“I don’t know. I sought an oracle dream from Somna.”
“Which you are now having, though you may be too thick to realize it. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Gahon,” Akan said. “Demon, Destroyer, the one who crouches on Somna’s breast in the form of nightmare and disturbs her dream. You shouldn’t be here …”
“Nonsense. You dreamed me. It’s the only way I can walk Somna’s dream in my true form. Now … what is there about you that seeks the image of Somna and instead finds me?” Gahon poked Akan’s ribs. His fingers were long and his fingernails like needles. “Eh? Think about it. You’ll understand.”
Akan did understand. In his heart, he had already decided what he was going to do. And Gahon clearly knew his heart. “Dreamer Forgive Me …”
Gahon shrugged. “She will. She’s like that. Will you forgive yourself? Another pesky question. But if you ask my advice—and you did by virtue of being here—I’d say do it.”
Akan shook his head. “It is sinful. Such evil would disturb the Dream—”
“How do you know that?” Gahon asked.
“You’re trying to trick me; it won’t work. I would cause much unhappiness to do as you suggest. And is not unhappiness poison to Somna’s Dream? Does not the burden of sorrow carried in the Dream disturb her sleep?”
Gahon grinned, showing teeth like a shark’s. “It is. It does. So tell me—how much poison is coursing through the veins of your mother and father even as we speak? How much unhappiness is there between them, and how long will it last with your mother and then you to carry it on? How much damage to the Dream you prize so much? Oh, yes. It’s spreading to you even now. Will you deny that?”
Akan shook his head. “No.”
“Just so. Lancing a boil hurts, boy. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done.”
“Why would you help me? Why would the Sculptor of Lies speak truth? You seek to end the Dream!”
“I do. And why? Because Somna has spent too long in this one little world; her affection for her creation clouds her judgment. She could create much grander places than this. She could even forgo the Divine Sleep for a bit and spare a moment and a smile for one who loves her.”
Akan just stared. “You?”
Gahon smiled again. “I am what I am, and you simple manifestations of Somna’s will don’t know the smallest part of it. I want Somna to wake, yes. But I want the shock to be brief, the hurt fleeting. I would not chisel away at the dream piece by wretched piece, given a choice. We all serve Somna in our own way, Akan. We all sacrifice for what we want. You speak of poisons and unhappiness, but do you really know what it is to be happy?”
Akan shook his head, slowly. “No.”
“Then I’ll tell you.” Gahon leaned close. “Sometimes,” he said, “it’s merely knowing what you can bear and what you cannot bear and living your life tailored to that understanding. You have to decide what you will do. The Dream continues or it does not. So do I, and as I plot and scheme I weigh Somna’s pain in the balance with my own, always.”
Akan sobbed. “What must I do?”
“What you already know to do. The only thing left is that you decide to act. Or not. Time is running out, either way.”
Gahon the Destroyer held up a nearly-empty hourglass in his hands, and just when the last grains fell Akan awoke, cold and alone, by the statue of Somna the Dreamer.
The following afternoon, Akan found Letis his mother, knife in hand, standing under the willow tree by the river. She stared at the knife she held in disgust. She did not hear Akan approach until he spoke.
“Mother, if it is your will, I will hold the knife.”
She looked at him. Akan was prepared for anything he saw there: rage, pain, contempt. He was not prepared for the love, the pure mad joy he saw in her eyes. “You love me as much as that?”
Akan took the knife from her. “Even more.”
Two months later, Letis came home to the House of Skulls. She was a masterpiece, as Jarak had promised, easily outshining all who had gone before. Even Laersa. Jarak took to his bed soon after; his own Homecoming followed quickly.
No one called what Akan had done murder, once Jarak had spoken for him, but understanding only went so far. Akan did not marry Melyt; that was impossible now. In time she married a fine young man from Tolbas and everyone thought that best, and Akan agreed. It was just one regret that he had to bear. Another was that he was not allowed to take his father’s place as carver for Trepa, with only one exception—when Jarak died, Akan was the one who prepared the skull for Homecoming. It was Jarak’s last request. The skull Akan did was fine work, his best up to that point. Not so fine as Jarak’s, but still showing promise for what might have been.
Afterwards Akan’s freedom was given over to the Temple, and he was shackled with silver chains. Every morning till the day he died, Akan was led to the House of Skulls, there to watch the Homecomings in silence and then to tell his tale of vanity and selfish pride to any visitor who cared to listen.
Akan did not think of it as punishment; rather, he saw it as just another step in helping to secure his father’s promise. He told the story with great feeling, and, with the skill of long practice, the tale became a wonder in itself and spread far and wide like some ancient legend that everyone knew. Akan never wearied of the telling, and every day he looked up at the remembered faces of his parents with great pride and love.
There were dark hours, of course. There always are. Yet even when such times forced Akan to place all his regrets in the scale against his one great joy, for him the balance remained true.
© 2007 by Richard Parks.
Originally published in Weird Tales.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
Richard Parks’ work has appeared in Asimov’s SF, Realms of Fantasy, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and several Year’s Best anthologies, and has been nominated for both the World Fantasy Award and the Mythopoeic Award for Adult Literature. His fourth story collection, Yamada Monogatari: Demon Hunter, was published in February. He blogs at “Den of Ego and Iniquity Annex #3,” also known as: richard-parks.com.
Always, They Whisper
Damien Walters Grintalis
She was not a monster, nor did Perseus cut off her head. The whole Athena and shield bit? Bullshit. Perseus was a self-absorbed fool who barely had the strength to lift a sword over his shoulder, let alone swing it hard enough to sever sinew and bone.
As far as the rest of her story, the snakes and stone might be true, but not in the way you think. It’s always easy to paint a villain; harder to scrape below the gilt to find the real.
Medi pushes away from her desk, rubbing her eyes. Translating ancient Greek is usually a piece of cake, but, for this project, she’s working off photographs, not the actual documents themselves, and the faded text is nearly illegible.
She knows she should keep working, but she’d rather drink wine and watch a movie. She’ll deal with the rest of the translation later.
In the kitchen, her mouth twists. Her last bottle of wine is almost empty. It’s not necessary, but wants never are. She checks the mirror. There aren’t quite enough wrinkles for her liking, but they should be enough.
When she unwraps the heavy towel from her head, the serpents whisper. She does her best to ignore them and puts on an ugly floral scarf and her sunglasses. Never mind that the sky is a shade of dusky purple.
Outside, she steps into the sound of bass-heavy music pumping from a car speaker and the stink of exhaust. She hates it all—the noise, the desperation—but the thought of living in a place where she can’t be just another anonymous body is terrifying.
Especially for her.
Although the sidewalks are nearly deserted, she keeps her gaze down and her steps brisk. The autumn air is cool against her cheeks. Despite the wrinkles and sunglasses, her heart races the entire way.
The man at the liquor store takes her money without a word. He gave up trying to engage her in conversati
on a long time ago.
On her way back to her apartment, the screech of tires fills the air. A door opens and closes behind her. Then she hears the steady thump of shoes on pavement. She glances over her shoulder, and when she turns back, a man is standing close. Too close. She tries to dodge out of the way, hits his arm instead, and stumbles. He grabs for her, her sunglasses tilt, and she doesn’t look away fast enough. Keeping her guard up is hard, even after all her years of practice.
But he isn’t looking at her face, her eyes. Relief flows through her body. She nudges her glasses back into their proper position and says, “Thank you.”
“No problem. Be careful, okay?” he says in a solicitous manner.
Her heart is still pounding heavy in her chest when she slams and locks her front door. Half a glass of wine downed in two gulps eases it somewhat. She feels the weight of the serpents hidden inside the spiral curls of her hair. She muffles their words with a towel again.
No mortal can understand what they say. Athena granted that mercy at least.
How many times do you have to hear something before you believe it to be true?
Not nearly as many as you think.
Every Sunday morning, Medi wakes early, regardless of how late she stayed up the night before. She wraps a towel around her head and prays, but not to the gods and goddesses of her youth. They were never friends. Never a comfort.
She prays for forgiveness, for compassion, for safety. She suspects she would’ve had an answer by now if anyone was listening.
Then she takes a glass vial from atop her chest of drawers. The liquid inside shimmers a pale pink. When she removes the stopper, the room fills with the smell of gardenias, but it’s a lie. The elixir tastes like rotten fruit and spoiled meat.
Fitting, she thinks.
There are only a few drops left in this bottle, but she only needs one and the results last for a week, give or take a few days.
The elixir is cool on her tongue. For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of her breathing and the muted whispers from beneath the towel. Then a slow pain burns beneath her skin, rippling out like a sheet shaken over a bed. The first time, she writhed on the floor until it was finished, but she’s used to it now. Pain is part of being a woman.
When the hurt subsides and her fists unclench, she checks the mirror in the bathroom and nods at her reflection. An ugly woman stares back. A woman not worth anyone’s time.
Or anyone’s attention.
They have names for women like her, or maybe she’s the reason for the names. Everyone needs a scapegoat.
In the old days, there was a ritual called the pharmakos. In times of drought or other hardship, a slave or an animal was driven from the city in the hope that casting out the scapegoat would also cast out the hardship.
They never formally pushed her out. They didn’t have to. The words and whispers did it for them. And even though the serpents were hissing their poison, even though she fought tears the entire way, she held her head up high as she left.
There was no such shame for Poseidon.
The edge of the sky is just beginning to lighten when she finishes up the last line of translation. She sends it via email, and sits back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head. The serpents coil around her fingers. She shakes them free and puts on her scarf and sunglasses. Her clothing is already shapeless, but she grabs a cane to complete the look.
One walk around the block to clear her head and get her blood flowing is all she needs before breakfast and bed. She doesn’t normally pull all-nighters, but this was a rush job. Nothing ancient this time, just a bit of modern Greek in a legal document for a writer and her literary agent. A fairly easy, well-paying assignment.
The streets are still awash in shadow. Her cane thumps against the pavement. She doesn’t hunch over or force her feet into a slow and halting rhythm; there’s no one around to see. She drops a few dollars into a homeless man’s cup. He’s snoring loudly, oblivious to her presence, and she hopes he wakes before someone else steals the money.
As she withdraws her hand, she sees smooth skin and frowns. She pats her cheek. Her frown turns into a gaping hole of shock. No, it isn’t possible. It’s only been two days.
At her feet, the man shifts. Mumbles. She turns and runs the rest of the way home. Inside, she drops the cane, rips the sunglasses and scarf free, tosses them onto the floor, and races into her bathroom. The bright lights reveal an absence of wrinkles. In their place, smooth skin, a firm jawline. A young woman’s face, although she’s anything but. The part in the old stories about her mortality?
Wrong.
They also like to portray her as a hag or a monster. She’s never been either one naturally, and if she were, would so many have tried to claim and conquer her?
She grips the edge of the porcelain. Stares down at the white as she fights the tears. The serpents twitch awake, then settle back to sleep without a sound. She’s grateful; she doesn’t need their input right now. Her breath comes fast and her fingers tremble.
Maybe the last few drops spoiled somehow. A logical, legitimate reason. She’ll toss out the remaining elixir and make a new batch.
From the tiny herb garden in her kitchen, she snips two amaratho leaves, for courage and longevity, tugs a few anithos seeds free, for protection, and slices off a bit of daphni, for purification. She grinds them together with a mortar and pestle until her wrist aches, switches hands, and keeps working until the mixture is fine.
Using a small funnel, she pours the powder into the vial, and adds purified water infused with lygos. A poetic bit of irony; in days of old, it was used to calm sexual appetites. Finally, she adds three drops of an oil nicknamed Tears of the Lonely.
She pours the elixir into a vial and shakes it until everything blends. It took her years to get the mixture just right, but now she could make it in her sleep.
It needs to sit for twenty-four hours before she can take it. Luckily, she doesn’t have anywhere to go and her apartment walls are safe. Inside, she doesn’t need her disguise.
She doesn’t bother with a towel on her head. She doesn’t pray. Just drops the elixir on her tongue. She welcomes the pain that rushes in, just as she welcomes the hag in the mirror when it’s done.
She breathes heavily, relieved enough to ignore the serpents and the words they whisper.
But the next morning, the hag is gone. The woman in the bathroom is young. Beautiful. A face she knows. A face she hates.
She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand on her cheek, unable to move, unable to think. It’s not possible.
A serpent slips free from the towel. Breathes on her cheeks. Whispers.
Your fault.
The spell breaks and she backs away from the mirror with her hands covering her ears.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
Of course it was her fault. She must not have used enough. She shoves the serpent back beneath the towel and races into her bedroom. Another drop of elixir. Another welcome bite of pain. Another mask of age spots and wrinkles.
Beneath the towel, the serpents stir.
Once again, the hag is gone come morning.
Perseus came to her the week before she left. He reached for her cheek and said nothing when she pulled away. Then he offered marriage. She laughed, thinking it a joke.
It wasn’t.
Never mind that he had a half-dozen other women fawning all over him, including Athena. Any one of them would’ve jumped at the chance to be his wife. He was good looking—Medi had to give him that—but he knew it and never let anyone forget it.
The hesitant smile on his face vanished. His jaw clenched. She tried to explain the why, but he wasn’t interested and with each word from her lips, his anger grew. No, it was more than anger. It was rage. And his parting words?
“As if anyone else would ever want you now.”
Medi’s hand shakes as she removes the stopper from the vial, but after the drop touches her tongue, there i
s no pain. No change. She bites back a sob.
In the kitchen, she checks all the plants. No signs of rot or infestation of any kind. The water infusion smells fine, as does the oil. Tears slip from her eyes as she makes another batch. She knows she didn’t make any mistakes before. She knows it as sure as she knows her own name.
Still, she grinds the herbs until her fingers are numb from the effort.
Twenty-four hours later, Medi perches on the edge of her sofa, the vial on the coffee table. The museum sent an email, requesting that she come in to look at some recently discovered documents. She asked for photographs, but they were beyond illegible.
She picks up the vial. If she wants this assignment, she’ll have to go, and she needs the money. She pulls the stopper free.
“Please work. Please, please work.”
One drop on her tongue.
Nothing happens.
Another drop.
Still nothing.
She drains the contents. Pain rips through her belly, but she doesn’t feel her skin change and when she holds out one hand, the flesh is still smooth.
“No, no, no!”
She hurls the vial across the room. Shards of glass rain down on the floor when it shatters against the wall. She shrieks into her palms.
She can’t go to the museum. She can’t go anywhere at all.
She gets up, wipes the tears from her cheeks with angry swipes of the back of her hand, and stalks into the kitchen. Pulls out the herbs, the water, the oil. Grinds and pours and mixes and waits.
It doesn’t work.
She buries her face in a pillow so the neighbors won’t hear her cries.
As she crawled away from Poseidon, with tears on her face, blood on her thighs, and bruises on her arms, she saw Athena standing near the temple entrance, her arms crossed over her chest. Medi whispered and to this day she cannot remember what she said. “Help,” or perhaps she simply said Athena’s name.
But she will never forget the words that spilled from Athena’s mouth. Never. The serpents remind her every single day.
She ignores the museum’s emails. Their phone calls. She paces; the serpents slip and slither through her curls. She feels their breath on her cheeks; knows the whispers aren’t far behind.
Lightspeed Magazine Issue 36 Page 13
