Her answer to that question takes us into the heart of a man haunted by his experience of war’s hell—and tormented by a sorcery that made his ghosts seem only more real. This tale will make you wonder: What does it really mean to be a beast?
Too Fatal a Poison
Krista Hoeppner Leahy
Being a pig changed me.
The smells like fists punching my snout, the pent-up power in my haunches, the ground right there, inches from my chin, begging me to plow it with my snout, to dig to find its treasures, now and now and now. Wood mushroom, cheese, acorns, dried honeycomb, apple cores, corncob, I can’t remember all that I ate that one transporting day, but everything tasted like hot, fresh now. Such immediacy, right there, under me, hot and sweet and begging me in all my pigness to devour it, consume it, possess it, eat it up, snort it down, roll around in it until I smelled like it and it smelled like me and we were one as we had always been meant to be, me and this earth, this earth and me.
Most of the crew shrugged it off, like a dog shaking dry after a swim. Some of the dafter ones, well, I don’t think they even noticed.
But me—it had changed me, and Elpenor as well.
At first, I didn’t think we’d be friends. Underneath, Elpenor was sensitive—too sensitive in fact—but outside he was classic warrior: tall, powerfully muscled, a bit of a brute and a hell of a fighter. He was young in age, not in skills, and had more deaths to his name than anyone but Odysseus himself. I, on the other hand, was the runt of the crew and possessed a distinct tendency to run rather than fight. With my wiry black hair, I had the look and temperament of a neurotic terrier.
Elpenor tried to distance himself from me, but the war was long and we were often thrown together, pressed into service for the dirtiest of work because we were the babies of the crew. Disposing of corpses, cleaning latrines, scrubbing the deck after punishments—Elpenor and I bonded over blood and human excrement, and we found ourselves talking to take our minds off the stench in front of us.
Soon we discovered we were both the youngest of large families, both pressured into fighting and sailing by older brothers who wanted us to be “men”—to kill and to wench and to sweat and to curse. Elpenor had handled the pressure by learning to fight, and fight well; I had responded by figuring out how not to fight, until this damnable war came along and I’d felt the need to prove myself.
Somewhere in the long middle of the war, there came a day when Odysseus ordered the two of us to collect all the eyes from the dead.
We never talked about that day.
But that was the day we became brothers.
That night we got drunk, confessed we both hated the captain, missed our sisters more than we missed our brothers, and right then and there we took a blood oath to survive, make it home, and never, ever touch a sword again.
Elpenor had been fine, more or less, during the war, but now that we were headed home he’d brood for hours about the men he’d killed. Who they’d been, who they could have been. Late at night swinging in our hammocks, I’d try to distract him with stories of our future. I came up with a plan to open a winery—marry some nice smart girls, raise kids, plant vines, and run the best winery in Greece. Once, drunk, I told him I could actually conjure vines out of the night air, vines that were green and full of life, which stretched all the way from our hammocks, all the way across the wide sea, all the way home. He laughed and told me to lay off the wine. But I could tell I’d managed to snag a bit of hope, for after that, on the truly bad nights, he’d always ask about my “damn vines.”
Elpenor and I had been standing next to each other when beautiful Circe ensorcelled us—not that any of us understood that at the time. Most of the rest of the crew started munching happily at the hay in the pigsties. But not Elpenor. He’d always been brave, whether as man or pig, and he barreled right past the hay, punching a hole out the back of the pigsty. Before I knew it, I too was through the jagged wood, following him out the hole, surprised at my own speed and power and fearlessness. Elpenor and I raced off in different directions, explosions of heat and hunger hunting in the forest.
Gods, I loved the wild freedom, the rooting visceralness of it. I was huge, hot, hungry desire and as soon as I saw something I ate it. Or gored it. Or rolled in it. Or gored it, rolled it, and then ate it. If I gored something, I didn’t feel bad, and if I ate something I didn’t feel bad, and if I rolled in something, no matter how smelly or disgusting, I didn’t feel bad. I didn’t worry about the war or my homesickness or my lost sense of morality. Rutting with wild sows, devouring acorns, splashing in rivers, the feel of mud drying on my skin—I simply was, I simply experienced, I simply wanted. What I didn’t do was think.
How I wanted that day to last forever.
Towards dusk, exhausted by our adventure, Elpenor and I met up again, familiar to each other even as pigs, and we collapsed in a clearing: two pigs, covered in layers of earth and pine needles, and two happier animals there had never been.
I was drifting off to sleep when the change happened. It didn’t feel like much, just a sudden shiver, and a weird sensation, like someone else was stretching your muscles for you, stretching them wildly far; oddly, it didn’t hurt.
Odysseus had convinced Circe to release the crew, for suddenly we were men again. Dirty men, tired from our strange adventure. I was filthier than I’d ever been in my life, nauseous, and Elpenor looked at me with such loss and puzzlement in his eyes, I didn’t know what to say. I shook my head. The cold knot within my chest beat its old familiar bruise. We brushed the worst of the dirt off and headed back to Circe’s palace.
That night, Odysseus and Circe went at each other with abandon, and the rest of the crew plunged their newly restored human bodies into a frenzy of debauchery. Rather than deal with the taunts of “How many nymphs can you handle, baby-face?”—and “Need someone to show you how?”—Elpenor and I retreated to the roof with a large rhyton of honey mead.
The night was clear and crisp, scented by pine and salt, and the stars were just coming out as we reclined, shirtless, on the roof tiles. The hair rippled on my torso, but I couldn’t feel the wind against my skin. My heart beat cold and distant as the stars piercing the night sky. I wondered if pigs were ever lost enough to look at the stars.
“Gods, I liked it,” I said, keeping my eyes on the night sky. Elpenor didn’t say anything, already stewing in a drunken brood. I wondered if his skin was flushing red the way I felt my own heating up. I took a long gulp of mead, its warmth tickling my throat.
“I liked it a lot,” I said, louder this time. I couldn’t come right out and say I wanted to be a pig again. It seemed disloyal somehow. “I want today again.”
“Today? You want today again? Time to go backwards?” he said, slurring.
“You know what I mean. I want—”
“Doesn’t matter what we want, don’t you get that?” He was in a worse mood than I’d thought—not a typical brood, but mean, more like I’d seen him in battle. He grabbed the mead and stood up.
“Hey, save some for me,” I said, rising with him, chucking him on the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood.
He stumbled back from the shoulder tap, reeling slightly. “Leave me alone.” He took another big swig, then stepped towards me, lowered his head, and started . . . snorting.
It should have been ludicrous, but instead it was frightening. He’d refused to bathe earlier, and in the starlight, the forest mud on his naked chest could have been the blood of battle. He was mad and drunk enough to brawl, and I didn’t want to fight him, especially in the dark, on a slippery roof.
“Come on, Elpenor, ease up.”
He snorted thick guttural grunts, too low for a human.
“Stop that.” I took a step backwards. “Stop it! Speak like a man.”
He answered with bursts of gravelly breath so violent, spit and mucus sprayed out of his nose.
“Elpenor! Like a man!”
“Okay—Oink, oink!” he said. “You happy? Tha
t what you wanted? Come on—oink, oink. Say it like a man.”
I didn’t respond.
“Can’t even say it, can you?” He took a last swallow, tossed the rhyton off the roof. A wolf howled as the ceramic rhyton shattered against the stone courtyard below. Elpenor howled back, circling me, oinking and howling.
“Stop it, Elpenor!”
“You’re the one who liked it so much, come on, why don’t you join me, say a little oink oink? Oink, oink. Why not? Too human?” He snorted like a pig again, snot oozing out of his nostrils.
I jumped backwards, almost slipping. “Stop it!”
His arms behind his back, he lunged towards me, head first, snorting and wheezing like a pig.
“Cerberus take you, Elpenor!” I covered my head with my arms, but he rammed into me, snorting wildly. I pushed him, hard, but he kept attacking. I couldn’t tell if he was growling, crying, howling—gods, what sounds—but he was beginning to hurt me, so mad as hell, I took a deep breath and snorted back. Loudly.
One more head-butt, but then he grabbed me in a fierce hug and—thank the gods—stopped making those sounds. I felt stupid, my face smashed into his chest, his dirty sweat slick and hot against my forehead, but I was glad he’d stopped attacking me. For the first time since I’d become human again, I could feel my heart beating wildly against my ribcage.
Finally he broke our embrace. “So, a pig at heart, eh?”
I rubbed my muscles where Elpenor’s hug had been a bit too tight. “Let’s just say it was the first time I’ve felt lucky to be under the captain’s command.”
He snorted, but more human than pig this time.
“Elpenor? You okay?”
He licked the snot off his upper lip, as if he were sampling a delicacy. “I liked not remembering, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But now I remember.”
I didn’t know what to say. My own unwelcome memories had flooded back after the change from pig to man, but I’d managed an uneasy peace with the hellish bits, a trick my friend had never mastered. “Well, someone has to remember, right?”
“Think that’s what the crew’s doing downstairs? Remembering?” His mouth curved into a harsh smile. “Think the captain remembers anything about what we’ve been through? What we’ve seen?”
“No, but I remember. You remember.”
“Yeah, that’s my point. You wanna remember?”
“No, but—”
“But . . . you wish we were pigs.” His strange grin faded.
I chuckled. Snorted softly at him.
He snorted once, choked, turned away. He walked to the edge of the roof. “How about you get us some more mead.”
“A vine night?”
“Get the mead.”
I nodded, noticing the thickness in his voice, and the strained slope of his shoulders. Tears, then. The human kind of howls.
I walked to the far edge, saw a few wolves and lions pacing around the smashed remnants of the rhyton, and carefully lowered myself through the top floor window. Everyone was passed out inside, nymphs and men alike. I tiptoed my way through the sleeping house, down to the ground floor where the kitchen was.
I was bundling up a skin of mead and food, when, all at once, like a cry to battle, the wolves howled and the lions roared. Grabbing a kitchen knife, I ducked outside to see what the alarm was about. The beasts were clumped around the side of the palace, and I elbowed my way to the center.
Must have been something human left in the wolves and lions, for they backed away and left me alone, kneeling by my friend. Except for the blood running out of his mouth, Elpenor looked like he was resting. The slackness of his jaw, the lack of tension in the muscles around his eyes, he looked . . . not at war. My mind was stupid molasses, thick and slow-moving, unwilling to understand.
I put my head on his chest, hoping for a sign of life, but there was nothing. Unasked, air rushed in and out of my lungs; my chest rose and fell in response. The motion of breath never seemed grotesque until next to my friend’s stillness.
I stayed there all night long, hoping I could trade my breath for his. Hoping I could summon his life back from the underworld. Hoping he would lift his head, smile crazily and snort through the blood and spit. But he never did.
He never did.
Now it is the dead of night, three weeks to the day that Elpenor died, and I have just finished preparing two cups of spiced mead for Odysseus and Circe. I will place the cups beside their bed, and they will drink them in the morning, as is their habit. His with hemlock, hers without.
I will poison him, as he poisoned Elpenor. His was a double dose of venom: his toxic orders for brutality, followed by the whiplash of Circe’s enchantment.
Being a pig was too fatal a poison for my friend.
I approach the bed, tray steady, feet sure. Elpenor is with me, guiding me through the darkness of their bedchamber. They are both asleep. I place the hemlock cup on the table by his side of the bed. He does not stir. I cross quietly to Circe’s side, setting the innocent cup within easy reach.
I begin to leave, but stumble. There must be bed-clothes on the floor. I try to shuffle my feet free, but the bed-clothes rise higher. Or are they ropes? I kick, but the ropes tighten around my ankles, beginning to climb my calves. I want to scream, but force myself not to panic. Something skein-like, soft and warm, now reaches nearly to my waist. I pray silently to the gods: Help, for the love of my friend, someone help me.
The room lightens; the heat of flame warms my back. Turning, I see Circe, awake, her eyes aglow—a forest beast hunting in the night. Long fingers of green light tie me to her hands. I shake my head, try to clear my vision. Long, living threads have wrapped themselves tightly around my feet, my legs, my waist, up to my chest, trapping me by the bed. Behind her, prone, lays Odysseus. He is as dark as she is light.
“What shall I do with such a sad little murderer?” the sorceress says.
I struggle against her strange finger-threads.
“Don’t be so impatient.” Sparks fly out of her eyes, and the cords around my body squeeze once, twice. Warmth rushes through me, relaxing me. “Why do you seek to murder my beloved?”
Circe’s face blurs as the floor seesaws, as if I’m on the ship again. Her damn hands must be drugging me. The skein of fingers tightens, forcing my gaze upwards. Sea-green hair flows down her back, intertwining with her finger-threads as if she were a waterfall. I am a small raft floating helplessly towards the cascade of her. “He killed my friend, like he’s killed so many others.”
“He’s killed many men, but not your friend.”
“If Elpenor had never been a pig, he wouldn’t have . . . fallen off that roof.”
“But I am the one who enchanted you and your friend.”
“Odysseus is the one responsible. He’s the one who made you change us back into men.”
“Your friend longed to be a pig?” Her eyes flash at the question. “Why?”
“He . . . ” I hesitate, not certain of the true answer, not wanting to betray his memory. “He loved not being human,” I finally say. Close enough to the truth.
“And you?”
“I loved . . . being a pig,” I whisper.
“That is different than loving not being human?”
I hesitate again. The pressure of the cords increases, and the words tumble out of my mouth. “Elpenor liked forgetting he was human, forgetting he’d ever been human. I loved . . . the pleasure, the freedom, the chance to experience without having to think. I loved how there was no separation between me and my senses, and no division between good me and bad me. Gods, to be a pig again.” The wish falls easily out of my mouth, even though I have not once named my desire since that night on the roof.
“True or false. You seek your death. As your friend sought his.”
“No,” I struggle to raise my voice, but can’t. I am cocooned in calm. “False, he—” I do not know how to finish the sentence of what he sought, or didn’t seek. “I s
eek—I want to be a pig.”
How odd to see my heartbeat, pulsing in her watery skin.
“You long for my punishment. But what you wish for will not bring your friend back.”
“I know.” I swallow. For the first time since I’ve been drugged, shame rises within me. Tears burn the edges of my eyes. Her strange, strong embrace grows even stronger and the shame subsides. “But maybe pigs don’t remember their friends are dead,” I say.
I’m not sure why I’m crying, all I feel is numb. Her finger-threads reach out and catch my tears before they can spill, as if thirsty for them. “Think carefully.”
I do. I think about running hot and wild through the woods, devouring golden mushrooms, nuts, sweet fruits of trees. Sleek and powerful, seeking pleasure after pleasure, rolling in the damp peat, the cold river, the loamy underwood. Nothing between me and my sweet earth. No separation, no worries, no confusion, no sense of right or wrong, no memory. No memory. The phrase sticks and repeats in my mind. No memory. What Elpenor longed for. But do I?
“I won’t remember being human?” I say. “I won’t remember my friend?”
“True. Beasts do not have human memories.” Odysseus stirs in the bed beside her, his darkness shifting like a small mountain. “You must choose now, mortal. Odysseus will wake soon, and he will kill you outright should he find you here. If you want death, do nothing. But if you seek life, you must choose. You can choose to be a pig, or you can choose to be a man, but you must choose now.”
I hesitate.
“Your hesitation chooses for you. Good-bye and good-bye to your friend.”
“His name was Elp—”
Before I finish his name, she mumbles some words. My skin shivers and shrinks, stretches and tears, and all the time her finger-threads cradle me, keeping me paralyzed as wave after wave of emotion and memory and longing hit. In her strange woven-hands, she lifts me out the window and down towards the stone courtyard. Her hands unfurl like living green vines.
The Way of the Wizard Page 18