by Douglas Lain
“O, Ajax, Ajax, Ajax,” moans Hector, pulling an arrow from his quiver and using it to scratch his back. “Where is your aesthetic sense? Have you no appreciation of war for war’s sake? The plains of Ilium are roiling with glory, sir. You could cut the arete with a knife. Never have there been such valiant eviscerations, such venerable dismemberments, such—”
“I don’t get it,” says the berserker. “I just don’t get it.”
Whereupon Menelaus slams his wine goblet on the table with a resounding thunk. “We are not gathered in Priam’s tent so that Ajax might learn politics,” he says impatiently. “We are gathered so that we might best dispose of my wife.”
“True, true,” says Hector.
“So what are we going to do, gentlemen?” asks Menelaus. “Lock her up?”
“Good idea,” says Hiketaon.
“Well, yes,” says Agamemnon, slumping back onto his throne. “Except that, when the war finally ends, my troops will demand to see her. Might they not wonder why so much suffering and sacrifice was spent on a goddess gone to seed?” He turns to Paris and says, “Prince, you should not have let this happen.”
“Let what happen?” asks Paris.
“I heard she has wrinkles,” says Agamemnon.
“I heard she got fat,” says Nestor.
“What have you been feeding her?” asks Menelaus. “Bonbons?”
“She’s a person,” protests Paris. “She’s not a marble statue. You can hardly blame me …”
At which juncture King Priam raises his scepter and, as if to wound Gaea herself, rams it into the dirt.
“Noble lords, I hate to say this, but the threat is more immediate than you might suppose. In the early years of the siege, the sight of fair Helen walking the ramparts did wonders for my army’s morale. Now that she’s no longer fit for public display, well …”
“Yes?” says Agamemnon, steeling himself for the worst.
“Well, I simply don’t know how much longer Troy can hold up its end of the war. If things don’t improve, we may have to capitulate by next winter.”
Gasps of horror blow across the table, rattling the tent flaps and ruffling the aristocrats’ capes.
But now, for the first time, clever, canny Odysseus addresses the council, and the winds of discontent grow still. “Our course is obvious,” he says. “Our destiny is clear,” he asserts. “We must put Helen—the old Helen, the pristine Helen—back on the walls.”
“The pristine Helen?” says Hiketaon. “Are you not talking fantasy, resourceful Odysseus? Are you not singing a myth?”
The lord of all Ithaca strolls the length of Priam’s tent, plucking at his beard. “It will require some wisdom from Pallas Athena, some technology from Hephaestus, but I believe the project is possible.”
“Excuse me,” says Paris. “What project is possible?”
“Refurbishing your little harlot,” says Odysseus. “Making the dear, sweet strumpet shine like new.”
Back and forth, to and fro, Helen moves through her boudoir, wearing a ragged path of angst into the carpet. An hour passes. Then two. Why are they taking so long?
What most gnaws at her, the thought that feasts on her entrails, is the possibility that, should the council not accept her surrender, she will have to raise the stakes. And how might she accomplish the deed? By what means might she book passage on Charon’s one-way ferry? Something from her lover’s arsenal, most likely—a sword, spear, dagger, or death-dripping arrow. O, please, my lord Apollo, she prays to the city’s prime protector, don’t let it come to that.
At sunset Paris enters the room, his pace leaden, his jowls dragging his mouth into a grimace. For the first time ever, Helen observes tears in her lover’s eyes.
“It is finished,” he moans, doffing his plumed helmet. “Peace has come. At dawn you must go to the long ships. Menelaus will bear you back to Sparta, where you will once again live as mother to his children, friend to his concubines, and emissary to his bed.”
Relief pours out of Helen in a deep, orgasmic rush, but the pleasure is short-lived. She loves this man, flaws and all, flab and the rest. “I shall miss you, dearest Paris,” she tells him. “Your bold abduction of me remains the peak experience of my life.”
“I agreed to the treaty only because Menelaus believes you might otherwise kill yourself. You’re a surprising woman, Helen. Sometimes I think I hardly know you.”
“Hush, my darling,” she says, gently placing her palm across his mouth. “No more words.”
Slowly they unclothe each other, methodically unlocking the doors to bliss, the straps and sashes, the snaps and catches, and thus begins their final, epic night together.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so judgmental,” says Paris.
“I accept your apology.”
“You are so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful …”
As dawn’s rosy fingers stretch across the Trojan sky, Hector’s faithful driver, Eniopeus the son of horse-loving Thebaios, steers his sturdy war chariot along the banks of the Menderes, bearing Helen to the Achaean stronghold. They reach the Arkadia just as the sun is cresting, so their arrival in the harbor becomes a flaming parade, a show of sparks and gold, as if they ride upon the burning wheels of Hyperion himself.
Helen starts along the dock, moving past the platoons of squawking gulls adrift on the early morning breeze. Menelaus comes forward to greet her, accompanied by a man for whom Helen has always harbored a vague dislike—broad-chested, black-bearded Teukros, illegitimate son of Telemon.
“The tide is ripe,” says her husband. “You and Teukros must board forthwith. You will find him a lively traveling companion. He knows a hundred fables and plays the harp.”
“Can’t you take me home?”
Menelaus squeezes his wife’s hand and, raising it to his lips, plants a gentle kiss. “I must see to the loading of my ships,” he explains, “the disposition of my battalions—a full week’s job, I’d guess.”
“Surely you can leave that to Agamemnon.”
“Give me seven days, Helen. In seven days I’ll be home, and we can begin picking up the pieces.”
“We’re losing the tide,” says Teukros, anxiously intertwining his fingers.
Do I trust my husband? wonders Helen as she strides up the Arkadia’s gangplank. Does he really mean to lift the siege?
All during their slow voyage out of the harbor, Helen is haunted. Nebulous fears, nagging doubts, and odd presentiments swarm through her brain like Harpies. She beseeches her beloved Apollo to speak with her, calm her, assure her all is well, but the only sounds reaching her ears are the creaking of the oars and the windy, watery voice of the Hellespont.
By the time the Arkadia finds the open sea, Helen has resolved to jump overboard and swim back to Troy.
“And then Teukros tried to kill you,” says Daphne.
“He came at you with his sword,” adds Damon.
This is the twins’ favorite part, the moment of grue and gore. Eyes flashing, voice climbing to a melodramatic pitch, I tell them how, before I could put my escape plan into action, Teukros began chasing me around the Arkadia, slashing his two-faced blade. I tell them how I got the upper hand, tripping the bastard as he was about to run me through.
“You stabbed him with his own sword, didn’t you, Mommy?” asks Damon.
“I had no choice.”
“And then his guts spilled, huh?” asks Daphne.
“Agamemnon had ordered Teukros to kill me,” I explain. “I was ruining everything.”
“They spilled out all over the deck, right?” asks Damon.
“Yes, dear, they certainly did. I’m quite convinced Paris wasn’t part of the plot, or Menelaus either. Your mother falls for fools, not maniacs.”
“What color were they?” asks Damon.
“Color?”
“His guts.”
“Red, mostly, with daubs of purple and black.”
“Neat.”
I tell the twins of my long, arduous swim throu
gh the strait.
I tell them how I crossed Ilium’s war-torn fields, dodging arrows and eluding patrols.
I tell how I waited by the Skaian Gate until a farmer arrived with a cartload of provender for the besieged city … how I sneaked inside the walls, secluded amid stalks of wheat … how I went to Pergamos, hid myself in the temple of Apollo, and breathlessly waited for dawn.
Dawn comes up, binding the eastern clouds in crimson girdles. Helen leaves the citadel, tiptoes to the wall, and mounts the hundred granite steps to the battlements. She is unsure of her next move. She has some vague hope of addressing the infantrymen as they assemble at the gate. Her arguments have failed to impress the generals, but perhaps she can touch the heart of the common foot soldier.
It is at this ambiguous point in her fortunes that Helen runs into herself.
She blinks—once, twice. She swallows a sphere of air. Yes, it is she, herself, marching along the parapets. Herself? No, not exactly: an idealized rendition, the Helen of ten years ago, svelte and smooth.
As the troops march through the portal and head toward the plain, the strange incarnation calls down to them.
“Onward, men!” it shouts, raising a creamy white arm. “Fight for me!” Its movements are deliberate and jerky, as if sunbaked Troy has been magically transplanted to some frigid clime. “I’m worth it!”
The soldiers turn, look up. “We’ll fight for you, Helen!” a bowman calls toward the parapet.
“We love you!” a sword-wielder shouts.
Awkwardly, the incarnation waves. Creakily, it blows an arid kiss. “Onward, men! Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
“You’re beautiful, Helen!” a spear-thrower cries.
Helen strides up to her doppelgänger and, seizing the left shoulder, pivots the creature toward her.
“Onward, men!” it tells Helen. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
“You’re beautiful,” the spear-thrower continues, “and so is your mother!”
The eyes, Helen is not surprised to discover, are glass. The limbs are fashioned from wood, the head from marble, the teeth from ivory, the lips from wax, the tresses from the fleece of a darkling ram. Helen does not know for certain what forces power this creature, what magic moves its tongue, but she surmises that the genius of Athena is at work here, the witchery of ox-orbed Hera. Chop the creature open, she senses, and out will pour a thousand cogs and pistons from Hephaestus’s fiery workshop.
Helen wastes no time. She hugs the creature, lifts it off its feet. Heavy, but not so heavy as to dampen her resolve.
“Onward, men!” it screams as Helen throws it over her shoulder. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
And so it comes to pass that, on a hot, sweaty Asia Minor morning, fair Helen turns the tables on history, gleefully abducting herself from the lofty stone city of Troy.
Paris is pulling a poisoned arrow from his quiver, intent on shooting a dollop of hemlock into the breast of an Achaean captain, when his brother’s chariot charges past.
Paris nocks the arrow. He glances at the chariot.
He aims.
Glances again.
Fires. Misses.
Helen.
Helen? Helen, by Apollo’s lyre, his Helen—no, two Helens, the true and the false, side by side, the true guiding the horses into the thick of the fight, her wooden twin staring dreamily into space. Paris can’t decide which woman he is more astonished to see.
“Soldiers of Troy!” cries the fleshly Helen. “Heroes of Argos! Behold how your leaders seek to dupe you! You are fighting for a fraud, a swindle, a thing of gears and glass!”
A stillness envelops the battlefield. The men are stunned, not so much by the ravings of the charioteer as by the face of her companion, so pure and perfect despite the leather thong sealing her jaw shut. It is a face to sheathe a thousand swords—lower a thousand spears—unnock a thousand arrows.
Which is exactly what now happens. A thousand swords: sheathed. A thousand spears: lowered. A thousand arrows: unnocked.
The soldiers crowd around the chariot, pawing at the ersatz Helen. They touch the wooden arms, caress the marble brow, stroke the ivory teeth, pat the waxen lips, squeeze the woolly hair, rub the glass eyes.
“See what I mean?” cries the true Helen. “Your kings are diddling you …”
Paris can’t help it: he’s proud of her, by Hermes’s wings. He’s puffing up with admiration. This woman has nerve—she has arete and chutzpah.
This woman, Paris realizes as a fat, warm tear of nostalgia rolls down his cheek, is going to the end the war.
“The end,” I say.
“And then what happened?” Damon asks.
“Nothing. Finis. Go to sleep.”
“You can’t fool us,” says Daphne. “All sorts of things happened after that. You went to live on the island of Lesbos.”
“Not immediately,” I note. “I wandered the world for seven years, having many fine and fabulous adventures. Good night.”
“And then you went to Lesbos,” Daphne insists.
“And then we came into the world,” Damon asserts.
“True,” I say. The twins are always interested in hearing how they came into the world. They never tire of the tale.
“The women of Lesbos import over a thousand liters of frozen semen annually,” Damon explains to Daphne.
“From Thrace,” Daphne explains to Damon. “In exchange for olives.”
“A thriving trade.”
“Right, honey,” I say. “Bedtime.”
“And so you got pregnant,” says Daphne.
“And had us,” says Damon.
“And brought us to Egypt.” Daphne tugs at my sleeve as if operating a bell rope. “I came out first, didn’t I?” she says. “I’m the oldest.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Is that why I’m smarter than Damon?”
“You’re both equally smart. I’m going to blow out the candle now.”
Daphne hugs her papyrus doll and says, “Did you really end the war?”
“The treaty was signed the day after I fled Troy. Of course, peace didn’t restore the dead, but at least Troy was never sacked and burned. Now go to sleep—both of you.”
Damon says, “Not before we’ve …”
“What?”
“You know.”
“All right,” I say. “One quick peek, and then you’re off to the land of Morpheus.”
I saunter over to the closet and, drawing back the linen curtain, reveal my stalwart twin standing upright amid the children’s robes. She smiles through the gloom. She’s a tireless smiler, this woman.
“Hi, Aunt Helen!” says Damon as I throw the bronze toggle protruding from the nape of my sister’s neck.
She waves to my children and says, “Onward, men! Fight for me!”
“You bet, Aunt Helen!” says Daphne.
“I’m worth it!” says my sister.
“You sure are!” says Damon.
“Onward, men! Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
I switch her off and close the curtain. Tucking in the twins, I give each a big soupy kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Daphne. Love you, Damon.”
I start to douse the candle—stop. As long as it’s on my mind, I should get the chore done. Returning to the closet, I push the curtain aside, lift the penknife from my robe, and pry back the blade. And then, as the Egyptian night grows moist and thick, I carefully etch yet another wrinkle across my sister’s brow, right beneath her salt-and-pepper bangs.
It’s important, after all, to keep up appearances.
copyright acknowledgements
“The Big Flash” by Norman Spinrad. © 1969, Norman Spinrad, Originally Published in Orbit 5, September 1969. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Village” by Kate Wilhelm. © 1973, Kate Wilhelm. Originally Published in Bad Moon Rising: An Anthology of Political Forebodings, 1973. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Frozen One” by Tim Pratt. © 2008, Tim Prat
t. Originally appeared in Lone Star Stories, 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Language of Monsters” by Michael Canfield. © 2011, Michael Canfield. Originally appeared in SCI-FI Dark, 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“In the Loop” by Ken Liu. © 2014, Ken Liu. Originally appeared in War Stories, 2014. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Wasps/Spiders” by Brendan C. Byrne. © 2010, Brendan C. Byrne. Originally published by Flurb, 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Seventh Expression of the Robot General” by Jeffrey Ford. © 2008, Jeffrey Ford. Originally appeared in Eclipse Two: New Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Over Here” by Ray Vukcevich. © 2010, Ray Vukcevich. Originally appeared in Boarding Instructions, 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Shaytan, the Whisperer”, by Pedro Iniguez. © 2014, Pedro Iniguez. Originally appeared in Those Who Live Long Forgotten, 2014. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Five Good Things about Meghan Sheedy” by A. M. Dellamonica. ©2008, A. M. Dellamonica. Originally appeared in Strange Horizons, 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The People We Kill” by Audrey Carroll. © 2015, Audrey Carroll. Original to this anthology.
“Light and Shadow” by Linda Nagata. © 2014, Linda Nagata. Originally appeared in War Stories, 2014. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Winnebago Brave” by Rob McCleary. © 2015, Rob McCleary. Original to this anthology.
“Seeing Double” by Ray Daley. © 2015, Ray Daley. Original to this anthology.
“Sealed” by Robert Morgan Fisher. © 2014, Robert Morgan Fisher. Originally appeared in Golden Walkman Magazine, 2014. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Unzipped” by Steven J. Dines. © 2007, Steven J. Dines. Originally appeared in Greatest Uncommon Denominator (GUD), 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Sun Inside” by David J. Schwartz. © 2007, David J. Schwartz. Originally published by Rabid Transit Press, 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.
