The Locks of Elektra (Οι Κλειδώματα της Ηλέκτρας)

-From the Meletic Tales.

In a modest village nestled between the familiar hills of Arcadia and the murmuring cypress groves, there lived a young woman named Elektra. Her name, like the glow of the morning sun, was spoken with a mixture of admiration and envy. For Elektra bore a crown of amber-gold hair, as though Helios himself had kissed every strand perfected. Mothers would gesture to her as she passed, whispering to their daughters, 'There goes a girl of grace and promise,' whilst fathers nodded in approval, remarking on her poise and beauty.

Beneath her tranquil exterior lay a hidden flaw—a penchant for untruths. They were not wicked lies, nor crafted from sheer malice. Rather, they sprang from a desire to please, to embellish and to be admired by others. A compliment unearned, a tale slightly grander than reality, a truth reshaped to save face. Such things seemed harmless to her then. Who, after all, could fault a little glamour in a dull world? The world, governed by deeper laws, had its own way of teaching.

It began subtly. One morning, as Elektra brushed her hair before the silvered mirror gifted by her grandmother, she noticed a single strand of amber on the floor. At first, she thought little of it. Hair falls; that is the way of things.

As the days wore on, it happened again—and again. Always after a fib. A praise she hadn't earned. A story she had twisted. Each time, a lock of amber was found resting on her pillow, caught on her shawl, or drifting to the earth like a silent leaf in autumn. With each lie, her splendour diminished suddenly.

She confided in her closest friend, Penelope, a potter’s daughter with eyes like the calmest sea. Penelope listened with care, stirring the clay between her palms.

'Perhaps it's nothing more than the season, or a passing ailment', Elektra suggested, forcing an instant laugh.

Penelope shook her head gently. 'Perhaps it's not your body that's ill, but your soul that's uneasy. You must pay attention to when it happens'.

Thus, Elektra began to watch herself. With a tightening in her chest, she discovered that the hair only fell when she was untrue—when she exaggerated her kindness to a neighbour, when she pretended to know a thing she didn’t, or when she said ‘yes’ although her heart whispered ‘no.’

She grew anxious. The glances she once received in the agora turned to certain murmurs of concern. Her once radiant, amber hair began to thin visibly, and with it, her confidence waned in a noticeable manner.

One evening, unable to sleep, Elektra wandered the olive grove that bordered her home. The moon hung low, silvering the trees, and the wind sighed through the branches like an old soul remembering. She sat beneath a bent olive tree, the same she had climbed as a girl and wept alone.

'Why must this happen to me?' She cried aloud. 'I meant no harm. I only wanted to be liked, to be seen, to feel... worthy'.

Then a voice, soft as the night breeze, spoke—not from the trees, nor from the stars, but from within.

'Worthiness cannot be borrowed from illusion. It is built by truth'.

The words struck her like a calm thunder—deep, quiet, but shaking her very being. She did not know if it were echoes whispering, or merely her own soul waking at last, but something shifted.

From that day, Elektra made a vow. She began small. When asked if she had finished weaving the cloth for the market, she admitted she hadn’t. When a traveller mistook her for a noble’s daughter, she gently corrected him. When an admirer praised her eyes as ‘like fire opals’, she smiled but did not claim a poetry that was not hers.

At first, it was painful—like baring her skin to the cold wind. She feared people would turn away, that they loved the image more than the reality. Instead, something unexpected happened. They drew closer.

A young boy in the village, Eutropios, brought her figs and said, 'I like when you speak plainly. It makes me feel I can too'.

Old Maira, the widow who seldom smiled, clasped Elektra’s hands and said, 'You remind me of my sister. She was honest to a fault and loved fiercely'.

Even Penelope watching her, said one morning at the fountain, 'You’ve grown quieter, but brighter in your guise'.

Indeed, Elektra’s reflection changed. Although the lustre dulled in her hair, a new light appeared in her eyes—one that no mirror could steal. She began to speak not to impress, but to connect. She listened more, judged less. In time, the whispers around the village were not of her beauty, but of her sincerity. Of how one felt braver in her presence, but the tale does not end in quiet harmony—for every soul must pass through a crucible.

One market day, a nobleman from the distant city of Argos arrived. His cloak shimmered with threads of silver, and his words were dipped in honey. He watched Elektra from afar and, learning of her tale, grew intrigued.

'Come with me', he said after purchasing a vase from Penelope’s stall. 'You would thrive in the courts. Your story, your resolve—people love a tale of redemption. You could speak in halls of marble. You could be someone'.

Elektra hesitated. Part of her longed to go, to taste a world larger than her hills, yet another part warned her of danger hidden behind praise.

'What would I be, if not myself?' She asked him.

'You would be admired', he said smoothly, 'and known. Isn’t that what everyone wants?'

That night, she wandered once more to the olive grove. The moon, ever her confidant, bathed the land in gentle silver. She clutched a fallen lock in her palm—not freshly shed, but an old one she had kept, a reminder.

‘Admiration is fleeting, but self-respect... that is eternal', she uttered.

She did not leave with the nobleman. Nor did she become a court speaker or a symbol of reformation for noble eyes. Instead, she stayed, and slowly became a guide to others. Young girls came to her with their doubts, and boys with their pride. She taught not with scolding but with stories. When she laughed, which she often did, it was as if the whole grove joined in.

As the years passed, Elektra’s hair never regained its youthful fullness, but no more strands fell. Not one. The villagers began to say she had been blest by time, although she would always shake her head and say:

‘I was not blest—I was merely honest’.

One spring morning, a girl named Sirena—barely of age and bright-eyed—sat beside her beneath the old olive tree.

‘Is it true you lost your amber locks for every lie you spoke?'

‘It is true', Elektra said smiling.

‘You don’t regret it?’

Elektra reached up and ran her fingers through her short, silvery-amber hair. ‘No. What I lost was only illusion. What I gained was the truth. And truth, never fades'.

The wind passed gently over them, rustling the leaves in a hush of approval. Somewhere deeper in the grove, a nightingale sang, as though offering its agreement.

Elektra, now wise and calm, leaned back against the bark and whispered. ‘To be seen for who you truly are is the greatest beauty there is in life'.

Elektra’s wisdom grew like the myrtle in spring—quiet, steady, fragrant, but truth, as she had come to understand, was not a fixed destination. It lived and breathed within each moment. Every conversation, every decision and every thought was a fresh choice to be honest or to retreat into the shadows.

One summer, as the skies blistered with light and the fields grew golden with barley, a rumour reached the village. A merchant caravan had arrived in the neighbouring village, and with it, a woman who bore the same amber locks Elektra had once worn. The villagers gossiped as they ground grain and fetched water. Some said it was her lost sister. Others claimed it was a curse passed to another. Penelope ever watchful, urged Elektra to go see for herself.

‘I don’t seek my old hair, but I do seek the meaning behind such visible signs', Elektra said with a dry smile.

She journeyed to the neighbouring village, walking across the dusty hills with her staff and waterskin. The sun bore down, but the wind played kindly in her favour. Upon reaching the village, she found it bustling with colour—markets overflowing with pottery, figs and silks, and the scent of roasted lamb hanging like incense in the air.

At the centre of the crowd stood a performer. A young woman danced whilst reciting verses, her hair a waterfall of gold, glinting like precious coins. The crowd applauded her charm, her wit, and the way she made sorrow sound romantic.

After the crowd dispersed, Elektra approached the performer, who was wiping sweat from her brow.

‘You speak beautifully’, Elektra said.

‘Thank you’, the woman replied. ‘Are you a poetess too?’

‘No. But I’ve known stories. Especially the kind that make us forget who we are'.

The performer tilted her head, intrigued. ‘Do you believe all stories deceive?’

‘No. Only the ones we tell to run from the truth', Elektra replied.

The young woman grew quiet and studied Elektra’s weathered face and greying locks. ‘I used to lie for survival. Then I began to lie for admiration. And now… I think I lie because I don’t know who I am without the performance’.

Elektra sat with her beneath a lemon tree. There, under the shade, they spoke for hours. The young woman’s name was Ianthe. She had fled her village after a dispute with her family and reinvented herself on the road. Her tales drew applause, but her nights were sleepless.

‘Each lie took something’, Ianthe whispered. ‘My hair, and something inside me. A silence I can’t touch'.

Elektra nodded, understanding. ‘The soul keeps the truest record. It is our virtues that lead us down the path of Meleticism'.

She shared her own journey—the mirror, the falling locks, the voice in the olive grove. Ianthe listened wide-eyed, and when the tale was finished, she took a long breath and said. 'Teach me, then. Not to tell stories, but to live one worth telling’.

Thus, Elektra did. She brought Ianthe back to Arcadia, where the young woman shed her costumes and took to the rhythms of honest work. She learnt to weave, to grow herbs and to speak gently. It was not easy. There were days when she faltered—when she slipped into a boast or withheld her truth out of fear, but each time, she would find Elektra waiting—not with judgement, but with presence.

‘Begin again’, Elektra would say.

Slowly, Ianthe transformed—not into a new person, but into herself. The villagers, too, came to respect her. Not for her flair, but for her humility. They began to call her ‘little light’, a name she wore with more pride than any title she’d claimed before in her life.

One crisp autumn, a gathering was held under the full moon. The village did this every year to honour transitions—births, marriages and the passing of seasons. This year, they asked Elektra to speak before the audience who had gathered to listen.

She stood beneath the olive tree, her voice calm as the wind: ‘We live in a world that often rewards illusion. That praises the sheen over the soul, but illusion costs more than we realise—it takes from our sense of self, our peace and our ability to stand still in the silence without shame. I lost my locks not because I was evil, but because I was afraid to be seen without a mask. The truth is not a sword. It is a seed. When sown daily, gently and with care, it grows. Into peace. Into presence. Into a life that does not need applause to feel whole as a person. And so I say to you, live not to be admired. Live to be known—by yourself first. That is the path not only to wisdom, but to freedom’.

The villagers clapped, but more than that, they were moved. The kind of silence that followed her speech was not empty—it was full. Full of hearts opening.

After the gathering, children came and sat at her feet. They asked questions—not just about truth, but about To Ena, the One. They had heard whispers that Elektra’s transformation was due to her experiencing To Ena.

She answered carefully. ‘To Ena does not punish or reward like the old gods. The One reflects. It shows us who we are. When we are ready to see clearly, it stays with us as stillness in our awareness’,

One little girl raised her hand shyly. ‘How do I find the One?’

‘You don’t need to find the One’, Elektra replied. ‘You need only to become quiet enough to hear it. It speaks through your conscience. Through the feeling you get when you choose what is right, even if no one sees’.

The girl blinked thoughtfully. 'So it’s not a god?'

‘No’, Elektra said. ‘It’s the thread that ties your soul to all others. The whisper of truth behind every lie you regret. The warmth behind every kindness you offer. To Ena is not distant. It is already within you, without you knowing it'.

Thus, the seasons turned. Elektra, although aged now, walked with vigour in her path. She kept her grove tidy, her cottage open and her heart soft. Some villagers said she was a sage. Others said she was simply good. To her, such titles mattered little.

One winter, as frost gripped the land, Penelope fell ill. Elektra remained by her side through long nights, recounting stories and singing songs from their childhood. One morning, Penelope took Elektra’s hand and whispered to her, 'I used to envy your beauty, but I’ve come to envy your peace far more my friend'.

Tears came to Elektra’s eyes. ‘Then you know how precious it is’.

Penelope smiled faintly. ‘More than gold. More than youth. It is life'.

When her friend passed that spring, Elektra lit a single candle and placed it in the olive grove. She sat beside it through the night. Not mourning in despair, but remembering in fullness.

It was then she noticed something curious. A small, new sprout near the base of the old olive tree. Tiny, golden leaves with the faintest shimmer of amber. She touched it with reverence.

'Not a return, but a reminder', she murmured to herself.

The next day, she planted a sign beside it: Here truth once wept, and from it, a new life grew.

In time, Elektra's teachings spread beyond the village. Travellers came not for miracles, but for clarity. Some stayed. Some simply listened and went on their way changed in their perspectives.

The locks of Elektra became not just a mere tale, but a lived philosophy—a Meletic reminder that virtue begins when the soul is seen, accepted and lived truthfully. That no loss of surface beauty can compare to the gain of inner serenity, and that from every fallen lock, a truth might grow—if one only learns to listen than judge.

Years later, long after Elektra had passed peacefully beneath the same olive tree where she had wept and healed, her story remained more than a memory—it had become a mirror. Villagers still gathered in the grove, where the amber-sprouted sapling had grown into a modest tree with twisting branches and golden-tinged leaves. It was called The tree of returning truth.

Children would place small offerings beneath its boughs—fragments of poems, shards of broken pottery, or strands of yarn from unfinished weavings—tokens of their honesty, tokens of things they no longer feared to admit.

Ianthe, now in her elder years, took on the role Elektra once held. Her silver hair fell like light rain to her shoulders, and though her voice had softened with time, it still carried clarity. She often began her teachings not with declarations, but with questions.

‘What lie have you told yourself today?’ she would ask gently. ‘And what truth waits behind it, quietly hoping you will see it?’

Her students, both young and old, came not seeking fame or beauty, but understanding. Many had heard of Elektra’s hair that fell with lies, but now, more people came for what grew after the falling—for what was gained, not what was lost.

One traveller, a philosopher from Sikyon, once asked Ianthe: ‘How can a tale so small carry such weight across generations?’

She replied: ‘Because the smallest truths, when lived, become the deepest roots. They grow in silence, but they hold the world upright.’

The tree of returning truth became a place not of worship, but of reminder—that beauty without virtue fades, that illusion is weight, and that the soul, like a garden, flourishes with the sunlight of honesty.

The tale of Elektra did not end with her final breath. It lived on in the words of the children she taught, in the silences people honoured, and in the daily courage it took to speak a truth that might cost something, but always gave more in return.

For in Meleticism, as in life, what matters is not how brightly one shines—but how clearly one reflects.

As the years wove themselves into decades, the village blossomed not just in crops and colour, but in character. Elektra’s story became a gentle pulse beneath daily life, a quiet call to self-examination and kindness. Families would gather at dusk to share their own truths, no matter how small or stinging, knowing that honesty was the thread stitching their hearts together.

One evening, under a sky dusted with stars, a young man named Aniketos approached the tree of returning truth. He was known for his sharp tongue and quick temper, but tonight, his eyes held a new softness. Placing a single amber leaf he had carefully preserved, he murmured, ‘For every lie I told to protect my pride, I plant this truth now. May it grow stronger than my fears’.

Ianthe, standing nearby, smiled warmly. ‘The greatest courage is not in never falling, but in rising to speak truth after the fall’, she said.

Aniketos nodded, feeling the weight lift from his chest as if the tree’s golden leaves were absorbing his burden.

Elektra’s legacy lived on—not in perfection, but in the steadfast, humble practice of being real. Through each honest breath, the village found itself a little closer to To Ena, the One, reflected in their shared human will.

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