Her Other Name

Two hundred metres in, where the water doesn't stop, somebody held a light close and scratched a line for the Lady.

Not through a priest. Some of the vows, the readers think, were cut by the women who made them, nothing between the hand and the wall.

At La Griega, a hundred and seven inscriptions and one woman's name. Here, women's names, five vows to one Domina in one room, and spindle whorls set down in the shallow pools on the floor, the thread tool left in the one thing that keeps running.

The marks are too faint now for an eye. A camera lifts them.

What comes up clear is the women, in their own hand. What won't come yet is her other name, the one that may be water. They're still reading.