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THE ALLEYNIAN 709
CREATIVE WRITING
The Fortunes of Innocence
Abel Banfield (Year 11)
ARTWORK — QUENTIN MYERS (YEAR 10)
Swan-like Helen, Divine Helen, Helen of Zeus, Helen of Leda, Helen of Sparta, Helen of Troy. And I don’t know which of those names I would call myself. Would you? I lived in Athens with old Aethra, and with bragging Theseus: the copper hero. I lived in Sparta with Menelaus, the mighty and the weak. Then of course, I lived in Troy, with vain Paris, noble Hector, brave Andromache and loyal, loving Astyanassa. Then I lived in Sparta again. I was a runner, a hunter, a wrestler and a fool. I was the symbol, the object, the reason and the driving force for the war of Troy. I was a friend to some, an idol for others, an enemy to most. I spoke with the great Odysseus and Diomedes, Briseis, Priam, Hector, Andromache, Great Ajax and Small Ajax. And I still rarely thought any of them knew or understood me: Briseis had seen too much, Andromache had died too many times, Odysseus had lied too many times. I was a weaver and a singer. I made the war of Troy and then ripped it between my fingers. I wrote and sang of those I found, those I lost and those I found again. I was a prize and a curse. I was a tool of power for the Olympians and their pious kings. I was Menelaus’ prize, Paris’s prize and then Menelaus’ again.
Born of a swan’s egg, child of Leda, child of Zeus. Sister to Clytemnestra who never managed to sort herself out. Sister to Castor and Pollux, the twins. Two of the most honourable and respectable men of their time. There weren’t many. Maybe Hector, with his cragged, walnut face. Priam, the old man with the kind, dying eyes and the soothing voice. Possibly Diomedes, it depends on what type of person you are and what mood he’s in: competitive, mercenary, fiercely amusing, even violently so. Daring the others around him to make him laugh. Too many were corrupt, crude and cruel. Too many spoke with one face and spat with the other. Too many were lost in a war of waste. There was plenty of talk about the great hero. His reputation preceded him, carried in the air ahead of him. We first met after he had spoken to Tyndareus. We met by the river bed, under the trees which lined it, the other bank looking up to the olive terraces. ‘I’m Theseus,’ he said suddenly. I turned – too quickly – and saw him. His eyes were the first thing I noticed. Freckled and a far away blue, as if he could see straight through me. Then, moving up his face, his copper hair, edging along his forehead.
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