The Mask of Circe

by Henry Kuttner

  The floor was mossily green and gave a little underfoot. There were divans in the room, low tables, chests carved with scenes from familiar legends, for the most part, though a few were unknown to me in subject and detail. A brazier glowed in the center of the room, sending out a fresh, aromatic fragrance.

  I thought, The priest of Apollo does himself very well, and turned to look for the little slave girls who brought me here. But I was alone. I wasn’t even sure which dark-hung interval between the pillars had admitted me.

  There was sudden music in the air. I looked around sharply at that thrill of unseen strings, and saw the darkness flow apart across the room, and a familiar horned head grinned at me through the opening.

  As I stared I saw one sardonic, goat-yellow eye close in a slow wink. Then the faun laughed, glanced back across his shoulder, and said:

  “Well, this is the man. At least, he’s the one the Circe named Jason.”

  “Good,” a new, deeper voice said. “The Circe should know, at least. Well—so this is Jason!”

  Through the rift in the darkness came Panyr and, behind him, a tall, golden-haired man, one who might have stepped out of some antique myth. He looked like a demi-god—tall, strongly-made, with sleek muscles that rippled under his thin golden tunic, and blue eyes that held in them something faintly disturbing. A tinge of lambent radiance seemed to linger on his tanned skin, almost luminous, almost as though the sun-god himself, radiant Apollo, stood before me.

  “This is Phrontis,” the faun said. “I’ll leave you with him. For a while, at least.” He moved nimbly toward the pillars and the darkness parted to engulf him.

  Phrontis went without haste to a couch, nodded toward another near him, and dropped down casually. He stared at me as I found a seat.

  “Jason,” he said lingeringly. “I suppose we are enemies, then. At least, our gods are enemies. Whether or not there’s sense in it is not for me to say. However, at the moment there are no gods in this room—I hope. So drink with me while we talk.”

  From behind his couch he brought a crystal vase, filled with yellow wine, sipped, and passed the goblet to me. I drank long and thirstily. Then I put it aside and took a deep breath.

  “I haven’t said I’m Jason,” I told Phrontis.

  He shrugged. “Well,” he said disarmingly, “I am a young priest, as priests go. It’s an accident that I hold the power that I do. There’s much I don’t know—and that may be to your advantage. The young are skeptical. Ophion, now—he is the real priest of Apollo, and he’s very dangerous to you. Because he believes in the gods.”

  “You do not?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, smiling. “But I don’t think they are gods, except to men like us. Is there wine left? Good.” He drank. “Now, Jason, let us talk for a while like sensible men. Ophion is tortured by superstition, and he is justified enough. I have studied. It’s true that there are things I don’t understand—the ghostly ship, for example—but nevertheless it is only at the temple festivals that I fall on my face before Apollo. Here, in this private apartment we can talk and question. For example, why didn’t you escape when you were given every chance?”

  “The ignorant are blind,” I said. “And the blind don’t run without making certain there are no gulfs in their path.”

  He watched me. “The ghostly ship sailed by Helios today, and two of our biremes gave chase. One of them brought you back. There are prophecies and legends and warnings—too many of them! When Jason returns, it is said, a curse will either be lifted or redoubled. It’s cryptic. Very much so. But if a man questions the gods, he’s apt to be blasted with a thunderbolt. Which is an excellent way to discourage criticism.” Phrontis chuckled, and shrugged again. “Well, this is not the sanctum or the altar chambers. You wear strange clothes. Generations have passed since the first Jason. I know you are not that one. Who are you?”

  How could I explain? I looked at him dumbly, and he laughed and proffered the wine-vase again.

  “I’m a student of science as well as of theology,” he said. “Let me hazard a guess. There is another world somewhere in time and space, the world from which you came. You are of Jason’s seed. Jason must have been of your world, originally. And you have Jason’s memories, as the soul of the first Circe dwells in the Mask, and enters whichever Circe happens to serve the goddess in Aeaea.”

  “You know that?” I asked. “Then you’re the first one I’ve met here with any semblance of civilization. You’re right, I think. But I’m still a blind man. I don’t even know where I am.”

  “Nature tends toward the norm,” he said. “This is my own theory, but I think it’s accurate. By its own standards, your world is the normal one. Call it the positive pole in the time-stream. There are variants in your world, but they don’t last long. Mutants are born; miracles happen, but not often, and they pass quickly. For they are the norm of this world—the negative pole in the time-stream.

  “As for how these two worlds meet—to know that, we must be able to comprehend dimensions beyond our scope. Perhaps the course of your world’s time is like a winding stream, while ours runs straight as a canal. And sometimes the two streams intersect. One such intersection, I know, came generations ago for us. How long ago for you?”

  “Jason lived three thousand years ago,” I said.

  “As long in our world,” he said. “Three thousand years ago the two worlds intersected as the timestreams crossed. We have legends of the Argo’s voyage but I think that voyage took place on both our worlds, yours and mine. They mingled for a while then. Look, now. I’ve said your world is the positive norm. Whenever too many negative concepts are built up there, the time-streams intersect, and an exchange takes place. Your—mutants—are drained off into my world, as our positive concepts are drained into yours, to strike the balance. Do you understand?”

  I had a glimmering—the principle of the simple electromagnet. Positive force building up at one pole till polarity was reversed. Yes, I thought I could understand the principle. It was not basic logic by any means, but I could visualize a cosmic seesaw, continually rising and falling whenever the twin worlds crossed in that cosmic stream of time.

  Phrontis spoke. “The gods are dangerous enough, but—well, they simply have non-positive powers, less limited in this world than in yours from which they may originally have come.” He glanced toward the columns. “I hear Ophion, the high priest. He’s still called that, though I perform most of his duties for him, since Apollo accepts only perfection in his priests. Ophion was injured some while ago.

  “Listen, Jason who is not Jason. Ophion will speak to you. Remember, he has served the god for a long while and is superstitious. Use your judgment. I wanted to talk with you first, because I shall be high priest soon, and I prefer science to theology. Ophion believes in flaming thunderbolts to solve his problems. I have other ideas. We’re both sensible men—so remember what I’ve told you.”

  He smiled and stood up as the darkness parted between two pillars, and a man hobbled awkwardly into the room.

  Hephaestus—Vulcan! Vulcan, who was flung from Olympus by his father Zeus and lamed by that titanic fall. This man was godlike—and fallen too.

  Within him glowed the same golden, luminous quality that seemed to permeate Phrontis, but it was the light of beauty permeating a crumbled Praxilitean marble, hinting at the original perfection despite the ruinous attacks of time.

  It was not time alone that had marked Ophion’s face, though. I thought that the attack had, somehow, come from within. As for his appearance, he might have been Phrontis’ brother, but a brother who was not only older, but sadder, and afraid.

  Chapter VI

  Echoes of the Past

  Ophion stood there, stooping a little, his heavy shoulders bent forward. His eyes were blue like Phrontis’, but deeper, a winter sky as Phrontis’ eyes were the summer sky. Lurking in those depths was a knowledge that Phrontis, for all his skeptical wisdom, did not have.
r />   He said slowly, “You could not wait for me, Phrontis?”

  “I’ve saved you trouble,” Phrontis answered. “There’ll be no need to waste your time in elementary questioning now. Jason knows all that is necessary for him to know.”

  “He is Jason?”

  Phrontis waved toward the pillars. “The faun Panyr has said so.”

  Ophion turned to me. His voice was uninterested, as though he recited by rote.

  “Listen, then,” he said. “There has always been war between Apollo and the dark goddess Hecate. Long ago Jason stole the Golden Fleece, Apollo’s special treasure, and fled to the protection of Hecate, on Aeaea’s isle. Because the Circe loved Jason, she aided him. Then Jason died, or passed, or vanished, and the war went on. There was a prophecy that when Jason came again, he would be as a sword against Apollo in Hecate’s hand. So—we will break that sword now.”

  He studied me.

  “There is also the matter of the Circe. She is Hecate’s arm, as you were to be her sword. Till the Circe dies and the Mask is broken, Hecate has power. And the war between Hecate and Apollo must never be allowed to reach the point where Apollo must fight the dark goddess on her own ground. Never yet—” His voice sank. “At least, only once has Apollo turned his dark face upon this land. He is lord of the eclipse, as he is also lord of the bright sun. But once, it is told, Apollo walked in Helios during the eclipse—the Helios on whose ruins we have built this new city.

  “There will be an eclipse of the sun soon. You must die before then. But your death alone will not be enough. For Jason died, and now has come again. Hecate’s arm must be destroyed as well.

  “The Mask—and the Circe—they must be destroyed forever, so there will be peace under Apollo.”

  Silence brimmed the room. Phrontis broke it. “Still you have not told Jason what he is to do.”

  Ophion moved suddenly, shivering where he stood. Those deep, strange eyes moved from Phrontis to me.

  I said, “Why was I supposed to make my escape from your soldiers?”

  But Ophion did not speak. Phrontis said, “Why not tell him? He’s no fool. Perhaps we can bargain.” Ophion remained silent, and the younger priest, after a brief pause, seemed to make up his mind.

  “Well, Jason, here’s the reason. We wanted you to escape so you could lead us to the young Circe. You can still do that. If you can, you need not die. Is that true, Ophion?”

  “It is true,” the priest said somberly.

  I thought mockery showed briefly on Phrontis’ face. “So we can bargain, perhaps, Jason. Life is better than death, after all—no?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” I said. “I don’t know who the devil the young Circe is. Why not look for her on Aeaea? I last saw Circe there.”

  “That is the old Circe, the one on Aeaea,” Phrontis answered. “Not for years has she held the goddess. She isn’t strong enough. You see, when the Circe dies, the Mask is handed on to another priestess—the next Circe. With the Mask goes the power of Hecate. So the Circe of Aeaea is very old, and if it should come to a clash between glorious Apollo and the dark goddess, a strong arm will be needed, and a newer, younger priestess—such a one is the new Circe, the next inheritor of the Mask.

  “We had her here in Helios.”

  I said suddenly, I’ve heard of that. You killed her.”

  “We did not kill her,” Phrontis said. “She escaped. She could not have left the city; we have excellent guardians at the walls. So, because the web of fate is weaving toward a certain pattern, because Jason has returned, we must find the young Circe and kill her. If she lives to wear the Mask, then through her and through you, Hecate can make war on Apollo, and the time of the eclipse is too close for comfort. You had better bargain with us, Jason. Who can fight against the gods?” But his voice was unctuous, and he stole a quick glance at the oblivious Ophion.

  I said, “I can’t lead you to this Circe of yours. If you don’t know where she is, I’m sure I don’t.”

  The priest stared at me keenly, then smiled.

  “There is one who does know,” Phrontis said. “In a temple like this rumor runs faster than winged Hermes. Already I know very well that news of Jason’s coming is buzzing in certain quarters of the city. You have only to wait. Sooner or later—and sooner, if I know Helios—word will get to you of what to do next. Where to go. Then—” He lifted expressive brows.

  When I did not speak, he went on smoothly. “Then you come to me. Or send word. We will give you quarters here in the temple, on the outskirts, where messengers can reach you without too much difficulty. Very pleasant quarters, my friend. You need not be lonely while you wait We have many accomplished slaves who—”

  “Whose greatest accomplishment is spying,” I suggested. “Well, suppose I agree? Suppose I find this girl for you? What then?”

  His blue eyes dwelt speculatively on mine. As clearly as I saw the eyes I saw the thought behind them—a sharp sword or an arrow in the back was what Phrontis was thinking. I could tell that; he was so much closer to my own civilization than anyone else here on this alien worldl

  All he said was, “A reward worth working for, if you ask it. What is it that you desire most, Jason?”

  “The truth!” I said with sudden anger. “The one thing no one here can give me! I’m sick of all these evasions and half-truths and the lies you tell so easily when you promise rewards. I know what reward I’d get!”

  Phrontis laughed. “Fair enough. Jason always got his value out of a man. All right, then this much truth—I’ll confess it would be easiest to kill you once we have our hands on the young Circe. Naturally I thought first of that. But since you have sharper eyes than most, then I suppose I must swear some oath I dare not break, to give you assurance. What besides truth, then, do you ask of us?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, an intolerable wave of longing for peace from this dilemma rolling over me. To be free, to go back to my own world unburdened by the chaotic memories that too-deep probing had unloosed upon my mind—that was what I wanted above everything else in life. Freedom from the memories of Jason!

  I said it in a suddenly choked voice. “And if you could do that,” I finished, “I think I’d find that girl for you if I had to tear down the city barehanded. Can you set my mind free?”

  Phrontis pinched his lower lip and looked at me narrow-eyed. Slowly he nodded, and I thought I saw other purposes, devious and subtle, take shape

  “Since you ask it, I can,” he said. “I’ll swear that on the altar of Apollo himself, and may the Ram trample me under his burning hoofs if I fail you. Once you’re free of Jason, we’d have no reason to wish you harm. You’d be no danger to us then. Yes, you shall have freedom if you find us the girl.”

  Ophion woke from his brooding to stare at us, a question on his lips. I saw a swift, wordless sign pass between Phrontis and the old priest. Ophion did not know that I was not Jason, but would Phrontis tell him so?

  I did not care. I sighed, a deep, tired sigh. Perhaps it was wrong of me to promise. The girl had done me no harm. And yet I was not obligated to her or to Hecate or to anyone in this strange halfworld of legend. I’d been drawn here against my will, cast headlong into danger not of my making, pulled this way and that as a pawn between warring people and warring gods. But I was no pawn. I was Jay Seward, free born and no tool for another hand to wield.

  “Then I’ll find her and deliver her to your men,” I said. “I don’t swear by any gods, because it isn’t our custom in my land. But I give you my promise. You can depend on it.”

  Phrontis nodded briefly and rose.

  “I believe you,” he said. “I know the truth in a man’s voice when I hear it. Remember your promise and I’ll keep to mine. I must consult Apollo’s oracle on this matter. When I return, we’ll make our final plans. Will you wait for me here?”

  I nodded. He gave me a half-salute of parting, and turned toward the way by which he had come. Ophion paused, looking
at me with a long, troubled stare. Once he caught his breath to speak, but he shut his lips on the unuttered words and turned toward Phrontis, who held the curtain of the darkness open for him.

  Music faded softly on the air as the dark closed behind them. I dropped back on my couch and stared at the mist resettling in their wake, wondering what I should do next. Not that there was much I could do, here! I looked about the room, finding no answer. Overhead the rosy clouds rolled slowly, formless and chaotic as my thoughts.

  Could I trust Phrontis? There had been subtle scheming in his eyes when he swore to help me, and it might be that what I asked for would not be what I got. And the girl, the young Circe. Conscience nagged at me when I thought of her. I was not Jason—I had no duty to Circe, masked or unmasked. But—

  “Jason—Jason of Iolcus—beloved, do you hear me?”

  The words were so clear they might have rung out through the silent room, but I knew they had not. I knew they echoed only in the haunted chambers of my own skull. The shuddering and the chill sweat came over me again, and I was Jason.

  Very clearly I could see the lovely, familiar, greeneyed face of the Enchantress-Mask, bending above Hecate’s flame. I knew that face well—I had loved it once and seen hatred and helplessness upon those pale features, exquisitely molded of living alabaster. Love and hatred mingled—why? Why? Not even I knew, and I was Jason, Aeson’s son, lover of many women but never Circe—lord of the lost Argo. My heart turned within me when I thought of the ship. (Argo, my own, my swift and beautiful!)

  “Jason, come back to me,” the sweet, far-away voice was calling through my brain. “Jason, beloved, you must not betray me.”

  Now I could see that wonderful white face very clearly, very close to mine, the dark crimson mouth lifted, the long, inhumanly smooth planes of cheek and brow radiant with impossible beauty. The eyes were green fire, green embers smoldering beneath the shadow of her lashes. I remembered from long ago.