Electra. Kerry Greenwood

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       Until the light fails,

       Pallas is weaving.

       While the sun lasts,

       Pallas is working,

       Weaving a fine cloth

       For her brother,

       A fine red cloth

       For a healer's gown.

       While the light lasts,

       Pallas is weaving.

       While the rain falls,

       Pallas is working,

       Weaving a fine cloth

       For her little sister,

       A thick warm cloth

       For a baby's gown.

       While the sun shines,

       Pallas is weaving.

       While the wind blows,

       Pallas is working.

       Weaving a fine cloth

       For her grandfather,

       A double woven cloak

       To warm his bones.

       While the sun shines,

       Pallas is weaving.

       Until the dark comes,

       Pallas is working,

       Weaving a fine cloth

       For her lady mother,

       A purple brocade

       For mistress's gown.

      I heard Cassandra's quiet voice cease. She was listening, although it was just a work song, such as women and slaves sing to while away the weary days and regulate the work of their hands. It is the work of women's hands which clothes and feeds the world. Clea's injury, if it proved permanent, would lower her value to that of a water-carrier, indifferently fed, unsaleable, despised.

      The cloth grew under my hands. I stopped to rewind my shuttle - if the wool was of Clea's spinning then she was an excellent spinner - and resumed my song.

       Until the light fails,

       Pallas is weaving.

       When the snow comes,

       Pallas is working,

       Weaving a fine cloth

       For her bridal,

       A red gauze veil

       For Pallas the bride.

      I wove and sang my way through all of Pallas's relatives, refilling the shuttle as the cloth grew. I sang of her brother, the soldier, and her uncle, the potter, and her friend, the maiden; and then the verse describing the making of the ceremonial cloth which we weave every spring for Persephone, Kore, the Maiden, for the festival which celebrates her return from the underworld.

       Until the light fails,

       Pallas is weaving.

       While the wind howls,

       Pallas is working.

       Weaving a spring cloth,

       A cobweb tracery,

       A sacred offering

      For Demeter's child.

      I rolled up the completed cloth, re-hung the loom, and tied off my ends. Clea was gazing at me as though I had done something miraculous. Her cruel mistress would get a surprise in the morning.

      And it was morning. Birds were singing outside and a cool light was bleaching my little oil lamp's flame. I had stood and woven all night. As I stretched, taking the stiffness out of my back, I saw that all the people in the room, even sleepy Eumides, were smiling at me, and I blushed.

      Then I said to the Healer, 'How can we save Clea?' and Cassandra smiled and said, 'I think we shall have another miracle.'