Huffle walked heavily along. He had just had another argument with his father. Flamethrower was a big ruby dragon aged 625 and he could not stand the fact that his youngest son did not have a job.
...
[+]
She stepped onto the soft sand of the Peneus.
Rather than look, she preferred to listen, breathe, touch. She let the summer wind pass through her hair, the heat press against her cheeks, the warm river caress her ankles.
Something brushed her foot.
She bent down and picked up a shell. Its coloured surface gleamed darkly beneath the sun. The sea was far away, yet things belonging to it somehow travelled upstream.
She traced its spirals and ridges with her thumb.
For some reason, she was afraid.
She closed her eyes and kept tracing. Ridge after ridge, the spiral tightening inward. She could almost feel something alive within, faintly, stubbornly beating. The pulse quieted her fear.
The water trembled.
Her reflection twisted with it, torn apart by ripples and pieced together again. Her linen dress billowed underwater. Her waist disappeared. Her shoulders broadened.
He did not like water.
He hated its warm, salty dampness.
Leaving Thessaly, he travelled south across Mount Othrys until the Spercheios barred his way.
The river god would not let him pass.
The waters rose. Wind rushed through the valley. Waves struck the boat, soaking sail and robe.
A voice rose beneath the water:
"You who are sheltered by Poseidon, who have borne his power—turn back."
He gripped the mast and struck his spear against the deck.
The boat heeled beneath him.
"Great god—if you know my story, you know I too have suffered at the hands of divine power.
Years cannot erase my pain. Blood cannot wash away memory. Honour cannot restore what I lost.
For my city, for the name I bear, and for all the daughters yet to come, I must go south."
The river quieted.
He passed through Phocis and Locris into Boeotia. Every river barred him. Every river asked the same question. Each time, he crossed.
At Thebes he found the serene old man with an olivewood staff, who knew the mysteries of both sexes and all that belonged to past and future.
"The bird-women of the sea are not yours to save;
nor can you alter the yearly return of spring.
Music cannot stop serpent venom in the blood,
nor words appease the jealous heart of Aeaea.
One beautiful face shall send a thousand ships to sea;
a faithful daughter shall wait at her loom
for a husband whose return she cannot know."
nor can you alter the yearly return of spring.
Music cannot stop serpent venom in the blood,
nor words appease the jealous heart of Aeaea.
One beautiful face shall send a thousand ships to sea;
a faithful daughter shall wait at her loom
for a husband whose return she cannot know."
Still, he wished to set his will against the Fates.
The old man drew a line in the earth. At its end stood a forest.
"The sea shall seal you against bronze,
and no spear shall enter where a god has passed.
But when the forest comes down from the hills,
UNCRATE what you have buried.
The earth shall know you by your first name."
and no spear shall enter where a god has passed.
But when the forest comes down from the hills,
UNCRATE what you have buried.
The earth shall know you by your first name."
She lay upon the earth.
As a child, she had loved her father's stories of Lapith conquests. Eyes closed, she saw horses charging through dust; she heard bronze against bronze, swords striking shields, chariots thundering over stone.
An iron sword hung beside her bed, a birthday gift from a suitor whose name she had forgotten. She remembered only the blade, slender and bright; the ivory hilt studded with gold; the amber lion at its pommel; the purple scabbard chased with horses and vines.
In her family's palace, midday sunlight fell through a high window onto a bronze shield set with rubies. The gems burned like fire.
Then she saw the banks of the Spercheios.
Tall poplars stood beside the water, their silver-backed leaves turning in the wind—light, dark, light, dark.
A wind came from the sea.
The leaves thrashed. Birds burst from the branches and fled above the treetops. In moments the grove was empty.
Only the poplars remained.
She felt hot.
Sticky.
Slippery.
The salt of the sea was entering her body.
He often dreamed that wings carried him over mountains towards Arcadia.
"A sceptre strikes, and heaven's fire cleaves my wings;
an arm is raised, and wind drives me from my course;
Avernus wraps me in the breath of death;
the merciless sun burns my flesh to ash."
an arm is raised, and wind drives me from my course;
Avernus wraps me in the breath of death;
the merciless sun burns my flesh to ash."
He clasped Theseus by the hand.
"I have seen where my road ends. Do not mourn—
The silent woods shall receive me,
and the earth grant me rest.
and the earth grant me rest.
But you, Theseus—go.
The stolen goddess of spring waits in darkness.
Follow the cry she cannot utter.
Finish what I cannot."
Follow the cry she cannot utter.
Finish what I cannot."
Then he turned to Orpheus.
"And you, singer beloved of the gods,
when the black ship crosses the sleepless sea,
when the daughters of the sea sing despair among the rocks,
do not stop your ears.
when the daughters of the sea sing despair among the rocks,
do not stop your ears.
Take up your lyre.
Let its strings answer them.
Let the music of the living overcome the summons of the dead.
Let them hear, for once, a song more beautiful than dying."
Let the music of the living overcome the summons of the dead.
Let them hear, for once, a song more beautiful than dying."
She did not long for Elysium.
She longed to save.
She had seen Circe show Odysseus the road to the underworld, and the Sibyl lead Aeneas there with the golden bough. She had seen men regain bodies twisted by sorcery; she had heard the Sibyl call for death while death refused her.
So divine magic could fade.
An immortal body could become a prison.
Before greater power, even miracles could be rewritten.
She looked at her hands.
They had held spears, reins, shields. They had carried enemies' blood. On unseen nights, they had trembled at the memory of a lost name.
Swords fell upon her.
They hacked. Thrust. Curled. Broke.
She advanced and drove her spear into men maddened by lust.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Blood ran down the spear.
Not nearly enough.
A god had given her strength.
A god had given her another body.
But one thing he had failed to take.
She remembered.
She could not bear to see another person lying there.
She entered the Fields of Sorrow and drove her spear into the grey earth.
Then she drew the iron sword from her waist.
The ivory was worn smooth, the gold dim, the amber lion cracked. Long ago, it had glittered beside a young girl's bed.
Now she knelt with it.
The sword pierced the earth.
Stroke by stroke, she carved her story into the soil of the dead.
Not the story a god had given her.
Not the story men had told of her.
Her own.
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