The Nymphs of Vermont

The landscape of ancient Greece teemed with nymphs, the protective spirits that dwelt in particular places.  Glens, pastures, meadows, valleys, mountains and grottoes each had their own nymph species.  There were salt-water nymphs--oceanids--of which the Mediterranean contained a subspecies, the nereids.  Fresh-water nymphs, naiads, were classified according to whether they inhabited a river, a spring, a fountain, a lake or a swamp.  And there were nymphs of trees and plants, nymphs of the sky and nymphs of the underworld.

If Nature filled Greece with nymphs, who's to say She didn't put some in Vermont as well?  When I walk outside with the dogs they certainly appear alert to what are to me invisible presences.  Surely the hill on which our house sits has its own oread, or mountain nymph, and the front field its auloniad, or pasture nymph.  The woods behind the house must be alive with dryads--tree nymphs-- and I hope there is a watchful meliad in the big ash tree, keeping the deadly ash borer at bay.

 I never thought about the swamp at the bottom of the woods as anything but a nuisance--the dogs love to wade in it and get muddy--until I realized that it is home to a naiad, specifically an eleinomad, or wetlands nymph, put there to take care of the frogs and turtles and salamanders.

How to explain the disproportionately large crops I've been getting from my young trees other than that there must be a pretty good epimeliad, or apple nymph, floating around their branches?  I should put out an offering--wine?  milk?  maple syrup?--to thank her, and also some for the syke, or fig-tree nymph, to make sure my tiny potted tree survives the cold.

I wonder what happens to the anthousai, the flower nymphs, in this weather?  They must all be deep  underground by now, although seeing how exuberantly the geraniums and the rosemary burst into bloom when I brought them indoors, there may well be an anthousa spending the winter in the sun porch.

May the nymphs of yam and cranberry dance on your Thanksgiving table, and may you be filled with gratitude.

Burnt Offerings

I have been ireading Mary Renault's retelling of the Theseus legend, The King Must Die and The Bull From The Sea.  I am not a classicist of either the historical or literary kind, but I'm enjoying these books a lot.  For one thing, it's fun meeting again, in different circumstances, characters I remember from 16th and 17th French literature (that girl, Ariadne's little sister, must be Phaedra, Theseus's future wife, who is going to fall in love with her stepson...).Also, Renault weaves the light, the smells, the landscape, the flora and fauna so tightly into her story, that there is never that moment when you know you're in for an injection of "local color," as happens with many historical novels.

I am struck by the interactive quality of the human characters' relationship with the gods. Like a college student texting his parents at the drop of a hat, Theseus constantly begs favors of Neptune, asks his advice, complains that he is being badly treated.  And he knows how to get on the god's good side, something he and his fellow Hellenes do by offering sacrifices. 

The sacrifices are of living beings, and the best ones are highly valued living beings.  If a Hellene was feeling guilty, he might kill a chicken--or if he was very guilty, a goat--and feel much better.  If he was grateful for a military victory, a bull would be the thing to slaughter.  To save the harvest he might offer a favorite wolfhound, or the best stallion of the herd.  For luck in battle, a virgin princess.  And just on general principles, some tribes annually sacrificed their king.

As our drought persists, and no rain is forecast, I realize that to the Ancients this situation would have had an obvious answer:  I should sacrifice something--rather, someone--to appease the gods and save my garden.  If I were a 4th century BCE Hellene, I would be looking around right now, thinking, a hen?  Maybe one of the older ones that aren't laying much?  But the gods would turn up their noses at that.  They know a spent layer when they see one.

For the Olympians, a chicken is small change.  If I really want rain, I should get serious.  So, who else is there?  Other than my husband (who should be saved for something like a Martian invasion, in which case I'd sacrifice myself right along with him), that leaves the dogs.  Which one could I stand to part with, and most importantly, which one would appease the gods, and bring rain?  Would Lexi be too old, or would she please the Goddess in her Crone aspect?  Artemis, I know, would like swift-footed Wolfie, but Bisou would have to go to Aphrodite (not that I would trust Aphrodite to remember to send rain).

Where am I going with this, besides getting myself upset?  I am not a 4th century BCE Hellene.  I am not sacrificing my dogs.  And if the garden fails, there is always the supermarket. 

Even so, I do envy those old Hellenes their familiar day-to-day relationship with the gods.  How nice to have somebody who would send you signs, who would get angry but then forgive you, and whom you could ask for stuff.  Somebody to give you permission to go into battle with  no second thoughts ("If God be with us," as another tribe put it, "who can be against us?").

Yes, I know, it's dangerous, listening to gods.  That's why we don't listen to them anymore.  Now instead we listen to Reason, that other dicey voice.  But at least I get to keep my dogs.