Broken Fate

by Jennifer Derrick

  The next four days pass in a blur. I spend much of the time running back and forth from Alex’s house to mine. The car might be faster, but running keeps me functional. Feet pounding on pavement, wind in my hair, lungs gasping for oxygen. All of it keeps the fear and grief at bay, at least for those minutes that I’m running. Every day I get faster, until I can cover the mile between our houses in under four minutes. I realize that I’m trying to outrun my emotions and that I’ll never be able to do so, but still, I keep running. Chloe has even taken to calling me “Forrest,” after Forrest Gump. I don’t find it funny, but since she helped me rehang all the lifelines and get my workroom in order, I don’t complain.

  Hospice workers now help manage Alex’s care, but they are kind enough to leave us alone when they can. Alana, the day nurse, is especially kind, allowing me to help with some of Alex’s care. I spoon-feed him baby food, help him to and from the bathroom when he’s able to get up, and empty bedpans when he’s not.

  “Most people retreat from this kind of care,” Alana says one day as I’m helping her clean up Alex’s vomit after he was unable to keep some food down.

  I shrug. “This is the price of love,” I say.

  Loving Alex means being there until the end, not running from the wreckage that his body is becoming. The Alex I love is still here, even if his mind and body are betraying him. That’s why I help the nurses when I can. He deserves that and more from me.

  On the increasingly rare occasions when Alex is awake, passion is replaced by caution. Anything more than light kissing and cuddling is out of the question for us. Most of the time, I climb onto his bed and lean against the pillow, cradling him to my side while I read to him or simply stroke his hair. We talk a little, but for the most part, we are beyond words.

  All I can do it wait for the end. Nothing I can do will slow the passage of time, but that doesn’t stop me from obsessively checking the clock and mentally calculating how many hours, minutes, and seconds are left. I hate being so helpless, and I hate feeling like I’m losing a fight. Even worse, I’m not only going to lose, but I’m going to deal myself the loss. It’s a twisted and frustrating feeling that no amount of running can erase.

  Tempting—and logical—as it is to surrender, I’m not ready to give up. Problem is, I don’t have many tools available to me. The human doctors have given up. I can’t alter Alex’s fate, and I can’t stop time. Refusing to kill him isn’t an option. If I don’t, Zeus will just have someone else do it. And Hades won’t interfere. He’s already told me to give up.

  There is only one god that might be able to help Alex. Asclepius. He was born human, the son of Apollo and some mortal woman we never knew. He became a gifted healer who perfected the healing arts to the point where he could bring people back to life. Unfortunately, Zeus, jealous and paranoid as always, killed him thousands of years ago as punishment for subverting authority and acting outside of fate. But, as with any good soap opera, the dead man wasn’t really dead.

  After Asclepius’ death, Apollo approached Zeus and negotiated a deal. Apollo argued that Asclepius’ service to humans merited some sort of reward. After all, the man wasn’t all bad. He’d simply overstepped his bounds in his enthusiasm to use his gifts. Zeus agreed and allowed Apollo to journey to the Underworld to try to retrieve Asclepius. If Apollo succeeded, Asclepius would be raised into the pantheon of the gods on the condition that he never again use his abilities to raise the dead. Apollo succeeded, and Asclepius became a god.

  While he’s no longer allowed to raise the dead, he is allowed, on rare occasions, to perform a medical miracle for the humans. Ever see someone suddenly recover from a one-hundred-percent fatal disease or injury? That’s Asclepius’ work. He doesn’t act alone, though. Lacey has to include that medical miracle in a person’s destiny, and she’s very stingy about it. Miracles are supposed to provide inspiration to the humans and show them that the gods can be kind, but personally, I’ve always thought they are simply a way to quell rebellion. How long would humans tolerate gods that never showed any benevolence? Not long. Miracles are a panacea for the masses.

  Over the centuries, Asclepius and I have become friends. Well, maybe friends isn’t the right word. Asclepius isn’t the sort of friend that you go to the movies with or visit just for the hell of it. He’s a recluse, and he doesn’t seek out the company of either gods or humans. Who can blame him really, given his experiences? I think that’s what forged the bond between us. We’re both feared and reviled, even among our own kind.

  Given his animosity toward Zeus, Asclepius chooses not to live on Olympus. I can’t blame the man. After all, who wants to live close to the man who killed you once and who still harbors a fear that you’re going to usurp him? That’s asking for trouble. He lives instead on Stone Mountain, Georgia, only three hours from my house. Out of desperation, and against Hades’ advice to let it go, I decide to visit Asclepius and plead for Alex’s life. To plead for a miracle.

  I’m torn about making the trip. It’s a long shot that Asclepius can or will help me. He’d be sticking his neck out on the chopping block if he did, and I don’t know that he even can. And I hate to leave Alex. Every minute is precious and I’ll be blowing the better part of a day on this fool’s errand.

  On the other hand, I feel like I have to try anything and everything to save Alex. Hades said that I had to find a way to accept what is. The only way I can do that is if I know that I’ve exhausted every option. If I don’t ask Asclepius, I’ll always wonder what might have been. If he says no, it won’t make accepting Alex’s death any easier, but at least I’ll be able to say I tried everything. Maybe that’ll bring some comfort on some far off day.

  So, on the day before Alex is to die, I drive to Stone Mountain. I leave Alex before sunup, after a couple of hours spent reading to him and holding him while he sleeps. I don’t tell him what I’m about to do. I don’t want to get his hopes up, and I’m not sure that he’s conscious enough to understand my plan, anyway.

  I stop by my house on the way out of town and quickly cut a few thousand lines. I’m fortunate that today is a slow death day, and that tomorrow is similar. I’ll do the best I can to keep up, but for once, I’m not worried about it if a few people die a little early or late. I’m more worried about Alex.

  The drive to Asclepius’ place is scenic and usually a source of joy to me. Today, I only want it to go by faster. I don’t care that the trees are in full bloom or that the mountains are shining pink in the morning sun. I just want it all to go by much faster than the Thunderbird can legally cover the distance. Every five minutes, I curse Zeus again for not giving me the ability to poof in and out of places.

  Stone Mountain is, among other things, a Confederate memorial. A huge carving depicting Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis astride their horses dominates the north face of the mountain. When that carving finally comes into view, I relax my grip on the steering wheel and breathe deeply. I’m here. Now all I can do is hope.

  Asclepius doesn’t live in plain view of the humans as my sisters and I do. He actually lives inside the mountain, which means I have to hike through undeveloped land to get to his place. I dressed this morning in jeans and hiking boots so I wouldn’t have to waste time changing.

  I pull into the parking lot next to the hiking trail that leads up the mountain. There aren’t too many tourists around yet since it’s only nine o’clock in the morning, but there are enough park rangers that I need to be careful not to get caught in the restricted areas.

  I hike about a third of the way up the mountain before the main trail intersects with the Cherokee Trail, which winds around the mountain rather than up it. This is where the tourists who don’t want to climb any more get off. I turn left and follow the Cherokee Trail for about a quarter of a mile. The woods are thicker here but not thick enough that I can disappear quickly once I leave the main trail, as I can on Mount Mitchell. Here, I have to move fast to get under cover before I’m seen
. Thank the gods I’ve been running for days.

  When I reach the place where I need to leave the trail, I pause for a long moment and wait, listening for any sounds of nearby people. Hearing nothing, I step off the trail and sprint into the woods. I stop to catch my breath once I’m a safe distance away from the main trail. When I start walking again, I’m hiking along the lower face of the mountain.

  I need to get to the carving, but there are no public access points. There are plenty of people who’d take great joy in destroying a Confederate memorial, so park management doesn’t give anyone the chance. I snicker at that thought because Asclepius is living right behind that carving and no one knows about it. So much for security.

  I walk about a half a mile before I’m far enough around the mountain to see the carving above me. There’s a smooth chute running down the mountain face here that I cannot cross, probably the remains of some long dried-up waterfall. I don’t need to cross it; it merely marks the end of my hike.

  Looking up, I see the slight protrusions in the chute’s face that act as hand and footholds. If any normal person looked, they wouldn’t see anything more than rocks. Even if they do see it as a climbing wall, few would be stupid enough to try scaling a rock face without a harness.

  I grab the first rock and haul myself up, climbing hand over hand up the chute. It’s tiring, but nothing I haven’t done before. I move quickly, careful to keep my footing. A fall won’t kill me, but I can’t afford the recovery time.

  The chute extends all the way to the top of the mountain, but the tree cover only goes halfway up. Just before I climb past the tree line and become visible to anyone looking at the memorial, the handholds end and I climb onto a small ledge. There is a body-width sized crack in the rock face here. I slither through it and into a cave. Pulling a penlight from my pocket, I flick it on. It’s pitiful illumination, but better than the pitch dark I’d be in otherwise.

  I move forward, trailing a hand along the wall to keep myself oriented. Even though I’ve been here before, the darkness remains disconcerting. All I need is to miss a turn. I’d end up wandering through here for hours.

  There are three tunnels at the back of the cave. I take the one on the left. The one on the right leads to the portal that Asclepius uses if he has to go to Olympus. I don’t know what’s down the middle tunnel and I’ve never been inclined to find out. Knowing Asclepius, it could be anything from experiments that I don’t want to know about to a collection of old LIFE magazines.

  The tunnel leads up toward the carving. Another quarter mile or so of hiking in the darkness brings me to the end of it. It looks like a dead-end rock wall, but if you know where to look, you can see the thin outline of a door.

  I knock and wait. Finally, I hear the locks disengaging and the door opens a crack. The kind, weathered face of Asclepius peeks out at me.

  “Atropos,” he says, gesturing me inside. “What brings you to visit an old man? Although I bet I can guess.”

  I follow him inside and sit on the chair he indicates, gazing at the centerpiece of his living quarters. Asclepius lives directly behind the carving of the Confederate heroes. He thinned the rock on the back of the carving just enough so that he can see the details from inside the mountain, though reversed from what the public sees.

  After he thinned the rock, he coated the inside of the carving with something similar to two-way glass, but with a textured finish that makes it look like rock if viewed from the outside. As a result of this little invention of his, light filters into his rooms but looking outside is like looking through thick, wavy glass. The view is distorted, and individual objects are indistinct. Anyone outside looking in only sees rock, as though the carving is unaltered.

  During the day, enough light comes in through the carving so Asclepius can read and work. At night, he retreats behind his heavy bedroom door and turns on his oil lamps, keeping it so that no light shining through the carving betrays his location. He has a ringside seat any time he wants to watch the nightly laser show light up the mountain.

  Asclepius sits down on the chair opposite mine. He doesn’t offer food or drink. Not because he’s not a nice man, but because such social niceties just don’t occur to him. Why would they? He lives in virtual isolation.

  He is an old man, alarmingly thin, and with a gray beard that reaches his collarbones. His skin is leathery, wrinkled, and ghostly white from living inside this cave for so long. He was already old when Zeus killed him, and his time in the Underworld didn’t improve his overall appearance. His eyes still sparkle with intelligence and a bit of mischief, though. The lids are papery with age, but the gray-blue color is still clear and sharp. He may be old, but he isn’t stupid or unaware.

  He folds his hands on his lap and waits for me to speak. I try to think of how best to phrase my request.

  “It must be serious if you’ve come all the way up here,” he says by way of encouragement.

  “The boy I love is dying,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “You know?” I ask, surprised.

  “Girl, everyone knows about you and the boy. Word of your defiance of Zeus has spread to all the gods. I may live alone up here, but I’m not unaware of what goes on up on Olympus. Some are calling you a hero. Others think you’re a traitor. I’m in the first camp,” he adds in a whisper.

  “Great,” I say, but without enthusiasm.

  “The question I believe you want to ask me is, ‘What can I do about it?’” he says.

  I nod. “Can you heal him? Or at least give him more time?” I ask.

  Asclepius leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, watching me over the tips.

  “How did you get so involved with a human, let alone one that you have to kill so soon? It isn’t like you to be so careless. I thought you had more sense than that.”

  I sigh. “No, it’s not at all like me. It wasn’t entirely my fault, either. It’s Lachesis’ fault. She fated Alex for me. She wanted to get back at me for killing some boy she loved hundreds of years ago. She wanted me to experience pain, and she got her wish.”

  He snorts. “That sounds like something she would do. Never liked that girl. She’s always been uppity,” he says. “What’s the boy dying of, then?”

  “Brain tumor. I don’t know all the specifics because Alex rarely talks about it. All I know is that conventional treatments have failed, and I have to kill him tomorrow. Or find another way,” I add hopefully.

  “Hmm. Brain tumors are most tricky, especially in their advanced stages. Even I had a very low rate of success with them.”

  “Can you try?” I plead.

  “I don’t want to be unkind, Atropos, but you knew the answer to that question before you came here. I am not included in the boy’s fate. There is no provision for a last-minute miracle, is there?”

  “No.” I know this, of course. I’ve read Alex’s file a hundred times and know that there is no miracle for him. Lacey doesn’t intend to simply take me to the brink and then let me off the hook. She intends to destroy me. I bow my head in defeat. “I hoped there was some way around that.”

  “I know. And I also know that you came up here for more than that foolish request, so let me hear the rest of it.”

  I take a deep breath and then rush through my next request. “Once he’s dead, can you bring him back to life?”

  Asclepius doesn’t laugh, but he does snort a bit. Getting up, he walks over to stare out at the wavy world beyond the ass of General Lee’s horse. He keeps his back to me when he speaks.

  “There is nothing more that I would like to do,” he says, and my heart jumps. “But I cannot.”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. I’d expected as much.

  “You are my friend,” he continues, turning to face me. “One of very few. I hate not being able to use my skill for your benefit. But you know that I have only a tenuous peace with Zeus. If I were to do this thing that you ask, he would surely destroy me with no hope of anot
her resurrection.

  “I may not have much of a life anymore, but having been to the Underworld, I know that this is preferable, limited though it is,” he says, waving a hand to encompass his rooms.

  “I know. I had to ask, though. If there was some way, secretly—” I begin, seeking some sort of loophole.

  “There isn’t. Zeus would know the instant I tried it.” He lifts his pant leg to reveal a wicked scar running from his ankle to his knee. I’ve never seen it before.

  “Underneath this scar is an enchantment that will alert Zeus if I try to resurrect a human. There is no way to remove or disable it. It was a condition of my own resurrection. I’m sorry.”

  I lean back in my chair, deflated and defeated. “Then it’s over.”

  “Likely so,” he says, but not unkindly. “I only have one thing that might be able to help you, but I would counsel you to think seriously about the consequences before deciding to use it.”

  “What is it?” I ask, sitting forward, hopeful again. “Anything would be welcome.”

  “Don’t say that until you know what it is,” he says as he walks over to one of the cabinets against the wall and begins rummaging along the shelves and muttering to himself.

  “Ah,” he says, as he pulls a small jar from one of the shelves. He returns to his chair opposite me and passes it to me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  It is about the size of a jar of model paint you can buy in a craft store. It’s small enough to easily fit in a pocket or purse, and it’s filled with a silvery powder. My first thought is some sort of powdered mercury, but I don’t know what use mercury would be in my situation.

  “It’s a concoction of my own invention, designed to restore a human’s fate to their immortal soul.”

  “Wait? What?” I ask, confused. “Why would anyone want to restore fate to a dead person?”

  “Granted, it wouldn’t happen often,” he says. “But there are cases, and yours might be one of them.”

  “I’m still not getting it,” I say, holding the jar up to the light.

  “You know about fate and free will, don’t you, and why Zeus decided that humans needed fate?”

  “Sort of. Zeus just told us that humans have to follow his master plan and the only way to ensure that is to give them a fate that fits into that plan.”

  “That’s a half-truth,” Asclepius says. “Zeus created you and your sisters because he didn’t believe that humans deserved unrestricted free will. He didn’t feel that the humans could be trusted with such a gift. And, being the paranoid despot that he is, he was afraid that free will would result in the humans rising up against him and the other gods. Therefore, you and your sisters control human lives until death. It’s like keeping the humans on a leash of sorts. They can do a few things on their own, but fate will always yank them back into line.”

  “Leave it to Zeus to leave out the important bits,” I mutter, yet again surprised at the depths of Zeus’ machinations.

  “Anyway,” Asclepius continues, “upon death, a human’s fate is severed and their soul is gifted with true free will. Granted, there’s limited use for it in the afterlife, but Zeus felt that it was a fair reward for a human life well-lived. And since the dead aren’t a threat to Zeus, one that costs him little.”

  I turn the jar over in my hands. Suddenly, I see the possibility. “So, when Alex dies, the fate Lacey created for him will end. And he won’t have to love me anymore.” The thought is depressing.

  “Correct. Once freed from Lacey’s destiny, Alex may no longer love you. Or he might. It’s difficult to say. But you could ensure that his feelings for you remain as they are by using that.” He points to the jar.

  “But what good would it do me? He’ll still be dead and in the Underworld, out of my reach.”

  “Not necessarily. You might be able to convince Hades to allow you to visit him once in a while, or grant you mortality so you can join Alex in the Underworld, if that’s what you want. That’s between you and him. If you could, though, that,” he points at the jar, “would ensure that Alex would love you forever.”

  “How does it work?”

  “It’s a powder. You must sprinkle half on the dead person’s body and the other half on their soul. Even though the soul is mere spirit, it will work as long as the powder passes through the apparition.”

  I think about what Asclepius is offering. He can’t save Alex. All this potion can do is ensure that Alex’s feelings for me remain the same, in the unlikely event that we’re ever allowed to spend any time together after he’s dead. However, using it means that I’ll take away his chance to experience free will. I’ll freeze him in the same state he’s in now. It’s selfish and unfair. But yet, I don’t hand the jar back to Asclepius.

  Asclepius nods, understanding my unspoken thoughts. “As I said, it requires careful consideration before use. But if you think it will help you, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” I say, standing and pocketing the jar. I extend my hand for him to shake, but he pulls me into a hug instead.

  “Go home and spend the last day with your human. When the time comes, do your job honorably and well. That’s the best gift you can give him. When it’s over, then you can make the big decisions.”

  “It’s so hard,” I say against his shoulder. “It shouldn’t hurt this much.”

  “Of course it’s hard, dear, but I know you. You’re stronger than this. You’re not weak like Lachesis, who can’t handle her own grief without dragging other people down with her. You’ll deal with this and be better for it.”

  I pull back from him and wipe the tears from my eyes. While I appreciate his kind words, I don’t believe them. He can’t see the gaping hole that is slowly taking over my soul. He can’t see the way my protective shell is cracking and falling away, leaving nothing but a woman shivering in the cold wind of death.

  “You have to go back,” he says, taking my hand and leading me toward the door. “Much as I enjoy your company, staying here with an old man who is powerless to help you just cheats you out of the time you have left with your human.”

  “Thanks for your time. And the gift,” I say, patting my pocket. “I promise to think carefully before using it.”

  “I only wish I could give you more, my dear,” he says. I nod, hug him quickly, and jog up the dark corridor toward the exit.

  It’s a wonder I make it back down the mountain and to the parking lot in one piece, given that I’m blinded by tears the whole way. When I get in the car, I allow myself a moment to get myself together before driving. Leaning my head back against the headrest, I breathe deeply. I knew this was a fool’s errand, but I allowed myself to hope.

  Hope, I’ve learned over the past few weeks, is a dangerous emotion, more dangerous than grief or fear. Those emotions can be dealt with, acted upon. Hope is something that is raised and dashed in minutes or even seconds, over and over. If you once allow yourself to hope and dream of what might be, you open yourself up again and again to disappointment. In many ways, it’s better to never hope at all. Just accept what is and live with it. I was good at that, once.

  I race back to Asheville, heedless of speed limits. Having failed at my mission, I have to get back to Alex as soon as possible. To be there for the end. Asclepius is right. The only thing I can do for Alex now is to make his passing as easy as possible.

  When I get back to town, I stop by my house and snip yet more lines, so it’s late afternoon when I squeal into Alex’s driveway. He only has hours left. When I get inside, I see that Emily and Mr. Morgan are huddled around Alex’s bed. He’s pale and unresponsive, despite his family’s constant questions and prayers. Alana is fiddling with the IV and checking Alex’s vitals. She meets my eyes and shakes her head. No change and getting worse. 
Since there is no room next to Alex, I slide into a chair across the room and wait for his family to go to dinner. While they whisper to him, I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. The rhythm is uneven, with long p
auses and short puffs of air. He’s struggling, despite the oxygen cannula that’s pumping air into him at regular intervals.

  Emily and Mr. Morgan finally head for the kitchen. I decline their offer of dinner, choosing to spend the time with Alex instead. Alana finishes her work, tucks the blanket firmly around him, and pats his hand.

  “Do you want me to send the night nurse over?” she asks me as she gathers her things. I notice that she packs up some of the things she usually leaves each night, such as her books and personal medical equipment. She’s not planning on coming back.

  I look at Alex. No amount of nursing can help him now. Alana knows it, and I know it. “No,” I say. “I’ll be here. I can handle it.”

  “I think he’s close,” she says.

  I simply nod. You don’t have to be a Fate to know when death is near. She squeezes my shoulder as she leaves.

  When everyone is gone, I slip carefully onto the bed next to Alex and gather him close to me. He stirs and opens his eyes. I brush the hair away from his forehead, kissing him gently.

  “Atropos,” he whispers.

  “I’m here.”

  “Where’d you go? I wanted you. You weren’t here.”

  That hurts. He was aware enough to want me, and I was off on some stupid, pointless trip. The truth can’t help him so I smile and say, “Work. You know how it is.”

  He sighs and falls asleep on my shoulder. I pick up the book we’re working on and begin reading, silently this time. I don’t think there is much point in reading out loud to him anymore.

  He’s almost gone, bound on a journey I can’t prevent and on which I cannot follow. I check to be certain that he’s asleep and resting comfortably. Satisfied, I finally bow my head and let the tears fall onto the page in front of me.