go. I don't like heights. Let me go, please."

Danielle's voice said, dry and thin, "Are these your tourists, Dimitrios?"

—and our heroine flees and we never find out what happened to the traitor as he fell. I understand that's not the point of the episode, but this scene stuck with me the very first time I read My Brother Michael and by now I've been curious for almost fifteen years. So does anyone know? Is this a particularly famous tale about the Phaidriades that I should know for my orals, or did Mary Stewart make it up, or what am I reading here? Au secours!

Comments

[scanner-darkly.livejournal.com]

I couldn't find any evidence either, which isn't to say it's just a tiny fragment of history that's fallen through the cracks. However, on scanning my books, I've noticed I'm missing Robert Graves' books on greek mythology. That would be a good place to look, or at least skim through the index at a bookstore.

[sovay]

Hm. I'm ambivalent about Graves on Greek myth. His Hebrew Myths was fine, because he didn't try to torque the stories to match The White Goddess, or at least not so I noticed, but I have memories from his Greek Myths that are just on crack:

Ixion's name, formed from ischys ("strength") and io ("moon") also suggests ixias ("mistletoe"). As an oak-king with mistletoe genitals, representing the thunder-god, he ritually married the rain-making Moon-goddess; and was then scourged, so that his blood and sperm would fructify the earath, beheaded with an axe, emasculated, spread-eagled to a tree, and roasted; after which his kinsmen ate him sacramentally . . . That old-fashioned kings called themselves Zeus and married Dia of the Rain Clouds, naturally displeased the Olympian priests, who misinterpreted the ritual picture of the spread-eagled Lapith king as recording his punishment for impiety, and invented the anecdote of the cloud. On an Etruscan mirror, Ixion is shown spread-eagled to a fire-wheel, with mushroom tinder at his feet; elsewhere, he is bound in the same "fivefold bond" with which the Irish hero Curoi tied Cuchulain—bent backwards into a hoop, with his wrists, ankles, and neck tied together, like Osiris in the Book of the Dead. This attitude recalls the burning wheels rolled downhill at European midsummer festivities, as a sign that the sun has reached its zenith and must now decline again until the winter solstice. Ixion's pitfall is unmetaphorical: surrogate victims were needed for the sacred king, such as prisoners taken in battle or, failing these, travellers caught in traps. The myth seems to record a treaty made by Zeus's Hellenes with the Lapiths, Phlegyans, and Centaurs, which was broken by the ritual murder of Hellenic travellers and the seizure of their womenfolk; the Hellenes demanded, and were given, an official apology.

Er. No. I appreciate your efforts to create a seamless Indo-European ritual universe, Mr. Graves, but I think you had been smoking the special when you wrote this paragraph. Go and play with M. Dumézil and I'll see you both later.

[larryhammer]

It's best to ignore Graves's lettered exegesis and still to the numbered narratives. Or better yet, use his references to track down the sources.

OTOH, taking his speculations as real can lead to some gloriously crack-headed stories. His interpretation of Oedipus could make a brill adaptation, if it hasn't been done already.

---L.

[sovay]

It's best to ignore Graves's lettered exegesis and still to the numbered narratives. Or better yet, use his references to track down the sources.

This came up earlier in conversation today, actually: I don't have a single book on Greek mythology I'd recommend so much as the original texts (unless we're talking about an elementary-school child, in which case I have fond memories of the D'Aulaires' Greek Myths). But I may be biased. I'm sure there's a textbook somewhere with plenty of translated excerpts that I wouldn't hate.

His interpretation of Oedipus could make a brill adaptation, if it hasn't been done already.

You should write it. : )

[larryhammer]

Unfortunately, Gantz's Early Greek Myths doesn't have narratives, only summaries of all the versions. For straight stories, I find myself going to Kerényi's two volumes -- he does a decent job of sorting the variants into coherent tales -- supplimented by Graves.

I've got another version of Oedipus to tackle first -- retelling Seven Against Thebes as a paternity suit.

---L.

[sovay]

I've got another version of Oedipus to tackle first -- retelling Seven Against Thebes as a paternity suit.

You're familiar with Will Powers' hip-hop The Seven, yes? (I haven't seen it; I know of its existence.)

[larryhammer]

Er, no -- never heard of it. I probably need to.

---L.

[rushthatspeaks.livejournal.com]

Mistletoe genitals?

...

...

...

... all righty then, Mr. Graves. I can't tell whether to run away or steal shamelessly.

[sovay]

If you can in any way fit that into your Dylan Thomas extrapolation, you should.

[larryhammer]

Theft! theft!

---L.