Mythic Journeys

by Paula Guran

  The buffalo had three windows. One showed the land there below the earth. One showed what happened in the land above the sky. But the third showed nothing, for it was kept covered.

  The buffalo gave Untombinde three jars. In the first was a red paste. “Use this, he told her, “and polish my horns.” So she did. The second jar contained a green paste. “Use this to polish my hooves.” So she did that, using the green paste. The third jar was larger than the other two and was filled with a black liquid. “Use this when you brush my hide,” he said, and again she did as she was bid.

  Thus Untombinde lived with Wonder-Worker-of-the-World. She groomed him and cared for his garden and tended his three fires. When she was not busy she looked through the open windows and saw many strange things. She would have been very happy if not for that third window.

  At first she was just bothered by the way that her husband kept it covered. She teased him and teased him. Wonder-Worker-of-the-World had never been good at refusing to give things to his people, and finally he allowed Untombinde to uncover the window. It showed her all the things that were happening on the earth.

  Now that she had gotten what she wanted, Untombinde was still not happy. Far from it. For though the people had tried to kill her, she did not really believe they were evil, but only ignorant. And there they were, no better off than they had been before, while she was living a life much improved. So she watched and watched as her people suffered and she was filled with sorrow.

  The sadder she became, the more time she spent looking through this window at the things that made her sad. Even when she looked through the other windows she was still seeing the wars and plagues that troubled the earth. Even when she attended to her tasks she cried for the sorrows of her people. The sweet and sour plants became weak and sickly because of the salt tears that fell constantly upon them from the eyes of Untombinde. The salty plants grew rank, like weeds, and dominated the garden.

  She did not notice; she saw only the sorrows of the earth. Untombinde wept into the pots of grooming paste and ruined them.

  Her husband’s coat grew patchy and thin; his horns and hooves grew dull. She did not notice, for she saw only the sorrows of the earth.

  But one day Untombinde looked up from her weeping and saw to her horror that her tears were drowning the black fire! Quickly she sprang up to feed it. The air grew dark around her; the land’s dim light faded and she had to gasp for every breath. Groping about, she found a little bit of kindling which had not been soaked through with her tears. She placed the kindling on the smoldering black fire and blew upon the coals with her feeble breath. At last the flames shot high again and everything came back as it had been. Just then her husband dragged himself in through the door. “What happened?” he asked when he had strength enough to speak. He himself had nearly died because of her neglect.

  Untombinde told him everything, and the buffalo was very sad. “It is clear that you do not belong here, but on earth where you were born,” he said. “But how should I send you back to your people who wickedly would have slain you? They do not deserve to have you among them.”

  Then Untombinde pleaded with him. It was true she missed her people and she wished that she might be able to help them. Yet also she had come to love her husband, Wonder-Worker-of-the-World, and if he sent her back above to live, she would never be happy again.

  The couple talked and talked. After many days they decided what to do. Now some of the time Untombinde lives on the earth, and some of the time she lives below it. And sometimes she travels alone, and sometimes she rides on the back of a big, black buffalo. And if you see a beautiful, strong young maiden riding such a beast, you must lean against his shoulder and sing for me:

  “Oh, my father, it is from you

  Comes all goodness.

  It is from you Came this story.”

  “THESEA AND ASTAURIUS”

  PRIYA SHARMA

  Daddy, you’re telling it wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  Thesea looks up at her husband and daughter.

  “You tell it then,” he says to the child.

  “King Minos prayed to Poseidon, who sent him a magic bull but Minos didn’t sacrifice it like he was supposed to, so Aphrodite made Minos’ wife fall in love with it.”

  Only the gods inflict love as a punishment, Thesea thinks.

  “The bull and the queen made a baby called the Minotaur.” Thesea’s glad that she’s too young to be concerned with the details. She bares her teeth and draws her fingers into claws. “It was a monster.”

  “The Minotaur had a bull’s head on a man’s body.” Their son; older, placid, lacking his sibling’s drama.

  “I’m telling it. Minos made Daedalus, his inventor, build the labyrinth to hold the Minotaur. He fed it human sacrifices sent from Athens.”

  “Really?” her father asks.

  “Yes, then Athens sent a prince called Theseus who was so handsome that Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, gave him a sword to kill the Minotaur and string to find his way out of the maze.”

  The girl has no interest in being Ariadne. She leaps about pretending to be Theseus, imaginary sword in hand.

  “Calm down,” Thesea puts an arm around her and draws her in. “You’ve all got it wrong. Listen and I’ll tell you what really happened.” Athens. Thesea is eleven. The other children are paddling in the shallows, splashing one another. The fisherman’s son follows her along the shore. He won’t leave her alone.

  “My mother said you’re going to be sent to Crete to die.” He tries to grab her hand to stop her walking away.

  Thesea runs into the sea and dives into the advancing wave. She holds her breath and twists about so that she can look at the churning surf from underneath.

  So what she’s heard is true. She’s not meant for this world. Perhaps that’s why she’s always felt outside it. There are only these moments then. She resolves to make them last.

  Thesea at seventeen. She stands apart from the cargo of weeping foundlings, looking ahead. As they approach Crete, blue is divided by yellow sand into sea and sky. The ship navigates the coast to where Minos and his men have gathered on the dock to greet the fresh meat.

  The boat’s close enough for Thesea to see their faces. They look like salivating dogs. She can read Minos with a glance; his smile is a yawning hole that could swallow her.

  He wants the entire world. Greedy bastard.

  The group shuffle down the gangplank. The Athenian crew can’t look at them. Sailors on other ships stand and stare.

  A girl greets them. She wears purple silk, and gold shimmers at her ears and throat.

  “I’m Ariadne, daughter of Minos, princess of Crete.” She takes a garland from a slave’s arms and puts it around the neck of the first Athenian and kisses the boy’s cheek. “We thank you for your great sacrifice.”

  Thesea’s the final one in line. Ariadne stares as if trying to get the measure of her. The garland tickles Thesea’s neck. Then she feels cold metal slipping down the front of her gown.

  Ariadne kisses her and whispers, “Run. Run into the labyrinth.” She steps back and smiles, the dimple in her cheek revealed. “Come, we’ve prepared a feast for you.”

  They’re mad. Thesea follows them to the tables. Every single one of them.

  Thesea’s spent her life expecting death at the Minotaur’s hands or teeth or trampled underfoot.

  The rest of the Athenians have been sacrificed and there’s not a monster in sight. Only Minos and his men. Thesea’s witnessed it. Sex and blood, all at once.

  “Your turn.”

  She’s untied. A hand clamps her wrist. She’s not agreed to this. This isn’t sacrifice for the greater good. It’s rape and murder. She pulls the knife from her dress and plants it in the man’s neck. He has a soldier’s reflexes. His sword bites her arm.

  Ariadne’s plan doesn’t seem so stupid now. Run. Whatever is in the labyrinth can’t be worse than this.

  “Get her.”

  “No,�
�� Minos calls from the heart of the carnage, “leave her. She’ll starve in there. Or he’ll find her. Let him have a live one. Poor sod deserves a bit of fun.”

  There’s laughter. She runs faster in case they change their minds. When she looks back over her shoulder the soldiers are dragging the bodies towards the maze’s mouth.

  Let him have a live one.

  The novelty of a warm, writhing body instead of a cold, already illused carcass. She pictures the bull-headed giant sitting on a throne of bleached bones, tearing the flesh from a human leg with his teeth.

  Thesea feels like a bucket of hot water has been poured down her arm. It’s slick down to her wrist. There’s a relentless drip from her fingertips. Her heart thumps to compensate. A contrary feeling, making her weak and energised all at once. She tears the hem from her gown and binds her arm.

  The labyrinth’s endless corridors of white marble. Blind endings. Steps and turns. Arches and pillars. It’s baffling. Thesea turns a corner to find a fountain, the water making music. In a courtyard there’s an altar laid with roses. Elsewhere a lyre nailed to a wall. Smells without source—jasmine, fire, and cooking fish. These anomalies don’t help her to orient.

  Thesea remembers being lost in the forest as a child. The tree’s pretense of familiarity. The maze is the same. Alive. When she leans against a wall it moves beneath her skin as if breathing her in.

  I’m going mad.

  I’m going to die.

  She lays down, head on the ground. Stone shifts beneath her cheek, like something exhaling. Her skull trembles. Vibrations announce the Minotaur’s approach.

  There’s a roar that could shatter rock.

  She pulls herself up to a sitting position.

  Let him come. I was bred for death.

  The Minotaur’s an abomination. Union of earthly woman and divine bull. His outline fills the corridor. His horns throw long javelin shadows on the floor. He lowers his head and breaks into a run.

  The Minotaur halts beside her. Thesea tries to be calm as he picks her up. She’s cradled in his arms. He smells, she thinks, like the summer rain on warm earth.

  She’s being carried along a corridor. Its proportions are less grand than the rest of the labyrinth. The Minotaur’s bellowing is no longer just sound, it’s becoming speech.

  “Daedalus! I’ve found one. She’s alive!”

  The workshop’s around the next corner. Daedalus looks up from his bench. Thesea sees a frowning mouth, crooked nose, a pair of goggles and a flash of grey hair. He sheds the goggles to reveal blue eyes.

  “Quick, on here.”

  Daedalus clears the bench with a single sweep of his arm, his tools shrapnel flying to the floor. Thesea’s laid down, a body on a slab. She’s heard of this Daedalus, dubbed the cunning worker. His constructions are wonders. He’s so complicated that his king is his patron and enemy and he’s ended up imprisoned with a beast in the jail that he was commissioned to make.

  Will he convert her into a terrible machine or will the pair of them sit down to feast on her?

  “Fetch my medicine chest.”

  The Minotaur looks about in panic. The workshop’s a mess of prototypes and parts. It smells of grease and metal. Boxes spill maps, sketches, cogs and wires. Others are sealed with triple padlocks.

  “The leather one, there.”

  Thesea feels a cold ring of metal on her chest. It’s connected to tubes that Daedalus puts in his ears. He tells her the name later. Stethoscope. Daedalus checks the integrity of her bones. Lays a flat hand on her abdomen. Then he unwraps the binding on her arm.

  “It’s just a flesh wound. She’s lost some blood though. Get me the Glenrothes.”

  The Minotaur holds out a bottle of amber liquid but Daedalus is too busy with needle, syringe and vial. He nods to the Minotaur, “Pour me a glass.”

  “It’s not to clean her wound?”

  “Single malt? Are you joking? That’s for me. We’ll use the cheap stuff on her arm.”

  The Minotaur fusses over her so much that Daedalus sends him away.

  “Can you feel this?” He prods at the edges of the wound with a needle. “No? Then we’ll begin. Look away.”

  Thesea refuses. She watches the needle pierce numb skin.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Thesea.”

  “Greek?”

  “Yes.” Of course Greek. Where else? “Minos. I didn’t know . . .” Her sentence collapses.

  “He’s as crazy as a sack of snakes.”

  They lapse into silence. Behind Daedalus there’s a lit candle in a niche. It illuminates a painting of a young man lying on a rock, his complexion ashen. The sky behind him is red, the horizon a dark line. White nymphs reach for him with pale hands.

  A pair of enormous wings are strapped to his arms.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “A gift from the Minotaur.”

  “He’s an artist?”

  “No. He just thought I should see it. It’s called ‘The Fall of Icarus’.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Daedalus finishes his embroidery. Flesh is reunited.

  “We’ll talk later.” He drops the needle into the bowl. “You should get some rest.”

  Thesea’s mouth is dry when she wakes. Daedalus dozes in a chair. She looks at his sketches but can’t fathom their purpose. She helps herself to water from the jug. Slices cheese onto bread.

  She looks into an alcove, then realizes it’s a balcony. The Minotaur’s below her, in a vast field. He waves.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  She recognizes now that the stretched mouth is a smile.

  There are bodies laid out in a row. Ariadne’s flowers are tangled with torn clothes. She recognizes a wave of black hair. A scarf. A necklace. They remind her that mauled flesh was someone she once knew.

  The Minotaur’s stripped to the waist, shovel in hand, knee deep in a hole. Behind him markers stretch down the hill and out of sight.

  He’s burying them, she thinks.Each in their own grave.

  “I’m going for a walk.” Thesea stretches, trying to lengthen her muscles.

  “Sure,” Daedalus rummages in a box, “you’re not a prisoner. Take this string and use it to find your way back.”

  “Call if you get lost. I’ll come.” Then the Minotaur adds, “If you feel faint put your head between your knees.”

  “How will you find me?”

  “I will.”

  Daedalus follows her down the corridor and whispers in her ear. “Be careful. He’s different, depending where he is in the maze.”

  “He can’t always speak, can he?”

  “Not just that. He’s not always so affable.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know.”

  Her walk exhausts her. The Minotaur lays a blanket over her knees when she returns and fetches extra cushions. She watches him work the bellows for Daedalus and together they shape metal. Flames and fatigue bring sleep but not for long. Thesea sits upright, wet faced, choking on a scream.

  “You’re safe.” The Minotaur kneels before her, clutching her hand.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m sorry, of course you do.” He dignifies the dead with burial.

  The Minotaur reaches into his pocket and brings out a brass ring. “Minos gave me this when I was a boy. His captain held me down while he put it through my nose. Daedalus was kind enough to remove it.”

  Daedalus tells her everything later. How Minos sniggered as he threatened to castrate the Minotaur when he reached manhood. How they branded the delicate flesh of his inner thigh.

  “I’m not an animal,” the Minotaur tells her.

  “No, I know you’re not.”

  Thesea is holding his hand now.

  Thesea cries less in her sleep. She walks farther each day using her string as a guide. Daedalus won’t let her chalk arrows on the floor. Just in case we get unwan
ted visitors.

  The Minotaur accompanies her when he can. “What’s your favorite place?”

  “The beach near where I grew up. Not far from Athens.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve never been anywhere else.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  She follows him deep into the maze on a bewildering journey from which she’d never return without him.

  “Here.” He puts his palms against a wall in a tentative gesture. “Yes, here will be perfect.”

  The Minotaur pries at the stone with his fingertips, pulls out a few blocks and lays them carefully on the floor. He peeks through and once satisfied, he enlarges the hole. The blocks become a stack. Thesea tries to put her hand through but she can’t. It’s as if there’s a hidden barrier. The Minotaur reaches in with ease.

  “Why can’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Daedalus can’t either. It frustrates him too, knowing I can wander around out there. Now, take a look.”

  There’s a room on the other side. What stuns her is the view from the window on the far wall. She knows by instinct the slow-turning jewel out there is home, even though she’s ignorant of astronomy. That the blue is ocean after ocean. Brown is the ground that should be beneath her feet. She can’t reconcile this paradox. That labyrinth is down there and up here.

  “Daedalus says that’s the moon,” the Minotaur points to a silvery ball, part in shadow.

  The moon. She can’t see Diana, goddess, huntress and lunar mistress. It’s just a ball of rock.

  “Is Daedalus a god?”

  “No. He says this is a place where men are gods.”

  “The gods don’t exist?”

  “Not always. I don’t know if this is before or after.”

  “Is that natural?”

  The Minotaur continues to stare out of the window. “I’m not the person to ask about what’s natural and what isn’t.”

  Thesea’s giddy. A place where the fates and gods have no sway. They’re insignificant, or will be, or were. So is she.

  It’s terrifying. It’s liberating.

  “It’s that time.” Daedalus looks at the calendar and shakes his head.

  The Minotaur’s digging again. Thesea takes him a jug of water. The bodies laid out on the ground are black skinned. The flower of Ethiopian youth.