Nonsense, says Dionysos. She was conceived in my revels—she belongs to me.
Conceived by whom? says Apollon. By my son, and therefore also mine.
We’re all related, Dionysos replies. If you go by closeness, Kalliope also has claim.
Apollon snarls, Kalliope stole her and hands her away to a Titan!
I hate to use yourself against you, Dionysos responds, But logically, since you rely such on blood closeness, Kalliope cannot steal what already belongs to her. And her mother’s husband, with no blood relation at all, cannot dedicate her to you, either.
Isme feels breath squeeze in her overtaxed lungs, for a moment it looks as though Apollon might strike out, has his bow off his shoulder, two fingers on the string. And Dionysos holds his thyrsus a little more ready—while among them the two lines of the wild men look not at the other god but glaring at each other, as though forgetting there are surely family ties among them.
Strange to see gods quarrel like this—like human brothers—
“Wait,” Isme interrupts. “Why are you arguing?”
It is our nature, Apollon tells her. I am light, logic, order, prophecy, far-seeing. Domestication and reason and medicine with its correlate, poison. I am the intellect, the mind, the soul—song and poetry. Of course I despise chaos.
Dionysos adds, And I am the body, the animal, free in the woods and carnal in nature, without limits, joy and revelry. What use is reason to someone free to feel everything? Theatre fits best with freedom to pretend and imagine. You don’t have to think ahead—you can just enjoy the now.
“But what does this have to do with me?”
This world is ending, they tell her.
“I already know that.”
There is a new world to be born, Apollon says. And knowledge is the most important thing of all when building new worlds.
Our father married Metis, Goddess of Knowledge, as his first wife, Dionysos continues. Because he knew that knowing is the most important thing.
And Isme’s mind trails back to the island, how Epimetheus taught her everything she needed, regardless of the situation—to be prepared, one did not need supplies or weapons, but merely the knowledge of how to make them, get them, use them.
“But what knowledge is worth fighting over?” Isme says, “You are brothers.”
As each world falls, says Apollon, There is the chance for change.
His fingers, on his bow, look ready to pluck as though a lyre.
You know only of the worlds where men lived, Dionysos adds. The world of gold, under the Titans, ruled by Kronos our grandfather—but there were worlds before then, under Ouranos, our father’s grandfather, and under Gaea, mother of us all.
Just like your knowledge extends back only as far as humanity, says Apollon, so ours extends only back to Gaea. Is it not possible that there were worlds before her?
And then Isme felt herself piecing ideas together, empty spaces in a tapestry that Epimetheus had left her to fill in, and she says, “The golden world... it was destroyed by Zeus, wasn’t it? That is the disaster that ended the first world of men... and the silver world, they were impious to you Olympians, weren’t they? But not to the Titans. They still honored the old race of gods, and so Zeus destroyed them and made a race of men who worship only Olympians.”
There is something like pleasure in both of the gods’ eyes, but only Dionysos speaks, I see that you can look backward, which means you can look forward.
The prophecy, Isme thought. I am fated to understand why this world ends. That is the key here—they want to know why and how our world will end!
And she considers the two of them, so different and yet alike, mind streaming along back to the old prophetess under the mountain, who had been so surprised when she asked how Zeus had not been deposed like his father...
“You are looking to overthrow your father,” she says. “And become the new ruler of a new world, a new race of gods...”
When worlds change, so does their order, Apollon says.
Dionysos hefts his club, stone grapes jiggling like they are real. He says, The son always overtakes his father in the end. And with a glance at his brother, he adds, But which son?
Neither of you could succeed, Isme thinks, barely manages to stop herself from speaking. Because the pattern fit wrong—the child was always legitimate, born from the previous king through his queen. And poor Hera, up in Olympus, a placeholder wife who could not have anything but daughters, by decree of Zeus...
Hera, stepmother to so many sons, but mother to none.
Gazing at them, she wonders why they have not pieced that part of the puzzle together. They are immortal beings, far beyond human, and yet have missed this element standing in the way of their plans? Or perhaps the same rules of humanity applied even to the gods—the ambitious overlook what would stop them... or maybe they were desperate... or perhaps she was the one who was wrong, and legitimacy was not the requirement that she thought it was...
She has been silent for too long, and they are holding back annoyance. Dionysos says, Well, then, it seems this is one of those rare times—when mortals decide the fate of gods. His face is dark as he says, That has been happening too much recently.
Mystified, Isme glances at Apollon, who offers, Not much more than ten years ago, Paris, Prince of Troy, decided which of three goddesses was most lovely. In that moment he held in his hands the beginning of a war that threatened to undo the cosmos. And he chose according to his whim, without thinking of consequence.
Thus began a war, says Dionysos, eyelids half-lowered, None of us are quite recovered from. Passions remain high—and should remain, I think.
You still fight over Troy? Isme wanted to ask, but the question was redundant. As long as she had been alive, Troy had been happening on the furthest side of the world—ten years of fighting, heroes dying, gods quarrelling. She supposed that immortal beings did not forget and forgive so easily, or so soon.
Well, then, says Apollon. Without stronger claim from either of us, you must decide.
Dionysos demands, Who is your choice? Who will be king of the gods in the new world—that is, what sort of world do you wish the new world to be, knowledge-giver?
A world of order and reason, Apollon says. Consequences flow logically from actions, justice is upheld and served, and sweet songs and poetry throughout the land. A world where no mortals cry over their fates, knowing logic only without sentiments.
Or, Dionysos cuts in, A world of passion and wildness—where everyone can enjoy, and there is freedom to do whatever one wishes, and the sorrows of life are drowned out by ecstasy. Free from boundaries people will dance consumed with delight, and never even notice if they or others die around them. Free of every pain.
And Isme knew: if either of these gods becomes king, those are the only options. Each generation of gods narrowed down the worlds—
The decision—all this time, them quarreling over her, trying to secure an advantage in—stands cold in Isme’s mind, her vision narrowing, and something in her draws tight and breaks.
And Isme rages:
“You—you killed my father, didn’t you? You sent men to steal me away and dragged me to that temple, and you didn’t care whether I wanted to go, then you told me all these horrible things about the world meaning nothing, and I don’t care if that’s logic or whatever, I reject it, I will find some other way, and you hurt my father—I still don’t know where he is, and I’ll never forgive you!”
A mere turn of her head:
“And you! You gave all these lies about being merciful, but when the time came that I needed just a little understanding of my surroundings, I killed my friend! What good is your talk of freedom and passions when all it does is break things and hurt people—how can the world survive that? You pushed me out of myself, you watched me kill Lycander—and I won’t forgive that, either!”
Behind Isme, there was a small sound, like that of an animal choking—and she knew Kleto had heard everything, in
cluding of Lycander...
Bowed over by her outbursts, throat feeling like she had swallowed sand and then vomited it back with acid, Isme heaved with nausea. Spots in her vision cleared, and so did her thoughts, anger melting away and understanding coming.
“But how can I condemn you,” she gasps, each word hurting. “You are gods—logic and passion. I can’t use logic to condemn logic, or passion to condemn passion...”
I am after all this still a mortal, she thought, unable to speak more. I live as a little shadow that fades when the sun goes down, and every move I make is at the behest of those powers that rule the world—justice, order, logic, passion, wisdom, knowledge. I rail against them only because I overlook who and what I am, my place in this world... but why should they care about little me?
If you are quite finished, says Dionysos, This is the fate of the new world we are talking about, here. You still must decide, girl. Unfair to us and you, that a mortal should have such power, but the Fates deal what hand they wish. Which of us?
How is it that I am the one who will know the end of the world? Isme thought, but complaining was useless. It seemed like prophecy was older than the gods—older than the Titans, for Prometheus used it after the primordial fates, older perhaps than Gaea. Asking why was pointless—she was caught in a trap regardless.
And yet this is more than I can decide, she thought, and with certainty tagging along Isme knew that no matter which son of Zeus she chose, she would choose wrong. In her mind’s eye she could see herself in the past, straining to understand even the simplest of concepts from the priestess of Delphi, who was describing the wheel—the connection between all things, the one spot on the rim of the wheel needing all the others to continue turning, lest the entire wheel break into pieces.
At last she said, “Logic, passion—you both contain good and bad, and the world needs both.” Then, her voice breaking so that she could only whisper, forcing both gods to lean in to hear—“It is a shame that there cannot be one god who is both.”
Something in her throat twisted, overburdened, and she was coughing—first air, then phlegm, and then the taste of blood—and there were hands on her back, a voice in her ear saying, “What is wrong? You—did you sing too much—” and behind that the sound of her own heart slamming against her breastbone, and behind that the sound of two melodic voices quarrelling—
No, not quarrelling—arguing. No—worse than that.
Isme looked up just in time to see Apollon raise his bow, string pulled, without an arrow—and yet still the twang resulted in one of the bronze men behind Dionysos falling, dead in an instant, to the cave floor. His expression was twisted, lines carved deep like the legs of a spider, like his face had shattered from some unnamable pain.
Isme opened her mouth to scream, but only air escaped.
There was a rush of bodies and howling, bronze men surging like arrows loosed from Apollon’s bow, and if Ares had appeared then Isme thought nothing could have been any worse. It was as though the wild men had recalled what they were—the men of the age of bronze, the warriors whose fighting had brought destruction upon the entire Earth—and now were ecstatic for war.
Clubs impacted—axes slashed—javelins stabbed or were flung, and hands and feet and teeth, blood everywhere, noises that started human but quickly became something else. If they transformed into wolves Isme would not have been surprised. Nothing seemed sacred—men, women, children, all gouging each other, and when only one was left perhaps he would turn on himself.
Among them moved tall Apollon and Dionysos, snarling at each other, but not coming to blows—instead they struck at the allies of their brother, or guided the blows of their own allies, and Isme knew they would not stop until everyone in the room was dead. This—this was what Troy must have been like—the gods themselves consumed by war until they did not know anything else—
She wanted to yell that they should stop, that nothing was being solved—wanted to cry out something, anything, that might draw attention, but there was nothing, her throat empty like someone had reached down and ripped out what voice she possessed. Rust tasted thick in the back of her mouth, she did not resist as Kleto dragged her from the rock podium, behind which they cowered.
Not for long. The fighting was thickening, shadows on the walls doing violence even to other shadows, and Kleto yelled, just barely heard: “We have to get out of here!”
Isme could neither agree nor disagree, torn between staying where it was not safe and going through worse danger in the chance of escape. Yet as before—as she had in the den with the robbers and the birds, what seemed so long ago—Kleto had her by the arm, and Isme was pulled like a leaf down the stream of Kleto’s strength—
They dodged the first combatants, men grappling with each other—they skirted a pair of children gouging each other’s faces—and then a woman, clawing and biting at a man throttling her—still coughing, Isme found that she could hardly see, the dust from the floor and the wetness in her eyes blurring everything—
A hand caught the cloth over her shoulder, and she was hauled backward—and an elbow knotted around her throat—but Kleto was there, hands raised and clawing so that Isme flinched, half believing Kleto was going for her eyes—but the man howled, warm wetness splashing Isme’s cheek. She was flung to the ground.
“Up—” Kleto cried, pulling on whichever of Isme’s limbs she could grab hold—“You’re the one with the prophecy, remember? You’ve got to live—I’ve got to get you out of here—”
And Isme thought, but could not say: No, Kleto, you are always the one saving other women, you’d save me regardless.
But she was pulled to her feet, and then they were pushing through the chaos. Isme heard Kleto shriek, just once, and sag in the grip of her arm, but then they were out, feet pattering against the sand in the hall—and forward—and then the night before them, the fields still yellow in the light of the full moon.
Isme was steering, and her feet moved on their own, heading down the mountain—toward the place she knew, the sea.
Beside her Kleto grew heavier and heavier, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, yet Kleto was hardly keeping a grip, and Isme was forced to slide her hand down to Kleto’s side and bear the weight. Under her palm, she felt surging wetness, but only smelled the rust scent when it was in contrast with the salt from the water.
They collapsed to their knees on the sand, moon winking at them over the horizon of the waves, low tide. Kleto’s breath wet and soggy like the ocean was in her lungs. Isme bent forward, trying to hold Kleto upright, and saw the dark stain that trailed all the way down half of Kleto’s peplos, over her knees, her toes.
Straight through the ribs, Isme realized.
She was going to try something, anything, but Kleto’s hand over her shoulders jostled, pulling, just a little. Her eyes, the color of sunlight in the dark, were half-lidded as she said, “Go on. Take me as far as you can on your adventure, wild woman.”
Isme would have argued, but her voice was gone.
With strength she did not know she possessed, Isme dragged them upward, Kleto hobbling beside. They paced the beach, following the line of the world toward some new destination, toward the shrine of Orpheus, wherever he was—
They passed the pyre, which had been burnt, only charred bones left. The old woman nowhere to be seen.
Nothing but them in the entire cosmos—except the moon, the stars, the sea, and probably the turtles—Isme glanced over the water, wondering where her friends were, how far out they swam, if they could see her and Kleto struggle across the sand the same way they did, like their bodies were not made for moving and living on the earth.
Kleto kept skipping steps, and her breathing was much the same. Yet Isme could feel something other than strength in her own limbs—she was beyond caring about what was humanly possible, and could have carried Kleto for all eternity if asked.
But when she glanced to her side, the way Kleto’s sight was turned to the sea, and then t
he muscles of the neck giving in and the sun-haired head bowing, Isme saw that the golden spark in Kleto’s eyes had gone out.
“Don’t bury me,” Kleto said. Isme was forced only to nod.
She carried Kleto on, even as the other woman’s feet stopped pacing entirely. Their trail dragged in the sand until the moon had traced across the sky and the dawn was just barely holding back the steeds of the sun. Isme felt her body become numb like she was in the cold stream and dying again. When the sun finally rose, Kleto’s hair was a halo of gold, laid down on the sand like she was reclining in some paradise.
And Isme wanted to say: I’m sorry about Lycander. But there were no words on her lips.
TWENTY-TWO.
~
Isme left her there on the beach, not knowing what else to do. She tried to sing something—to perhaps pay Kleto’s toll to the underworld, like with Lycander, but nothing emerged, and the muscles of her throat screamed silently. At last she took off the metal clip on the left shoulder of her chiton—which was torn, anyway—and placed it in Kleto’s hand, hoping that would be enough for greedy Charon the underworld boatman.
Then in her unshod feet she traced the path of the sand.
The sun beat across her bare shoulder, but Isme had lived all her life under him, and this was nothing. Her lips cracked without water. But she knew well enough not to drink from the sea. When night came and the moon returned, peeking her head up over the horizon as though shy and curious, Isme felt her limbs jerk out from her control, like she had been tugging on strings that were now cut, and collapsed on the beach.
When the sun rose again, so did Isme.
This day she moved inland. And while the sun was still waking, stretching his influence above, she found the dew on the leaves of palms and sipped them from the tips. Then she pulled the long leaves down and wove two of them together, grafting the ends around her chin to provide shade all day.
Keeping the beach to her right, Isme walked on. If there was any true thought in her mind it was wondering on how the incoherent parts of her were forming some kind of wordless prayer, a wide-open empty request that asked her Grandmother Kalliope to guide her feet to their ultimate destination, whatever that may be.
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