Amelia: Reading from the novel The Gates of Horn and Ivory - The Thesmophoria (I)

“Have you prepared yourself, daughter? You have to set an example for all the married women: fast for nine days, refrain from the pleasures of the flesh and purify yourself to be worthy of the Goddess’s blessing.”

“Yes, mother. Although I find it a bit ironic that I need to prepare myself so I’d be worthy of my own blessing.”

“You are a role model, daughter. Everyone is looking to you for guidance. Among the Attic women, you should be the strictest follower of the ritual preparations.”

‘Shouldn’t be that hard,’ Persephone thought. ‘We only eat ambrosia, and I haven’t even seen my beloved in months. What is ambrosia made from, anyway? I hope it’s a proper lenten meal.’

“Have you chosen your pig, dear?” Demeter asked innocently, reminding her daughter of the unavoidable and loathsome drudgery of sacrificing some poor creature, which seemed to be mandatory for every celebration, be it of joy or of mourning.

“Why don’t you choose one for me, mother?” She smiled back, waiting for a snarky retort, but her mother was in a good mood, so she took her daughter’s bratty comment in stride.

“I wouldn’t dream of making choices for you. You’re a grown woman, mistress of your own fate. Just make sure to pick a fat one this time. The ladies seem to believe it makes a difference in the abundance of next year’s harvest.”

Persephone remembered she’d have to sleep on the ground atop the temple hill for three nights in a row, with only a thin cloth between her body and the freezing dirt, and handle decomposing pig parts, and her enthusiasm for female bonding dissipated.

The Thesmophoria festival was for women only, a reward and a comfort after the bounty of summer had been gathered and stored, the grains of the fields had been harvested, winnowed and weighed, and the new wine had started fermenting in its large earthen vessels.

The nights had already grown chilly and long, and sometimes the wild meadows, now donning the worn look of weathered brass, welcomed dawn covered in a thin dusting of frost.

A giant moon, which looked larger and colder in the crisp air, was presiding over the three days of ceremony, marking the end of the growing season and the transition to the dark half of the year.

The unspoken understanding, which the women didn’t share with her mother, out of respect, was this was also a joyful going away party for Persephone, offering her a few days of carefree, dis-inhibited and very outspoken celebration, soaked in spirits and mind-altering substances, before she set on the dark path behind Hecate to rejoin her beloved in the underworld.

She often bestowed favors on her chosen during these celebrations, from the gift of laying on hands to oracular wisdom, and like it was the case with all the details of the ceremonies, these gifts were to be used, but never spoken of, and never practiced in the company of men.

The women, undaunted by the cold or the rugged living, started out their early procession on the morning of the first day, following in Demeter’s footsteps on a strenuous walk up the hill to the shrine grounds, carrying blankets, provisions, and tents for their three-day stay.

Just like Demeter did, they left behind their lives, their city, and their men, forsaking all activities in order to assist the goddess in her desperate search for her daughter.

Married women of all ages were expected to attend this solemn festival, celebrating the most guarded secrets of womanhood.

It was a duty and a privilege, endorsed by the unwritten rules of their society, and as such, having the power of law over all its citizens, regardless of their gender.

Rich aristocrats and women of humble birth, young wives and old matrons, became equals for the duration of the festivities, sharing in the labor of preparations, digging the ritual pits, and enduring the hardships of outdoor living.

They had all fasted and forsaken their marital beds for nine days to be made worthy to attend Demeter’s mourning, and they always kept the details of their gatherings to themselves, as they were not fit to fall on male ears.

Two of the most respected women in the community were chosen to set up camp, direct the preparation and distribution of the food, and decide the schedule of activities.

They led the group of women in a quiet procession, carrying torches up the hill to the temple to undergo purification rituals, to make themselves worthy of the favor of their goddess.

A few women, the ones who drew the short lots, remained behind to dig and prepare the megara pits for the offerings of sacrificial pigs, which, Persephone shuddered in horror, were neither eaten, nor burned, but left to rot for days and then ripped apart and shared among the women to bury in their fields, as part of a fertility ritual.

The symbolism of this gruesome slaughter didn’t escape the harvest goddess, who knew her mother all too well and didn’t forget the latter wasn’t all that fond of the menfolk, considering the reason for the festival.

Demeter seemed to have gone all out on this particular ritual, requesting that the decomposing pig carcasses be stuffed with pomegranate seeds before getting ripped apart and buried in the fields.

Just saying, the symbolism of this feat was not that abstruse.

She hoped the commandment to maintain absolute silence regarding the details of the festival was strictly obeyed, and her dear Hades, just like the other husbands, would never learn what was going on during these days of womanly bonding, for his own good.

A few other women, chosen in secret on the eve of the first day, left unseen before the break of dawn to take solitary trips to the river, unknown by the others, to collect unbegun water, the water of life, and carry it back to the camp. They had to take a different path upon returning, and be careful not to be seen.

Skilled bakers kneaded their breads on warm stones, to help them proof and rise, and then placed them directly into the fire, on slate slabs covered with burned earthen pots. They buried the pots in hot embers, so the breads would bake evenly.

In cauldrons hanging over the campfires, various stews of root vegetables and barley were boiling, a delight and a comfort for the women after a hard day’s labor, served hot to soften the sting of the frigid night.

Persephone watched in silent bemusement this reenactment of her alleged abduction, mourning and recovery, which, if memory served, didn’t happen exactly the way it was described, relieved to have a day of quiet reflection after the never-ending stream of harvest celebrations, all of which involved boundless amounts of food, wine, loudness and questionable behavior.

By sunset the tents had been pitched, and the food laid out for the communal meal, all warm and comforting, but with no meat, no hot spices, and no libations to stir the senses, served in silence, as it was fit for a wake.

They were expected to sleep on the ground, with nothing to stave off its chill than a thin cloth, and a stone for a pillow. Many had been known to receive premonitory dreams and visions during these cold nights of sleeping outdoors, visions which they were required by tradition to share with no one.

Persephone had mixed feelings about attending her own wake while still very much alive, immortal, in fact, and wondered what exactly did her mother do during that search for her to entice the entire world to don mourning attire.

In her absence, the fields had been stripped bare of flowers and fruit; the animals were rendered barren; the fountains dried up, and in its large amphorae, even the wine went sour. Fires, floods, droughts, locusts, they all conveyed a singular message - don’t mess with Demeter - and judging by her daughter’s presence here, it worked exactly as intended.

As a consequence of that, the latter was now attending her own ritual wake, dressed in mourning garments just like the rest of the women and eating her light meal of grains, vegetables, and dried fruit in silence.

In large cauldrons, hard winter wheat, washed in seven unbegun waters, had been boiling for hours, until it turned soft and chewy, and shed its hard shell. During all this time it was stirred, and whispered incantations and blessings, so that its aromatic steam would rise to the sky and feed the spirits. They were making koliva, the traditional food of the dead.

When it cooled down, the women kneaded it into a homogenous paste and mixed it with honey, raisins, almonds, walnuts, and delicious spices.

Persephone was eagerly awaiting her favorite treat, after a whole day of wandering the fields and hills with torches in an ironic search for herself, with nothing for sustenance but a meager meal of nuts and dried figs.

The strenuous activity, which both aristocrats and common women took in stride, used as they were to their daily labors, had stirred quite an appetite, and the koliva smelled delicious, a meal truly worthy of a queen.

Like every woman there, she stood in line to receive her small portion of the dish, sprinkled with sesame and poppy seed and served in an earthen bowl painted black.

Few meals are more delicious than boiled wheat. It is the perfect food, and it had nourished and helped civilizations thrive since the dawn of time.

The hearty meal, sweetened with honey and helped along by the poppy seeds, made her drowsy, and she fell into a deep sleep meant to restore her strength and get her ready for the second day of the feast.

Thank you for reading.

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