Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  A strange thing happened to Aertes’ face. As I spoke, I watched it darken, until he was scowling openly. He put down the goblet quickly. ‘Lady Circe, I don’t think you realise that, when I perform, I am held in the spirit of my art. I transcend the mundane world, swept aloft to the realms where the gods walk. My mind soars in beatific bliss, as the words fall like gems from my lips! There is no consideration of inconsequential, petty issues!’

  ‘Forgive me; I only wondered,’ I said, pleased at his irritation.

  ‘Then I hope I have dispelled your silly ideas! When I perform here for your people, take a look at their faces! Pay attention to their rapt contemplation of my words! Will they be thinking of trivial things, of animals and unwashed dishes and aching feet? No, I think not! They will be transported upon the wings of my oratory.’

  ‘It sounds enchanting,’ I said. ‘Indeed, from this moment forth, I shall regard each performer I meet with a new and deferential eye. I had no idea such lofty elements were involved in the act of reciting poetry, or lines of plays. Indeed, I feel inordinately educated! Thank you, Lord Aertes.’

  He flexed his shoulders, attempting to calm himself down. I sincerely had not expected so fiery a response. How gratifying. ‘One thing I shall pray for,’ I said, steepling my fingers against my lips, and gazing at him with apparent reverence.

  ‘And what is that?’ he asked.

  ‘That, in the midst of your performance, you do not recall this conversation.’

  He smiled a little, tightly. ‘That is hardly likely.’

  ‘Good. I would hate for you, in the midst of your transportation, to be brought down from the realms of the gods. It might mar the performance.’

  ‘Lady Circe, I am a seasoned professional,’ he said. ‘There is no danger of my being distracted during a performance.’

  Before the recital, I made my way to Hecate’s fane, my place of private devotion. It is a short walk’s distance from the palace, nestled in a grove of cypress trees, one of Her sacred plants. It was not Her time, because the moon was waxing full, but I still sought to invoke Her distant presence, burning a dish of sandalwood chips and dried mint, lubricated by the resin of the cypress. Prostrating myself before Her cruel countenance, I called Her presence into me. ‘Dark Lady, occupy my flesh this night,’ I implored. ‘Lend to me Your shady powers!’

  The fane was silent, but for the spitting of the cypress resin as it burned. It seemed a black wing was cast over everything, eclipsing all but the eager hearts of the flames of the charcoal-powdered candles burning beside the statue. I felt Her there, hanging in the shadows, and among the thick spiders’ webs of the blackened rafters above. Perhaps She was affronted I had made devotions to fair Dionysus these past few days, but I hoped She understood my intention, which was ultimately of Her design. ‘The man seeks to disempower Your handmaidens,’ I whispered. ‘I would avenge this abuse!’

  At these words, I felt Her approach me. If I opened my eyes, I would have been able to see Her dark hand extended to touch me. A black flame ignited in my heart and it seemed, behind my closed lids, as if the whole fane was suddenly alight with deep red flames. The candles roared and spat above me, the incense filled my body with a potent, earthy scent. For a few moments, I too was transported to the realm of gods, but my performance was yet to come.

  The winding path up from the village was filled with people making their way to my palace. Torches flickered and sizzled through the night, voices were raised in cheery anticipation of the celebration ahead. Muffled and disguised by a heavy black cloak, I entered the building through a rear entrance as if I was a servant, and hurried to the rooms on an upper storey that overlooked the bedecked yard. Already it was teeming with noisy peasants; herders who had been drawn down from the higher slopes by the promise of free wine, villagers in their colourful best clothes, vintners from further round the coast. It seemed Loxos had spread the word efficiently and nearly every occupant of my little isle had converged on the palace that night.

  Lamb carcasses were turning on spits over a fire near to the gates, beside trestles laden with Baucis’ delicious fare. Crones in clean robes were stationed behind the tables, ready to serve the gathering with food. Huge pitchers of wine sweated in ranks along the wall, and through the open shutters, I could see my balcony further along was festooned with flowers, the couch upon it spread with fleeces for my comfort.

  In the centre of the yard, a raised platform had been constructed, from where Aertes would present his entertainment. Loxos was already distributing cups of wine to the crowd, so that everybody would be in a relaxed and cheerful mood by the time the performance began. A few of Aertes’ creatures were posturing beside the fire, although I knew the majority of them were presently engaged in preparing their lord’s costume for the evening, fawning over him in that singularly tedious, grovelling manner employed solely by youthful males in the service of a man they admire. Soon, the gathering would expect me to present myself above them, but I wanted Aertes out before them first.

  Loxos had been instructed to assume the role of Master of Ceremonies and, after a suitable time, when it seemed everyone who had decided to attend had arrived, he hopped up onto the raised platform in the centre of the yard. Everyone turned towards him expectantly, and the tiresome old goat spent several minutes in jocular repartee with them, before he must have sensed my critical scrutiny and sobered himself enough to make a dignified yet flowery introduction of Aertes.

  At that point, I flung off my cloak and made haste to the room which led to the balcony. I hid among the drapes before venturing outside and watched Aertes emerge from a doorway opposite. He looked magnificent; his hair plaited with glossy ropes of ivy, his robe of snowy white, edged with a discreet yet stylish border design of heavy gold thread. One shoulder was bare and, in the torchlight, his skin glowed tawny, fitting his bones with svelte and supple tension. I half expected his retinue to come after him, licking the ground where his feet had trod. It gratified me to notice he flicked a quick, nervous glance at the balcony and seemed a trifle surprised to find it empty.

  As he alighted upon the platform, many in the crowd – already familiar with his work because of his recent local performances – began to cheer and clap their hands together over their heads. Aertes puffed up with arrogant vanity like a sail full of wind and bowed to them, holding out his arms, his hair falling forward like ropes of dark gold. Someone besotted with the man might have regarded him as an incarnation of Apollo. I, thankfully free of such fancies, saw only the monstrous love Aertes reserved for himself. He glowed with it, and the feeling was merely intensified by the adoration of his audience.

  Sensing the moment right, I glided through the drapes and stood against the balcony. Picking up a spray of blossom, I tossed it down to land at Aertes’ feet, thankful that, as a child, my propensity for injuring servants’ brats with hurled stones had bequeathed me such an accurate aim.

  Aertes, seemingly already engrossed in performance, picked up the blossom with a misty eye and held it to his nose, gazing at me in apparent veneration. The crowd all made nauseating cooing noises, so that I had to gesture abruptly for Aertes to begin his recital.

  I have to admit, he was really rather accomplished. To prepare himself, he walked with bowed head up and down the platform, while a few of his followers strummed on lyres to invoke the correct atmosphere. One of the boys began to sing sweetly and, as one, the crowd was transported to some distant field, where asphodels bloomed beneath the moon, and shadowy, rustling trees moved restlessly at the corners of vision.

  As the voice died down to a whisper and the lyres merely insinuated a plaintive threnody into the night, Aertes began to speak. His voice rang out into the scented darkness, his body swayed like that of a rearing serpent. He leaned towards the crowd, arms extended, his fingers clawing their hearts to his. He spoke of love among the asphodels, the forbidden love of a young priestess for a wild hunter. His voice invoked the trembling nuances of timid obsession, the heavy
scent of the flowers, the still, humid presence of the night. The words effortlessly conjured up those precious, sacred feelings of a young girl’s first love, when all is a terrible yet fascinating secret. A woman could not have composed the piece with more accuracy. In my heart, a wistful poignancy reanimated forgotten feelings; the breathless expectancy of youth. I closed my eyes and lay back among the fleeces, listening to this intoxicating syrup of words that Morpheus himself could not have drooled more convincingly.

  The relationship he narrated was doomed of course, and as Aertes’ voice rolled ever louder over the crowd, he invoked the agony of grief, anxiety and guilt. I felt the angry, confused frustration of the nubile priestess, as her older guardians discovered the illicit affair. I clenched my fists and raged with her as she argued with their passionless resolve. I wept with her as the order was given for soldiers to be sent out to hunt down the importunate hunter and slay him. I could have lived it all, lying there among my fleeces. I could have let Aertes finish his performance and leapt to my feet as the crowd applauded. I could have showered him with blossoms, my adulation, my respect.

  But, Dark Hecate was in my soul.

  As I gasped upon my couch, she prodded me from within with a stiff and icy finger. ‘What is this girlish fluttering of the heart?’ she demanded. ‘Wake up, Circe, and go about your business, or I’ll see to it you’re punished sorely! Let another man into your soul and you risk the true destruction. Wake up! Get on with it!’

  I felt as if someone had doused me with a pitcherful of cold water and all at once I emerged, almost spluttering, from my delirium. Below, Aertes continued to exhort the crowd, and they, hypnotised by his story, stood around with mouths agape. The performance was reaching its climax, that of agonising grief, lost love, blood and death. All was silent, but for Aertes’ hypnotic voice, which was descending in timbre, unravelling the black threads of his tale. And I, reclining, extended my long legs to rest my feet upon the balcony. With one sandaled foot, I furiously scratched at the other, until the thin, soft leather gave way. The sandal fell over the edge of the balcony and, because of the hush, made quite a satisfying slap as it hit the ground. Aertes’ eyes jerked briefly upwards and, using the moment wisely, for I knew it would be brief, I leaned forward and rubbed my feet as if they pained me. Aertes caught my eye. I smiled, and steepled my fingers beneath my lips. ‘I hope you do not recall this conversation...’

  He could not help it. My gesture reminded him of what I’d said, and his voice faltered. I rested my elbows on the balcony, and directed the full force of Hecate’s malignancy in his direction. Do not continue, I urged him. Lose the thread. Forget the words. The expression he sent back to me was one of anguish, even of disappointment and regret. I knew that a host of images were tumbling through his mind; images of aching feet, unwashed dishes, animals and faithless boys. His mouth worked on silence. He could not speak. The crowd began to murmur.

  Fortunately for Aertes, one of his catamites had the wit to strike up a doleful song, and after a few moments, the poet recomposed himself and ended the recitation. But the magic had bled from it, and the applause, though loud, lacked the real emotion I knew Aertes expected as his fee. I had seen enough. Standing up, I arranged my robes, and went back into the palace. If Aertes glanced at the balcony again, he would find it empty.

  At midnight, he came to my chamber. I was waiting for him. The incense was lit, the room full of the scent of the cypress. He flung open the door and stood facing me at the threshold. ‘I saw you,’ he said, in a low, hoarse voice, pointing at me like some vengeful spirit. ‘I saw you crouched there on your balcony like a serpent drenched in blood!’

  I laughed in a low, musical tone. ‘Blood? I think not. Tears, maybe.’

  Aertes made an ugly snorting sound and gestured stiffly with his hands. ‘I know your kind! She-dogs! The first requisite of your nighted breed is a complete lack of any natural feeling! You are scarcely human! Like a ghoul feasting on the flesh of the dead, you suck the very substance from men’s souls, seeking to bloat yourself with those finer attributes which you lack. You mock life! I despise you!’

  ‘An impassioned speech, Lord Aertes, perhaps more so than the conclusion of your recital tonight!’

  He pressed his fingers against his brow. ‘I curse my foolishness! To think I felt sympathy for your circumstances!’ He lowered his hands and stared at me steadily. His eyes were almost golden in the dim light. ‘I realise I have been an unwitting component in some malignant scheme of yours,’ he said. ‘I hope it gave you pleasure, Lady Circe.’

  ‘It did,’ I said, quite simply.

  I had ruined him, taken from him the soul of his art. I knew he would never perform again, not without fear. And yet, his arrogance demanded he should seek to retain some dignity.

  ‘I pity you,’ he said pompously. ‘You lead a desolate life. You have suffered at the hands of men, perhaps, and I had hoped we could be friends. When I saw you step out from your balcony curtains tonight, I had resolved to take you away from this island, take you with me when I leave.’

  ‘Pah!’ I spat. ‘You dare to imagine I would concede to such a plan? I do not need rescuing, poet, and certainly not by you! What conceit!’

  Aertes continued to stare and I was uncomfortably reminded of black Ishti’s eyes as he meditated upon the secret arcana to which all cats are privy. Then, he shook his head. ‘I was wrong about you. I believed you to be an intelligent yet restricted soul, someone whose only sourness was lonely pain. I know now this is not so. As you sought to trivialise my performance tonight, I realise your whole existence consists of petty spite and paltry malevolence. You are like an evil little girl, pulling the tails of her pets to hear them yelp with pain, to see how they wriggle. How ignorant you are! Don’t you realise I am beyond the touch of your sick iniquities?’

  ‘So beyond them, you felt moved to come and scream upon my threshold!’ I smiled calmly, although my heart had begun to race unaccountably. There was a disturbing tremble in my limbs. I needed a weapon, oh how sorely I needed a weapon, and yet my sharpest darts, my words, all seemed to have fallen from my tongue, leaving me as an empty quiver filled only with the vanished prospect of injury.

  Aertes drew in his breath, folding his arms. His skin had the soft velvet bloom of fur.

  I sniffed and turned away. ‘Aertes, you are misguided. Stripping a woman of her magic, whatever her character, is no charitable or friendly act.’

  There was a brief silence, then his voice came, merely a whisper. ‘I cannot forgive you,’ he said. ‘I live for my art. It is my soul.’

  ‘Then the feeling is mutual. Yours is not the only art! You are a smug braggart!’ Did he also think he was the only one capable of hurling insult?

  Sadly, just as I seemed to be given a new quiver full of darts, he deprived me of continuing the assault.

  ‘We will be leaving with the tide,’ he said. ‘I thank you, my lady. You have given me much material for the major epic I am composing, although the manner in which I acquired it brings me sorrow.’

  ‘Good speed, then. May your journey be... safe,’ I said, refusing to look at him, although I felt him hovering at the door. He did not want to leave, I am sure. ‘Please, do not linger, Aertes. After all, you must be wanted elsewhere...’

  ‘Of that, you can be sure!’ he said. ‘I realise I was wrong to dismiss the gorgons of legend as being entirely fictional, Lady Circe. You have taught me that much, because they live, at least, in you. Long may your royal father keep you chained to this rock. You deserve no other accommodation!’

  With that, the door slammed. He left me.

  And now I stand beside the waves, Helen pressed against me, and together we throw the vial of blood into the water. Aertes sailed away last night, but even so, I know his spirit, his grovelling dog-like spirit, haunts the curtains of my chambers. He will linger there for eternity, whining and snuffling. His vain words did not fool me; I know he lied. He’ll never perform again. He won’t! He can�
�t! My magic is too potent. He is a dog now, craven and whipped into submission. Didn’t he say himself I turned men into beasts?

  Let him think that distance weakens my influence if he likes. Time will prove I’m right. One evening, in the exotic city of a distant land, beneath the light of a softer moon, among the summer, moth-dusted blooms of flowering trees, he will attempt to perform for an audience again. I can see him now: his proud beauty, his gleaming skin, his hair... At the climax of his recital, my face will come to him, and his pretty words will blow right away from his mouth like scented petals on the wind. Like a dog, he will court praise he no longer deserves; tail wagging sheepishly, dog-eyes blinking in a humiliating search for love and adoration. My face will come him. He will remember.

  Men are all fools. I have proved them so. I have power here on my island.

  Such a Nice Girl

  The residents of Willowdale Farm estate were united in the opinion that Emma Tizard was such a nice girl. Nothing bad could possibly have happened to her: she was so sensible. She never walked out at night alone, never invited strangers beyond her security chain and would never, ever dream of stopping her smart new car on a deserted stretch of road at night. The residents decided her mysterious disappearance could only be due to some straightforward, rational explanation.

  A family emergency perhaps? She had never spoken of family to her neighbours but she must have some relations knocking about somewhere. She certainly didn’t give off the air of someone who was alone in the world. Emma Tizard was always smiling and polite, elegantly dressed and immaculately groomed. People supposed none of them could really claim to know her because of a natural, sweet reticence on her part. She was shy. On weekends, she liked to work in solitude. Not even the sourest female voice on the estate gave tongue to the detriment of Emma Tizard. That alone was strangely unnatural.