Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1)

by Shawn Mackey

  My chest is about to burst! I was nearly discovered by Father. Instead of calling my name, he simply barged into my room. I extinguished the candle and stuttered something about a coincidence, how I had been reading and about to sleep. He lifted me off my feet, and for a breathless instant, I expected a thrashing. Instead, he embraced me tight and showered me with kisses.

  My position is secure. I am to meet with the mayor tomorrow morning to discuss the curriculum. I hear Mother and Father in the next room. To avert the disastrous, I must rest, though I am far too giddy for sleep. Until tomorrow, my friend.

  Entry 3

  The meeting went well. The mayor did not suspect me of stealing from the jar of honey in his kitchen three days ago, but rather adorned me in sweet praise. I am a woman now, he says, and entitled to pick a partner of my choosing. I will let one choose me, I replied with a wink. He made a sour face.

  As for the curriculum, I will not have as much freedom, at least according to instruction, as I will be forced to heed Hilda’s outdated notions. The classes will consist of science and mathematics, basic language and literature, and most importantly, a vigorous education on ethics and community. The former is primarily focused on supplementing the latter. As the finest example of beauty and intelligence, the perfect fusion of acuity and divinity, it is my duty to pass the virtues of magnanimity and tenacity to the future generation of our town. For it to persevere, I must prove myself an essential pillar of the community by living to a higher standard. Learning is passed best by example.

  I have one week to prepare, but I am ready now, due to my innate knowledge and familiarity with the children. The harvest festival is coming in two days, so the mayor thought best for me to begin afterward. I had forgotten about the silly celebration. It did not live up to the laborious preparations. I remember having to hold a ladder for my uncle as he fixed an old effigy. He told me it would take an hour, and he worked well past sundown. No one was close to our vicinity, so I stood in place for nearly half a day, with no opportunity to urinate. When my bladder nearly burst, I seriously contemplated leaving the post. My stubborn uncle would have fallen to his death, but it could not compare to returning home with piss-soaked pants. Those sort of experiences are never forgotten by the experienced and her witnesses.

  It was worth the trouble, at least in hindsight. The extra chiseling on the figure’s countenance lent it a breath of life, rather than the former long-nosed, wide-mouthed caricature. The effigy represented one of his old friends, a man named Luther, who had disappeared three years ago, not long before my arrival. It seemed an elaborate structure for a missing man—nearly twenty feet high and sculpted in detail, depicting a brown wide brimmed hat and buckskin clothing, down to his laced brown boots. My uncle said he was the cofounder, and like Benji, mentioned only in mourning.

  I should remember to ask Walter about Luther. He probably took him off the island in secret. I could imagine years in this environment breeding an acute case of homesickness. If I ever tired of this place, faking my death is a potential plot.

  The mayor sent me home with a box of old textbooks. I plan to read them thoroughly before putting their content to use. I have a feeling I will need to barter with Walter again. The mayor may have the ability to lead, but certainly lacks the insight to nurture young intellect. Anything impractical is poisonous. The mind is a delicate sponge at this stage. Soak a clump of dirt and you end up muddying the whole thing.

  Hopefully this whole dreadful festival business quickly passes. I suppose the celebration will suit a fitting end to my toils in the fields. The labor will make it an early night. No time to write tomorrow, nor the next. But after? I tremble in anticipation.

  Entry 4

  I have not yet mentioned my bottomless appetite. I gorged on roast chicken and pork pies like a sensual little glutton. I picked my teeth with a wishbone while waiting for my belly to make room for jelly sandwiches and hot chestnuts, and I drank enough wine to inebriate an elephant. I expected to hibernate for days, but woke up cramped and thirsty. Even worse, I had extra clean-up duties because of a lost wager I cannot recall.

  I enjoyed the evening immensely. There were many unexpected surprises, some more amusing than others. Janice, my best friend, was proposed to by Peter, a man ten years her senior. She accepted, and after a drawn out cheer, poor Aiden seized the opportune moment to propose to me as well. I had to decline. With all eyes on his quivering mouth and swollen eyes, he darted off and was quickly forgotten in the revelry.

  The oaf frequently confides in me and is under the foolish assumption that I will bear his children because of it. I am not fit as a mother. Better to dash his hopes than ruin our lives. He is one of the stronger boys and has likely shed the shame by now.

  I am still tired from the events, so this will need to be brief. Rather than account the festivities in detail, I will touch on something mentioned in the last entry: Walter stopped by to drop supplies for the celebration. I gave him a list of useful books to acquire, promising to pay him back with interest. I inquired about Luther. He is familiar with a half dozen of the town folk, and only three by name. He confirmed never to have ferried one of us off the island.

  I look forward to Walter’s return with hesitance. Judging by his eyes, I do not think I will approve the currency he has in mind. Perhaps I will entrust my uncle in dealing with him. As long as my demands suit my duty, there should be no harm in at least asking. I spoke to him at length during the festival and may have even done so already. My memory is hazy.

  Fortunately it is clear regarding our conversation about Luther. He was my uncle’s friend prior to settling on the island, which makes him indirectly responsible for my settling. Luther was idealistic, and according to the explanation, the chief reason for the town’s existence. He had the notion in mind for a long time before learning of this location. Many rumors surround the island, most of which involve the toxic environment. These rumors were started by seamen, and Luther was correct in assuming such rumors were birthed and bred by incurable fools. The land was ripe for the taking, and his plan became a reality in a matter of years.

  Following his disappearance, it was only natural for Arthur, the current mayor, to assume leadership. His was absolute, primarily because no one was willing to share power. They wanted the benefits without the burden of responsibility. It was hard enough to rely on your own work to fill your belly and hold the roof over your head. There have been no problems, other than the occasional complaints, such as the Finney incident, which only escalated over a misunderstanding.

  As for an evaluation of Luther’s character, I will go into greater detail tomorrow. Arthur recited a tedious speech, more than enough to sketch a portrait of this alluring fellow. I must admit, it would have been interesting to meet the man. He sounds like a unique sort of person.

  But I am far too tired and probably on the verge of rambling. I must sleep so I can begin my lesson plan tomorrow.

  Entry 5

  After a short stroll through town with my friend Janice, I walked right into Aiden. Literally, he had been hiding behind a tree on my property and stepped out a moment too soon. Since Janice asked me to take a break from my books and spend time with her—and speak of nothing but her new marriage and how many children she would raise—I assume she had a hand in this accidental meeting. She could barely stifle a chortle. At least she had the courtesy to give Aiden and me privacy.

  I expected pleas of pity and another proposal. On the contrary, Aiden spoke with confidence and extreme calm, occasionally spreading his lips into a grin, revealing the gap in the upper right corner of his mouth. Aiden’s father, Gus, and the mayor had impelled him to propose. Though he fully expected a rejection, he asked for reconsideration. Rather than take it in stride and move on, which he initially set out to do, he found himself longing for me.

  My pause elicited a pathetic display. He bat his head swiftly to make sure no one was looking, then got on his knees and clasp my hand. The begging began: “It is
expected of us! I am not asking to take you away from your family. I want to provide, not scrounge. Have you not thought of the future?” There was more ferocity than blubbering in his pleas. He was being reasonable. I told him to stand and allow me to think.

  I have not considered marriage since the age of ten, thinking myself above childbearing and knitting. It was enough to cook a meal for myself; I did not have the heart to feed a family. With the possibility in front of me, it seemed more like an inconvenience than catastrophe. Another one of life’s trials.

  Aiden is only half a fool, enough to outshine his peers by a mile. A shred of intelligence and a heart of gold go a long way. He knows when to speak and when to listen, when to quarrel and when to abide. He is not whimsical or irascible, neither lethargic nor aloof. As far as personable qualities are concerned, Aiden trumps me by quite a bit.

  I accepted his proposal. He planted an awkward kiss on my cheek and embraced me far too tight. There must be certain stipulations, I mentioned. We would not move into his house. Most importantly, he would swear fealty to me. The vows of marriage meant little unless they are sworn with blood. He procured a dagger and we slashed our palms, then clasped hands and held tight for a moment. He looked at me with a warm smile and pulled me close. I felt the heat from both our wounds and the slight thump of pumping blood. He kissed me on the lips and moved away. We silently parted ways.

  My uncle inquired about my bloody palm. I told him about the oath with Aiden, and he laughed so hard it was somewhat frightening. He scrubbed and wrapped my hand with linen, reciting the story of his proposal. They swore a bloodless oath, and within a year, my aunt ran away with another man. Since they were separated before I was born, it was odd to think of her as such. My parents think her a wicked woman. If I did the same to Aiden, his father would also curse me.

  I am aware of the infallibility of oaths and curses, yet contemplation on the subject chills me to the core. Aiden and I are bound for eternity. I could leave this island tonight, never see nor think of the boy again. Thenceforth, nothing I say or write would ring true. I could expound an event in perfect detail, using precise language with no embellishments, and it would be utterly false, whether I am consumed by guilt or impervious to my own lies. A broken oath is a blemish on the soul that can never heal. It is a formal acknowledgment that life is smoke and mirrors. To pierce this flimsy veil is to invite everlasting consequences. I will not chip away at something so pernicious. When the sky and ground merge into one and all that is real becomes known, I only hope to have found the peaceful sleep of death.

  Quiet nights tend to breed superstition. Something needs to account for this unbearable dread. Out my window, I see a pitch of darkness the moon cannot pierce. There is always a trace of awe in the fearsome. My teeth are chattering and knees shaking, and I taste panic on the tip of my dried tongue. It is sharp and more like a pain than a flavor.

  I have wept for close to an hour. Perhaps far less. This night has been moving at a crawl.

  What have I done? I loathe marriage and I loathe this cursed island. Why am I here? Why did I mix blood with a near stranger? Must we truly spend our lives together? Here I am, wracking my brain in an attempt to bypass our verbal contract. He swore fealty to me. Did I do the same? I do not think so. But what do my thoughts matter behind such weighty matters?

  Nothing can rid this fear. It has seized control of my mind and sends chilly pangs down my spine. The cause? An acute case of doubt. These brief moments of weakness are as devastating to my complexion. Yes, when faced with the insoluble, appeal to vanity. Sleep. In the morning, I will recover my cheer and think with a clear mind. Nothing restores hope like a little sunshine.

  Entry 6

  I read my last few entries and can scarcely recall my distress. It seems so trivial in retrospect. Just as prescribed, the sun cured my melancholy. A solitary stroll along the coast provided a heaping helping. During my walk, I thought back to the festival. It is quite an odd thing. I am used to peculiarities because of my family, especially my uncle. This takes it to another level. I will try my best to describe it, as well as the town’s other unique customs.

  During the festival, an effigy of Luther and his horse, Bellicose, are placed in the center of town. The horse, shaped by wood and stuffed by straw, is ignited for a large pyre. Flanks of horse meat are roasted over the flame as a speech recited by the mayor explains the importance of the celebration. It is a tribute to the town’s founding, though not quite the specific date of its discovery.

  The story follows Luther, Arthur, and Paul. Their second visit to the island called for a thorough investigation. While Arthur and Paul searched the circumference, Luther and Bellicose scouted the rest. He boasted covering ten times their ground with the beast’s assistance. The others frequently heard the horse’s whinny and firm trot. When Arthur and Paul met on the beach at nightfall, there was no sign of Luther. After an hour of waiting, they lit torches and set out into the woods.

  They were guided by the savory aroma of roasted meat. Bracing their courage, the men followed the scent until it led to a campfire. Luther, forehead wrapped by his torn shirtsleeve, held a skewer of Bellicose’s thigh over the flame. Something spooked the beast, hurtling them both off into a small ditch. Luther sprained his ankle and cut his head open, and Bellicose broke a leg. Not for lacking rations, Luther had felt compelled to eat the horse after being forced to put her down. The others joined in while discussing their findings.

  Upon burying the bones of Bellicose, Luther cast the first vote to occupy the island. The territory, rich in resources and generally habitable terrain, would be adequate in settling a small town. With the means in their favor, it was a matter of putting their ideas to a test. The yearly celebration sheds any doubt regarding the town’s prosperity. It now doubles as a tribute to the missing Luther, whose declaration to put their plan into action gave the others courage to face potential failure.

  That is why we begin each feast with horsemeat. Will this tradition end with the passing of Arthur and Paul? The latter, husband to Hilda, is a thread away from dementia. The man functioned as a mentor to Arthur and Luther, refusing his share of leadership because of old age, though I would also assume it was to honor his pupils. According to my uncle, Paul was something of a sage, a jack of all trades in terms of knowledge. A shame his mind is withering with his decrepit body.

  The mayor, on the other hand, will be around in the foreseeable future. Though we may discard the effigy when it crumbles in a few decades, we will continue to eat horsemeat for as long as the town persists.

  Six months after the festival, marking the date of the town’s official occupancy, we celebrate with the exchange of gifts. However, there is a twist to spice it up! Six gifts of exquisite quality are put up in two contests. One is a physical trial, and the other of wit.

  The first competition consists of three races: by foot, horseback, and wood chopping. The second competition consists of three trials: riddles, storytelling, and trivia. The winner of each collects a prize. I won all three of the second competition during my first year. My uncle, one of the judges, told me he would enter next year unless I competed in the first competition as well. Since Hilda’s brains went stale, I will probably be asked to judge. So much for his challenge!

  The prizes differ between competitions. The first: shoes, a saddle, and an axe. The second: a hat, a cross, and a rabbit’s foot. I don my fox skin cap, write next to my holy cross, and wear the rabbit’s foot around my neck. I have only attended one of these contests, so I do not know if the prizes vary from year to year. Gifts are exchanged between family members, but these are far from extravagant. A few exchange with friends, usually related to their trade.

  These are the two main holidays. Since the town has continued to thrive without many obstacles, I have no doubt we will continue to find more ways to celebrate our good fortune. And perhaps the bad, as well.

  On an unrelated note, I have the first week of study planned. I shared the prepar
ations with my uncle, and he insists that it will take the students at least a month to absorb so much. I hope he is correct. It is a tedious task meant for one more nurturing than myself. I have, once again, been questioning my qualifications. True, a former nanny and a budding scholar seems a perfect fit. Unfortunately, no amount of knowledge can compare to a disciplined patience. I should practice Hilda’s approving nod and genial smile.

  I am also set to marry Aiden in three days. My uncle and Father have volunteered to build us our own cottage. With the help of Aiden and his father, they may finish within a month. Soon enough, we will have our own cozy living space. I can face this without fear. On the contrary, I look forward to spending more time with Aiden.

  Further expectations may need to be fulfilled. These are a distant, yet inevitable future. I look to those days with dread. Is the rejection of motherhood a product of a sick mind? I must answer affirmatively, though it hurts to do so. But to answer in such a way, I further question. What went wrong? When did it go wrong? How did it go wrong? Dwelling on the subject makes me queasy to the core. I am not meant for self-reflection. In me is something like a Gorgon. When our gazes meet, it is I who petrifies.

  Entry 7

  I spent most of the day with Janice. Her mother, Penelope, thoroughly instructed us on the wedding ceremony, not very dissimilar to that which I was accustomed. However, the few differences are odd and Penelope could not account for them. It was how she and her sisters had been married, and it seemed more natural than my description.

  The bride and groom are joined by their parents. If either pairs of parents are unmarried, the union would be impossible. If either father is deceased and the bride is not a virgin, the widow must witness the consummation. If either bride or groom is remarrying because their former partner is deceased, a libation of wine is poured before the vows. If their former partner lives, the remarrying bride or groom must grip a barbed stick to renounce their former vows, and a libation of their blood is poured over the grave of their nearest deceased paternal ancestor. If either the bride or groom has a child from a previous marriage, the child is reared by a barren or impotent or elderly citizen.