Wake, Siren

by Nina MacLaughlin

  “Can I please see my sister?” she asked.

  “Do you know how much I want you?” he answered. “Do you know how hard it was not to touch you all these days? The delay has just made me want you more. Phila, you beauty. Your father said to take care of you as a father would a daughter—when I saw Pandion embrace you, I envied him, and I thought, If you were my daughter, I’d embrace you in a way that wasn’t what anyone would consider fatherly. I waited for his hand to drop down your back, to grab your little ass and press it into him. He didn’t, but I would’ve, if you were my daughter. You’re not my daughter though, and you have no idea what’s in store for you. I get to touch you now.”

  And she didn’t know. She had no idea. She didn’t know what it meant that he got to touch her now. A hug maybe? But he could’ve hugged her before. Holding her hand? She would’ve welcomed a comforting hand on the rough seas. He approached her, here, in this hut. Please imagine him, a tall man with cold eyes and a dark beard, standing here, and please imagine my sister, Philomela, a girl, slight as a broom, her face wet with tears, just wanting to eat brownies with me.

  And now please imagine Tereus taking three steps toward her. One two three. And touching her hair first, running his hand down her soft hair. And then touching her neck. And then using both hands and pressing them against the place where her breasts would be if she were old enough to have them.

  And please imagine her starting to shake in fear.

  And please imagine Tereus lifting her dress and roughly pulling it off her body. And please imagine her shivering and please imagine the feel of this dirt floor against your bare back. You see the stones. You see it’s damp and cold. Touch it if you—no, all right. Please imagine Tereus tossing her to the floor, pinning her easily because she is a child, and spreading her, here, on this spot, where you stand, and holding her throat as he puts himself inside her. And he doesn’t cover her mouth because, as you can imagine, there’s no one near enough to hear her scream. And he likes the sound of her screams anyway. It makes him feel big. It makes him feel like he’s got something that she can feel.

  She screams for me. She screams for our father. She screams to the gods. And once he’s off her, she pulls at her hair and cries out, “Don’t you remember what you said to my father? How he asked for you to take care of me? Don’t you remember that?”

  Tereus laughed.

  “What you’ve done, Procne will kill me for my crime. You made me betray my own sister. Everything is wrecked!” And the young thing worked herself up more and more, frenzied and terrified. “I’d rather be dead than this. But if the gods have any power, they’ll hear me, and someday you will answer for this. You will pay and pay, I promise you. I will tell everyone. I will call it out from every rooftop what you did. And if I’m trapped here in this hut, I’ll scream at the trees until they spread the message. The rocks will hear me and they’ll cry, too. And heaven will come to know the truth. I will tell!”

  Phila, poor powerful helpless Phila, my sweet sister.

  There’s a poet who says, there’s no anger without fear. I believe it. Tereus would’ve said that Phila’s words made him angry. What they did was make him afraid. And a man whose fear has made him angry is one of the most dangerous kinds of men.

  Please imagine Tereus pulling his sword from its sheath. Please imagine him grabbing Phila by the hair and yanking her head. Please imagine him tying her hands behind her. Here, right here where we stand. And please imagine Phila saying “Go ahead, go ahead, just do it,” as she offers up her throat to his blade, hoping to have an end to this misery. “Just do it!” she cries. Please imagine her shaking. And please imagine now Tereus taking her tongue from her mouth, pinching it tight and tugging it as far out as it will go. Please imagine Phila’s soft pink tongue. Please hear her cries as she continues to call the names of our father, and me, and the gods, the sound garbled and caught in her throat, her pink tongue wriggling between Tereus’s dirty fingers. And please imagine Tereus raising his sword and bringing it down and severing Phila’s tongue from her mouth. And please imagine how it’s not a clean cut and how he has to saw at it until it falls to the dirt floor, there, where you’re standing, and please imagine how it continues to wriggle, how it twitches and moves on the dirt floor. And please imagine the blood pouring from Philomela’s face. And please imagine how pale she is and how she chokes on her blood. And then imagine, though it is hard, please imagine Tereus propelled again by lust for this tongueless, bleeding child. Imagine him on top of her, there, in the corner, on the floor, pounding away at her body.

  * * *

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  * * *

  This was the sound of her scream. I’ve been working on my mimics. Does it hurt your ears? I’m sorry.

  * * *

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  * * *

  Please, now, climb back on and sink in. We’re going to leave this place. Yes, just step back up. You feel weak in your knees? I understand. Do you want a minute? All right. Yes, have a Life Saver. All right. Ready? The feathers will absorb you. Let yourself be absorbed. A bounce, a lift, and on we go.

  Yes, it’s good to feel the air again. What I might do now, as I can sense from the way you’re holding on that you’re feeling a little bit tense, I’m going to go higher than I normally would, above the tree line. Here we go, up and up. And back to the late afternoon light! It’s a relief, isn’t it? The sun still shines, there’s warmth to be had. Oh, good, I can feel you calming already. The way the light hits the top of the trees, the way they dance in the breeze, wind the great choreographer. Yes, we’ll take a moment just to enjoy it in quiet.

  * * *

  We’re heading back toward the city now. Back toward the home Tereus and I shared. And I’ll tell you what happened next. Tereus returned from his trip to Athens alone. “Where’s Phila?” I asked when he walked in. “Oh, Procne. It’s awful,” he said. His eyes shined with his tears. “She’s dead,” he said. He made this lie in front of me, her blood and her body all over his skin. I collapsed and could only half hear his fabrication. Fast illness at sea, fever, madness, death. I was lost. My one sister gone. It was the worst pain I’d felt, a depthless sadness. The brownies in the tray and never one more chance to laugh with Phila, hug her, hear her soft feet coming down the hall. Gone.

  And to your left, down near that large sharp rock, you’ll see where I made her tomb. It was empty, of course, just an echoey sepulchre, vacant chamber. And you’ll see the bones of the animals I offered in sacrifice, honoring her death, the Shade she was, gone somewhere in the deep sea. I wore mourning clothes and never smiled.

  It was for nothing, this tomb. Though something in her had been killed, Phila wasn’t dead.

  Now we’ll hug the cliffs and you can look out to sea. Breathe in the air, there’s nothing better than a lungful of ocean air. Good for the body, good for the brain. What a beautiful late afternoon! You could not ask for better. We’re closing in on low tide but the sea is swollen from the full moon which should be rising shortly. This section of the tour is for breathing easy and enjoying the views. Enjoy!

  A year went by, and life continued, and my grief clung to me. Then one day, a Thracian serving woman arrived in the city. If you see the pillars of the temple there, and the small bakery beside it, that’s where I was standing, out with little Itys for a walk. The woman bowed to me in the street and handed me a thick cloth, rolled tight. I took it from her and waited until I was home to unroll it. I’ve stashed it nearby. I’ll ask you again to hold tight as we’re going to do a little mor
e dipping and swooping, yes, here we go. Just a little more up-down back-forth, and you can see that great oak? Rising above the rest of the trees at the edge of the park? I’ve hidden that cloth there, up in the tree, and will show you firsthand what I saw when I unrolled it.

  Now, grip tight with your legs because I’m going to be a little more vertical as I work to spread the cloth. Nope, I’ve got it. Thank you, no, I’m all set. I said I’ve got it.

  Okay, now, you can see. Big as a bedsheet. On a crude loom, Phila made this, she sent me this message. She wove these words in purple thread. See them, in that rich color. Read each word. Read her story. Read the way she tells all that I’ve told you. These are her words. She wove her story. It’s the only way she could find voice to tell. I’ll give you a moment.

  Now read it again.

  No, you cannot touch it.

  I had this spread before me on the floor. I stared at it. I read it. I read it again. First in my heart: She’s alive. My sister’s alive. And the joy was dizzying and took the strength from my knees. And then the sickness took hold. I stood and I was silent and I was still. Some people can’t believe this. Some people ask, “How could you not have immediately started screaming for help? How could you have wasted another minute of letting Phila stay in her horrible den?” Well, you don’t know how you’d respond and the way these words slammed into me stripped me of my own words for a time. And believe me, I searched for the words that would rightly name my rage. There were none.

  I did not shout. I did not cry. I did not speak. A tunnel presented itself in my brain and I burrowed into it. I sunk into myself. You know about that? About sinking into yourself? Have you thought about revenge? Yes, you’re probably right, at least one time or another.

  The route we’re taking now follows the path I took the night I found the hut. It was the feast of Bacchus and all the Thracian women gathered at night to engage in the secret rites. I stood in my room beforehand, door locked, and I adorned myself. I wrapped vines around my head, a crown of leaves that trailed down my back and over my shoulders. I slung the deerskin over my left shoulder. It smelled of dust and leather, and weighed heavily against my arm, its face peering out of dead eyes at my face. We were twins, joined for this one night. I looked in the mirror and saw fire in my eyes.

  Out into the streets I went. I joined in the wild parade. We cried and shrieked and it was a chaos of vines and fur and women’s bodies and women’s voices rising into the night. Animal pelts and the secret spells and vessels of wine passed around and around. We followed the side streets you’ll see right below, the narrower streets. Then, feigning frenzy, faking that I was wholly taken by Bacchus, I veered a sharp right, away from the crowds, away—Oh, I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you about that turn! Get your grip back? Good, good. Back to the facts. Far from frenzy, I had never been more clear-eyed in my life. From the streets I made a path into the forest. We’ll dip in, back into the bramble. I strode through the woods and my fury propelled me without care of prickers. I moved with more force than I’d ever moved in my life. Like my body was not my own. Here, by this brook, by this stone, by these pines. And now, back at the hut.

  It’s hard to be back, I know. People get surprised that we go back here. We won’t go inside—unless you want to again—no? Okay. We will simply circle above. You see the way the door is ripped off, you see the way the stone walls around it are crumbling. I did that. I demolished these barriers and flew into this stall and wrapped myself around my sister.

  * * *

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  * * *

  I did not know if it was her voice or mine or both that howled. I know it hurts your ears.

  I dressed her in vines so her face was hidden. I draped a pelt over her shoulders. And I led her back home.

  And so yes, as you can guess, we’ll move back in that direction and I’m going to show you a different part of the house. As we head back that way, with the wind in your ears, I’d like you to imagine for a moment how your voice would sound without a tongue.

  That’s what a lot of people say. Like the sound in a nightmare.

  To be in the home of the man who’d done this to her, it pulled the color out of her cheeks. Her hands shook and she kept her eyes on the floor. She couldn’t look at me! Her own sister! Her shame was too big. I held her face in my hands and told her I was so happy she was alive, that I loved her so much. She started crying then and I told her, “Listen, I know, this is all too awful for words, and we have work to do, no time for tears. Now’s the time for making him pay. Now’s the time for revenge. I’ll cut out his tongue. I’ll gouge out his eyes. I’ll saw off the thing that shamed you.” (I couldn’t bring myself to give it name.) “I’ve thought of so many different ways for him to die,” I told her. “I just haven’t landed on the right one.”

  I’ll just sort of swish back and forth in front of this window. Inside, this was the room where I brought Phila, a spare bedroom, one I used when I didn’t want to share a bed with Tereus. You’re holding on a little tighter—are you nervous? Okay, thank you for being honest. No need for nerves. I understand it’s uncomfortable.

  As I was saying. I was thinking out loud all the ways to punish Tereus when Itys, my beautiful little Itys, wandered into the room. He padded in in sock feet, his hair rumpled, and something in my heart went cold. It was like I was seeing him for the first time, or maybe more so that I was seeing how much there was of his father in him. Tereus was there in the spread of his brow, the way his nose wrinkled when he laughed, the mean shape of his mouth. And this is when my mind began to go horrendous.

  Okay, you’re gripping a little tight. Could you loosen a little bit? Thank you, that’s better, yes.

  Little Itys climbed on to my lap. I felt the weight and warmth of him against me, he put his arms around my neck and I held him, his heart against my heart. My little Itys, my warm little Itys. There’s no weight like a child’s weight. You could hold the same amount of pounds of a container of milk, warmed to human temperature, and it would feel nothing like it. Little Itys all against me. He smelled like butter. His cheek was so soft and he curled himself into me with a purity of comfort that I wish I could feel myself again, I wish all of us could know that sort of comfort again in our lives. My throat clenched in a gaping tenderness for this small warm creature that had come from me.

  But I didn’t want to be swayed. I opened my eyes and I looked at my sister. I looked at Phila, thin and pale, wordless, the scarred stump of a tongue in her face. She’d never taste a brownie again. She’d never articulate from her mouth I want you, I love you, I’m hungry, I’m scared. This boy can say mama, but she can’t say sister? Think, Procne, I told myself. Don’t you waver. Don’t you waver.

  And I didn’t.

  Now we’ll dip back down toward the kitchen. I didn’t show you before, but there’s a room behind it, a storage place, dim and separate. I brought Itys here. I grabbed him and the only way I can explain is that I left my body. I was a tiger dragging a fawn through the forest. I was gone from myself. I knew that Itys was crying out, Mama, Mama, but it registered the way you hear an alarm in the distance. A noise, a disturbance. One that has nothing to do with you.

  So you’ve got a peek inside this room, you see how small and dim it is, through that narrow door at the end of the kitchen. I brought him here and Phila followed us. You remember all those knives from earlier? I grabbed the largest one. Itys sensed something had gone all wrong and tried to put his arms around my neck again, reaching up for me, wanting the comfort he’d had just a minute before. I was gone.

  And I took the knife and I sliced him. My baby. My soft, small baby. I put the knife through his skin and I opened him up along his chest and down his soft little boy side. When he was born, the blood was black. Thick and dark and clotted. Here, it was
the alivest red I’ve ever seen—how could a color like this have come from something I made inside me? I felt the warmth of it on my fingers and my wrists. It soaked my sleeves. I never looked away. I saw the inside of him. I saw his eyes go dim then dark. That quick, and he was gone. Phila wanted in. She grabbed a paring knife from the block and made a wicked smile across his throat. And then we sisters, together we cut the little thing apart. We ripped arm from shoulder socket. Thwop thwop! We pulled and tore. Legs from torso, feet from legs, small soft dimpled hands from wrists. Blood. Blood. There was so much blood.

  Dizzy? Oh, I’m sorry. I forget that some get squeamish at the thought of blood.

  Look there at that large copper kettle. I pointed it out earlier. That huge one, yes. Fine piece of kitchen equipment. We filled it with his parts. Other pieces went on the spit there over the hearth. It sizzled and spit and crackled as his flesh melted, as fat dripped away from body. Tssszzz. Tssszzz. Like that. Tsssszzz. Child fat hitting flame.

  You don’t want to know about the smell.

  Oh dear. Okay. Like I said, try to find the horizon with your eyes, and now might be a good time to have a Life Saver. The mint really does help nausea. Yes. Good.

  We cooked a feast of him. When we’d finished, I found Tereus, and made up a story. “Tereus, hon, in Athens there’s this special sacred night where wives make a feast for their husbands and they’re the only ones who can take part in the meal. It’s tonight! I’ve been cooking all day. I can’t wait to serve you.”

  So we’ll move now to the hall where Tereus sat on his throne waiting to be served this sacred meal. I brought out platefuls, bowlfuls, steaming and savory. “Eat, eat,” I said, but I didn’t need to tell him. He ate it all. He slurped it down, every bite. Grease coated his lips and the suckling noises he made, the chewy squelch, made vomit rise up my throat. I turned so he would not see me gag.