by R. E. Vance
To say that the crowd exploded in cheers would be to say that erupting volcanoes bubbled lava or raging hurricanes gusted wind.
“WE ARE WHOLE.”
The crowd ceased being a collection of individual voices, instead merging together into one final, powerful, unified agreement. Life did go on! And everyone here knew it.
“And if any of them were to return on bended knees and beg us to take them back, let them know what we will say: ‘It … is … too … late! We … are … happy … without … you!’ ”
Sparklers erupted and light flashed across the room as dwarves stomped in place, fairies did aerial backflips, cerberuses shook their multiple heads from side to side and frantically wagged their tails. And gargoyles … well, gargoyles stood perfectly still.
As if conjured from thin air, dozens upon dozens of plates covered with silver domes were flown in by a squadron of gargoyles. The gargoyle with the massive scar across its face flew to our table and put down a plate before Medusa. Then he winked at her and the gorgon blushed.
“What was that?”
“Old flame,” she giggled. I gave her a look and her eyes widened. “What! You know the legends … Me and statues are a thing!” And with that her two perfect dimples dug themselves into her cheeks, and this time she gave me a wink. It melted my heart to see her so giggly and happy—her happiness was infectious.
On some invisible cue, the gargoyles lifted the domes, releasing torrents of steam that shot up and hit the ceiling with an inaudible crash. I looked down at my plate and saw a well-seasoned carp. Then a fish tank was wheeled onstage with a single snow-colored carp in it.
The audience gasped. The BisMark, the master showman, let the gasp turn to silence before whispering into the mic, “Family … We are all family. Man, woman, angel and demon—we’re all family now, and that’s what tonight is all about.” Then, raising his hands in the air like a conductor commanding the orchestra to bring home the intensity, he cried out, “Atargatis! Atargatis, where are you?”
The crowd stood as she entered, trading their unabashed revelry for reserved, respectful clapping—like they were suddenly transported from rock ’n’ roll to some lifetime achievement award, an award given to someone they all greatly respected. I scanned the room, looking for Astarte. If she wanted to ruin her sister’s night, now would be the time to do it. But Astarte clapped like everyone else, her eyes locked on her older sister as she strolled across the ballroom.
Atargatis had changed into a flowing white dress. Her seven children followed, holding the trailing cloth off the ground. She got onto the stage, and the children fanned out around her, each perfectly still as they raised the hem of her dress’s tail like the tail of a white peacock.
“Which one’s Bob?” I had meant it as a joke, but Medusa and four of her snakes pointed at the creepy-looking boy at the end.
The BisMark took Atargatis’ hand and led her to a table that stood just left of Poseidon’s statue. A throne-sized chair waited for her.
A sniffle underlined the gentle clatter of palm on palm, hoof on hoof, scaly talon on scaly talon. I turned to see Medusa wipe away a tear. I tilted my head and whispered, “What’s wrong?” I put a hand on her shoulder and drew her close, waiting for an answer.
Medusa nuzzled to me, putting a lot of her weight on me before pulling out a tissue. “Seeing her brings back so many memories,” she said.
“Memories?” I asked.
“Later,” she said. “I’ll explain everything after dinner.”
“OK,” I said, wondering what kinds of memories the sight of Atargatis brought back for the generally bubbly gorgon.
The BisMark lifted his hand, asking for the crowd’s silence. The crowd went still. He pulled out the chair and put a platter in front of Atargatis. “This fish is the first of the children you had with the god of the oceans, Poseidon. From it, millions upon millions of fish have come forth to nourish the world for thousands of years.” He pointed at the tank. “The dish before you—before all of you—represents what you have given us. It is a symbol of the time when the immortals first helped the mortals in their bid to thrive rather than just survive.”
He faced the crowd. “It was Atargatis’ generosity that first cradled civilization, allowing it to bloom under her guidance, and I can think of no better way to celebrate tonight than to thank her for all she has done. My darling, it is because of you that the first villages formed, the first trades began, the first signs of civilization were born. This—all of this—is because of you, and there could be no better way to celebrate you than this symbolic eating of the fish.” The BisMark took a step back, clapping with a humble fervor. He bowed.
Atargatis thanked him with a nod and ceremoniously picked up a fork and knife and pierced the carp’s belly. Lifting its flesh so we could all see, she smiled and bit down on the steaming morsel.
The crowd clapped, hooted, stomped and jumped. And that was why it took us all a moment to realize that the ground trembled.
And rumbled.
And shook.
Celebration or not, Paradise Lot was having an earthquake.
Hellelujah!
END OF PART 1
Part 2
Prologue
Five Thousand Years Ago—
The world is young.
The gods reign over humanity using fear and superstition, miracles and curses. And even though the methods are effective, they know that fear only works on the ignorant and superstition on the weak. As for miracles and curses … those are the tools that lesser gods use.
As humans evolve, the gods learn that with time such tools will be harder to use. They know that they will need to find new methods to control the AlwaysMortals. But that will be later. Now … now their rule is absolute.
Among their ranks is a young succubus who, although not yet a god, stands on the threshold of godhood. Unlike her kin, she need not employ archaic tools or arbitrary rules to keep her followers faithful. Her ways are more direct and far more pleasurable.
Humans and Others alike are always welcome to indulge in the most obscure of pleasures in Astarte’s temple. Nothing is taboo in Astarte’s world, nothing is off-limits … and how the mortals flock to her!
Couples embrace, lovers entwine, orgies commence—soon the line between life and ecstasy is blurred as delighted lips cry out her name in lustful pleasure. And with every homage paid to the godling of lust, her powers grow.
↔
Astarte has hosted god and Other, human and monster in harmonious engagement. All who walk through her doors enter with the quickened heartbeat of anticipation. All, except one—Astarte’s sister, Atargatis, the goddess of fertility and love, mother to the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, does not approve of Astarte’s ways. Atargatis believes that the secretion of fluids should be reserved for procreation and for expression of love. Pleasure is neither, and neither is lust. But does Astarte care? Let her prude of a sister believe what she wants—this is Astarte’s temple.
Atargatis stands at the door of her temple. “Astarte,” she says in her usual condescending tone. “Let me in. Now.”
In the past, to hear her name uttered with such contempt would have sent Astarte in a fit of rage. Such is the power her sister has over her.
But Astarte is not angered by her sister’s curt tone. She is delighted. One of her acolytes arrived earlier this day to warn her of Atargatis’s approach, but he also informed her as to why Atargatis is visiting after nearly two centuries of silence—information that Astarte rewarded as she rewards everything that pleases her: with lust.
“Atargatis,” Astarte says, suppressing her joy. She opens her temple doors wide and gestures for Atargatis to enter. The goddess of fertility instructs her children to stay outside. Then, pulling her arms in tight around her lest she accidentally touch a body in the throes of desire, she enters.
“Your family needs you,” Atargatis says. No preamble, no pleasantries. No foreplay. Just straight to the point. But
that is Atargatis’ way. She is a blunt instrument, a functional being. She knows not the subtleties that enrich life with so much delight.
“Do they?”
“Indeed,” Atargatis mutters. “It seems your little parties have caught the attention of The BisMark.”
Astarte allows the corners of her lips to curl up ever so slightly. “Have they?” the succubus moans, and with her moan the temple trembles in anticipation, swelling with the impending climax to which so many are near. But not yet. Astarte wants to prolong her pleasure, and thus her acolytes must contend with being close … oh, so very close.
“As you know, Chaos and Nature are at war. We worship Chaos, but the Greek gods with their Hellenistic ways gain power every day. And they have just allied with Nature.”
“Bahh … Nature is a foolish principle that cannot hold power over the humans. It is too—”
“Predictable?”
“I was going to say boring, but predictable is a suitable word.”
“Stupid little thing,” Atargatis snorts. “Do you honestly think that the humans don’t want boring and predictable? They do! How else can they grow their crops and tend to their needs?” She looks around the cornucopia of entwined bodies. “Their other needs. Their needs that actually help them survive. Maybe you would see that, if your mind wasn’t so clouded with … with—”
“Orgasms? Many, multiple, continuous orgasms?”
Atargatis cringes. “Have you not noticed that humans love predictability? Need it, even. They are slowly finding ways to control their environment and shape it to their will. They are learning and, in learning, weaning themselves off our teats.”
“Yours, maybe. My tits are still very much in demand.”
Again Atargatis cringes at her sister’s crudeness. “There is little doubt that eventually Nature will win.”
Astarte growls, “Do not utter such blasphemy in my—”
“Nature will win, and we will lose our reign …”
This is not how the conversation is meant to go. Atargatis was coming to tell Astarte that her temple has garnered her so much worship, it has guaranteed her family’s reign. She is here to tell her that Astarte is to be the new head of the family, that …
Damn it! Her acolyte lied. The bastard did not want to displease her and thus said what she wanted to hear. Why? Surely he knew he would be punished. But a moment of pleasure in this place is worth a lifetime of pain. Astarte knows this. She shouldn’t have been so stupid! She’ll deal with him later. For now she must concentrate on her sister, make sure she does not best her.
“Sister … we are at war, and—”Atargatis stops speaking, distracted by a pixie that has just mounted a minotaur. Astarte follows her glance to the tiny face, the unsmiling expression of joy. “How—?” Atargatis starts.
“I honestly don’t know,” Astarte says.
Atargatis laughs, and so does Astarte. It has been a long, long time since the sisters shared anything, and even though both are too proud to admit it, there is a sense of warmth in their smiles.
But it is short-lived. Atargatis shakes her head, and when it stops moving, her smile is gone. In a soft, nurturing voice, Atargatis says, “We are losing. Our time is coming to an end, and soon, too. You do not understand this because you are sheltered in your temple, surrounded by creatures that will not say or do anything to displease you. But I promise, before the end of this century, we will all lose our god status. Unless …” She lets the word linger.
“Unless?” Astarte asks, narrowing her eyes. Unless what? Obviously, her sister needs her to do something. But what? Seduce a great power? Throw an orgy as a lure to kill rival gods? What?
Astarte may have a troubled relationship with her sister, but she will not allow the family to fade into obscurity. Her sororal bond is too great to let petty rivalry stop her from doing her duty.
“Unless,” Atargatis starts again, “you marry one of the Greek gods.”
“What?!” Astarte growls. “Marry? I am … I am THIS!” She gestures to the throne of bodies that lie all around her. “I am lust! I am pleasure!”
“And that is exactly why he wants to have you.”
“Who?”
“Poseidon.”
“Poseidon?” The name rolls off her tongue. “Poseidon!” This time she spits out his name like venom. “That whore?”
“Careful,” Atargatis warns.
“No, I will not be careful.” Astarte can feel her anger rising. “You slept with him. You made the beasts under the sea with him. You marry him.”
“You are speaking about the father of your nephews and nieces,” Atargatis says.
“Exactly,” Astarte says, throwing her arms in the air. “He bedded you, and from that union came all those … those fish!”
“My children.”
“Fish, sister. Good for eating—”
“Shut up.”
“A little bit of lemon, maybe some cumin. Perhaps I should send some acolytes to fetch me some dinner.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Atargatis knows that Astarte would never do what she has threatened. The fish are sacred and, therefore, protected. For an AlmostGod to eat one would mean the end of the mortal world. Even Astarte is not petty enough to kill all life on Earth just to hurt her sister.
Astarte knows she has gone too far. She bows her head in contrition.
“You are right … My children are fish. Sacred fish,” Atargatis mutters, “but fish nonetheless.” She forces a smile.
Astarte is grateful that her sister has chosen not to escalate the fight. But still, there is the matter of Poseidon. In a soft voice, the succubus says, “He has slept with every being in this world and every other world … and now he wants to marry me? Have him come here and I’ll give him the greatest night—no, century—of his life.”
“I already offered that. He wants to marry you,” Atargatis repeats.
“He wants to possess me.”
Atargatis nods. There is no point in pretending that this is anything other than what it is.
“I don’t want to be possessed. I cannot be possessed! You marry him!” Astarte cries out again.
“I cannot. I already told you that he wants you.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then Chaos loses, and the world will belong to Nature. We will lose our god status, and the Greeks will rule the world until the next age.”
Astarte doesn’t know what to say, and for the first time in a long, long while she is stunned silent by knowledge that is not carnal in nature.
Atargatis sees this and, before her sister can answer, says, “Astarte—we are dying.”
“There must be something else we can do.”
Atargatis nods. “We have consulted the oracles—you are our best hope.”
“But not our only hope?”
Atargatis’ lips purse, and Astarte knows that they have other plans, plans her sister doesn’t trust her with. Fine—let the bitch of fertility have her secrets. Astarte has her temple, her followers, and her lust—what more does she need?
As if reading her mind, Atargatis says, “We will lose everything we have, unless we do something.”
“We? We! You mean me! Am I to bend over for the fish-smelling bastard? And for what? To keep you in power?”
Atargatis doesn’t say anything, simply averting her gaze downward. It is a subtle movement, but Astarte knows her sister well enough to know she feels guilt. Astarte understands guilt, not because she has ever felt it herself, but because so many of her lovers are overcome by the emotion the second after they find the release they came for. Astarte knows guilt can cut deeper than any sword.
But Astarte also knows that Atargatis would never ask anything of her unless it was absolutely necessary. She knows her sister does not lie. Do nothing and never become a god, or marry Poseidon and ascend. Over all of them. Isn’t becoming a god what she has worked for all this time?
“Fine,” Astarte says. “I … I will do it.”
Atargatis does something that she has not done in over two hundred years. She reaches out and touches her sister. It is a simple gesture, but sometimes the simplest of gestures can have the most profound effect. Now it is Astarte who feels guilty.
“Tell me,” Astarte asks. “What would you have done had I refused?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
The goddess of fertility nods. “You are my sister,” she says, as if that explains all. “I will make sure everything is prepared for your union.” And with that Atargatis leaves Astarte’s temple.
Astarte can hardly believe what has happened. Her emotions go from disbelief to sadness, until they finally settle on rage. In a low-toned growl Astarte calls for the damned acolyte who lied to her.
Tormenting him will go a long way to making her feel better.
↔
It has been decided that Astarte’s wedding will take place in Atlantis on the summer solstice, eighty-six years from now. There is much to prepare and little time to do it—not that Astarte will have anything to do with the preparations. As her sister said, all she has to do is show up.
Fine, Astarte thinks. Eighty-six years are all that is left before she is betrothed to … to him. She knows the time will pass in the blink of an eye. That is why she must make the most of it. For the first forty years, Astarte spends her time possessing others. Not with marriage, but with the type of desire that is often confused for love.
She pretends to need them, to make them feel more special than the thousands of beings who have known her bed. In feeling special, they feel worthy; and in feeling worthy, they somehow feel as though what they share with Astarte is more than lust.
It is companionship. Respect. Perhaps even love.
That is when Astarte breaks them with indifference. Oh, how they pine, wail and plead. They try to storm the gates, demand an audience with the succubus. She denies them until their lamentations grow tiresome.
Then she meets them in the courtyard and says, “How pathetic you have become,” before turning away. For some, this blow is so severe that they die—either by a broken heart or by their own hand.
