your help is beautiful
Thank you all so very much! I've learned a lot - not just about spinning and voles and Greece, but even about how to set up my questions a bit more clearly. I will know for next time, and am sure to come to you again; I've enjoyed this! Meanwhile, here's a slightly longer chunk of the story, as lagniappe. (And it's not even a Spoiler! I hope the editor takes it - I'll let you know when/where it will eventually, I hope, be published.)
As I sat spinning under the great tree in the courtyard, in he walked, grandfather’s old friend, grey and gnarled as the staff he stretches before him to find his way.
The seer Tiresias.
I flung myself at his feet, kneeling in supplication, clutching the hem of his robe. I would not rise, but made the old seer bend down to hear my whispered plea: “Prophet, blinded by the gods for what you saw - I beg you, tell me your secret of your transformation!”
“Rise,” he said, “and sit with me. Does the daughter of the house of Cadmus wish to become a prophet? Or blind, or old? Those last two may be easily achieved, given enough years and patience.”
“I don’t have years!”
“Nor patience, neither, it would seem.”
I picked up my spindle, and put it down. But then, I placed it in his hands. “Remember this?” I said. “Remember when you wore a woman’s body as your own?”
I had always doubted the tale. Tiresias is so dry, so unlovely, so gnarled and hairy and male. But when he took the spindle from me, he naturally kept the tension and the twist with a sureness no man’s hands could ever know.
“It’s true,” I marveled. “You were a woman seven years, before you came again to your manhood.”
As I sat spinning under the great tree in the courtyard, in he walked, grandfather’s old friend, grey and gnarled as the staff he stretches before him to find his way.
The seer Tiresias.
I flung myself at his feet, kneeling in supplication, clutching the hem of his robe. I would not rise, but made the old seer bend down to hear my whispered plea: “Prophet, blinded by the gods for what you saw - I beg you, tell me your secret of your transformation!”
“Rise,” he said, “and sit with me. Does the daughter of the house of Cadmus wish to become a prophet? Or blind, or old? Those last two may be easily achieved, given enough years and patience.”
“I don’t have years!”
“Nor patience, neither, it would seem.”
I picked up my spindle, and put it down. But then, I placed it in his hands. “Remember this?” I said. “Remember when you wore a woman’s body as your own?”
I had always doubted the tale. Tiresias is so dry, so unlovely, so gnarled and hairy and male. But when he took the spindle from me, he naturally kept the tension and the twist with a sureness no man’s hands could ever know.
“It’s true,” I marveled. “You were a woman seven years, before you came again to your manhood.”