Nemesis

by Cat Bruno

  His voice lowered so that it was only loud enough for me to hear. Toby did understand the game, after all. Before I could respond, he added, “We’ve become friends, Dandelion, and I love you. Just wanted to give a head’s up.”

  What should I say? How much should I confess to Toby, who had become a dear friend of mine, even moreso because I didn’t have many? And none who truly knew me like Hermes did. Now, like in centuries past, he advised me and guided me.

  “I’m not young and naïve. I know who William is, and I know what to expect.”

  “Well, I hope I’m wrong about him.”

  In five days I would be a wife. Soon after that, I would be a widow. Vodka loosened my lips.

  “You’re not. He likes power just as much as any of them. And women? I won’t be surprised. Toby, I recognize what I’m getting myself into. But I’ll be alright.”

  “Oh I know,” he smiled. “I see you, Dandelion Jackman, and I got you.”

  The drunker that Toby got, the less care he took with his words and movements. This was not the same man who could preach to the bakery about nobility and luxury. Instead, it was a small-town boy with his accent and his slang. That is no insult, my friends, and, after his warnings, we laughed for another hour about nothing I can remember. Hermes could be just that sort: cunning and eloquent, mischievous and graceful. He could intermix with the gods or party with the mortals. Few could match his charm, but he was witty as well and known to be an inventor among the gods, with several musical instruments bearing his mark.

  More than anything, however, Hermes served as the link between man and god. Few understood men as the messenger god did, and he often blessed them with his own powers and skills. Hence, his nickname as the luck-bringer, and I imagined in Toby’s skin, he was no different.

  “You should let your hair grow long,” I blurted out as I sipped my third cocktail.

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Your hair. How lovely would it be if you stopped clipping it short? Your skin shines with such a youthful glow that I think your hair should match it. It is curly, is it not?”

  “My mother’s curse,” he growled without aggression as his fingers spun along the corners of his hairline. “Hers is immaculate or could be if she took better care of it. Thick and lush, any woman would die for it.”

  “What if you lightened it with some blond streaks? Toby, you would be the picture of beauty. Not to mention your body; it would be sculpted best in marble, I think.”

  When he threw his head back and shrieked with laughter, those nearest to us looked over. I expected scorn or dismay, but each who stared at the blushing, gorgeous man smiled in return. The mortals loved him, you see.

  “I am not one of your statues, Dandelion, although I wouldn’t mind if some men worshiped me.”

  If any of you make your way to Ohio, you must find Toby. I haven’t asked anything of you throughout this story, and I only do so now because I miss him terribly. Of all the people they interviewed in the days following William’s death, he worried me least, despite knowing the most. To be honest, I was reckless with what I told him, even though my words were often vague or cloaked. But, he knew, or suspected, more than anyone else I had come across.

  How could he not? For only he understood the minds of men and god both.

  Before we parted that day, he hugged me more closely and for longer than he had ever done. When we separated, Toby held out a small blue-green box. It was a tiny thing, only slightly larger than a ring holder. The box itself was not wrapped or ribboned, but, across the top, Toby had sketched a dandelion. Not in full bloom, yellow and many-petaled, but in its later days, when it has gone to seed. In his illustration, a gust of wind blows, spreading some of the white, star-like seeds across the small box.

  As I stared at his drawing, Toby whispered, “I will always look after you and get you out of any kind of difficulty. Take this gift; it is protection from every kind of danger.”

  “Should I open it now?”

  “Please do!” he excitedly cried out.

  With more care than I had ever utilized before when opening a gift, I gently lifted the cardboard lid. White tissue paper folded across the inside. Toby inspected my movements as I peeled apart the paper.

  From inside twinkled a thin, delicate chain of silver. I freed the chain and lifted it for an examination only to find a three-petaled, white bellflower hanging lightly from its end. A double-looped silver ring connected the blossom to the chain.

  “It’s called a snowdrop. The flower, I mean. It’s hand made from porcelain.”

  The pendant was no larger than my pinky fingernail; a tender little flower. I could not take my eyes from it, as if the snowdrop trapped me in a spell.

  “I found it online, from a site that only sells hand-crafted items,” Toby explained as my silence tethered me.

  Finally, I asked him to clasp it closed for me. A short time later, the blooming trinket hung from my neck, falling softly atop my breasts, nearly weightless, as if it didn’t exist at all.

  “This is perfect,” I breathed as my fingers brushed against it. “I will wear it on Saturday.”

  “Dandelion! I did not expect you to wear it the day you get married! Surely William’s family has diamonds or pearls they will offer you. Borrowed and blue and all that.”

  “This will be my something new.”

  Shaking his head and smiling, Toby admitted, “It was less than fifty dollars. Only you would wear it instead of some expensive heirloom.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I wanted something to match this whole wedding theme, you know, the goddess thing. At first, I was looking for something gold and wreath-like. But, I stumbled upon the snowdrop in a book I have on fairies and knew that I had to find one. Mostly, she is depicted as a late winter fairy since the snowdrop often blooms in February. Hence the name, I guess. In the illustration, the fairy reminded me of you, although I can’t say why. Maybe it was the golden hair or the downcast gaze.”

  “You know I’m not a natural blond, right?” I laughed before adding, “I didn’t know you had a thing for fairies.”

  “Oh, I’m going to leave that comment the hell alone,” Toby gushed.

  There was so much more I wanted to say to him that day. If only I could have told him of his past and of my own. His memories were there, hiding just beneath his current consciousness and thoughts. How else could he know of the snowdrop? I had no doubt that he had come upon the snowdrop fairy in a book. Yet there was another reason why the winter blossom affected him so deeply, a tale that most had long forgotten.

  But I did not tell it to him that day. Instead, I embraced him again, kissed his cheek, and told him that I would see him in the morning. He was not ready to hear the truth, despite suspecting it.

  Would you want to know it? That story of how Hermes gifted Odysseus with a flower to protect him from all mischief and mayhem? Perhaps you grow weary of the memories and sagas from my past. Sometimes, I feel that same melancholy; torn between two worlds and two times is exhausting. Once I tried to read a book about Minkowski space – the ideas behind a space and time continuum and a fourth dimension. However, I did not get very far before the information confused me more than it helped. Maybe you know better how that all works. In this story and on these pages, I can only explain what has happened to me, now and a few thousand years ago. Where that fits together with the other three dimensions, I cannot explain.

  My story is a much simpler one than that of the physicists.

  It begins with a woman. A most extraordinary and dangerous woman.

  She lived on an island, alone except for mountain lions and wolves, all tamed by her hand, and other such beasts and birds. None could match her weaving, and across her loom, brilliant shades gleamed in a magnificent display of finery. As she worked, she sang a beautiful, peaceful chant. Her hair fell in a long, radiant braid across her shoulder, and her body burned with powers. As a daughter of Helios, how cou
ld Circe not be so blessed?

  Circe, the sorceress, the seductress, the witch. How predictable that men have called her such unkind names.

  A goddess who lived a life unbothered on her island, harmonious with flower and animal. Until Odysseus and his men made landfall there.

  When they heard her singing, they approached her house built of richly-cut stone. The wolves and lions, seeing Odysseus’s men approach, greeted them with wagging tails. Frightened and surprised by the tamed creatures, his men paused outside the gates of her house and cried out to her. With haste, she unhitched the door and welcomed them. All but one entered. Circe fed them cheese and honey and served them wine. Once they had their fill, she struck them with her wand.

  The men, all warriors you see, transformed into swine upon her touch, although their minds were their own. On four legs now, she led them to the sties to live with the other pigs.

  Only if I had Circe’s wand! William would live as a companion at my side, perhaps as a rabbit. (You must know why that animal would fit him so well.)

  The one lone holdout, who had refused to enter, raced back to the ship to tell Odysseus what had occurred. The hero gathered his weapons, his silver studded sword and his great bow, and hurried away from the ship. On his way to save his men from this fate so terrible, Odysseus – much loved by the gods – was visited by Hermes. (Do you begin to see the connections?) The messenger god carried more than just a message this time, however. He warned Odysseus that Circe would tempt him and would try to lie naked with him. More, Hermes told the mighty Odysseus that he must accept the enchantress’s offer. She is a goddess, after all, and cannot be refused. But his real warning concerned what Circe would do after the act of love.

  “She will unman you and make a pet of you, as she has done with the others,” Hermes predicted.

  But the god had come prepared to save Odysseus, just as the hero readied to save his men.

  From the ground, Hermes pulled forth a magical plant. While its root was a thing of shadows, its flower was as white as milk. The gods name it Moly, a strange name, but the flower itself is strange: no mortal may pluck it from the dirt.

  “Let this be a talisman to protect you from her evils,” Hermes declared as he gifted the herb.

  Thus prepared, Odysseus made his way to Circe’s house and yelled for her, as the others had done. She invited him inside and presented him with a throne of silver and gems to sit upon. Unlike the others, however, he was given Circe’s own golden goblet to drink from; its contents undoubtedly mixed with a drug. However, the Moly prevented her potion from hexing Odysseus, and he jumped from the intricately wrought chair with his sword raised.

  Circe cried, “Who are you that can drink this and not be bewitched?”

  Goddess-born, her thoughts soon cleared, and she knew him to be the great Greek hero.

  “The Radiant One Hermes told me to expect you. Come, Odysseus, let us trust each other with embraces and lovemaking.”

  After he made her promise to leave him unharmed, the goddess and the hero made love. While they lay upon her bed, four handmaidens, Nymphs who had risen from the springs and emerged from the groves, bristled about. One covered the chairs with cloths of crimson, while the other set up tables with baskets of bread and cheese. Another poured wine, while the fourth readied a steaming bath in a massive bronze tub. Once their lovemaking had ended, Circe bathed Odysseus, who had long been in travel. Fatigue lifted from his body as her hands spilled water over him. Once the bath was complete and the man restored to full health, she oiled him with a pleasant-smelling rub and dressed him in the finest of tunics.

  Yet Circe noticed that he was still not content, even seated once more on the fine throne.

  “There will be no treachery,” she told him. “I have sworn a great oath and will not break it.”

  Ever the leader, Odysseus replied, “What kind of man would I be to eat and drink while my friends do not have liberty?”

  After his protests, Circe walked to the sties and touched each with her wand. Soon after, they changed from swine back to man, although now they were younger and more handsome and robust than ever before.

  For the rest of the year, Odysseus and all of his men, even those who had stayed on the ship, lived upon the island with Circe. They feasted each night on wine and meat, reveling in a life without strife or battle. Odysseus, unsurprisingly, slept each night in Circe’s bed until they departed onto another adventure.

  Without the Moly, however, the story might have ended far differently.

  And, now, thanks to Toby, I had my own version of the flower. However, do not let that fool you into thinking of me as some kind of hero. That honor has never been allowed.

  4 Days until I Do

  “What about soft curls that tumble across your shoulders? The length and thickness of your hair would work really well with such a look.”

  Toby had gone to pick up more flowers, so I was alone with the hair stylist, a man that he had recommended, but I had never met. Often, I hide behind Toby and allow him to suggest what would look best, except for the gown, which was my choice fully.

  Now, without him here, I had to openly disagree with Raul, and I meekly told him that I wanted to wear my hair in an updo.

  “How so?” he asked as he combed through my tresses.

  After a deep breath during which I attempted to remain still, I reminded Raul that I would be wearing a tiara.

  “Yes, I remember. You brought it with you, right?”

  As I nodded, he paused his brushing. “Let me see it. We need to put it in place and work around it.”

  From the satchel that I had carried inside, I pulled out a silvery box and set it on my lap. The tiara had taken longer to find than the dress. For weeks I searched for one online after realizing that what I wanted was nowhere to be found around Columbus. Locating the Greek key pattern had not come easily, although I had found several that were composed of crystals and jewels and meant to resemble royal, diamond ones. What I desired was more akin to what I once wore: made of supple gold and etched with the continuous line of a repeated motif. Finally, I had found one at an online retailer that specialized in Orthodox jewelry.

  The diadem was not a costume piece. It was not made to be worn with those cheap robes you find everywhere in the weeks before Halloween. This was a delicate, handcrafted, gold-plated crown.

  When I lifted it from the box, Raul gasped.

  “That was not what I was expecting at all. Isn’t your gown white?”

  Raul made no attempt to hide his disdain.

  “Did Toby not tell you of the theme?” I asked, nearly stuttering the question.

  “He mentioned something about how you’re a photographer of ancient statues and that the wedding will reflect that.”

  His words still sounded as if they had been dipped in salt, but I did not react sharply. When he motioned for me to hand him the diadem, I did, and waited for his inspection to end.

  With a sigh of acceptance, he said, “It is beautiful in its simplicity.”

  “This is the type that you wear more as a headband than as a crown,” he added.

  As he handed it back to me, Raul’s voice shifted as new inspiration struck.

  “And you’ll be in some local magazines?”

  That quickly, as if the Aurae had shifted the winds, I became Raul’s new favorite pet.

  “So let’s curl your hair first. From there, I will work on some simple buns and braids. The front will stay simple, so no bangs and no tendrils hanging down or anything like that. We’ll let the tiara be the focal point. But the back is where I will work my magic with an intricate pattern that weaves the curls together and echoes the pattern on the tiara.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I agreed.

  And it did. The one-inch wide diadem would rest just above my forehead (and the faded scar of my earlier punishment), snuggled into loose curls that had been pulled tightly into a chignon or braided updo. With each day, I accepted my fate more. As a re
sult, I looked more like I once had. For the wedding, I would give a glimpse to those in attendance of that woman, the one that few remembered in these modern times.

  That night, William and I sat across from each other and grabbed a late dinner at an Italian restaurant a block from our house. But he did not know me and never would. However, he was making good on his promise to take a few days off and would not be going into work the next morning Both of us were drinking more than normal, although I hardly knew what his normal was those days since he spent so many evenings elsewhere. I remember what I wore because he complimented me. The day had been unseasonably cool for September so I wore a taupe blazer overtop a snug-fitting black dress. My hair, still curly from my hours at the salon, fell in large waves, big and bouncy from so many styling products.

  “I like your hair like that. It looks like you just rolled out from underneath me.”

  Of course I laughed. How could I not? You will not find many men more charming than William. He has mastered the art that many fail at: mixing flirtation with enough sincerity that you believe everything he says. In addition, he had figured out how to split his personality. In public, with cameras on him or jurors watching him, or donors judging him, William stood tall, smiling and respectable, good-natured and honorable. In private, he took that mask off with unscarred fingers. In the beginning, I thought he replaced that mask with another, one that allowed him to engage in acts of violence and depravity. Once he removed that mask of shadows, he was no longer that man.