Mythfits

by Heide Goody

  You are so ready to reject Cassie now that I am here! I am transported by joy. “You will not die,” I say. “To symbolise this promise I shall wrap myself protectively over you.”

  I take you in my limb. You are very warm to the touch.

  “I do not wish to die alone!” you cry passionately.

  “You will not die!” I reply.

  “I do not wish to die!” you cry.

  “You will not die!” I repeat. Oh, how our mutual desires match so perfectly, my love!

  I lift you away from the canal path and, holding you aloft for one moment, draw you down into the waters. You wriggle and writhe and rub yourself against my fronds and, soundlessly now, say: “I feel compelled by ancient and animal instinct to move; to go.”

  “Let us go then,” I tell you and I propel us away through the water.

  The canals created by the noise-makers (dug centuries ago, I understand, for the transportation of tribute and the further glorification of the highest social castes) are shallow waterways. I fold my body and slip along in the narrow space between the surface above and the canal floor below: composed of silt and muck, of bottles thrown in celebration and ducks that I have placed under rocks.

  You still squirm sensuously against my skin, my eager love. Your words have become a repeated, almost frantic mantra, “I must go. I must rise. I must go. I must rise.”

  I regard you and, in particular, the collection of sensory organs and purposeful fissures that noise-makers use to make their chitters and clacks and which collectively is accompanied by the sound, face. Your face has taken on an aspect and smell that I have not encountered before. It occurs to me (and I am surprised) that, like the ducks, you cannot survive below the surface, that you are in some ways primitive and cling to the medium of air.

  I am amused by your parochial attitudes – how sweet and naïve you are, my love! – and, happy to show that I am an indulgent lover, we rise to the surface. You throw your arms up in exultation and say: “I love life! I offer a promise that I will give increased value to all things in exchange for continued life!” and you make the sound, Oh God! Help! Help me!

  We have just met, my love, and your meaning is not always clear to me; but if I do understand you well, you have found new purpose and an intensity of feeling for living. Is this because of me? I am flattered.

  We have surfaced between two great buildings. One, The National Sea Life Centre, I know, is devoted to reminding the noise-makers of the both their domination over the natural world and their alleged stewardship of the same. The other, The National Indoor Arena, is a temple whose central teachings (whilst varying from week to week) expound the virtue of collective purpose and homogenous identity. A line of noise-makers hurry along the path. They wear retroreflective clothing and talismans that identify them as servants of the dominant political force of this realm. I hear the ululating horns of their anthem, emitted from vehicles I cannot locate.

  You see them, my love, and wave and make the noise Here! Help! Help! and say: “I submit to your authority and implore you to do your duty!”

  I feel a moment of disappointment as you, snuggling into my embrace, nonetheless seek to reaffirm your loyalty to your overlords and masters. Our romance will not be an easy one. Willingly we have thrown ourselves together, but have not yet severed the ties that bind us to our own kind.

  One of their flying vehicles swoops in above and its light picks us out on the surface of the water. I can feel their disapproval. They are frightened of our love. One of the talisman-wearing servants comes near to us and, as he makes the sound This way! Reach for me!, he says to you: “I cannot reach you and dare not come any closer. I make this gesture to offer you false hope and to impress my masters.”

  You reply: “Your gesture is futile and I am not going anywhere.”

  My love! You have made the right choice and, in doing so, made me most happy. In jubilation, I flick my lower skirt membranes and propel us away. The servants run after us but I am faster. You tense (in excitement?) and draw your thoughts inwards and seek an inner peace as though preparing for death.

  “Do not worry, my love,” I tell you. “I will be gentle. There is nothing to fear.” I carry you along the canal, past jealously staring noise-makers. “Ignore their envious gaze. It is you I love.”

  As we pass by the white foundation stones of a huge tower, I feel sudden pain. I am not accustomed to pain and I rear up in surprise and anger. Did I squeeze you, my love? I see servants raising crooked wands that spit and bark and I am hurt again.

  “They might hit me!” you say.

  “No, I will shield you,” I reply and envelop you further and, yes, even as danger surrounds us, I feel a thrill of excitement at this new intimacy.

  The servants close in from both directions. I do not like their wands. It is but a short distance to the canal tunnels that run beneath the transportation hub where the metal carriages shunt and wheeze, and from there a shorter distance to the deep tunnels and Daganau Vei: the waters where my father reigns unchallenged. But you cannot survive below the water, my love, and I cannot pass openly by the servants and their hateful wands.

  We must find another way.

  I seize the foundation pillars of the tower beside us and haul my body from the water. The servants cower in surprise.

  “I am stunned by this turn of events and by your revealed form,” you say.

  Limb over limb, I climb up the side of the tower. “See! See!” I declare to those who would hurt us. “I am not ‘eight-limbed sea dweller’. My limbs are prime! My limbs are prime!”

  You clutch at my carapace as we ascend.

  “Hold me, my love!” I say. “Grip me tight!”

  I know this building. It has the simple but ancient runes, BT, inscribed on its higher levels and it is a tool of the noise-makers for sharing their noise; as though they wish to live in a sea of clickety-chattery sounds that signify nothing.

  The tower is strong and I am quick and soon we have risen far, far above the reach of the crooked wands. The flying vehicle continues to follow us and I do not slow. It is my nature to hide myself, and the noise-makers who know of us would have us stay hidden, but now that our love has forced me to reveal myself, I will reveal myself and our love to all.

  We near the top. The wind is cold. I unfurl my limb slightly so that you might share this new sensation.

  “My life depends entirely on you,” you say.

  “I cannot imagine life without you either,” I reply. I tremble and I do not know if it is the wind or a previously unknown emotion stirring within me.

  I latch onto the metal dishes and rods that decorate the roof of this noise-maker’s noise-maker and, together, we regard the city. The city’s true name is manifold, its titles legion; many of them devoted more to what it is not than what it is. It is a city that cannot identify itself and cannot be fully known. Hundreds of metres beneath us, it stretches out like a great bowl, arterial canals and roadways stretching to the vast concrete roadway that encircles the city and defines its borders.

  “I can see my home from here,” you blurt out giddily.

  “My home is hidden,” I say and wave a limb towards the warren of bridges, arches and walls in which Daganau Vei is concealed. “There my father rules. He would destroy you if he knew you were with me.”

  It is true. Oh, I yearn now to be home – to be there with you, my love! – but my father despises the noise-makers and kills those who stray into his territory or gives them as gifts to his samakha thanes. “But I would protect you. I would defy my father and make my devotion to you known to all,” I say.

  You do not release your hold on me, my love. You won’t be scared off by the disapproval of my family. And yet, my own words are a lie. Love is a powerful force but any attempt to present you as my lover to my own kind will be a futile gesture, met with derision and violence.

  “What do you want from me?” you ask.

  “What do I want?” I reply. “You and only you, m
y love. But this world – yours and mine – will not accept us.”

  The flying vehicle circles us angrily. Another is approaching from afar. It bears the markings of some other authority. Crooked wands of pain and fire hang beneath it. It seems the noise-makers are as disapproving of our love as my own people.

  You thrust out your arms to the flying vehicles and, making the sound that is I’m over here!, you say: “I am so far from you and you can do nothing.”

  My love, your passion astounds me. Though you invite death upon us, you make it incontrovertibly clear that our love has indeed transported us far beyond their reach.

  Yes! I understand now!

  We have yet one means of escape. Though we can never find peace among the noise-makers or in the stifled and prejudiced waters of Daganau Vei, we can flee to the dark and currentless depths of death itself. We shall flee to the blackness beyond the stars, stripped of these material bodies and swim with souls combined for all eternity.

  I press my mind to yours and intone the words of the Sha-Nlack Q’la, the spell of spiritual merger.

  I begin to relinquish my hold on the noise-makers’ tower. The flying vehicles close in. They are angry but what can they do to us now?

  “I do not wish to die alone!” you scream with your whole being.

  “You will not die alone!” I scream in triumphant adoration.

  “I do not wish to die alone!” you scream.

  “We will not die alone!” I scream.

  One by one, my limbs release. As we fall to our glorious deaths and union without end, you bury yourself into me. You tremble. As we fall, I shall sing you a song of my people. A short one.

  WODEN AND THE CORSETS

  Woden sulked in his easy chair. “Corsets? You’re joking! What on earth do you want to do that for? Women all squeezed up into corsets, coming and going all day long? No, no, no. You promised me your business ventures would quieten down.”

  “Dearest Woden.” Freya replied. “It’s all about making women feel at their very best, you know? Goddess of love and all that? It’s a win-win situation. We bring in some much-needed money, and I get to make my ladies look super-sexy.”

  Woden harrumphed and slumped further into his chair. “I suppose Tiw is all for it?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t ask him.” Freya replied.

  At that moment Tiw walked in and wolf whistled loudly. “What’s all this then? Corsets! Way-hay! I can help with the fitting if you want.” He made lewd squeezing gestures and cackled loudly.

  Freya rolled her eyes. “You’ve heard then.”

  “Oh everyone’s heard. Even Thor’s trimming his beard after seeing the lovelies you’ve got on the website. Are they going to be visiting here?”

  Freya eyed Tiw sternly. “No. Not a chance. They’re from a model agency in London. Only clients will visit here and I don’t want lots of silly schoolboy antics when they do. Anyway, what’s that you’ve got there?”

  “I don’t know. It’s got ‘To the Greatest of the Gods’ written on it, so I assumed it was mine.”

  Woden had been dozing lightly, trying to ignore Tiw. He exploded out of his seat. “Give it to me! Obviously it’s mine.” He wrenched the envelope from Tiw’s hand and peered inside. “It’s empty.”

  “I was about to tell you that,” said Tiw. “It’s full of empty meaning, so I realised it had to be for you. From your worshipper.”

  Woden clattered across the floor, waving his stick. Tiw was too fast, and ducked outside, laughing.

  “Hush dear, calm down.” said Freya. “He only came over to goad you. Can I have a look?” She turned the envelope over in her hands and smiled.

  “Look, it’s got writing on the back. It’s a pity neither of you bothered to check, because you’d have seen who it was for. It says:

  “To Freya,

  “I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the glamorous corset you made for my wedding. It’s been the talk of the village and my husband still goes all red-faced and funny when I wear it.

  “Yours, Elizabeth.”

  “Pah!” grunted Woden, as he sank back into his armchair.

  Tiw put his head back round the door “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “She’s my first satisfied customer,” said Freya. “And it’s a double whammy: I get a testimonial for my website, and a mark on the scoreboard.”

  “Noo!” chorused Woden and Tiw.

  Freya went to a chalkboard. She added a mark to a chart already bearing more against Freya’s name, than all the other gods combined.

  “I don’t know if it counts when you go round canvassing for worshippers,” grumbled Tiw. “Making corsets for them. It’s cheating really.”

  Freya put down the chalk and gave them both a prim smile. “You both know I won those marks fair and square. It’s not my fault if you’re too lazy to get more worshippers. Thor at least tries: going to all those heavy metal concerts and bike rallies.” She went out to tidy her work room.

  Tiw looked at Woden. “You know, we should do something about this. It’s just not right, her ruling the roost all the time with her quiet, reasonable ways. We should stand up to her. Act like GODS for once.”

  Woden nodded wistfully.

  “I know,” said Tiw with a grin. He sat down at the writing desk and composed a letter. “I’m inviting her to a Ladies Night up at the Village Hall. She’ll want to go and show off her corsets; and we want her out of the way for a while.”

  “Do we?” frowned Woden.

  “So we can go and check out her workshop.”

  “Ah,” said Woden, adding after a moment: “How do you know there’s a Ladies Night?”

  Tiw reddened slightly. “I make it my business to know.

  *

  Three days later, Freya was humming happily as she readied herself for Ladies Night. “Will you two be all right?” she asked. “There’s some mead in the kitchen. I’ll be back around nine.”

  Woden and Tiw grunted politely, absorbed in their runes.

  Freya left, closing the door.

  Tiw looked at Woden. “Come on then, let’s go.”

  “What about Thor? He’ll tell.”

  “Thor’s fine. There’s a Motorhead tribute band in town tonight.”

  They crept into Freya’s workshop and turned on the light. They gazed at mannequins wearing corsets: some plain, some highly decorative, with feathers, lace and sequins.

  Tiw pulled open drawers, looking for inspiration. He found letters and brochures that indicated Freya’s business was really taking off. He turned around and was struck speechless by the spectacle of Woden: strapped into a corset with a red marabou stork trim.

  “What?” said Woden. “Don’t you think it looks a bit like those nice decorated idols they used to make for us; with the feathers, remember? Anyway, you should try one on; it’s really supportive for the back.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. Women’s underwear! What’s come over you?”

  “Yeah?” shrugged Woden. “I’ll tell you something, it’s nice to stand straight without my back giving me gip. I’ll help you on with this PVC one. It’s shiny, see?”

  Tiw hesitated for a moment and then figured that if only Woden would see him, what the heck. Moments later, the two gods were strutting back and forth in front of the full length mirror.

  “Gives you a nice posture.” Tiw murmured.

  Woden had found a box of accessories and pinned more feathers onto his corset. He nodded in approval.

  “What’s that?” Tiw hissed. A loud, tuneless singing was growing nearer. They froze when they recognised the voice.

  “C’mon, fellas. Can’t believe you never tried mead before. My special treat, you’re gonna love it.”

  “That’s Thor!” Tiw panicked. “We can’t let him see us like this! And he’s got people with him!” He looked around for somewhere to hide, but the door burst open and in walked Thor with four men in bike leathers.

  “Let’s ask Freya where the mead is
—” Thor froze in the doorway, still holding the door handle, and swaying. “What— What are you two doing?” he asked.

  Tiw strode to the centre of the room and bellowed at the top of his voice. “HAIL Woden! You interrupt the ceremony; you must worship the All-Father! HAIL Woden!”

  With a sharp gesture he indicated that they should all kneel. They dropped to the floor, looking at one another. Tiw turned to Woden.

  Taking his cue, Woden stepped forward, erect and proud in his brightly feathered corset. He regarded the kneeling bikers sternly: one of them was trying to roll a joint on his lap. “I choose this one for my sacrifice,” Woden thundered.

  The biker looked up, eyes wide.

  “Thor,” intoned Tiw, “will you fetch the sacred knife?”

  “I don’t know where it is.” Thor replied.

  “It’s in the knife drawer.”

  “But—” Thor looked puzzled. “But we haven’t done human sacrifice for years.”

  “The runes demand it!” roared Tiw. “The ceremony is interrupted; blood must be spilt. In fact, no human who has seen Woden in his most sacred feathers can be permitted to live.”

  The bikers scrambled to their feet and ran out into the night. Thor watched them go before turning to Tiw with a quizzical look.

  “Do you want to tell me what all this is about?”

  Tiw turned slightly red. “It’s all about good, god-like posture. You should try one. Woden says it’s done wonders for his back.” He spun around. Woden had disappeared. “Where’s he gone?”

  They found him at the chalk board. He’d added four marks to his column and was chuckling to himself. “Fair and square. They kneeled before me, that’s fair and square.”

  UNCLE KANTZAROS

  People will find it hard to imagine how Nell could have possibly failed to see such a radical change come over her. But those same people, just like the rest of us, perfectly aware of the invisible progress of the hour hand, are still capable of looking up at the clock and declaring, “Is that the time?”