After Theseus leaves
What kind of madness can you call it that led Ariadne to this island? Wisps of it still hang like gossamer in the air around her. She tries to remember, but like a dream her memories unravel when she attempts to catch their threads. She’s sitting on the shingle, letting the sea come in around her feet, the receding tide pulls at her toes and leaves a salty residue ring on her skin.

The first time she sat on this beach Theseus found a wide stone for her so that she would be comfortable. That was last night when the Athenians sat around the fire, shivering in the nervous camaraderie of new refugees. Now Ariadne’s unaware of the sharp stones and pieces of shell that wear through her woollen dress as she slouches, knees up and head lolled onto her crossed arms, staring out at the ship-less horizon. The setting sun fills the sky with blood as it sinks into the sea.

The blood in the sky is her brother’s blood, and the thought makes her retch. Last night Ariadne could still smell him on Theseus’ hands as the hero danced with her in the forest near the sea. The Athenians used handclaps and stamped their feet to make a rhythm. They sang old songs whose words Ariadne didn’t understand, but they made her cry anyway.

The tide is licking around her ankles. The hem of Ariadne’s dress gets heavier with a weight of sea salt seeping into it. Theseus killed her brother. A dread spreads from the pins and needles in her feet up into the dark places of her heart. She helped Theseus do it. Theseus who has now left her, alone on this island. A bloodless sacrifice to her own guilt. She would have to tear at her own throat. She would have build a pyre, and to climb onto it. There were no priestesses here to prepare her to be sacrificed, as she’d prepared many others back at home. Would she be turned away from the next world, a murderess, a collaborator, a betrayer of her family?

Ariadne tries to grab at the threads of memory that taunt around her head. What feels so abhorrent to her now felt so natural then. When Theseus asked her for a sword she found one for him. The ball of yarn was her idea, so that he could find his way back when he was done with her brother. It felt like a game – no, it didn’t – Ariadne tries to force the truth out of her own puzzle of excuses. She takes a broken shell from the beach and scratches at her arm with it. She is a priestess back home and she is competent at drawing blood. She draws blood now, from herself, and she watches it crawl down her arm and drip into the rising waters.

Ariadne tries to make herself feel again that pulsing, that rushing, that running in her head that she felt in those last days at Crete. What she feels now is stillness, deadness, a falling in her heart. And a growing urge to go home. Her home: where the parts of her brother’s body will by now have been found, except for his head which is returning to Athens with the hero Theseus.

The sun is set. The night is rising. Ariadne is alone on a beach far from home.

Drinking milk
The people of Crete, called Minoans, come with eyes half closed to offer tribute the the king and the beast. Ariadne watches the pilgrims of obligation carry out their obeisances from behind a screen. She sees them pour out the milk, drawn from their skinny fly-bitten goats, into the deep dish set into the floor. The girls that attend the altar say some words to each person who comes with offering. Ariadne’s father, the king, does not come to watch these necessary rites. They are tedious to him, even as they keep the yoke of obedience on the necks of his people.

When the evening darkness draws a veil over the light entering the temple, the altargirls draw a woollen curtain across the door. They leave the room to fetch the jugs in which they will transport the milk to the palace. This is when Ariadne comes out from behind the screen. Kneeling like a cat, with her chin almost to the floor, she laps at the milk in the dish.

Theseus leaves the island
None of the refugees can sleep. The sound of the sea is too loud. It is insistent and pulls at them. One of them, a boy with a recently shaven head, says, “can you hear it? It is saying ‘Athens, Athens’”.

Another boy, who has sores on his cheek, says, “It is our home calling to us brothers.”

Ariadne’s attention is slipping. In the fire-light she can barely distinguish between the few young boys sitting around in a circle. Their heads were all shaven, by her, to prepare them to be offered to her brother. She can only tell them apart by their patterns of sores and scars. Ariadne is the only woman in the group. This made her feel wild when they were still in Crete, and at sea. Now, on this unremarkable island, she feels little.

Theseus plays with the ball of yarn in his lap. It led him back out of the maze. It was grey-white when Ariadne gave it to him, pure undyed wool. Now it is covered in gore, dark and lumpy in the fire-light.

“It’s time to go home brothers,” Theseus says, standing, “the Gods are speaking to us from the waves. We will not wait until morning.”

The boys shout their loyalty and agreement. They rise and walk away from the fire to the boats. Ariadne remains seated, waiting for Theseus to lift her up and carry her, as he carried her away from home. He is already walking away, becoming covered by darkness until she can’t see him any longer. She doesn’t call after him. She is sure that he will return,

Priestess duties
Ariadne knows that her father has plans for her. King Minos always speaks about her as if she is already married, not as a virgin girl or his child. Even when she was little and the king would dandle her on his knee he referred to her as ‘Lady Ariadne’, ‘Queen Ariadne’. Never ‘my blessed daughter’ or ‘my child’ as her mother would say. Ariadne wore this knowledge, that her future was already written, on her shoulders like a cloak. She wore the promise of her own greatness as a crown on her head. This wasn’t a burden; her chin was always lifted.

Now Ariadne thinks, ‘I am great and I can write my own future,’ as she shaves the heads of the young Athenians that will be offered in sacrifice to her bull brother. ‘I can remove my crown for a while.’

She runs her hand over the head of the young Athenian tied in front of her. As she shaves him she notices the regal curve of his skull. ‘This is a head made for a crown,’ she thinks. ‘What a waste to send him to my brother.’ And she thinks again, ‘I am great and I can write my own future.’