Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  Helen put the vitrine against her eye and described to me an elegant ship she perceived against the blue sky.

  ‘Which direction is it taking, dearest?’ I asked her.

  She bared her teeth and said, ‘To the east, my lady, her sails are full of wind.’

  ‘So beyond the net of our influence,’ I said pensively, wrenching the vitrine from her hold. I was thinking about how many vessels sailed along the invisible ring-pass-not that surrounded my place of exile, all of them quite ignorant of the treasure that lay so close. Occasionally, I indulged in fantasies of ships bulging with creatures uneducated in my history, who might blunder in innocence towards the island. Unfortunately, my father – damn his seed – lavishes great care on advertising what he perceives to be my dangerous nature. He is superstitious and blind, but I cannot forgive him his childish misapphrensions. The murder I committed was necessary and just, in my eyes.

  I adjusted the vitrine against my brow and peered into the blue. The ship was beautiful, a mere speck, like a model created by a craftsman, each detail precise and tiny. If only it would turn its slender prow towards the rocks. If only it would come to me. Who knows what secrets it might spill among the weeds and shells? Rather wistfully, I handed the vitrine back to Helen.

  ‘Perhaps, one day, we shall both sail away upon such a ship,’ I said, because the girl liked to hear fabulous stories. We often invented new futures for ourselves, our words blown away by the sea winds, hopefully into the ears of some benign, indulgent deity.

  ‘Perhaps we could sail away upon this one,’ she replied.

  I laughed gently and laid a hand against her bony shoulder. ‘Perhaps, in dreams,’ I said.

  ‘No, really,’ she replied, and I noticed a certain fervour in her tone.

  Without words, I snatched the vitrine away from her eyes, causing her to yelp unnecessarily as her cheek caught a blow from the metal frame. It took only a moment to confirm my hope; the ship had turned towards the island. It took a further moment for me to control myself. With vile, girlish stupidity, I had allowed the prospect of visitors to excite me. This was the kind of weakness I would expect my sweet, simpering sister to display and, having recognised it, stemmed it immediately, swiftly invoking a sense of weary nausea instead.

  Owing to the fact that my father’s navy patrols this stretch of water so assiduously, few vessels come to invade our privacy. Those that do are generally filled only with priests who come to pay visits to the lustreless shrines on top of the island. This rock was once the summer retreat of a noble family, who have since seen sense and built for themselves a grander retreat in more clement circumstances, but their ostentatious shrines still remain, though I suspect empty of divine presences. Occasionally, instead of priests but only barely more tolerable, a shoal of slippery courtiers from my father’s court might come to peer down their elegant noses at us, but these men are always decrepit and of little interest to me. Also, they carry lies back to my father, if they get the chance. I knew that whoever sailed towards us could only be further dregs of religious society or telltale buffoons. Still, it was possible I would have to receive one of them in my abode, which at least promised a minor diversion for the day, so I called Ishti from his explorations and, gathering up my skirts, hurried towards the cliff path.

  I composed myself upon my sea terrace, had the tiles strewn with crushed blossom and pungent torn ferns, and saw to it that Baucis and her crones had chilled the wine in spring snow, gathered from the higher slopes. I had dressed myself in a maidenly colour – pale saffron, I recall – and reclined limpidly upon a couch; Ishti and his smaller companions arranged around me on cushions and rugs and fleeces. I had tied back my hair – a style I loathe as it reveals the height and breadth of my forehead – and had donned some of the jewellery my father had sent me. Most of it, I throw into the sea or give away to the peasants, but I do keep a few choice items around me for occasions such as this. I never know who might come to me, with the express purpose of compiling an unflattering report of my mien and appearance to deliver to my father.

  Baucis had scuttled out onto the terrace. She is like a spider, having bent hairy limbs but an alarmingly quick gait. ‘Well, is it priest or sycophant this time?’ I asked her, in a languid, bored voice, just in case there were ears pressed to the drapes beyond the terrace doors.

  ‘Neither, mistress,’ Baucis lisped.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘A man, mistress.’

  I sighed. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘A young man.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Different!’

  Baucis grinned. ‘An attractive young man.’

  ‘An occasion for grateful sacrifice! Is he gelded?’

  My retainer grimaced. ‘Does not strike me as so,’ she said, ‘but perhaps it is difficult to tell.’

  I sat upright. ‘Well, I must confess to being intrigued as to why my beloved father should send such a creature to our island, but you must show him to me immediately.’

  Baucis hesitated. ‘Mistress, he does not claim to have come from the king.’

  I could not help gripping my own throat: excitement had leapt in it like a caged bird who spies the cage door open. No, no, I must not vault to conclusions that might lead to disappointment. ‘His name?’ I asked.

  Baucis bobbed a curtsey, still grinning. ‘Aertes of the house of Parmon,’ she said. ‘He is a poet of renown.’

  This man intrigued me from the start, but you must understand that the intrigue of a pretty face is commonplace and it was the deeper allure which manifested later that had the strongest hooks. In appearance he was almost unkempt, his dark, gold-shot hair ungroomed and hanging nearly to his waist. He looked like some bedraggled satyr, although his cloak was spun of finest wool and edged with gold thread. The face was bare as if scoured by the salt sea. Indeed, I was reminded of bone; in shadow, he could resemble a skull, although he was undoubtedly attractive. ‘My lady, Circe’ he said, and swept a bow. He had come to me seeking inspiration.

  Well, I was more than prepared to give him that. Demurely, I allowed him a few minutes’ audience as he extolled his own virtues in what he designed to be a modest manner. Smiling sweetly, I allowed him to exercise his vanities before dismissing him by claiming I had tasks to attend to, and that I would be unable to lavish more time on him until the following evening. This, he took in good part, disappointingly good part, I thought, but never mind, he had one foot in the web at least, if only by being here.

  Later, as Baucis brushed my hair before bedtime, in the low, captured sunset light of the lamps, within a veil of sweet, cedar incense, we made a small wager as to how long it would take me to ensnare him. ‘A day,’ I said. ‘All poets are romantics.’

  ‘No, he has a wolf’s eyes,’ my faithful crone replied, skilfully unknotting a persistent tangle. ‘I’ll give it a week.’

  We were both in error.

  I had agreed to speak with Aertes at dusk, for that is my time, when I feel my strength most potent. Also, it becomes a woman to court the evening light. It is like a veil; you are seen through it only dimly. From Baucis, I had learned the poet had spent the day showing himself off in the village, escorted by a gambolling herd of coltish followers he had brought with him off the ship. Through Baucis, I had made it plain I would only interview him alone. Youths annoy me.

  When I drifted out onto the terrace, Aertes was sitting on the stone wall that overlooked the sea.

  ‘You like my palace?’ I asked him, lifting back my veil and padding over the marble. Baucis had permeated the whole building with overwhelming fumes, supposedly as a mark of welcome, although I suspected she harboured fears about disagreeable odours escaping from the kitchens. In truth, my eyes were stinging.

  Aertes laughed softly, leaning forward, his forearms resting carelessly on his knees. I perceived a bloody scratch upon his bare shin. Perhaps he’d blundered through the thorns along the cliff-top. ‘The palace is graceful, but in a way, disappointing,’ he said.


  ‘Oh, I am humbly shamed! Why so?’ The answer was no great surprise.

  ‘Well, I find no skulls, no blood upon the floor, no tortured statues suggesting men turned to stone and no animals wearing the tatters of human clothes.’

  ‘Perhaps you have not looked hard enough,’ I said, favouring him with a gentle smile. ‘I trust your day has been enjoyable, although I regret there is little upon this hump of rock to entertain.’

  ‘I visited the village,’ he said. ‘The people here are starved of culture.’

  ‘I have noticed this, too,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should perform for them.’

  He pulled a face at me, hoping to draw me into some private humour. It struck me how similar he was to all the men I had known about my father’s court; confident of his innate splendour and unafraid. He saw me as a simple woman; a mistake all men make when viewing the female form. They think of their poems, but not the reality. They cannot see into the dark.

  ‘You are a legend,’ he said to me, gesturing abruptly with outstretched fingers. ‘Forgive my intrusion, but I was interested in finding you.’

  Clearly, he believed I would be delighted and grateful to have his company. It would not have surprised me to learn he had made wagers of his own concerning conquest and ravishment. ‘How brave you are to dodge my father’s ships,’ I said.

  He grinned, looking up at me with lowered head, expecting me to see the face of a boy interested in wholesome games. What I saw instead – the truth of the matter – was the face of a dog; it was not that far below the surface. ‘It was no difficulty,’ he said. ‘I go where I please.’

  I sat down upon the stone shelf below him, and composed my body into a demure maidenly posture. Sometimes, I convince even myself I am what I pretend to be. ‘So, having found me, what do you want of me?’ I asked him dulcetly, gazing at the floor.

  ‘I would like to talk to you,’ he said, magnanimously.

  ‘Then please do.’

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he rubbed his upper lip with a finger and picked up some parchment leaves he had beside him on the wall. ‘I will not waste time with foolish pleasantries,’ he said, ‘because I respect your station. I am most interested in knowing the details of how you killed your husband.’ He had a charcoal poised above an empty page.

  ‘Quite simply,’ I told him, staring him in the eye. ‘I fed him certain evils.’

  ‘How?’ he asked, eagerly.

  I curled my arms around my knees. ‘It is hardly an interesting story! My father had made me marry the man, after which I suffered his malodorous abuse for a week. Very soon, I became tired of his behaviour and, one evening, administered a bane mixed with his wine.’

  ‘Because he abused you?’ Aertes’ eyes had assumed a hero’s glint.

  I shrugged. ‘Yes, but I didn’t like him anyway, and neither am I any man’s property to barter. It was a lesson to my father. He will not sell me again.’

  ‘Yet you are here alone, imprisoned on this island.’

  ‘Unmarried,’ I reminded him.

  Aertes made a flourish on his page with the charcoal. Black splinters flew everywhere. ‘Among the greater islands there are stories of you being an enchantress. It is said that you can turn men into beasts, and in fact took pleasure in doing so regularly about your father’s court. Some say this was why your father was anxious to secure you in marriage to a man of strength. Is this true?’

  I wriggled my shoulders. I could have told him then that all men are essentially beasts – some of them more personable than others – and that a clever female can easily draw out the feral element for display. There is no magic involved. However, I never divulge my knowledge to others and merely said, ‘If I were an enchantress, I would hardly be stuck here, would I?’

  He smiled at me. ‘There are other legends,’ he said, ‘which present you in a less than kindly light.’

  ‘All princesses are the victims of other people’s legends,’ I replied. ‘It is an inevitable consequence of being royal.’

  He nodded, grinning. ‘Of course, but if I may quote just one. It concerns how a certain young princess was approached by a woman of her father’s court in order to dispense a gratuity upon this woman’s sons. Apparently, the sons had recently performed some service for the king. The woman asked the princess to bestow upon her sons the greatest gift a man could have. It is said the princess agreed to do as much, and subsequently had the youths put to death in their sleep.’

  ‘It is a legend,’ I said, ‘perhaps a fable, the moral being it is advisable to be precise when asking boons of those in power. The greatest gift a man can have is to die in his sleep, feeling nothing. The woman should have anticipated this. I feel it is a lesson all should learn. The gods take the easiest path in granting wishes and it is the duty of their earthbound representatives to educate the people in this matter.’

  ‘A harsh judgement.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then I am relieved you are not in the position to pass judgement on myself!’ He laughed loudly.

  Fool.

  Adopting the role of The Maiden was ineffective on Aertes. I felt as if a veil of ice was between us; that, or he was made of ice himself. I extended all my subtle charms, gentle persuasions, movements of the body, the eyes, all designed to inflame his lust, but he did not respond. Obviously, I had chosen the wrong mask to wear that night. But there would be other nights. Sad that Baucis might have already won her wager though.

  The following day, I worked upon another of my personae: the Victim of Cruel Fate, whom I intended to present to the cool Aertes at sundown. This, a lady of more mature mien, was someone who had suffered upon life’s path, yet whose bitterness was tinged by wry humour. The scenario in which this lady felt most comfortable was the long and shady hall that overlooked the hill behind the palace; a room I hardly used. Here, I had Baucis set out the supper; the fruits of the vine were frosted with sugar and all the tableware was white. Everything echoed around us. Again, I commanded the poet’s presence alone and made sure his company were fed in the kitchens.

  Having taken good care to make sure that Aertes would already be present in the shadowed, white hall, so that my entrance would take best effect upon his senses, I emerged between the columns, amid a cloud of incense more subtle and flowery than the previous night’s dousing. I had dressed in black, and coiled my hair atop my head, allowing it to fall from this confinement in inky waves over my shoulders. The poet was again scribbling with a splintered stick of charcoal on one of his parchment leaves.

  ‘This room: amazing!’ he said, without looking up. ‘So full of atmosphere!’ He paused then, and grinned at me. ‘Perhaps a hundred souls have met their unhappy end here, at your hands.’

  I was affronted because he clearly did not believe this was possible. ‘It is a joy to me you are finding so much to stimulate your imagination in my home.’ I hoped to sound cold.

  ‘I walked to the top of the island today,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, I may walk with my company to the farthest shore. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, should it?’

  ‘How can I say?’ I answered waspishly. ‘Generally, when wishing to make that particular trip, I anoint myself with the blood of virgin boys and fly there!’

  He laughed, and I realised, with chagrin, I had been careless enough to let my mask slip a little.

  ‘I have already composed a few verses,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, and are they about me?’

  He grimaced. ‘Well, not exactly. I have been travelling around collecting the stories of many infamous females. You are the last, but I already have a lot of material. I’m thinking of turning you all into a kind of composite; a goddess, I suppose, but a dark one.’

  ‘A goddess against whose powers you appear inviolate,’ I observed, smiling and helping myself to a frosted grape. Soon, Baucis would bring in the roast birds.

  Aertes shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am too interested in the phenomenon to fall under its sp
ell.’

  ‘What phenomenon?’ I disliked the implication of being part of something common, or widespread.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that women, such as yourself, are merely icons of men’s fear of femalekind. In a way, I feel you are created by the men who fear you: idols of perverse desire; malignant, destructive, frigid, yet ultimately fascinating.’

  ‘You flatter me!’ I said.

  Aertes raised his hands in apology. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to imply I believe you to possess these attributes, but hearsay certainly suggests they are among your characteristics. Having started out with the intention of risking death to interview women such as yourself in the hope of discovering witches and monsters, I found an entirely different phenomenon.’

  ‘Oh? How different?’ I had taken another grape and found, to my consternation, that it was sour.

  ‘I wonder why you, and other women, have been deified in this dark way,’ Aertes said.

  ‘Perhaps because we are the witches and monsters we’re supposed to be!’

  Aertes shook his head. ‘Sadly, I disagree. For example, I came here looking for an evil enchantress and what I find appears to be only an isolated and perhaps disillusioned woman, someone whose sole crime could be said to have appreciated freedom in a world where the freedom of daughters was denied. You are not a compassionate creature, exactly, and I suspect never have been, but as I said, it is men – your father’s chroniclers and lyricists perhaps – who have created your legend.’

  ‘Your theory is interesting,’ I said, ‘but personally I believe I was created, not by men’s fascinated fear, but by their insensitive and brutish self-interest.’

  ‘You are bitter.’ He smiled at me sheepishly.

  Well, bitterness was certainly what I had intended to portray that night. Perhaps my mask hadn’t slipped as much as I’d thought.