Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  I shrugged. ‘Some wounds take their time to heal.’

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  At that moment, Baucis scurried in with a retinue of hags to serve us our repast. Despite appearances, her coven are accomplished cooks. Denying me stimulation of more intriguing kinds, my father saw to it that my palate was satisfied at least.

  ‘So, tell me,’ I said as I neatly removed the legs and wings of my small, roasted bird, ‘what of these other fascinating goddesses you have investigated?’

  He laughed in a vaguely apologetic manner. ‘You want stories? Well, I have plenty!’ He rested his elbows on the table, one hand waving the leg of a bird like a baton to emphasise his speech. ‘Have you heard of the Siren Sisters of Anthemusa?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘These ladies are priestesses of the river god Achelus and are reputedly monsters; half woman and half bird. Their temple stands at the place where the river flows into the sea. Their vows to the god insist on chastity and, bitter at this restriction, it is said they vent their frustrated wrath upon the male species by crouching on the rocks outside their temple at sundown. Here, they play upon lyres and double flutes, singing songs of lust and desire; their voices are reputed to be most enchanting. Men on passing ships overhear the songs and, espying the limpid maidens draped over the rocks, believe them to be hierodules offering their services to the worshippers of Aphrodite. Naturally, the men hurry towards land in order to take advantage of the situation and inflict advances upon the priestesses. Whereupon, male priests, espying what they believe to be severe violation of the sacred virgins, rush out of the temple and slay the importunate wooers immediately. The Siren sisters continue to sing while this slaughter is underway, and some say there is a note of triumph in their warblings.’

  ‘A pretty story,’ I said, thinking I could do with such company myself to draw some entertainment to my rock. ‘And you have met these bloody ladies?’

  Aertes grinned. ‘Yes. They were, as priestesses should be, retiring and modest creatures.’

  ‘And which half of them was avian?’ I inquired.

  He shook his head. ‘Neither. They wore sumptuous cloaks made entirely of the feathers of swans which, when they made their evening devotions, they raised about them with their arms. The cloaks did resemble wings, I suppose, but the ladies’ limbs were entirely human and not one of them had a tail!’

  ‘How grossly disappointing!’ I said. ‘So none of it was true?’

  Aertes shrugged. ‘Well, one of the priestesses did tell me that another of her sisterhood had indeed once sat upon the rocks beyond the temple and sung pretty songs into the sea breeze. A stray fisherman had been attracted by the lovely voice and had come to investigate.’ He sighed. ‘Human nature being what it is, the two unfortunates fell in love. When their alliance became news to the priests – which was inevitable, given that the girl’s sisters must have envied her relationship – they killed the fisherman. And that gave rise to the legend.’

  I pulled a sad face. ‘Is that all? How lamentable!’

  Aertes gestured with open hands. ‘You see? But perhaps you have more in common with the lady Atalanta, daughter of the King of Arcadia. Her father never forgave the fact she was born female, apparently, and sent his hunters to expose the babe on Mount Parthenius. Luckily, one of the men’s wives had recently lost a child and was fretful and milk-bound because of it. He took the girl home and the couple raised her as theirs. As a young woman, Atalanta sorely resented the treatment meted out to her by her parent and took solace in hiding among the rocks and trees of the mountain so that she could fire arrows at passing courtiers. Legend has it that she was an accomplished murderer of men. Despite these unfriendly tendencies, her father eventually recognised her as his heir and wanted to marry her off. It is said Atalanta would only submit to marrying the man who could beat her in a race and, being a fleet athlete, was never beaten. Apparently, all the failed suitors were despatched by her in a grisly manner. At length, a man came to Arcadia equipped with golden apples, supposedly given to him by a goddess. By dropping these glittering fruits in Atalanta’s path, he tempted her to pause in her running, thereby winning the race and claiming her hand in marriage!’

  ‘What a shame!’ I said, hoping she went on to murder the cunning beast.

  Aertes shrugged. ‘Recently, I went to Arcadia and met the lady. She now rules there, a stately matron, with her husband. I asked her about the murders – especially those of prospective suitors – at which she laughed. She admitted having once caused a superficial cut on the head of one of her father’s courtiers, however. As to her husband’s deception, she confessed that she found him attractive from the start and merely used the apples as an excuse to lose the race. I found her a very kind and sweet-natured creature. She reminisces wistfully of being rather boyish in her youth...’ He leaned back in his chair, blinking languidly into the soft lamplight. ‘I have a host of stories such as these, and have found that every one of them has a fairly mundane explanation. It seems that an attractive woman of noble birth only has to have a small tantrum, or a fit of pique, to be elevated to the status of goddess. I suppose fabulists need these legends, and people find their tales more interesting if they are based on fact, but in reality, there is never much truth in them.’

  I grimaced. ‘So now you hope to deflate my legend, do you? It might be difficult. I did kill a man.’

  Aertes raised a finger and stared at me smugly. ‘Yet you yourself denied ever having turned men into beasts! That’s one rumour cankered already!’

  Anger was building up within me. Not just for myself, but for all these other women whom Aertes was determined to reveal as ordinary and dull, destroying their magic, which was theirs by right. How dare he! Resolve settled within me; I made a vow to veiled Hecate that this insulting little scrap of humanity would not leave my island in the same frame of mind as he approached it! Let him take on the might of female mystery. He thought to find a whinnying criminal, racked by shame and misery. What he had found was the very thing he thought could not exist. Only he did not know it yet.

  The following day, Aertes set off as he had promised to explore the island. I paced up and down my chambers, trying to think of a way to penetrate his armour of protection, his scornful disbelief. All my attempts to attract him seemed to have no effect, and I knew, having heard his disrespectful ‘stories’, that any mask I fashioned to wear in his presence, no matter how mysterious and alluring, would fail to impress him in the manner I desired. His smug confidence infuriated me immensely.

  Before he left, I inspected his retinue from behind my chamber drapes. What I saw resembled nothing more than a tumble of young pups; boys of impoverished noble families, no doubt, that could not afford to send their sons on expeditions with a more prestigious figure. It seemed incontrovertible to me that, having this giggling troupe of Ganymedes about him, he was impervious to feminine wiles. Perhaps a fatal dish of local banes served to his puppies might discommode him in a satisfying manner, but that plan was distressingly crude and ultimately would not directly affect the man himself.

  Depressed by a heavy, black humour, I whistled to Ishti and set off for my favourite haunt among the sea rocks. It is a place where I always formulate my most effective schemes.

  As usual, Mad Helen was sitting on the rocks, humming to herself and stirring a pool full of weed with her toes. ‘Good day, my lady,’ she said, smiling at me widely, with genuine welcome. A little warmth came into my frozen heart at the sight of it. I sighed and sat down beside her.

  ‘Not a good day, Helen, my dear,’ I said.

  The girl frowned. ‘Oh, my lady, what ails you?’

  ‘The ship that sailed into our landing bay two days ago...’

  ‘The Persephone!’ Helen interrupted. ‘Yes, the beautiful man who owns her came to the village yesterday. He told us funny stories and sang a few songs. What a lovely voice he has! And what a gorgeous face! He sang of distant lands, where ladies clad in the feathers o
f swans...’

  ‘Vile beast!’ I cried, interrupting her recitation of Aertes’ impertinent story, which I simply could not endure to hear again.

  At my outburst, Helen’s smiled hovered uncertainly around her lips. I realised she must be quite taken with Aertes. I laid a gentle hand upon her arm. ‘You do trust me, my dear, don’t you?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Without question, my lady.’

  I closed my eyes and sighed. ‘I am relieved to hear that. Listen to me: the poet Aertes is a cruel and dangerous man. Do not be deceived by his pretty little tales and gauche cavortings.’

  ‘Dangerous in what way, my lady?’ Her eyes had gone quite round.

  I leaned close to her ear. ‘He ruins women!’ I hissed. ‘He has come here to destroy me!’

  ‘No!’ Helen gasped. ‘How awful! What will you do?’

  I shrugged. ‘As yet, a stratagem eludes me...’

  ‘Could you not attract the attention of one of your father’s sea patrols?’ she asked. ‘And let them deal with the scoundrel in the proper manner?’

  I shook my head. ‘You do not understand, my dear. The destruction he wreaks is that of severing a lady’s cord with her goddess, leaving her alone and soulless in the world. And I suspect there are few men of my acquaintance who would willingly interfere with such a plan. A woman without her goddess is a tractable creature, easily controlled. This is a woman’s matter, and only women may take action against him.’

  Helen’s eyes had now become quite dark with passion. I saw an underground light in their velvet depths that reminded me of a spear of starlight falling through a cavern roof into a still pool. Goddess light. She was thinking deeply, I could tell, and for that reason, I kept my silence to facilitate her musings.

  ‘Last evening, before he returned to your palace for supper, he performed for the entire village,’ she said.

  I nodded encouragingly, aware that some deep intuition was struggling up through Helen’s mind into the light.

  She looked at me with earnest eyes. ‘He spoke with such ardour! He strode about in the dust, throwing out his arms, grimacing, mimicking a weeping woman, talking in a voice like a child. These were all characters in his epic. Should I have given that performance, it would have been absurd, and made people laugh. Aertes has a gift. He can make you believe you really are listening to a woman, or a child. And the truth is that it really is vital to him that his audience become enthralled by his performance. When he wants to make them laugh, he can, but laughter intruding into one of his tragedies would be, for him...’ –she smiled – ‘... a tragedy!’

  I squeezed her arm. ‘I feel your instincts have just spoken to me, and that they carry a message from my goddess, shadowy Hecate!’

  She screwed up her nose. ‘It was just an impression of mine. Perhaps of use, perhaps not.’

  I mulled over Helen’s words in the privacy of my chambers. My intuition told me that within them lay the seed to a promising plan. Aertes was due back at the palace in a couple of days. I called my steward to me, a withered, half-crippled veteran of my father’s army, and instructed him to deck the palace with garlands, to sweep out the enormous yard behind the building, where empty stables gaped and chickens ran about without restraint. ‘Scatter some sweet straw, for which I give you leave to barter with the local herders,’ I said. ‘String lanterns round the walls, and transform this place into an area fit for theatrical displays.’

  The steward bowed. ‘Certainly, my lady. Might I ask whether you intend to entertain here at the palace?’

  ‘Indeed, Loxos! We have a poet among us, whose performances, I understand, are superb. My staff, and the gentle people of the village, lead a life bereft of whimsical distractions. I have a mind to host a celebration for their benefit. Have your menials convey my tidings to all upon the island. Upon his return, I shall implore the gallant Aertes to indulge my whim. I will suggest that three nights hence, he should perform his most rigorous tragedy, which perhaps he might be civil enough to follow with a few conceits of a lighter nature.’ Warming to the idea, I arose from my couch, and paraded around in front of the stunned Loxos, throwing out my arms, my robe aswirl. ‘We shall have music and dancing! Wine shall be drunk in quantity beneath Selene’s light! Have the shrine of Dionysus cleared of rubbish, light the votive lamps therein, and adorn the god’s image in garlands of the vine!’

  Loxos appeared quiet overwhelmed by my enthusiasm. A hectic flush bloomed along his ancient, raddled cheeks, and he bobbed out of the room in an unprecedented lively manner.

  I was unsure how the spirit of the god Dionysus might react to my reanimating his rather neglected icon. His little shrine had once been frequented regularly by the family who used to live upon the island but now it was no longer visited, never filled with the songs of adoration and sacrificial offerings so essential to divine well-being. At home, I had once been an avid devotee but, devoid of Dionysian delights as my existence now was, I had little occasion and even less desire to confront this particular god. Contemplation of his attributes would only serve to remind me of the paucity of my social activities. Hence, shunned in favour of the charcoaled walls of Hecate’s fane, the shrine had been untended and left open to the elements. The nose of the statue inside had been broken off by a flying tree-branch during a winter storm, and its fingers were badly crumbled, but I hoped the god would forgive me this delinquency. An attempt to invoke his ecstatic influence could only prove beneficial to the coming event.

  Aertes returned in the afternoon, his advent heralded by a great deal of noise emitted by his bouncing followers. Spring seemed to have fallen in a soft, sweet haze over the palace while he’d been away. Already the air was scented with blossom and the heady fragrance of Dionysus’ incense – crushed ivy, pine resin and fennel seeds – floated through the chambers of my abode in a silvery mist. My servants had begun unaccountably to sing during their daily labours, and the ancients with which my father had equipped me had adopted an almost jaunty gait. Baucis’ crones were already engaged in preparing a splendid feast for the coming celebration and the odours of their efforts mingled pleasingly with the offertory fumes.

  Aertes found me on the sea terrace, where I sat with a loom, engaged in what he would see to be a proper womanly pursuit. The loom had been left behind by one of the palace’s previous occupants. Scant hours before, I had had Baucis lug it out of one of the attics. A quick dusting down and a brief rub with beeswax had restored its wooden frame, and Baucis had appropriated some yarns for me to tangle on it.

  Aertes came marching towards me, his hair tied back, his head crowned with a garland of twisted ivy leaves – sadly omenic, perhaps – which his puppies had obviously woven for him.

  ‘The palace is decked as if for a wedding!’ he exclaimed. ‘To what happy occasion have I returned?’

  I smiled at him graciously. ‘That, my lord Aertes, rests entirely with you. I have heard talk of your bewitching performances in the village and wondered whether you would endow us with a major recital here at the palace.’

  He appeared rather surprised. ‘I cannot say this was expected, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you cannot comply.’ I stood up and approached him, even dared to place light fingers on his arm. ‘It is not for myself but for my people here on the island,’ I said in a confidential tone. ‘I have a retinue of thirty staff, all of whom are, through no fault of their own, in exile as I am. All I wish is to provide for them an evening’s entertainment. We shall invite the local people, and have a lively celebration of your visit.’

  Aertes sighed. ‘Well, you certainly exhibit the caprices of the female spirit, lady Circe. Before I left the palace, I could have sworn you’d strike me dead before you’d show interest in my work. I seem to recall you had little sympathy with my themes.’

  I raised my arms, turned away from him, shrugged, looked over my shoulder. ‘I was impressed by what I heard of your performances in the village, as I said.’ Crossing to the pale st
one wall, I sat down, supporting myself on straight arms in a girlish manner. ‘Aertes, at home, I drowned in entertainment, music, dance and song. Here... I am shrivelling up into a sour and joyless hag. Indulge me; bring a little life to these empty, sorrowing walls.’

  Aertes gave me a sidelong glance, and my breath was stilled in my chest. Would he give in to my demand? I hoped his egotistic desire to posture and display himself might silence his perplexity at my apparent change of heart. He looked around himself, at the ropes of spring flowers draping the terrace walls, the dishes of crushed herbs smouldering beside the door. ‘Well, you seem confident of my co-operation, having already done all this work; I can hardly refuse, can I?’

  I exhaled gratefully. ‘Thank you. I’ve arranged everything for tomorrow night. Will that provide adequate time for preparation?’

  ‘I know all my work intimately; there is no need for rehearsal,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent!’ I said, standing up. ‘Would you take a little wine, lord Aertes?’

  He nodded and sat down upon the wall, while I busied myself filling a goblet from the flagon Baucis had left me.

  ‘One thing has always puzzled me,’ I said, as I handed him the wine. ‘Would you appease my curiosity and enlighten me?’

  He took a mouthful of the drink. ‘By all means.’

  I sat down beside him. ‘Well, having seen many poets, actors and musicians perform, I have regularly pondered about what it must be like standing up there before so many people.’

  ‘What do you mean, lady Circe? It is our way of life, our daily office.’

  ‘I mean, how does it really feel to have all those eyes centred upon you, hanging onto your every word, your every gesture? What do you think about? As you utter those words you know so intimately, what passes through your mind? Do you recall some menial uncompleted task half forgotten through the day? Do you think about how your feet are aching? Do you wonder whether anyone has fed your animals, or paid court to your charming followers? Please tell me, I am fascinated to know.’