Of mortal creatures, all that breathe and move,
Earth bears none frailer than mankind.
—HOMER
SO WE LIVE ON this small sunny island with the centaurs and amazons. Chiron wants to call our island Centaurcadia and Praxinoa wants to call it Amazonia—but otherwise they have no quarrel. Unable to decide on a name, we call the island nothing, which keeps people away. Apparently, if you are nameless, no one wants to visit you. We like this very much.
Alcaeus and I have mended our love. Aesop is our dearest friend and lives with us in perfect harmony. Prax rules the amazons justly and wisely, sharing her power equally with Chiron. We live in peace, make songs and fables, and cultivate our gardens. We grow grapes and olives here and catch fish from the rich seas and make cheese with the milk of our goats. We lack for nothing. Nothing is missing in our lives. Except. Except…
Alcaeus knows Cleis is his daughter and that he has a grandson named Hector. He learned that in Delphi from the oracle. Apparently the oracle appears as each one imagines her. Was my oracle really Aphrodite in disguise? Alcaeus and I discuss this often and can never decide. Alcaeus longs to see his grandson.
But I say, “Do not go to Lesbos. Home is no longer where you think it is and life is happier here among our friends.” Sometimes Alcaeus frets and will not be comforted. Then I take him in my arms, saying, “You and I are true kin. Children must have their own lives. When they are ready, they will come to us.”
One day in summer, we are walking on the strand of our green island and we see a sail in the distance. Nobody ever comes to visit us—so Alcaeus and I are fascinated. We watch the sail as it comes closer and closer. When the ship is almost at our strand, a ferryman leaps out and tows it closer. He looks for a place to beach.
“Not here!” I scream. “The rocks are lethal! You will tear your hull!”
“Then swim to us!” shouts the ferryman.
“Who are you?” Alcaeus bellows. But the wind carries away his words.
For a while, the little boat bobs with nobody on deck.
“Shall we swim to it?” I ask Alcaeus.
“How do you know he is friend, not foe?” he asks.
“I don’t, and yet I think he comes in peace.”
“Then I’ll swim out, Sappho. You stay here.”
My heart stops.
“I cannot bear to lose you again!” I tell Alcaeus. But before I can stop him, he leaps into the water like a dolphin and swims like mad to the unknown sailboat.
I see him pull himself aboard. I see the ferryman help him. I see a beautiful golden-haired woman come on deck with a golden child in her arms. I see a brave boy at her side who can only be my own Hector!
My heart! My heart!
I leap into the water and swim to the boat.
“Grandmother!” Hector cries.
Alcaeus is on deck, weeping tears of joy.
“I’ve come to introduce you to my daughter, Mother.”
On her hip is a child of six months. She gurgles at me happily.
“I have named her Sappho after you!” Cleis says. “There is so much to say to you, Mother.”
Dripping wet, I take my dry granddaughter in my arms. I think I have never felt anything so tender before, greener than grass, so newly made, so blessed. I see the light of the sun in my daughter’s eyes, the same sun that sparkles on the sea and spreads to the distant horizon.
“In truth nothing more needs to be said,” I say.