In the early spring six good ships rode at anchor in the harbour of Kirrha. They were the small craft of that day. Hardy the folk who would put to sea in them.
In Delphi the good-byes were earnest and tearful. Many were the anxious sacrifices paid for the safe voyaging, many the omens taken, peering into the future. It is said that in those days more than a third of all navigation went to the bottom. It was a far journey. The smallness and slowness of the craft multiplied the distance a hundred-fold.
At last one bright spring morning Eëtíon and Theria, hand in hand, and the little band of colonists following them, started down the hill road toward Kirrha. Melantho could not bring herself to go to the port, could not bear to see her daughter actually lose herself upon the sea. But Nikander walked wordless beside his daughter.
Here was Theria’s first viewing of the sea, a small stretch of intense blue far on the horizon between the hills. In the journey down from Delphi the dreamy hills unfold and stand aside in delicate succession until all the violet Gulf of Corinth is open to the view. Eëtíon quietly put aside Theria’s veil as the first glimpse of it opened.
“The sea!” he said with that love in his voice that every Greek understood.
The little company passed slowly down the steep olive grove and came at last to the small port of Kirrha.
Ah, how impatient the bright ships pull at their anchors—birds impatient to be gone! Bright they are as birds in their plumage—red and peacock-blue. The grotesque prows dance as if alive. One prow is a boar, another a goose, another a huge bird, all dipping in the waves. At the hawse holes of each ship are two bright orange-coloured eyes—how else can they see their way across the misty deep? Four are merchant vessels, the so-called “round ships,” built for cargo and for steady going. These have a single oblong sail and eight or ten long sweeps to help the windless days or days of contrary winds.
The other two ships are triremes, necessary for defense in those western waters where pirates are to be dealt with. These long narrow ships, with three tiers of oars either side and a sharp beak, are built for war. Indeed, one of them has fought in the battle of Salamis, an actual helper in the freedom of Greece and well-nigh sacred. Theria, Eëtíon, and their kinsfolk are to go in her.
Nikander kisses his daughter and weeps like a child now in this last moment of good-bye. Theria clings to him in the sharpest sorrow she has ever known.
With laughter and tears the colonists set forth in tiny rowboats and climb aboard. Theria as œkist, a figure of white fluttering garments, standing on the deck of her ship, lights the incense upon the little altar there. The oarmasters lift their hands as one would start a chorus, the flute player begins to play a wild, rhythmic tune. Now a shout! and the three tiers of oars either side the ship lift—grating, groaning, creaking—a mighty noise. Then all together, like huge powerful wings, they smite down upon the water which whitens into spray.
Forth springs the trireme like a hound, half lost in its own glittering spume. Up go the yellow sails of the round boats. A cry of love and longing goes up from the dear ones ashore, and the colonists are off!
All that day the little fleet coasted along the Gulf of Corinth, one of the most picturesque inland waters in the world. At night they drew up their ships upon the shore and slept under the stars. Sunrise saw them off again, the round boats using their long sweeps in that still, golden hour.
All the way, as was the Greek fashion, they hugged the shore along Ætolia, Akarnania, Epeiros, keeping within the islands for safety, arriving at Corcyra, that western outlook-isle of Greece, the fourth day.
From Corcyra they made the bold voyage across the Ionian Sea to Italy.
Theria’s mind, so cultivated yet unspoiled, so educated yet starved, viewed all things with an eagerness usual to a child of seven. Partly her cloistering had done this, partly it was a racial characteristic. The Hellene was always young, and in this the Nikander family were true Hellenes.
Day after day she stood at the prow, never tiring of the broad and changing sea, of the islands, white peaked or lying like brazen shields on the glancing deep, of the dolphins that played about the ship—symbols of her god—of the rise of the moon like a full-opened lonely flower above the waste of waters. She asked questions of Eëtíon constantly like a child, and who so glad as he to answer? Eëtíon was her Odysseus who knew all the wonders of travel, its dangers and its joys.
In the Gulf of Tarentum they met storms which drove the fleet apart. One of the ships was lost and Theria wept for it as for close kindred. They reached Italy, coasted down to the point of it, sighted Sicily the great Isle of Snowy Peaks and came at evening, as is the wondrous way of ships, into the tiny bay of their desire.
It was Eëtíon and Theria who stepped down first from the galley and waded through the shallows to the shore. Together they stooped and kissed the alien land which was to become their own. In spite of all their cultivation, they were not farther from the soil than the hidden creatures of wood and field.
Then the ships were beached. What sound is so exquisite of far meaning as this grating of a glad prow upon new sands? The Greeks climbed the shore talking eagerly, laughing, looking about them as only new emigrants look, with hope of future generations in their eyes.
Karamanor and Agis, as priests of Apollo, builded an altar, scattered barley and poured wine, lighting the fire with the sacred flames which they had brought from Delphi and had carefully guarded all the voyage through. But this done, Theria made them hide their fire for fear of being seen. Their foe, alas, was no Sicilian, but the Greek town Catana which flourished farther up the coast. So they ate a frugal supper and wearily, thankfully, slept on the lonely sand.
Next morning, before sunrise, Theria awoke and spoke to Eëtíon.
“Come,” she whispered. “Let us go into the land and see what we may see.”
“We must leave Karamanor in charge,” answered Eëtíon. “They must not think us lost.”
This matter accomplished, they stole hand in hand out of the sleeping camp and up the overgrown paths toward the ruined town. The enemy had done his work well. The town was a pitiful sight. Greek, and ruined by Greeks.
They passed beyond the town into the upland meadows where carpets of anemones—purple, white, and pink—reminded them that here the maid Persephone had gathered flowers what time the dark steeds of Hades and his yet darker chariot came rattling down upon her. The place seemed utterly deserted. All distances were hid in mists. The dews and high grasses drenched them to the knees. Theria had to kirtle her dress as she had done in the glen at home. But with this freedom her spirit rose. She began to go more eagerly, leaping along the way, clapping her hands at each new stretch of bloom, breaking into snatches of old Delphic song. Eëtíon began almost to fear that she was too much a child, that no responsibility had really touched her.
“Ah, well,” he thought tenderly, “I can take the care. After all, her years are child years only.”
They began to climb the hills and into a brightening world. Now turning they could see the beach with its faint dark patch where was their camp. But the ships were hid in the little river which here emptied into the sea.
Full morning now. They came to a pleasant hill. It jutted out like a headland into a fertile, untilled vale. A forest of cypress and wild olive crowned the hill, and the shade received them with a sense of rest.
But Theria did not rest. She began to explore. And in a depression of the hillside she came upon a full flowing spring. With a hasty invocation she knelt to drink and as she did so, the birds flew up in flocks with a whir of wings.
Instantly she recalled the oracle which had been given to the Sicilian youth, Hyllos.
Rebuild your city upon a hill,
Where trees invite the birds.
“Eëtíon, Eëtíon,” she called, and as he and the slave came running:
“Oh, I have found the site of our city, truly, I think I have found it!”
Reverently they drank of the spring. How unbelievably sweet after the stale water of the ship.
“It tastes like our own Castalia water,” she said.
“Oh, Mistress, it is Castaly,” spoke the Delphic slave. “I’d know Castalia water anywhere. The dear nymph has come under the sea to greet us here.” And Theria believed him.
“Eëtíon, come, look! Is not the hill defensible from every side? Is not the plain near enough for tillage? You know so much better than I. Is it not better to be here hidden among the hills than down on the shore where the enemy will find us too soon?”
She was serious (no laughter now) and sharp as a hawk.
“Yes, yes,” said Eëtíon. Busily, carefully they searched the place.
Then they halted as if at some command.
The mist had been drawing off, and suddenly borne upon the clouds the glorious snowy crest of Ætna stood in the sky, its white steam floating from it as if it itself would float away into nothingness.
Then far below the rugged coast-line trembled into view and all the blue sea.
Theria closed her eyes at the pain of the too-great beauty.
“The gods have spoken,” said Eëtíon softly. “We will go back and tell our people. We have found the site of our city.”