Her aunt had died long ago, along with her parents, trapped in a volcano's eruption. As if fearful that showing displeasure over these deaths might signal to the gods he felt their divine reasoning unfair, her uncle had gone out to prove with desperate earnestness that his will and the gods' will were as one.
Nikomedes took over her father's house, her father's holdings, her father's quarry, everything. She was allowed to keep her paintings and her sculpture. In fact, he began using her talents to enhance his own work, bringing her marble chunks to carve that grew his own reputation. Sometimes he told his clients she had assisted him. Often, he did not.
He entertained women not much older than she was. They came and went. He had married the last one. It was said that she had grown bored and ran off with her lover, a man who drove a chariot.
Love, thought Galatea bitterly. This is love.
"Uncle?" she called out, her voice battling with the twinkling water in the fountain and the birds settling in to roost with the sunset. "Are you there?"
She heard him sigh, as if gathering his last ounce of effort to force himself to spare her a kind word. His shuffling feet stumbled down the walk, and then he stood in her doorway.
"Galatea," he slurred as he raised a bronze goblet to her.
He must have gone to drink with his new clients, she thought. She bowed her head and kept her words simple. "A temple not to Ares but to Aphrodite?"
Her uncle spat, resentful of the work ahead. "Indeed."
"The plans were not so far along that they could not be changed. All moves forward?"
He shrugged. "As if a temple to the goddess of love will keep the other gods at bay."
"Perhaps we should pay tribute to them all!" she stated. "We should have statues honoring all the gods!"
"The goddess is jealous of a roving eye."
"Then perhaps just of her favorites."
Her uncle waved her away. "I would that Eros shot a different arrow at me. Rather than the arrow that causes one to pine needlessly for someone who cares not for them, I wish I had been hit by the arrow that causes a person to run from love like Daphne. Like you."
Galatea flushed. "Eros's arrows are fickle," she stated.
"Tell me, if you could have any fellow in the town to be your husband, who would he be?" her uncle asked, leaning against the wall. "What is your vision of the ideal?"
"I do not know," Galatea replied, not liking the direction this conversation was headed. "I shall have to consider."
"Bah," her uncle replied. He waved his goblet at her. "That Adrastus would not be a terrible match."
She did not know why her uncle brought up that man, but warning bells rang in her soul. She motioned to the workshop. "I have no time to think of husbands, not with so much to do. The goddess will be displeased if her art is delayed due to distractions of the human heart and human flesh. She is a jealous goddess."
Her uncle seemed to accept the truth of her words. He gave a little belch. "I am to marry again."
"So soon?" she began, and then stopped herself. "I meant…"
"I know what you meant," he replied.
She cast her eyes down. "My sincere congratulations."
"This house needs a manager," he explained simply and dismissively. "It is far better to gain a wife than pay for a housekeeper."
"Ah," said Galatea with a stiff smile. "I shall look forward to the happy day."
Her uncle began to shuffle away, but then stopped. "I shall get you a block of marble."
"What for?" Galatea asked, confused by this shift in the conversation.
"You are right. The goddess must not be displeased, otherwise she might continue to 'gift' this family with broken hearts. Carve a statue for Aphrodite's temple. In fact, make it two. Aphrodite and… I don't know… some man. Bacchus perhaps? Eros? Whoever. Perhaps such a tribute will cause her to finally smile down on at least one of my unions." And then he stumbled away.
Galatea sat in stunned silence. She squeezed the clay in her hands as she stifled her cry of joy. Two statues. Two blocks of marble for her to carve. Aphrodite, she prayed, Forgive me, but the chisel in my hand is all the love I need.
* * *
She sat staring at the marble, examining it this way and that, trying to see the form hidden in the veins and flow of the rock. The stone to be Aphrodite sat forgotten in the corner. That would be easy. Galatea knew the shape that would please men's eyes.
But as for the male statue.
"Aphrodite, guide me," she whispered to the goddess. She walked around the block. "If Ares has left you, do you want something to remind you of the one you longed for and lost? Or shall I make his form as far from the lover who has spurned you as a human mind can imagine? Yes," she answered herself, nodding. "Let us not celebrate a love which is cruel. Let us make a lover fitting of you."
She ran her hand across the rough, square block, her uncle's question ringing in her head. What would be her ideal? If she could chip away all the excess, what would lie beneath? She found that a small, pained laugh escaped from her lips. She cared so little about the exterior of men. If she were to name her ideal, it would involve a heart and a soul more than the shape.
But one cannot infuse a cold piece of stone with the love she longed for.
She stepped back and looked at the block that towered over her. Or could she? Could she, with every tap of her chisel, every sweep of her rasp, fill this statue with her heart's longing for love and kindness? Her yearning for a companion who saw her for who she was, rather than a mysterious figure beneath a veil? If there was such a heart and a soul in this block, what would his shape look like?
It would start with laughter, she thought. How does the male form lean when the head is thrown back with delighted joy? When he is overwhelmed with the wit and mind of his chosen one?
She picked up her charcoal and made a large swipe across the marble where sternness and cruelty might lie. She picked up her point chisel. She would rid the marble of that bulk. Her ideal would never carry that weight on his shoulders. As she pounded the pick into the stone, another thought came to her.
He would be light of foot and not afraid to dance to the music of the world.
She put down the chisel and made another swipe of her charcoal, marking where dullness and laziness might be.
He would be strong, but restrained. He would never lift a hand in anger, but would use his broad shoulders to lift those who were less fortunate.
She made another wide stroke across the marble and smiled. Yes, this is what her ideal might look like.
And what might be his name? she wondered.
"Pygmalion," she said, with certainty. "I should name you Pygmalion."
And so she worked long into the night, shaping the stone even as the sweat poured from her brow and her arms ached. Lamps were carried into the room by the servants. It was as if the goddess herself gave her strength, though, willing every move of her chisel. To stop would be to deny the wants of Aphrodite.
Galatea spoke to the stone as she worked, telling Pygmalion why each piece was removed and what she hoped would be found beneath. There was such a happiness that washed over her, a delight which never filled her when she had tried to shape the statue of the god of war.
Finally, as her muscles quivered and failed, she leaned against the stone with weary joy
"You may be a gift to the goddess, but I believe you are a gift from the goddess to me, too," she murmured to the roughed out marble.
Wearily, Galatea made her way to her bedchambers. A sleepy servant rose to help wipe the dust from her hair and skin. Galatea climbed into bed, the sound of an owl outside her window. She wondered if this night visitor was a gift of Athena, a whispered reminder that in matters of the heart, one must always remember the value of the wise. She smiled. Tomorrow, she would look in the stone for wisdom, for her Pygmalion would have that, too.
As she drifted off, a breeze swept through the room. It brushed against her brow, as if the touch of a lover's
hand. In the morning, she decided it must have been a dream, but in the moment, it seemed so real. She heard his voice whisper softly in her ear.
And he said, "Thank you for my name. You shall be my Galatea and I shall be your Pygmalion… and ever so much more."
* * *
From the moment her eyes opened, Galatea's heart skipped with gladness. She leaped from bed, puzzled for a moment by the memory of her dream. She danced in a moonlit field with someone she did not know and it felt like flying.
Her pulse pounded as she sped through her morning rituals. Her mind could think of nothing more than the feel of her hand on the marble, guiding the chisel to discover more of the man within.
She walked into her studio, wondering if she might burst. Her body could not contain her gladness, her gratitude, her… dare she say… love?
The marble was still little more than a rough shape, a general block where the head should be; a general shape where the shoulders would lie; a wide, almost untouched base where his legs would bend as if in dance.
Then an image flashed from her dream, an image of how the man's legs moved when they danced. She could see in her mind exactly what must be removed in order for more to be revealed. Her hands trembled in excitement.
"Good morning, my Pygmalion," she greeted as she took her tools from her table. "I hope you slept as well as I did." She placed the wide toothed chisel upon his hip and struck her first stroke. "Or did you sit by my bedside, whispering words of encouragement, so that I could come to my studio this morning sure of what I was meant to do?" She touched where his nose was to be and laughed. "I think perhaps that is what you have done."
And so the days passed.
Each day grew with joy as more of Pygmalion emerged from the block. Though she should have been exhausted, the work, instead, invigorated her and filled her with life and meaning. When away, she counted the hours until she might return. Even the trips to bring the lunch meal to the temple's work yard no longer filled her with fear. The men could stare as they liked, her heart was so filled with the thought of Pygmalion and her art that she barely noticed their catcalls.
The joy of her days were only matched by the dreams of her night. As soon as she closed her eyes, she escaped from the world. Her visions were filled with the kind face of the man she hoped to release from the marble. The dreams were vivid and seemed so real—swimming through ponds of silver glass with winking fireflies lighting the weeping willows on the banks. Soaring through the purple skies to Mt. Olympus and sitting at the tables of the gods where Aphrodite smiled. Sunset on the beach as the songs of the villagers sang them into each other's arms. She could never remember what was said between her and her Pygmalion, only the ringing sound of laughter as they woke.
And each morning, upon waking, she did not know which was better: the world of her dreams or the world in her studio where she could create an homage to the man she met as she slept.
And so the days continued.
Her uncle came to check on her progress from time to time. His comments were always the same: "That is a fine companion, but where is the statue of Aphrodite? Work on the temple continues quickly and she shall be wanted."
"Soon…" Galatea promised him, barely able to lift her eyes away from her Pygmalion. "Aphrodite shall come soon, but the goddess demands her lover first."
"Funny way of putting that," her uncle stated, giving her a sideways glance.
"Do not argue with the will of the goddess," Galatea replied breathlessly, running her hand along the rough ridges left by her tooth chisel. "I am Aphrodite's channel. And she asks me to complete this."
"I'll leave you to explain that to the temple priests," grumbled her uncle as he shuffled out of the room.
But Galatea knew in her heart that she was right. Why would her hand be guided so swiftly and true upon the stone if she did not have the steady hand of the goddess steering every stroke? Why would the goddess send her such dreams, dreams that led her to know the heart of the man she shaped?
More days passed and in a twinkling, the wedding of Nikomedes and her new aunt was planned and concluded. It barely registered with Galatea. She seemed to wake as she stood holding the bower of blossoms for the couple as they exchanged their promises in the family garden. She cast her eyes far and wide across the guests, but none were a match for her Pygmalion.
There were modest celebrations of wine and somber song.
Ah, I am happier than this bride. I, wedded to my husband of stone, thought Galatea, stealing a loving look towards her studio. No human could bring the joy I feel in the presence of my Pygmalion.
The new aunt's name was Rhodope. She was tall and rail-thin. Her bones poked out from beneath her long, draped chiton. Her small, beady eyes peered at the wedding feast, calculating everything's worth. Gifts of fertility were given to the couple, but her new aunt accepted each with a sniff, as if to say anything more than a single heir would be a drain on the family's purse. Every morsel of food put on their guests' plates was a waste of precious money. Every movement was pinched, as if the excessive use of energy was a waste of air.
But the couple appeared to find their arrangement acceptable. Rhodope's holdings were annexed into the property owned by Galatea's family, and so her uncle's wealth grew.
As more days passed, Galatea saw very little of Rhodope. In fact, she saw very little of the world. Enraptured, she laughed and sang with her Pygmalion to the tune of her striking chisel.
She realized, though, that all was not right when she emerged from her studio one evening to find all the walls of the house painted white. It felt as if someone had stolen the air from her lungs. She touched the wall in horror. Where were her paintings? Where were her murals? Tears sprang to her eyes.
Her aunt sat in the family garden, as if waiting for Galatea and her questions.
"What do you think of the new color?" asked Rhodope, calling out to Galatea.
Galatea paused, reminding herself of the wisdom of Athena's owl, and walked into the garden. Frog song filled the night.
"What prompted the change?" Galatea asked.
Rhodope waved her fingers dismissively. "Things were looking shabby. I heard that it fell to you to repaint them each year. What a burden! This way, you shall never be troubled again."
"Ah!" said Galatea. "But I do enjoy doing it… I did enjoy doing it…"
Rhodope tutted. "Such a silly pastime for a young woman of childbearing years. You should be married! Caring for children! Not burdened with painting your uncle's walls. I mean, he isn't even your father."
"But this is my father's house," Galatea reminded the woman.
"And what shall we do when the day comes that you are not here to repair your work? This is just a step towards the inevitable. Think of all the time I have saved you! It is so much more sensible to paint it all white. Now you shall have time to entertain suitors rather than fiddle with your art."
"I am still completing the statues for Aphrodite's temple," Galatea protested.
"And what good is a statue if made by a maid who has never known love," her aunt chided. "Better we hand the task over to one of the temple priests."
"But they have commissioned my uncle!" Galatea protested. "And we must deliver."
Rhodope sighed. "One statue is as good as another and, frankly, I am appalled that your uncle would squander your youth, keeping you locked up in a room with a hunk of marble. Obviously, your ardor towards shaping that thing indicates you are more than ready to explore the secrets of a living breathing man."
"But I love what I do," Galatea replied, her heart destroyed by the thought Pygmalion might be torn from her.
"Think about what you want in love," Rhodope said with a smile. She waved a knobby finger knowingly at Galatea. "And let me know! I am quite the matchmaker and assure you that whatever it is you seek, I shall find it for you."
And then her aunt rose, the bones of her feet clacking on the tiles, and walked to her chambers for bed.
Galatea stoo
d, bewildered and afraid. She ran back into her studio. Pygmalion, halfway released from his stone stood as if waiting for her to return. She sat down on the bench, picking up her chisel in distress and turning it this way and that in her hand.
"What do I want? What do I want in love?" she asked Pygmalion. She stared out at the door to her uncle and aunt's bedchamber. "I do not want that." Her chest constricted. "I want someone who is kind. Who matches my kindness word for word and act for act. Where kindness is not some meager portion of a pauper's dinner, rather an overflowing banquet of heaping helpings." She quickly explained to Pygmalion, lest she seem greedy. "I do not demand he do more than me. But I would ask he not do less." Her eyes fell upon her veil, which still hung on the wall from earlier that day. "I ask for someone who sees the beauty of what I am and inspires, nay, calls me to do more rather than sit in idle worship of the idol he makes of me. I wish for someone who is not contented to the lot he's chosen in life—a fisherman or a merchant in the marketplace, but uses these positions to learn more about himself, more about the greatness that we all have within us, and will never tire in the exploration of whom he could become. From on high, he stoops to elevate those below him. Generosity of spirit. A passion for life. Kindness and intelligence. That's what I want."
She stood and walked closer. She lifted her hand and smoothed Pygmalion's cheek. "Would that you were that man." She sighed and stepped away. "Would that I were that woman." She replaced her chisel on her workbench. "Perhaps that is the greater task. Rather than finding the answer in someone else, I must find it in myself, first, and hope that he who searches for the same thing crosses my path." She walked to the doorway, wiping the dust from her hands. There was a grim tightness to the corners of her mouth. "Or perhaps we shall spend our days together, oh Pygmalion of mine, basking in the sight of each other in Aphrodite's temple until the end of time."
And so the weeks passed.
Galatea spent every moment with Pygmalion, despite her uncle's instructions to move on to the forgotten stone that was to be Aphrodite. She spent her evenings avoiding her aunt.
Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales Page 8