Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  This is when things became entirely strange.

  A silver flask by the side of the bath rose up, danced in the air, and tipped its contents into the water. Before she had time to scream out her surprise a glorious cloud of unknown fragrances assailed her senses. Now an ivory-handled brush was scrubbing her back and a ewer of hot water was being emptied over her hair. Invisible hands kneaded, stroked, pummeled, teased, and pressed. Psyche giggled like a little girl and allowed it all to happen. Whether this was a dream inside the real world or a moment of reality inside a dream no longer seemed important. She would enjoy the adventure and see where it took her.

  Damasks, silks, satins, and gossamer tissues flew from concealed closets and glided down onto the bed to shimmer beside her, rustling in anticipation of being chosen. She selected a chiffon gown of lapis blue—loose, comfortable, and exciting.

  The doors of her chambers opened, and with shy uncertain steps she made her way back to the main hall. A great feast was laid out on the table. Unseen hands were moving backward and forward with platters of fruit, cups of fermented honey, dishes of exotic roast birds, and plates of sweetmeats. Never had Psyche seen or imagined such a banquet. Beside herself with joy, she dipped her fingers into dishes of such exquisite deliciousness that she could not help crying out in delight. The swine in the piggeries of her parents’ farms did not snuffle and truffle at their wooden troughs with more uninhibited abandon than she did at the magical vessels of crystal, silver, and gold that filled and refilled themselves as fast as she could empty them. Napkins flew up to dab her wine-stained lips and food-smeared chin. An invisible choir sang soft ballads and hymns to human love as she gorged and guzzled in ecstasy.

  Finally she was done. A feeling of great warmth and wellbeing stole over her. If she was being fattened up for an ogre then so be it.

  The candles on the table now rose up and led Psyche back to the bedchamber. The flickering torches and soft oil lamps had died down and the room was in almost complete darkness. The unseen hands pushed her gently to the bedside and her chiffon gown lifted up and away. Naked she lay back between the satin sheets and closed her eyes.

  An instant later she gasped in shock. Someone or something had slipped into bed beside her. She felt her body being gently pulled toward this figure. Sweet warm breath mingled with hers. Her skin met the body, not of a beast, but of a man. He was beardless and—she knew this without being able to see him—beautiful. She could not see even the outline of him, only feel his heat and youthful firmness. He kissed her lips and they entwined.

  Eros and Psyche . . . Cupid and Anima . . . Love and Soul . . .

  Next morning the bed was empty and Psyche was bathed once more by the invisible handmaidens. As the long day passed she at last summoned the courage to ask them questions.

  “Where am I?”

  “Why, you are here, your highness.”

  “And where is here?”

  “Far from there but close to nearby.”

  “Who is the master of this palace.”

  “You are the mistress.”

  Never a straight answer. She did not press. She knew that she was in an enchanted place and could sense that her handmaidens were slaves to its rules and requirements.

  That night, in pitch darkness, the beautiful young man came to her bed again. She tried to speak to him, but he placed a finger to her lips and a voice sounded inside her head.

  “Hush, Psyche. Ask no questions. Love me as I love you.”

  And slowly, as the days passed, she realized that she did love this unseen man very much. Every night they made love. Every morning she awoke to find him gone.

  The palace was glorious and there was nothing Psyche’s handmaidens would not do for her. She had everything she could ever want, the best to eat or drink and music to accompany her everywhere. But what long, lonely days stretched out between the evenings of delicious love, how hard she found it to pass the time.

  The “monster” with whom she slept every night was, you will have guessed, the god Eros whose self-inflicted dart had caused him to fall in love with Psyche, a love now magnified by their repeated nights of mutual bliss. The oracle had been right to say that Eros was a being whose powers frightened all the gods, for there was not one Olympian who had not been conquered by Eros at some time. Perhaps he was a monster after all. But he could be sensitive and sweet as well as capricious and cruel. He saw that Psyche was not entirely happy and one night, as they lay together in the darkness, he quizzed her tenderly.

  “What ails you, beloved wife?”

  “I hate to say this when you have given me so much, but I get lonely during the day. I miss my sisters.”

  “Your sisters?”

  “Calanthe and Zona. They believe me to be dead.”

  “Only unhappiness can come from consorting with them. Misery and despair for them and for you.”

  “But I love them . . .”

  “Misery and despair, I tell you.”

  Psyche sighed.

  “Please believe me,” he said. “It is for the best that you do not see them.”

  “What about you? May I not see you? May I never look into the face of the one I love so well?”

  “You must not ask me that. Never ask me that.”

  The days passed and Eros saw that Psyche—for all the wine and food, for all the music and magical fountains and enchanted voices—was pining.

  “Cheer up, beloved! Tomorrow is our anniversary,” he said.

  A year! Had a whole year passed already?

  “My present to you is to grant your wish. Tomorrow morning my friend Zephyrus will await you outside the palace and take you where you need to be. But please be careful. Do not allow yourself to become too involved in the lives of your family. And you must promise never to tell them about me. Not one word about me.”

  Psyche promised and they fell into each other’s arms for a night of anniversary love. Never had she felt more passionate adoration or physical delight, and she sensed equal feelings of ardor and love in him too.

  The next morning she awoke, as ever, to an empty bed. In a great fever of impatience she allowed herself to be dressed and served breakfast by the handmaidens before running excitedly to the great gate at the front of the palace. She had barely stepped out before Zephyrus swept down and flew her away in his strong, supportive arms.

  SISTERS

  Meanwhile, back in the land of Psyche’s birth, the populace had been marking the anniversary of her capture by the fabled unseen monster. King Aristides and Queen Damaris had led the procession of mourning up the hillside to the basalt slab on which their daughter had been bound—since named “the Rock of Psyche” in her honor. Now there remained at the monument only the two princesses, Calanthe and Zona, who had loudly made it known to all that they wished to stay behind and lament in private.

  Once the crowd died away they pulled back their mourning veils and began to laugh.

  “Imagine what sort of creature it was that took her away,” said Zona.

  “Winged like a Fury . . .” suggested Calanthe. “With iron claws . . .”

  “And fiery breath . . .”

  “Great yellow fangs . . .”

  “Snakes for hair . . .”

  “A great tail that—What was that?”

  A sudden gust of wind made them turn round. What they saw made them shout in fright.

  Their sister Psyche was standing before them, radiant in a shimmering white gown edged with gold. She looked appallingly beautiful.

  “But . . .” began Calanthe.

  “We thought . . .” stammered Zona.

  And then both together: “Sister!”

  Psyche came toward them, her hands held out and the sweetest smile of tender sisterly love lighting up her face. Calanthe and Zona each took a hand to kiss.

  “You are alive!”

  “And so . . . so . . .”

  “This dress—it must have cost, that is to say it looks . . .”

  “And you loo
k . . .” said Zona, “so . . . so . . . Calanthe, whatever is the word?”

  “Happy?” suggested Psyche.

  “Something,” her sisters agreed. “You definitely look something.”

  “But tell us, Psyche, dearest . . .”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Here we are mourning, sobbing our hearts out for you.”

  “Who gave you that dress?”

  “How did you get off the rock?”

  “Is it real gold?”

  “Did a monster come for you? A beast? An ogre?”

  “And that material.”

  “A dragon perhaps?”

  “How do you keep it from creasing?”

  “Did it take you to its den?”

  “Who does your hair?”

  “Did it try to chew your bones?”

  “That can’t be a real emerald can it?”

  Laughing, Psyche held up a hand. “Dear sisters! I will tell you everything. Better, I will show you everything. Come, wind, take us there!”

  Before the sisters knew what was happening the three of them were lifted from their feet and were traveling swiftly through the air, safe in the arms of the West Wind.

  “Don’t fight it. Relax into it,” said Psyche as Zephyrus swept them up over the mountain. Zona’s howls began to subside and Calanthe’s muffled sobs softened to a whimper. Before long they were even able to open their eyes for a few seconds without screaming.

  When the wind finally set them down on the grass in front of the enchanted palace Calanthe had decided that this was the only way to travel.

  “Who needs a stupid horse pulling a rickety rackety old chariot?” she said. “From now on I catch the wind . . .”

  But Zona wasn’t listening. She was staring transfixed at the walls, the turrets, and the silver-studded door of the palace, all glittering in the morning sun.

  “Come in,” said Psyche. What an exciting feeling, to show her dear sisters around her new home. It was a pity they couldn’t meet her darling husband.

  To say that the girls were impressed would be criminally to understate the matter. Naturally therefore they sniffed, yawned, tittered, shook their heads, and generally tut-tutted their way from golden apartment to golden apartment by silver-paneled corridors and jewel-encrusted passageways. Their tilted, wrinkled noses seemed to suggest that they were used to better.

  “Just a little vulgar, don’t we feel, darling?” Zona suggested. Inside she said to herself, “This is the home of a god!”

  Calanthe was thinking, “If I just stop and pretend to fix the laces of my sandals I could break off one of the rubies encrusting that chair . . .”

  When the invisible staff of stewards, footmen, and handmaidens began serving lunch the sisters found it harder to mask their wonder and astonishment. Afterward they each took turns to be oiled, bathed, and massaged.

  Pressed for details of the castle’s lord, Psyche remembered her promise and hastily made something up.

  “He’s a handsome huntsman and local landowner.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The kindest eyes.”

  “And his name is . . . ?”

  “He’s so sorry to miss you. I’m afraid he always takes to the field with his hounds by day. He wanted so much to greet you personally. Perhaps another time.”

  “Yes, but what’s he called?”

  “He—he doesn’t really have a name.”

  “What?”

  “Well, he has a name. Obviously he has a name, everyone has a name, Zona, I mean really! But he doesn’t use it.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Oh my goodness, quick! It’ll be dark soon. Zephyrus won’t fly you at night . . . Come, dear sisters, help yourselves to some little things to take home. Here’s a handful of amethysts. These are sapphires. There’s gold, silver . . . Be sure to take gifts for Mother and Father too.”

  Loaded with precious treasures the sisters allowed themselves to be transported back to the rock. Psyche, who had stood and waved them off, was both relieved and sorry to see them go. While she welcomed their company and the chance to show them round and give them presents, her determination to keep the promise she had made to her husband had made the evasion of all their questions an exhausting business.

  Back home the sisters—despite the fabulous treasures they now possessed—were eaten up with envy, resentment, and fury. How could their younger sister, the stupid, selfish Psyche, now find herself in the position more or less of a goddess? It was so appallingly unfair. Spoiled, vain, ugly creature! Well, not ugly, perhaps. Possessed of a certain obvious and rather vulgar prettiness, but scarcely a match for their queenly beauty. It was all too monstrously unjust: There was almost certainly witchcraft and wickedness at the bottom of it. How could she not even know the name of her lord and master?

  “My husband Sato’s rheumatism,” said Calanthe, “is getting so bad that every night I have to rub his fingers one by one, then apply plasters and poultices. It’s disgusting and demeaning.”

  “You think your life is hell?” said Zona. “My Charion is as bald as an onion, his breath stinks, and he has all the sex drive of a dead pig. While Psyche . . .”

  “That selfish slut . . .”

  The sisters clung to each other and sobbed their hearts out.

  That night Psyche’s lover Eros had momentous news for her. She was pouring out all her gratitude to him, and explaining how well she had managed to avoid describing him to her sisters, when he placed his finger on her lips.

  “Sweet, trusting child. I fear those sisters and what they may do to you. But I am glad you are happy. Let me make you happier still.” She felt his warm hand slide down her front and gently stroke her belly. “Our child is growing there.”

  Psyche gasped and hugged him close, stunned with joy. “If you keep this secret,” he said, “the child will be a god. If you tell a living soul, it will be mortal.”

  “I will keep the secret,” said Psyche. “But before my condition becomes obvious let me at least see Calanthe and Zona one more time and say goodbye to them.”

  Eros was troubled but could not see how he might deny so decent and sisterly a request, and so he assented.

  “Zephyrus will send them a sign and they will come,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “But remember, not a word about me or about our baby.”

  A DROP OF OIL

  The next morning Calanthe and Zona awoke to feel the breath of Zephyrus ruffling at them like a hungry pet dog panting and pawing at the bedclothes. When they opened their eyes and sat up the wind departed, but their instinct, greed, and inborn cunning told them what the signal meant, and they hurried to the rock to await their transport. This time they were determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of their sister’s lover.

  Psyche was there to welcome them when they were set down in front of the palace. Embracing her fondly, the sisters hid the furious envy they felt at Psyche’s good fortune, presenting instead a flurry of solicitous clucking and tutting, accompanied by much head shaking.

  “Whatever is the matter, Calanthe?” a puzzled Psyche asked as she sat them down to a great breakfast of fruit, cakes, and honey-wine. “Why so sorrowful, Zona? Are you not happy to see me?”

  “Happy?” groaned Calanthe.

  “If only,” Zona sighed.

  “What can be worrying you?”

  “Ah, child, child,” said Calanthe with a moan. “You are so young. So sweet. So guileless.”

  “So easy to take advantage of.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The sisters looked at each other as if weighing up whether to reveal harsh truths.

  “How well—if at all—do you know this . . . this thing that comes nightly to visit you?”

  “He’s not a thing!” protested Psyche.

  “Of course he’s a thing. He’s the monster foretold by the oracle.”

  “Scaly, I’ll bet,” said Zona. “Or, if not scaly, hairy.”

 
“He’s nothing of the sort,” said Psyche indignantly.

  “He’s young and beautiful and kind. Soft skin, firm muscles—”

  “What color are his eyes?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Is he blond or dark?”

  “Darling sisters,” said Psyche, “can you keep a secret?”

  Calanthe and Zona craned in close and pawed their sister lovingly.

  “Can we keep a secret? What a question!”

  “The thing is,” said Psyche, “well, the thing is I don’t actually know what he looks like. I’ve never seen him, only . . . well . . . felt him.”

  “What?” Calanthe was shocked.

  “You mean you’ve never so much as looked upon his face?”

  “He insists that I must not see him. He comes to me in the blackest black of night, slips between the sheets, and we . . . well, we . . . you know . . .” Psyche blushed. “But I can trace his outlines and what I feel is not the body of a monster. It is the body of a splendid and marvelous man. Just, in the morning, he’s gone.”

  “Oh, you silly goose!” tittered Zona. “Don’t you know—” She broke off here as if afraid to go on.

  The sisters exchanged sorrowful and knowing glances. “Oh dear . . .”

  “Psyche doesn’t know!”

  Calanthe responded with a sound that was something between a titter and a sigh.

  Psyche looked from one to the other in perplexity. “Know what?”

  Calanthe put her arms around her and explained, with Zona interposing her own observations and affirmations. The worst and most dreadful monsters—indeed the very kind that Apollo’s oracle had predicted would devour her!—possessed powers—always have done, were known for having, were celebrated the world over for having them!—the power, for example, to transform themselves, to take on deceitful shapes—forms that might seem thrilling and attractive to the touch of a young girl—but this was only to win the trust of the innocent—the innocent and foolish!—so as one day to plant their demonic seed inside her—poor girl, she doesn’t understand these things, but men can do this—and cause her to give birth to a new abomination, an even more terrible monster—a mutation—it’s how they breed, how they propagate their vile species.