Beyond the Odyssey

by Maz Evans

  Circe slammed the phone down. Her jet-black hair, cut into a square fringe, framed her pointed face, curling perfectly on top of her shoulders. Her eyes were almost black with make-up and her lips blood-red. A wooden kardia hung around her throat.

  ‘Zeus! Hypnos! Random Child!’ she panted in greeting, presenting her cheek for a kiss. ‘So great to see you – I’ll be with you in just one— What do you want?!’

  ‘Miss Circe – it’s The Sassy Sorceress – they want you to comment about allegations that your chicken nuggets are seventy per cent centaur meat.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ cried Circe. ‘Who blabbed? Tell them I’ll call them back. Now, Zeus, forgive me, so good to see you.’

  ‘You too, my dear. Looks like business is booming?’

  ‘Urgh – a little too booming,’ Circe sighed, blindly signing a piece of paper waved before her face by a wax penate. ‘One minute I’m making burgers to feed my boys and their friends. Next thing I know, there’s an insane demand for readily available cheap food with practically no nutritional value. Who knew? And now I’ve got a business empire on my hands. Anyway – what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well – we’re in a bit of a bind,’ said Zeus. ‘Our ship got a little blown off course and now we’re—’

  ‘Miss Circe, Miss Circe!’ a silver penate cried from across the kitchen. ‘It’s your sons’ school. Apparently Latinus’s lunch box wasn’t acceptable.’

  ‘What?’ she cried. ‘I followed all the rules! No sugar, no salt, no fat, no sweets, no crisps, no fizzy drinks.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the penate. ‘There wasn’t anything in it.’

  ‘Oh, I despair!’ cried Circe. ‘The joys of being a working mother . . . Now, you were saying . . .’

  ‘The thing is—’ Zeus began again.

  ‘Miss Circe, Miss Circe,’ cried a golden penate, holding another phone. ‘It’s the school again. Apparently Agrius wasn’t dressed in the right costume for his class assembly.’

  ‘Urgh – give it here,’ said Circe, snatching the phone to her ear. ‘Now listen to me. I am a sorceress so potent I have power over life and death. But let me tell you – no magic IN THE WORLD can conjure up a costume for “Dress Like a Kumquat Day” with less than twelve hours’ notice! OK?!’

  Elliot’s ears rang and his heart thundered. Power over life and death? Forget The Pearl. Circe sounded like his ticket to the Afterlife . . .

  ‘Um, Circe—’ he began.

  ‘Urgent email from your suppliers, Miss Circe,’ the wax penate shouted out. ‘They need your order for centaur guts – you’re running low on nuggets . . .’

  ‘Drat – that spreadsheet is at the office!’ cried Circe. ‘I’m trying to work a day a week from home. I find it really helps the work–life balance – massively improves the quality of family time.’

  ‘Circe, I was wondering—’ Elliot tried again.

  ‘Miss Circe, it’s the school. Again,’ called the silver penate.

  ‘WHAT IS IT NOW???!!!’ Circe cried, slamming her hands on the table and sending papers flying. ‘We made a replica of the Taj Mahal out of recycled toilet rolls, I filled in seventeen forms for them to go on a trip to the park next door, I’ve baked twelve dozen gluten-, nut- and dairy-free brownies shaped like DNA helices for the PTA, and this school year alone I have sewn name tapes in no fewer than 274 PE socks. What – what could I possibly have forgotten?!’

  ‘To pick up your kids,’ said the penate quietly. ‘School finished forty-five minutes ago . . .’

  ‘Dammit!’ shrieked Circe, reaching for her phone and knocking a cup of takeaway coffee all over her paperwork. ‘Noooooooo! It’s just all too much . . .’

  Elliot looked at the stressed witch. His hand went to his pocket.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing her Polyphemus’s fidget spinner. ‘I think you need this more than me.’

  Circe eyed the small piece of plastic curiously.

  ‘I hardly think this is going to help,’ she said, spinning the outer ring of the spinner. ‘I just . . . I just get so stressed out.’

  She spun the spinner again.

  ‘It’s like – between work and the family, I never get time for me any more,’ she said, balancing the spinner on her middle finger.

  ‘I really need your help,’ said Elliot. ‘I need your magic to reach the Afterlife . . .’

  ‘Magic?’ laughed Circe. ‘Magic? I’m a single mother running seven businesses and raising three sons! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR MAGIC!’

  ‘Look, we’ve clearly called at a bad time,’ said Zeus. ‘Perhaps we could help – let us go and get your sons from school. Then maybe we can talk in the morning?’

  ‘Thank you,’ sighed Circe, spinning the fidget spinner again and taking a deep breath. ‘And please – be my guests here tonight. I have plenty of room. Although I think I promised Teleganus a sleepover with his football team . . . And please, order all the takeaway you like. I never get time to cook.’

  ‘I’ll steer clear of the chicken nuggets if you don’t mind,’ said Elliot quietly.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Zeus. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks,’ sighed Circe, spinning the fidget spinner before picking up a coffee-soaked sheet of paper. ‘I’ll be back in the office tomorrow and I’ll get back on top of everything.’

  ‘Miss Circe?’ said a wax penate, running over with a diary. ‘Just to remind you there’s no school tomorrow – inset day . . .’

  As Elliot closed the door, he heard the sound of a witch’s head slamming repeatedly against the kitchen table.

  21. Fate Worse Than Death?

  He wasn’t sure whether it was the decent night’s sleep, the fact that he’d eaten two whole pepperoni pizzas for dinner, or the feeling that he was one step closer to finding Panacea’s potion, but as Elliot came downstairs on Tuesday morning, there was a very different, more positive vibe around Circe’s place.

  ‘Where are all the penates?’ he asked Virgo, who was sitting on the sofa chomping on a burger, staring into a portable Lotus device.

  ‘Dunno,’ she said, not moving.

  ‘Is Zeus around?’

  ‘Dunno,’ came Virgo’s reply.

  ‘Circe?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Elliot walked into the kitchen, shaking his head.

  When he opened the door, he worried for a moment that he’d wandered into the wrong house. Gone were the teams of penates, the paper-strewn desk, the laptops and the phones.

  Instead, there were yoga mats, crystals and incense burners.

  ‘Er . . . morning?’ he said into the smoky space.

  ‘Namaste,’ came a calm voice.

  ‘Circe?’ said Elliot. ‘Is that you?’

  He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the incense. There, standing on her head in the middle of the room with her feet pressed together, was Circe.

  ‘Um . . . are you OK?’ he asked.

  Circe came out of her pose and sat cross-legged on the mat.

  ‘I have never been better,’ she said, with her eyes closed, putting the palms of her hands together. ‘You have shown me the way.’

  ‘I . . . I did?’ said Elliot.

  ‘Yes, young mortal,’ said Circe, opening her eyes slowly and revealing what she held in the palm of her hand. ‘You have brought me peace.’

  ‘Er, the fidget spinner?’ said Elliot, looking at the small disc. He knew they really helped some people to calm down a bit. But this . . .

  ‘Yes, Elliot,’ said Circe, stretching her legs out into the splits. ‘I have finally found inner peace. I see a whole new path ahead.’

  ‘Right,’ puffed Zeus, bundling into the kitchen with three overflowing lunch boxes, a tennis racquet, violin, welly boots and a guinea pig. ‘I think I have everything the boys need for the childminder.’

  ‘Forget childminders,’ said Circe calmly. ‘From now on, I’ll be home-scho
oling the boys. I don’t want to miss out on these precious years.’

  ‘But . . . what about your businesses?’ said Elliot.

  ‘I’m closing them down,’ said Circe. ‘The boys and I will run organic smoothie bars at festivals. After I’ve finished training as a Pilates instructor.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Zeus. ‘Well . . . delighted to see you so happy.’

  ‘You have given me so much, young Elliot,’ said Circe. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘OK,’ said Elliot. ‘I really need to get to the Afterlife, to save my mum. Can you help me . . . die?’

  ‘You want some of my magic?’ said Circe.

  ‘Please,’ said Elliot. ‘Oh, and I want to live again afterwards. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Circe rising from the floor. ‘I need to rediscover my love of magic. According to The Seven Secrets of Witches’ Wellbeing, I should take at least twenty minutes of “me” time every day. And sacrifice five kittens every new moon, but I’m not sure how that sits with my newfound veganism. Follow me.’

  ‘Come on, Virgo,’ said Elliot.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Virgo, rising from the sofa without taking her eyes off the screen.

  ‘I’ll just get the boys some breakfast,’ said Zeus. ‘With you in a jiffy.’

  Circe led them downstairs into a cellar filled with magical equipment. Elliot looked around the dark space. Spell books, flasks, herbs and potions filled every corner. Now this was a witch’s house.

  ‘So,’ said Circe, pulling a spell book off the shelves. ‘Death is a tricky business. Particularly if you only want to do it part-time. Getting you to the Afterlife won’t be easy. Getting you back is even harder.’

  ‘So the Afterlife is another realm?’ said Elliot. ‘Like Elysium and the Underworld?’

  ‘No,’ said Circe, pulping some herbs with a pestle and mortar.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Virgo, not taking her eyes off her Lotus screen and opening another burger carton with her left hand.

  ‘Er – don’t you think you’ve had enough of those?’ said Elliot. It took a lot for him to judge – but that was Virgo’s third Maximus meal since breakfast. Which had also been a Maximus meal.

  ‘Dunno,’ droned Virgo, staring at her screen.

  ‘It’s not another realm,’ said Circe.

  ‘So . . . where is it?’ asked Elliot, all out of ideas.

  Circe threw a sparkling powder over her herbs, which immediately burst into green flames.

  ‘It’s . . . not another place,’ she began. ‘It’s just . . . a different way of experiencing life.’

  ‘I see,’ said Elliot. He didn’t really see at all.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Virgo.

  Elliot looked at Virgo again. Was she . . . putting on weight? Mum always said that a gentleman should never comment on a lady’s age or weight. But then, Virgo wasn’t really a lady. And he certainly wasn’t a gentleman.

  ‘You mortals are so obsessed with your bodies, yet you have no understanding of the soul,’ sighed Circe. ‘Why do you think that in billions of people, all made up of the same biological components, no two are alike?’

  ‘Because . . . um . . .’ Elliot had never really thought about it before.

  ‘Because of the soul,’ whispered Circe. ‘That unique spark that makes you – you. Bodies age and die. The soul never does. Long after your body is gone, your soul still remains.’

  ‘So where does it go?’ Elliot asked.

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Circe, pouring her herbs into a small black bag.

  ‘What do you mean, nowhere?’ said Elliot. ‘You just said it never dies.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Circe. ‘It just stays here.’

  ‘But . . . what about heaven?’ Elliot asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about any one religion yet. But he liked the idea that his nan and grandad were somewhere nice, somewhere there were lots of buttered crumpets, but no draughts.

  ‘Everyone has their own name for it,’ said Circe. ‘But the principle is the same. Your body goes, your soul stays. Simple.’

  ‘But that would mean that there are souls of the dead floating all around us?’ said Elliot, looking around nervously. ‘How come we can’t see them?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Circe, corking a flask and holding it up to the light. ‘That’s just it! Like I say. You need a different way of experiencing life. That is all death really is.’

  She handed Elliot her spell. Elliot looked at the dark herbs rustling in the bag, a single dot of light flickering around within. He accepted it nervously.

  ‘What will this do?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Oh, not much,’ said Circe breezily. ‘They’re the Herbs of Death. They’ll kill you.’

  ‘What!’ Elliot spluttered, handing the herbs back. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Only a bit,’ said Circe. ‘Just dead enough for you to visit the Afterlife.’

  Elliot hesitated. How dead was ‘just dead enough’? Could you be ‘too dead’?

  ‘Then once you are done, you must take this,’ said Circe, handing Elliot a second bag of herbs, this time in a white bag. ‘The Herbs of Life will bring you back again.’

  ‘Oh, fine then,’ said Elliot stuffing both into his pocket. This was going to be more straightforward than he thought.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ Circe added. Elliot rolled his eyes. There was always just one more thing.

  ‘You must take the herbs no more than twenty minutes apart,’ she warned. ‘After that, you won’t be “just dead enough”. You’ll be . . . “just dead”.’

  ‘Great,’ said Elliot. That definitely sounded ‘too dead’.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough, Elliot,’ said Circe, contorting her body into another impossible yoga pose. ‘You have brought me back to life.’

  ‘Let’s hope your herbs are as bally effective,’ said Zeus, walking into the cellar with cereal stuck in his beard. ‘Elliot and I are going to need all the luck we can get.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Circe gravely. ‘At least, not both of you. There is only enough for one person. This is powerful magic and it’s in short supply. Only one of you can go.’

  ‘Then I must,’ said Zeus, gravely. ‘It’s too risky.’

  ‘It has to be me,’ said Elliot quietly.

  ‘No. It doesn’t,’ said Zeus firmly.

  ‘That’s what Proteus saw,’ said Elliot. ‘He saw me getting the potion, not you. I have to go.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Circe solemnly. ‘You cannot fight your destiny.’

  ‘But you can kick its butt,’ said Elliot, grabbing the herbs. ‘Come on, guys. I need to find a good place to die.’

  22. Moving On

  Josie Hooper had never really cared for objects before. People, time, experiences – they were all that mattered to her. She could hold everything she needed in her mind and the people she loved in her arms. The things she could hold in her hands didn’t matter to her at all. It was just stuff.

  But now everything had changed. Objects were the vessels that preserved her memories; they held her past when it slipped from her mind. All the things in her home were keeping her memories safe. She needed them now.

  She looked at the teapot that her mother-in-law used to make the tea when she was sad. Josie never knew her own mother, but Audrey Hooper couldn’t have loved and cared for her any better. And she always made the best tea.

  The coffee table was a wedding present. Josie couldn’t remember which of Dave’s friends gave it to them – the Hoopers had so many friends – but she remembered the day Elliot drove his toy tank over it.

  ‘Road!’ he cried joyfully, looking at the tracks the wheels had scratched into the varnish. And that’s what it became – Elly’s road. Josie loved that table. It made Elliot happy.

  The rug, that lamp, those ornaments – little fragments of Josie’s life were stored within each of them. They may have been gathering dust, but whenever she looked at them, the memories they held flooded her grey
mind with colour.

  Josie looked over at the sisters. She couldn’t summon their names, but they were always so kind to her – if not to each other. They were arguing about something – Josie couldn’t understand what. Conversations buzzed around her like a broken signal on a television channel. She could only pick up words here and there, and by the time her mind pieced the jigsaw together everyone had moved on to a new puzzle. But the sisters couldn’t hide the love between them. Josie could see it glowing around them like candlelight, no matter what their mouths said.

  There was a knock at the door. Josie wanted to answer it – but then she remembered she mustn’t. Elly had told her that. The sisters stopped their squabbling. Dave appeared like a shadow. Josie wanted to spit at him, but her mouth wouldn’t obey her order.

  He opened the door. Standing there was Patricia Horse’s-Bum. She remembered that name.

  Josie looked at all the people Patricia had brought with her – men, lots of men with boxes. She didn’t understand – who were these people? Why was Dave letting them into their house? She looked at the sisters, but one of them was reading some papers and the other was shouting unmentionable words at Dave and the Horse’s-Bum. They looked at each other, they looked at Dave, then they looked at Josie.

  Josie didn’t like the men touching her things. She didn’t want their dirty fingers all over her memories. She wanted the men to leave.

  She was holding an ornament in her hands. One of the men tried to take it, but the blonde sister started to scream what she’d do if he laid a finger on her. Josie could sense that he was genuinely scared. And that he was right to be.

  Patricia paced over and the shouting started again. Josie hated the shouting, angry words attacked her mind like bullets. She put her hands over her ears to drown out the noise. The blonde sister came over and took Josie in her arms. But Josie pushed her away – she needed to stop these men.