Summary

A young girl named Rigopoula, inspired by Greek mythology, shears her pet ram Achilles, leading to a humorous and dramatic family interaction that echoes the themes of war and conflict from the ancient tales she idolizes.

Abstract

In a whimsical and poignant narrative, Rigopoula, a child with a vivid imagination, decides to shear her pet ram, whom she's named Achilles. The act is symbolic, reflecting her fascination with Greek mythology and the stories of the Trojan War. The story unfolds as she leads Achilles through her village, encountering resistance from the ram, and eventually presents him to her father. The revelation of the shearing, particularly the accidental removal of Achilles' "heel," prompts a mix of reactions from her family, with her father initially aghast and her grandfather amused. Rigopoula's playful references to Greek heroes and her declaration of playing Patroclus reveal her imaginative engagement with the myths. The tale ends with a touching dedication to the author's father, hinting at a deeper connection between the mythological play and the author's real-life relationship with her father.

Opinions

Rigopoula's father is initially shocked and dismayed by his daughter's actions, suggesting a concern for propriety and perhaps a lack of understanding of her imaginative world.
The grandfather's laughter indicates a more lighthearted and accepting attitude towards the child's antics, appreciating the humor and innocence of the situation.
Rigopoula's perspective is one of creative exploration, as she fearlessly draws parallels between her life and the grand narratives of Greek mythology, demonstrating a bold and uninhibited imagination.
The father's question about Clytemnestra and the daughter's retort about not having a Trojan Horse imply a playful banter between them, underscoring a loving and teasing family dynamic.
The final dedication to the author's father suggests that the story is not just a childhood anecdote but also a tribute to the author's father, celebrating his memory and the impact he had on her storytelling and imagination.

Image courtesy of the author; My Father.

The War

I had fastened the ram with a rope — tightly around the leather strap of his bell (tsambali) and led him through the cobbled paths of my village straight to our front door.

Along the way he’d given me some trouble, he threw his head back resisting the pull of my lilliputian arms, his bell ringing in an eratic falsetto off of the white washed pristineness of the homes that littered the way.

“Stop it, you’re a surprise, I don’t want anyone to hear us”, I whisper to him in confidence as he rolls his Pan like eyes to the back of his stubborn head, most likely in affront.

He raises his front hooves and slicing them through the air he bucks me with his horns, knocking me backwards onto the ground.

He was a warrior, I had named him Achilles, — I held onto the rope with all my strength as I scampered to my feet dragging him along. He played docile and followed me along — dejected.

I reached the front gate to my home and call excitedly out, “Patera, Patera (father, father), come see what I’ve done”.

My father was seated, having his midday coffee on our veranda with my grandfather, he rises from his seat and heads towards me, down the steps that led into our courtyard.

“Omg, Rigopoula, what have you done”!, my father aghast say’s in an agonized whisper.

HUH, OH!

“I’ve shorn Achilles”, I replied warily, looking from father’s shocked countenance to Achilles standing forlornly beside me, why was he sad I pondered?

“Omg, it seems you’ve shorn off his heel, more like”, father say’s as he descends the final steps, unwinding the rope that tethered Achilles to my little hands — taking him from me.

“He has three more”, I reply, holding up my four pudgy fingers in the air, as I fold each away, counting them off, “ena, dio, tria — see father”.

Grandfather, is laughing as he watches us from the veranda in contrast to my father’s thunderous expressions, I furrow my nose at him, he smiles wider.

I stare from one to the other perplexed.

“You should have shorn Agamemnon”, father say’s beaneth his breath as he circles Achilles, taking in my handiwork.

“Hmmm, I used the scissors — I should have cut Helen’s throat, then we’d not have had the Trojan War but don’t worry father, I’ll play Patroclus in the meantime”, I say thoughtfully.

“Do we even have a Helen?, there is no war RIGOPOULA!, father sighs in frustration.

Party-pooper!

“No, we don’t but there will be war when Clymnestra finds out you’re setting the stage —

Father, cuts me off midsentence, “who is Clymnestra”

“Agamemnon’s wife, uffff”’,

“Do you have a Trojan Horse”

“Yes, but I couldn’t pull his rope along with Achilles”.

Father, launched into a thousand epithets, in rapid staccato, causing the winds around me to permeate — with rumours of war. I jotted to memory every word — for future reference.

“Why did you do this, child?

“Are you playing silly, father — because I could — all for the cause”

Achilles bey’s, grandfather is slaps his knee and father stares at me, through me as he yells out,

“Hera, come see what your daughter has done”.

“Hera’s daughter, ufff?, I came out of your head”

“Well, you are a headache”, father pierces me with his magnetic blue eyes.

“O my, I apologize father, for what I’ve done — is Aphrodite somewhere in the mix?”

“No, but Athena is”

“Oooops, I know”,

I swallow nervously, I’d just caused another war.

There I was Iphgenia, all innocence.

And, I wasn’t even ten years old.

In Loving Memory of My Father, on the anniversary of his passing — June 1, 2015.