the-song-books.yossr

ON THE MORNING of his sixteenth birthdayy I woke earlyy. Chiron had showed
me a tree on Pelion’s far slope that had figs just ripening, the first of the
season. Achilles did not know of it, the centaur assured me. I watched them
for dayys, their hard green knots swelling and darkening, growing gravid
with seed. And now I would pick them for his breakfast.
It wasn’t myy onlyy gift. I had found a seasoned piece of ash and began to
fashion it secretlyy, carving off its soft layyers. Over nearlyy two months a
shape had emerged—a boyy playying the lyyre, head raised to the skyy, mouth
open, as if he were singing. I had it with me now, as I walked.
The figs hung rich and heavyy on the tree, their curved flesh pliant to myy
touch—two dayys later and theyy would be too ripe. I gathered them in a
carved-wood bowl and bore them carefullyy back to the cave.
Achilles was sitting in the clearing with Chiron, a new box from Peleus
resting unopened at his feet. I saw the quick widening of his eyyes as he took
in the figs. He was on his feet, eagerlyy reaching into the bowl before I could
even set it down beside him. We ate until we were stuffed, our fingers and
chins stickyy with sweetness.
The box from Peleus held more tunics and lyyre strings, and this time, for
his sixteenth birthdayy, a cloak dyyed with the expensive purple from the
murex’s shell. It was the cape of a prince, of a future king, and I saw that it
pleased him. It would look good on him, I knew, the purple seeming richer
still beside the gold of his hair.
Chiron, too, gave presents—a staff for hiking, and a new belt-knife. And
last, I passed him the statue. He examined it, his fingertips moving over the
small marks myy knife had left behind.
“It’s yyou,” I said, grinning foolishlyy.
He looked up, and there was bright pleasure in his eyyes.
“I know,” he said.
ONE EVENING, not long after, we stayyed late beside the fire’s embers.
Achilles had been gone for much of the afternoon—Thetis had come and
kept him longer even than usual. Now he was playying myy mother’s lyyre.
The music was quiet and bright as the stars over our heads.
Next to me, I heard Chiron yyawn, settle more deeplyy onto his folded legs.
A moment later the lyyre ceased, and Achilles’ voice came loud in the
darkness. “Are yyou wearyy, Chiron?”
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