Death is an evil,
Otherwise the gods
Would die.
—SAPPHO
WOULD LEAPING REALLY CURE hopeless love? So the legend went. I stopped on the isle of Leucas to see the fabled great white rock, which I had never beheld with my own eyes. I knew only the myths that swirled about it like mist on Mount Olympus. Some said in ancient times prisoners were hurled from the rock to purge the island of evil. Those who perished were presumed to be guilty. Those who survived were pardoned. Later, in the curious way legends are transformed, the place became a lovers’ leap. I had always dreamed of seeing it. But equally I feared it.
The cliff was prodigious. One sheer side of naked rock beetled over the sea. The rock seemed jaggedly torn and the wind howled around it. I planned to visit the shrine of Apollo on the promontory, then continue on to Delphi, where my old bones knew that Alcaeus would be waiting for me. And if he was not? Then I would do whatever I would do. I refused to fret about it. My life was in Aphrodite’s soft hands.
As usual, nothing worked out as I had planned. The ship on which I had sailed from Lesbos waited for another cargo, which was late making the crossing from Naucratis. So I remained on the isle of Leucas far longer than I would have wished, but I kept postponing my visit to the shrine of Apollo on the cliff.
It was good to be in Leucas on my own. Everywhere I went, people sang my songs to me with great emotion. I came to realize that though I was no prophet in my own land, I was beloved all over the rest of the Greek-speaking world—which was, of course, the only world that mattered.
Women came to me weeping. They told me that “gold flower” had made them love their daughters more. Men came to me and said that my songs of passion had won them love time and time again.
So I had not been forgotten—except on my native isle! I was born to be an exile. Lesbos made me, but Lesbos was no longer my home. The world was.
I stayed in Leucas, waiting for the boat to Delphi—delayed and yet again delayed. While I waited, I was asked to sing at many symposia—and I did so, performing all my old favorites. The audiences loved me and my spirit soared.
I could stay in Leucas, I thought, if it were not for my longing for Alcaeus.
After I had been in Leucas several weeks, I finally found the courage to visit the famed shrine to Apollo on the jagged cliff.
Climbing alone in a whipping wind, my whole life passing before me, my thoughts begin to darken. What if I get to Delphi and, as before, Alcaeus has already left? What if the dream of Alcaeus is as vain as in times past? What if Artemisia’s tale of Alcaeus, Prax, and Aesop traveling with Chiron to see the Oracle of Delphi is not even true? What if I am doomed to have my hopes dashed yet again? I cannot bear it! To lose him once, twice, was bad enough, but the third time will surely kill me.
Up. Up. Up. I climb and climb. Seeing the bleached white bones of small creatures makes me mutter under my breath, May the gods bless the souls of the animals. My golden sandals skitter on the white pebbles. Crawling up the mountain, I seem to be in an endless nightmare. Sometimes I stumble forward and skin my knees and palms.
Below me the sea boils as in a cauldron. Above me the winds shriek like furies. I strain to see Alcaeus in the mist that rises from the rough landmass above the wine-dark sea. I think of all the great singers before me who have sung and died. Homer was not spared by the gods, though his words were. What is the use of life after all? It is a litany of disappointments and regrets. Love cannot stay. Life cannot stay. Better to die than linger on, an old woman at the mercy of her daughter. I remember the chest in which I have carefully stored my papyri in my family’s house in Eresus.
“Guard this treasure with your lives,” I had told my caretakers. “When he is grown to manhood, see that Hector gets these papyrus rolls. He will understand his grandmother. He always did.”
Perhaps, when I reach the top, I will test the legend of Leucas. I do not believe I have planned this, but visions of jumping crowd into my spinning brain. As I look down the mountain, I see little boats bobbing below. Lovers would leap to get over unrequited loves as their friends waited below to pull them out of the drink alive or dead. Some leapers surely died upon impact with the water. But many survived, to be rescued. It was all in the hands of the gods. Perhaps I should make my obeisance to Aphrodite and jump. If I were meant to, I would live. And if I were meant to die—so be it!
Now, at the cliff’s white top, I look down. My knees want to buckle under me. My breath grows short. I flirt with the edge. Lean over, lean back, lean over, lean back—imagine myself donning wings like Icarus and flying over the foam. Balanced between life and death, I teeter, imagining the icy waters of Hades’ realm licking my toes. I tease the gods and myself by thrusting myself over the edge and then suddenly pulling back. I think I am in control, taunting the immortals. But this time I lean too far. And then, without entirely meaning to, I stumble forward and I fall.
The fall seems to take forever. As I fall, I call out to Cleis and Hector. I see a vision of a granddaughter whom I will never hold. I think of Alcaeus in all his youthful beauty and I reach out to him. I think of my mother and how much I loved her. I think of my warrior father, whom I will soon see again in the Land of the Dead. I think of my grandparents—and then the fury of the water rushes up to greet me.
Down, down, down I plunge into the sea. The brine fills my nose and eyes. My chiton grows heavy and drags me down. My golden sandals float away. Am I dead or soon to be dead? Is death Poseidon’s realm or is it Gaia’s? Am I to plunge forever? Will I drown in the sea or ascend through clouds? Will I find myself in Hades’ realm with all those shades who feel nothing and long for the deliverance of touch?
After a long breathless while, I rise up to the silver surface of the water. I see above me the bottom of a little bark. Coming up into the rippling light, I gasp and fill my lungs with sweet sea air. I swim into the sun.
Leaning over the edge of a little boat are three familiar faces: Alcaeus, Praxinoa, and Aesop.
“Thank the gods who bring us together again!” Alcaeus cries.
“Blessed be Aphrodite!” shouts Prax.
“My heart nearly broke when I saw you leap!” shouts Aesop.
Half drowned but keenly conscious, I draw the air into my aching lungs. Utterly naked, dripping with seawater, I climb into the boat with my three true kin.