by L. R. W. Lee
Harpoc’s earlier moodiness returns by the time we finish breakfast, but soon after, we launch, me in his arms. He’s as bad as a PMSing woman. Every time the topic of Midas comes up, he gets this way, yet he’s been in no hurry to find the golden king until now. It’s more than odd, even for him.
But I have no desire to upset him further with any of my current thoughts, so I leave him to PMS in silence as we fly the short distance, or so he says.
I’m just glad this Midas king dude isn’t another maniacal, raging beast that can eat my ass or disembowel me. And it’s only because of this that I’m not freaking despite having no clue what we’ll face.
I’m here for you, Pell, my inner voice assures.
I roll my eyes. No kidding, Sherlock.
We’re flying over a desolate, scrub-covered plain and the sun’s shining, but the area is deserted. Behind Harpoc’s windscreen, all is quiet. I’m not even picking up ground noise like I usually do. There’s certainly no wildlife, which means this is the habitat of only silent and deadly poisonous snakes and nasty critters, the kind I deplore that bite my butt.
An itch starts on my behind at just the thought, but I’m not going after it.
We approach a solitary, dirt mound that rises from the plain, which I eyeball to be maybe 150 feet tall and 1,000 feet in diameter. Good size, and the only feature on the flat-as-a-pancake landscape other than farmers’ fields, which circle the thing carving rectangles and triangles in the earth.
We’re practically on top of it when I pick up what sounds like whispering, and it’s not Harpoc. I strain to hear the words, but I can’t make them out until Harpoc translates, “King Midas has an ass’s ears.”
I furrow my brow as I look up at his scruffy jaw.
“Apollo and Pan were competing on Turkey’s Got Talent.” A corner of Harpoc’s mouth hitches.
I snort.
“Tmolus, the god of the mountain where it was held, was judge and declared Apollo the winner. Midas, who was an uninvited, spectating busybody, opened his big mouth and disagreed. Apollo was offended and retorted that Midas must have the ears of an ass and made the king’s ears such right then and there.”
“Serves him right.” I also hate busybodies.
“Midas took to wearing turbans and such to hide them, but he couldn’t hide his secret from his barber, so he swore the man to secrecy. The poor guy found it a terrible burden so one night he dug a hole and whispered the secret into it, carefully covering it up and tiptoeing away. But weeds grew on top of the spot and the moment the first breeze ruffled them, they started murmuring Midas’ secret to the whole world, as it is to this day.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re joking.”
Harpoc laughs. “Yes, I am.”
I swat at his chest.
My inner voice practically guffaws. Did you know the word “gullible” isn’t in the dictionary, Pell?
I can’t help but snort.
“It’s the way the air comes around the mound that makes that sound. I had you going, huh?” He looks pretty proud of himself, but it beats his PMSing.
I mime a fish dangling on the end of a line, gasping for air, to which he laughs.
“Throw me back in?”
His smile is his only answer as he sets us down before a limestone block path carved into the mound that leads to a massive set of doors. He stands me up, then does that swirly thing with his shadows making his wings disappear.
His mood reverts along with his shadows. It’s clear as his jaw tenses and his shoulders droop as he looks up the path.
Lordy, lordy what does the god of secrets fear? My stomach twists.
The words from that scroll revisit me, “I sought the throne when it was not mine. A willing actor played a convincing oracle. The people of Phrygia were desperate, and I lent myself as a panacea in their time of need.”
“So what really happened with Midas?”
Harpoc motions me forward with a nod of his head, and I think he’s again avoiding my question, and my temper ignites, but as we walk he says, “Long ago, the Phrygian people found themselves in chaos without a king. Civil unrest grew, and the kingdom found itself on the brink of a civil war.”
“Shit hit the fan.”
Harpoc’s only response is to pat the left breast of his duster several times, as we walk.
Odd.
“The people believed oracles were the mouthpieces of the gods, so they turned to one for guidance in appointing a new king from their midst.”
“Why’d it take them so long to get the skinny from an oracle? I mean why let things devolve that far?”
We’re halfway up the walk and Harpoc looks over at me. “I don’t know.”
Shut up, Pell.
Well Sor. Ree. I wave my hand, motioning Harpoc to continue.
“Midas was young, smart, and handsome, the son of a Phrygian farmer. He heard about that call for an oracle and got an idea. He sought her out, and after a few meetings and promises of food and more that would care for her every need on into the future, he bought her favor.”
“Political corruption strikes again. Solomon was right, there’s nothing new under the sun.” I sprinkle disdain in the words.
Harpoc doesn’t reply. I’m not surprised, although he knows only part of what I think about said topic.
The sound of our boots scuffing the hard stone echoes against the walls that rise on either side of the pathway, and I motion him on in his telling because we’re nearly to the doors and I want to hear the rest.
“Long story short, she told him to drive a wagon to a designated place and follow her lead. The oracle then appeared before the people claiming she’d heard from the gods and told them a wagon would bring them a king, who would put an end to their fighting.”
You’re joshing me.
“While the people deliberated the oracle’s word, Midas arrived with his father and mother and stopped near the assembly, wagon and all. Desperate to stop the civil unrest, the people decided this was the person the god told them the wagon would bring, and they appointed Midas king thus putting an end to the impending civil war.”
“The con-man king.” I shake my head. “Please tell me he was at least a good king.”
Harpoc doesn’t respond because we’ve reached the hulking doors and he’s hauling one open for us. My eyes struggle to adjust as we step inside.
The door’s echoing thud off the limestone blocks as it slides back in place sets my heart pumping a bit faster. I’ve been in my share of ancient, dark, cramped spaces, but something about this space doesn’t feel right, and my spidey senses tingle.
Maybe it’s Midas somewhere, and in a condition we don’t yet know—I swallow, hard—but I feel like something’s going to jump out and grab me.
Gold eye, silver eye.
When the rumble dissipates, it’s eerily quiet, and I’m not sure I like that any better because now I’m envisioning Silence of the Lambs where Hannibal Lecter says, “I drink your blood, I eat your flesh.” And later adds, “I ate his liver with some fava beans.”
Note to self, never watch horror movies again.
I instinctively reach for Harpoc’s hand and squeeze it tight, barely keeping fear at bay. He squeezes back, no doubt loving the skittishness that makes me lean on him. I can’t make out his expression, but if I were a betting gal…
We’ll allow dependency in a situation like this, Pell.
Thanks for permission. I roll my eyes at myself.
Even if it is with him. My inner voice isn’t cutting him any slack. Neither am I, but still…
My eyes finally adjust to the dim that small safety lights every thirty or forty feet create down the tunnel that stretches out before us into the heart of this burial mound. At least it’s not pitch-black; I’d really freak.
When will we run into the con king? I bite my lip.
Harpoc’s no doubt seen some pretty gnarly situations in his line of work over the eons, yet he’s also dreading it.
Don’t think about that, P
ell.
How can I not? My pitch rises.
Harpoc tugs my hand, and I feel like a five-year-old being led to the slaughter, but I move forward.
“Is the story about Midas turning everything he touches to gold, true?” He’d said the ass’s ears wasn’t.
Harpoc just gives my hand a squeeze, and we continue forward.
Nothing will attack a god, right?
The sphinx and harpy did, Pell.
You’re not helping.
Despite it being straight, the tunnel takes longer to navigate than I expect due more to my boogie man paranoia probably than reality, but we eventually reach a hollowed out space whose ceiling rises maybe a foot higher than Harpoc is tall.
There’re more safety lights here, shining on a wall of hewn timbers that form a log cabin of sorts.
“That’s his burial chamber,” Harpoc says.
I nod. But it’s not the dry timbers, nor their earthy, mushroom smell that piques my attention. It’s the streaks of something shiny on the walls that make my stomach tense.
To me they look random, like a preschooler went nuts with a paintbrush. An art critic might say Monet or Renoir “had at it.”
The shiny smears start at the opening in the log cabin and randomly grace the length of the wooden wall, disappearing behind the cabin.
I drop Harpoc’s hand and follow them, holding my breath at what I’ll find, but unable to stop myself.
There’s another tunnel that begins on the back side of the log cabin, and the shiny streaks lead down the hall identical to the one we just followed.
My mouth goes dry. The tales of Midas are true.
My chest aches, and the lines between fantasy and reality continue to blur then blend, like they have since Harpoc entered my life just days ago.
More shiny smears. They start and stop randomly, at times shoulder height, at times lower. Others decorate a large area on the floor before continuing on, like someone dropped a paint bucket, then slipped and fell in it, smearing it everywhere.
My mind has shifted from grotesque imaginings and is running wild with images of man and metal, joined in the most unnatural of ways.
Midas will be no elegant cyborg.
Chapter Forty
Dread pools in my stomach as Harpoc and I continue on in silence, down the length of the tunnel and finally out the back door that’s practically coated with gold at waist height and lower. It’s propped open with a mound of gold that acts as a doorstop.
The human body can live for twenty-one days without food, but water’s a different story. At least seventy percent of our body is made of the stuff, and we can last only three, maybe four days, without it, max.
It’s been four since I read that scroll to Jude.
Midas—I’m no longer calling him a con because no one, no matter how bad they are, deserves this—lays slumped and barely moving beneath the rock lintel that juts out a ways adding stability to the doorway. The front door had one, too.
The shortish overhang is wide enough to protect him from the bright sun, but does nothing to fix his dehydration, nor his equally large problem, the liquid gold that’s dripping from his fingertips. It’s formed a puddle beneath him.
Midas smiles up at us, but only half his face moves because gold freezes the other side of the taut skin. It smears his forehead and a normal looking ear—thank god—holds an eye shut, and is through at least half his hair where he’s touched himself. And it’s all over his robes and feet.
My breathing labors. He had no choice in this, I did this to him. I can’t escape responsibility this time, it’s all on me.
“God of Secrets,” he pants in Greek, forcing a smile. “Pardon my not rising. Dizzy. Can’t stand straight.”
It’s my fault. I want to shout it because guilt is again eating me alive.
“Had a feeling you were behind this.” Midas’s words are strained, from his parched throat.
Harpoc looks him in the eye. “It was not intentional.”
“Didn’t say it was. Too many secrets, finally got all twisted up, eh?”
Harpoc frowns. “Not exactly.”
Midas lifts his only moving brow, not believing.
“He needs water,” I say, my voice quivering.
Harpoc shakes his head, then says to Midas, “We’ve come to ease your pain through this trial.”
“But…” I object.
Harpoc gives me a stern glare.
Midas looks at his fingers. “Serves me right for lusting after gold.” He coughs a laugh. “Too much of a good thing.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
Harpoc draws that baggie of joints Zeki gave him from his duster and hands it to me, then sheds his coat, laying it out beside Midas.
He looks at the fallen monarch and says, “Don’t touch,” to which Midas chuckles.
Harpoc motions for me to hand him the baggie, which I do, then he takes one out, raises it to his nose, and inhales deeply, sniffing the white wrapper. “Zeki always had the best quality.”
“Who are you?” Midas asks, staring me down. “And why did he drag you into this metal-some”—he looks at his dripping fingers as he draws out the word—“affair?” A smile mounts the part of his mouth he can still move.
It’s macabre, but I can’t help but smile at his pun. Even in his ghastly condition, he’s joking, and it somehow frees me to talk, to explain myself, to apologize.
I step toward Midas, but a stern look from Harpoc keeps me a safe distance away. “I’m the one to blame, not the god of secrets.” I’m not sure if Midas and Harpoc are on a first name basis so I use his title.
Midas’s mouth turns down. “You, girl?”
“I’m so sorry.” I draw a hand to my chest, clutching my jacket, and my story of the whole naïve, bumbling, whatever adjective you care to assign to the mess, comes out in a rush, as if explaining will somehow absolve me of guilt.
Midas watches gold drip from his hand throughout my telling, and when I’m done all he says is, “Greed got you, too.”
“Greed?” I open and close my mouth.
“You deciphered my secret even though you knew what would happen.” He scowls, and his breaths come short and fast. I doubt it’s all because of his dehydration, he’s ticked. I get it. In his sandals, I’d be livid, too.
I swallow down guilt. “I read your secret to keep Jude, my friend, awake to save his life.”
He’s watching me intently, and it’s making me fidget. “Even though you knew… you knew…” His voice rises and he coughs. “You’re greedy.”
My defenses rise in an instant. I’m not greedy, I’m caring. Harpoc called him ‘a batty old geezer’ earlier. I’m beginning to understand why.
“To you, saving your friend’s life is… caring,” he says, but accusation flavors his words.
It’s like he’s reading my thoughts, and my stomach tenses.
“You gave not one… care… for me.” He draws it out.
I’m suddenly feeling overheated in my jacket, and I shrug it off.
He’s wrong, Pell, I tell myself.
I flip my hair, then cross my arms, preparing an impenetrable defense. But I can’t do it. The longer I stand here fuming, looking over his gruesome form, the more I know he’s right, I didn’t think about what I’d do to him. I have a vivid imagination, but ain’t no way I can imagine even half of this. He’s emaciated, pasty, and covered in gold.
I close my eyes and let my head hang, the fight gone out of me. “Guilty as charged.”
“Would you have made the choice you did, if you knew what you would do to me?” He looks himself up and down.
I grab the back of my neck. “That’s an impossible question. You’re asking me to weigh one life against another.”
He just smiles, his grotesque smile.
I sigh. “Not to sound pathetic, but I don’t have an overabundance of friends, so I like to keep the few I have around.” I wince, hesitating to finish the thought because it’ll sound really bad. “
And I didn’t know you.”
“And there we have it. At least you admit it.” Midas raises a hand.
“Okay fine, I’m a greedy, heartless bitch. Feel better?” There’s fire in my words.
“A female dog?”
“Bitch”—I air quote—“as in a woman who’s unreasonable, irrational, that kind of thing.”
“Ah, a mumpsimus. A stubborn idiot who insists on doing wrong despite knowing the outcome. If that’s what your ‘bitch’ means, then yes, I do feel a little better… bitch.” A corner of Midas’s mouth hitches up.
I can’t help but chuckle.
Harpoc shifts where he stands, arms crossed, finger tapping his lips. He hasn’t inserted himself and his expression remains neutral, and I’m curious to know what he’s thinking. I’m hoping his silence is just him letting me assuage my guilt through conversation with Midas.
If so, I have to say, it’s working because now that the ugly truth is out, I feel better. I’ve owned the title “one tough bitch,” and I’m happy to add greedy and heartless to it, maybe even mumpsimus.
Harpoc kneels down on his duster. “Now that you both got that off your chests, King Midas, would you care for some relief from your pain?”
Midas looks tired. He’s used most of his remaining strength arguing with me. “Mumpsimus… bitch,” he mumbles, then nods the god of secrets on.
Harpoc puts a rolled joint to his lips, then ignites the twisted end with a thought and inhales.
What?
He leans forward and exhales a stream of whitish smoke at Midas’s nose and mouth and the king inhales deeply.
Right. Midas’s touch would turn the joint to gold.
Harpoc repeats the act again and again until the joint is nothing, then turns to me. “Care to try?”
“Me?” I’m too surprised to say anything more coherent. “I’ve never…”
A corner of Harpoc’s mouth hitches. I told him before, did he doubt?
I look Midas over. He seems calm and relaxed despite his situation, his chest moving slowly. He even closes his eyes.
“How much longer?” I whisper.
Harpoc shakes his head.
I hold out my hand. I want adventure, and while this isn’t at all what I expect, how can I not?