Goddess

by Laura Powell

  Once again, I felt the full force of my cluelessness. I could compose poetry in ancient Greek and make foie gras canapés, but I had little idea how the internet worked.

  I wanted Aiden, not Scarlet, to be the one to explain it to me. When I asked him, the conversation led on to how he knew Scarlet, which was apparently through mutual friends at school.

  ‘So she’s your girlfriend?’

  He looked surprised. ‘No. At least – we used to date. But we’re better off as friends.’

  I wondered if Scarlet agreed with him. Still, I was embarrassed to have let my curiosity get the better of me. I quickly moved on to another question.

  ‘How’s Scarlet involved with the cult?’

  ‘She’s not really. It’s her dad. He’s famous, or used to be. Not that his name will mean anything to you –’

  ‘Rick Moodie,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘That wrinkly old musician guy. He came to see Opis for a private oracle the other day, then had a massive row about it.’

  It had been the same day as my oracle in fact. Whatever Opis told him hadn’t been to his liking. The priestesses whispered that he’d turned up drunk and had to be wrestled out of the temple by the guards.

  Aiden laughed. ‘Yeah, so I heard. He’s fairly eccentric and has a bit of a goddess-obsession. He’s retired to this wacky mansion somewhere outside London, where he apparently wants to set up his own cult. Anyway, Scarlet isn’t like that. She’s got her head screwed on. She saw, right from the start, how important you are.’

  ‘For the cause?’

  ‘Of course. You’re our prime asset.’

  An asset, a weapon, a mouthpiece for a goddess. Artemis had chosen me for this purpose, I told myself. It would be wrong to want anything more.

  Like Cally, I was in costume for the film, wearing my initiation dress with the gold clasps and belt. It showed the effects of being bundled under jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt during my getaway. Still, the more authentic I looked, the more compelling my statement would be.

  Not everyone agreed that my face should be veiled. There was a concern that our film might inspire copycats. But the issue was settled when one of the group’s contacts brought word that the Trinovantum Council were already making discreet enquiries as to the whereabouts of a girl of my description. Since handmaidens and priestesses were never photographed barefaced, whoever was looking for me would have to rely on a police artist’s sketch. The longer my face stayed hidden, the safer I would be.

  The filming was done by the spider-tattoo boy, known as Spidey, on a digital video camera. He called himself a ‘hacktivist’ and belonged to Alias, an online community of computer nerds turned political protesters.

  Scarlet helped Aiden write my script. The other girls in the squat watched her jealously and were always extra-attentive to Aiden when she was around. Me, they mostly ignored. The veil had turned me into a victim in their eyes, someone passive and helpless, without a voice. I’ll show them, I thought. I’ll show everyone.

  ‘My name is Aura, and on my sixteenth birthday I became a priestess in the Cult of Artemis. But on the night of my initiation I had to run away.

  ‘This is because I discovered that an oracle I’d received from the Goddess had been deliberately falsified. To stop me from revealing its true content, the High Priestess locked me up and deprived me of food and water. During my initiation, she tried to pimp me to a member of the Trinovantum Council.

  ‘I am here to tell you that the Cult of Artemis is plotting with the Emergency Committee to turn our country into a military dictatorship and –’

  I was no good. I was wooden and stilted and supremely unconvincing.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ said Aiden through gritted teeth, after I stumbled over the intro yet again. Scarlet was ‘supervising’ from a corner, though she left the directing to Aiden and filming to Spidey. As time wore on, her yawns, sighs and foot-tapping became harder to ignore.

  Finally I cracked. She had rolled her eyes once too often.

  ‘Look, I know this goddess-thing sounds crazy, OK?’ I snapped at her. ‘Until recently, I had no idea what receiving an oracle actually involved. And then Artemis spoke to me – no, it was more than that: she took me over. And it was terrifying. The most mind-shreddingly terrifying thing you can imagine.

  ‘I’m not even close to understanding how it happened. Or why she chose me. But I know the words I spoke were true – otherwise why would people try to cover them up, to twist them? They’re making the goddess tell lies. They’re stealing the oracle, and they’re stealing this country. That’s why you should listen to me.’

  I paused for breath. Aiden looked across at Spidey.

  ‘You got that?’

  ‘Every bit.’ He lowered the camera. ‘Nice work.’

  Scarlet gave a complacent smile. ‘See? I knew you could do it, Aura. You just needed a little push.’

  Spidey was convinced that the authorities were collecting records of activists’ text messages and email exchanges, but was confident that he could fix things so that they couldn’t track us online. He sent the link to my film to bloggers and campaigners around the world, as well as media outlets and social networking sites. His fellow cyber-guerrillas in Alias helped spread the word. Although the film got little or no coverage on TV and in the mainstream press, it still found an audience. The number of views it collected on a video-sharing website exceeded all our expectations – first hundreds, then thousands, then millions.

  ‘Told you,’ said Scarlet. ‘Sex sells. Even in the midst of a military takeover, scandal and conspiracy in the Cult of Artemis is hot news.’

  Although the internet chat rooms were buzzing, the streets were quiet. The nation seemed to be holding its breath. I could see why most people were desperate to believe the committee’s promises that human rights and free speech would be protected, that the corrupt would be brought to justice and the economy revived.

  Three days after we posted the film, and when the number of online views hit the twenty million mark, access to the video-sharing website was temporarily blocked, allegedly due to a technical hitch. When it came back, our film was no longer there. Spidey said it didn’t matter; there were other places to post it, and it had already spread too far and wide to be suppressed. He must have been right, for the next day, the Cult of Artemis released a press statement. It said that I was a deeply troubled individual, with severe behavioural issues. Every effort was being made to get me the help and support I needed.

  This was followed by Cally making guest appearances on This Morning, BBC Breakfast and Newsnight.

  ‘She’s good,’ said Aiden. ‘But a little too practised, don’t you think? A bit too perfect. You, on the other hand, came across as much more real. Raw.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ I said gloomily. ‘They’re saying I’m deranged. They even made a big deal about me kidnapping poor Argos. Why would anyone believe me over Cally?’

  Aiden shook his head. ‘A girl like Callisto belongs in a different time – back when things were shiny and certain, and everybody had something to sell. I’m not so sure the public will warm to her.’

  I wished I could believe him. Still, we made and posted another film in response, in which Aiden – his face and voice digitally disguised – described his involvement in my initiation, and how the Trinovantum Council was involved in political corruption, sexual exploitation and fraud.

  Watching it made me queasy. This wasn’t just because of the emotions stirred up by revisiting my initiation night. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand washing in cold water, sleeping on a stained mattress and having to share my living space with strangers.

  The Emergency Committee had imposed a curfew at night and it wasn’t safe for most people to leave the building during the day. I worried for Argos, unable to exercise anywhere but the muddy back yard. I was anxious about Leto, and whether Opis would suspect her of helping me. I was homesick for Artemisia House and missed the other girls. Even Cally. But I co
uldn’t think of them without thinking of my mother, and I was afraid of where that might lead.

  I no longer wondered if I would have another oracle. It was only a question of when. I was discovering the difference between ordinary anxiety and the shadow the goddess had cast. I could sense her at all times, like the breath of something on my skin. Something ancient and ageless, inhuman.

  The only person with whom I could let my guard down was Aiden. He was also the only person for whom I’d unveil myself, since he’d already seen me barefaced. Plus he complained that talking to me with a veil was like trying to make conversation with a curtain.

  It was certainly more intimate, face to face. It was also unsettling. He had a way of looking at me sometimes that was especially concentrated, as if he was reading my innermost emotions. As if he could tell when I was thinking about him.

  My idea of male good looks came from the mosaics in the temple, or the classical art I’d studied. Aiden, with his ranginess and his restlessness, his bitten-down fingernails and untamed hair, didn’t fit this aesthetic. But I was seeing a lot of things differently these days.

  At night, he slept outside the entrance to my makeshift room. Sometimes I could hear him mumbling in his sleep and once I heard him cry out. I got up to check he was all right. Under a patch of moonlight, I could see the blanket had been pushed back; he was sleeping on his stomach wearing just his shorts. I was worried he might get cold and reached to pull up the blanket. His naked back was long and brown. I thought how smooth it would be to touch.

  Then I looked back to my own mattress and saw Argos was awake, panting gently. His eyes glinted. I understood, then, that the goddess was watching too. Remember who you are.

  On Friday morning, a new arrival called Tiggs went out on an errand that was only supposed to take half an hour and didn’t come back. Nor did she answer her phone. As time wore on, anxiety in the squat increased. Tiggs was wanted by the police for questioning after taking part in a protest inside a bank. We’d heard that arrests and raids were going on in secret. Scarlet was keeping away, and hadn’t visited for days.

  At six o’clock, a meeting was held in the basement to debate how worried we should or shouldn’t be. I didn’t go. Instead, I retreated to my mattress, staring at the dust-furred bookshelves from under a pile of blankets. The library would have been a draughty place at the best of times, with its high ceilings and large windows. Now that the windows were broken and inadequately boarded up, the place was freezing. Damp too – for the roof had several leaks.

  There was a collection of dirty pots and pans on the floor to catch the drips. Every tip-tap of water made me wince. Argos was as restless as I was. He began to whine, and I saw that his fur was all standing on end. Then I myself began to bristle all over with a strange and sickly energy. The air hummed.

  Somehow I managed to stumble down to the basement.

  ‘Aiden –’ I gasped, doubled over in the doorway.

  ‘Is she ill?’ someone asked. People were getting up and gathering around me, too loud and too close. I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Give the Honoured Lady space!’ Sal cried. ‘It’s the goddess in her – the dark light!’

  Yes, I thought confusedly, as I thrashed about. A dark light . . . that’s what it’s like.

  ‘Aiden! She’s coming. Help me –’

  I felt him push the others away, then his hands were on mine. The world was a whirling, rushing darkness, until I fixed my eyes on his and found gravity again.

  I howled, and Argos howled with me. All the light went out.

  I was buried in darkness, the weight of stone pressing above and around me. I was in the crypt. I was in my tomb. I was in a cave.

  Beware –

  I crawled across jagged rock. The darkness glimmered and the cave mouth gaped. Spread out before me was a vast grey waste. There has never been anything so empty or so desolate.

  I stood on the mountains of the moon, my mouth full of ashes, as infinite night poured through my eyes.

  Beware –

  ‘Beware the shepherd of the Hot Gates. For the archers are drawing back their bows, and their feet will soon be on the Anopaea Path. Beware –’

  I jerked about violently, but this time I didn’t black out, or only for a moment. Several of the people gathered around me were holding up their camera phones.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said one of them.

  ‘Artemis Selene,’ someone else corrected him.

  Other voices chimed in.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘What do you think? The priestess had another oracle!’

  ‘No, she had a fit.’

  ‘So you’re deaf as well as blind?’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘It means we’ve got to get out of here,’ said Aiden.

  More questions were flung from every side. I was too dazed to respond. Argos was at my side and licked my hand, tail wagging cheerfully.

  ‘Let the Lord Herne speak!’ Sal cried, cutting through the noise.

  Aiden looked uncomfortable but spoke up all the same. ‘Aura’s prophecy referenced the Battle of Thermopylae. And the local man, I can’t remember his name, who showed the invading Persian army – that’s the archers – a secret path around the pass, so they could attack the Greeks.’ He gave me a lopsided smile. ‘You’re not the only one with a Classical education, you know.’

  ‘Ephialtes,’ I whispered. ‘The traitor’s name was Ephialtes.’

  ‘All right, but why does this mean we have to leave?’ someone asked impatiently.

  ‘It means that Tiggs has got into trouble and told the authorities where to find us,’ Aiden replied. ‘The police or Civil Guard are probably already on their way.’

  There was a babble of protest and alarm. The group had an evacuation plan for just this kind of emergency, but while some people immediately rushed off to collect their things, others huddled together, still arguing.

  Aiden took me by the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Scarlet and her dad will give us a place to stay. It’s high time we got you out of London anyway.’

  ‘This is where all the action is,’ I objected. ‘Don’t we need to be in the centre of things?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘But how can we even leave the city? Aren’t there checkpoints on all the roads and at every train station?’

  ‘Honoured Lady,’ Sal whispered. She plucked at my sleeve with shaking hands. ‘If you and the Lord Herne come with me, I have a friend who might be able to help.’

  Chapter 12

  The search continues for a young woman with mental problems who has gone missing from the Cult of Artemis. It is feared that she has fallen into the hands of insurgents, who are setting her up as a puppet oracle to promote their extremist agenda. A substantial reward is offered for her safe return.

  Citizens are advised that publicising the impostor’s claims is now a criminal offence.

  BBC News

  There was no time to say more than a hurried goodbye. I had to trust that Artemis had given all of us enough time to flee. Aiden, Sal, the dog and I squeezed out through the wire fence and into a rain-soaked early evening. It helped that it was the pre-curfew rush hour and the streets were busy. I did my best to conceal my face with my hooded top and a scarf. Argos stuck to the shadows of his own accord.

  Just as we turned a corner a few streets away from the library, Aiden abruptly drew me and Sal into the doorway of a crowded supermarket. Two unmarked black vans were speeding down the road. ‘Those belong to the private security firm used by the Trinovantum Council,’ he said. ‘We got out just in time.’

  I looked round for Argos but the dog had vanished. I couldn’t call him because it would draw too much attention.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ Aiden said. ‘He’s a smart animal. He’s probably just headed home.’

  I continued to scan the street, eyes blurry with tears, the aftershock of the oracle still thrumming through my body. I knew the goddess
would protect Argos, but I felt abandoned all the same. The wolfhound was my last link to my old life. I couldn’t even risk the shelter of a veil any more.

  We didn’t dare take public transport or even Aiden’s car, so it was fortunate Sal’s friend didn’t live far, in a dilapidated tower block. The lift was broken and we were all breathless by the time we climbed five flights of stairs in a dank stairwell. The door to Flat 203 was opened by a fat middle-aged lady with a frizz of badly dyed red hair.

  ‘My,’ she said when she saw me, ‘you’re just a wisp of a thing! Not like that other girl on the telly. Still, I suppose Blessed Artemis knows what she’s doing.’

  Her tiny living room was a shrine to the goddess, stuffed with statues, prayer beads and prints I recognised from the temple gift shop. Floral incense sticks failed to conceal a strong smell of cat.

  We drank cups of stewed tea, while Sal’s friend – Mrs Galloway – explained the security situation. As we’d feared, there were checkpoints operating on all roads out of London and police patrols in the train stations. ‘The official line is that they’re looking for terrorists,’ said our host. ‘Chances are, they won’t want to make the hunt for you public, in case it gives your story more cred.’

  I wondered how she knew all this, and how she knew Sal. Sal had said they went to the same book group, but I didn’t see any books in the flat. Mrs Galloway certainly seemed well connected; she said her contacts would be able to get us out of the city undetected, no problem. Meanwhile, Aiden was busy texting Scarlet on his phone – a cheap, disposable model that couldn’t be traced.

  After tea, the two ladies went off to ‘set things up’. Looking for the toilet, I opened a door to a small room bursting with random stuff: antique candlesticks, electronic equipment, a mink coat . . . even a mini-fridge.

  ‘What’s all this?’ I asked Aiden. ‘There’s enough here to open a shop.’

  ‘I’d say Mrs G is a fence.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone who takes in stolen goods. Cheer up – she can’t be any more of a crook than the lot you ran away from.’