Eye

by Marianne Micros

  Now he ties me to a tree and watches me with all those eyes. Eyes that never blink. Two sleep at a time; ninety-eight are always wide open. Those eyes stare and stare — until something happens. The eyelids droop. Soft, haunting music. Hypnotic, haunting pipes playing in ways I have never heard before. I look to see where the music is coming from. Only a glimpse, perhaps a dream — a beautiful god playing the pipes. Hermes. I feel my body relax, as I watch Argus. He is trying to stay awake, but Hermes’ music is lulling him to sleep. One eye closes, then another, then another; soon all one hundred eyes are closed. With a sudden stroke Hermes throws a stone at Argus. Argus drops to the ground, dead. Hermes raises a hatchet. With one blow he cuts off Argus’ head. I see it rolling, rolling, bouncing across grass, against rocks. Hermes gives the head a kick and sends it over the cliff, spattering blood and eyes as it rolls.

  A bright light drops down from the sky — a goddess in all her splendour. Draped in a flowing gown, powerful, angry, Hera slams herself to earth and rushes to the dead Argus. She roars in her fury. She plucks Argus’ eyes from his body, and weaves them onto the tail of her pet bird, her peacock. Eyes that do not see. Eyes that glitter when the peacock shrieks and spreads its tail.

  The music stops. Hermes is shaking me. Run, he says, run. I run as fast as my heavy hooves can carry me, run for hours, never stopping, even to sleep. I fear that Hera will follow me. Something does. Something is flying around my body, stinging me — here, there, everywhere. If I only had hands. I run and run, from my home in Argos, north then east through countries that are harsher, more barren. I swim across the Bosporus, I don’t know how I can do it, I move my hooves in rhythm, somehow I stay afloat. I travel beside a large sea, then up into high mountains, up to the highest one of all. My hooves dig into the earth as I climb, climbing until I can climb no higher.

  I worry that I am losing my human self, truly becoming a cow. My mind thinks only of grass. I seek grass, hate the rocky soil and sharp shrubs. My thoughts withdraw into greenness, but my wondering makes me still human. I wish that I could leave my hardships and become nothing, nothing at all. Where are the gods? Where is my father? Surely he will try to find me.

  As my hooves clatter up to the top of the mountain I see something before me — an enormous man, a giant, the largest smooth-skinned creature I have ever seen. A loud clacking makes me jump. The flapping of wings on a creature even more enormous than the giant. The eagle swoops down and starts to gnaw at the man’s liver, blood pouring everywhere, the godlike being moaning. I mooo in horror, trying to scream. The eagle finally flies away. I move closer to the man, to see if he is dead. He looks at me. His eyes are filled with pain but there is something hopeful in his gaze.

  You have come, Io, he says.

  How do you know my name? As I speak, I hear only mooing, but he understands me.

  I know many things. His voice is mellifluous, deep, filled with pain.

  What horrible thing has just happened to you? How are you still alive?

  I must sleep now. My liver will regenerate, then the eagle will return, over and over again.

  But who are you? What is your name?

  I am Prometheus.

  He sleeps and so do I, my legs folded under me, despite the constant stinging of my flesh by the tiny powerful insect sent by Hera.

  The next day he tells me his story, that he tricked Zeus with two dishes of meat, that he stole fire from Zeus after Zeus kept it away from humans, that he is being punished by Zeus for giving fire to humans. He supports the mortals, the humans whom Zeus tries to tyrannize.

  This is what happens, he says, if you defy the gods.

  I understand. I defied the gods, too. I refused Zeus and dishonoured Hera. Will an eagle eat my liver, too?

  You will have a different punishment. But you must not give up. Good will come to you.

  How can you bear the suffering? I ask him. Do you not wish you could die and end it all? I wish that sometimes myself.

  Ah, yes, but I know something of the future. You must live, Io, for one of your descendants will kill the eagle and free me.

  Will I produce a line of cows? Will a cow or a bull rescue you?

  No, you will soon be returned to your original form. He sighs. It is dangerous to defy the gods. But it is worth it. Protect your humanity.

  I do not believe him. I think about leaping off the mountain. But perhaps he is telling the truth.

  When the eagle returns I flee, unable to witness Prometheus’ agony again. I try to imagine stealing fire, being brave enough to defy Zeus, an eagle eating my liver. I run.

  My coarse hide is burning and stinging, my eyes are swollen. I can no longer stand, so I sleep in the darkness when it comes. For many days and nights I travel, my tail flapping to try to catch the stinging insect but never reaching it. I go south, then west. I do not know where I am going but something, perhaps the insect, propels me in this direction. I lie on the banks of rippling rivers. I cross a desert where I can find no shade, no grass. Finally, I come to a large body of water. I try to drink from it but the water is salty. I know I cannot make it across, so I travel north to find a place to cross. Finally, I see land, a small strip of land, and make it to the other side of the sea. I keep on. Sometimes I see people, who look at me somewhat curiously but then look away. It seems that people are accustomed to seeing solitary cows walking along the road.

  My journey continues. It is cooler now. I feel a breeze, smell something so refreshing. I sleep, a relaxing sleep, without dreams. When I wake up, I follow the scent. A long river is before me. I see trees and grass. The riverbank is damp, as if there has been flooding. Water bringing foliage and vegetation. Is this a dream? I move closer to the water, I drink, I look at my animal self in the water, and I pray.

  Zeus, please help me. Hera, have pity on me, turn me back into a woman. I never wanted your husband’s attentions. I would never threaten a marriage.

  Somewhere far above her, Zeus hears her cries. He goes to Hera. Never again, he promises; she is no threat to you, I will not touch her, I swear. He caresses his wife. She slaps his face. You are lying. You will never stop chasing young virgins. I will help her, but not because of you. She refused your touch. She travelled a long, long distance despite the gadfly I sent to torture her. I see divinity in her. She has the strength of a goddess.

  The itching stops. My body starts to tingle. My hooves become fingers and toes. My arms are white and smooth. I stand up carefully, timidly, perhaps I am dreaming after all. I open my mouth but am afraid to talk, in case it comes out as moooo. I think about grass, but have no desire to eat any. Thank you. I say it out loud. I am so relieved when I hear the soft human voice of a young woman, myself. Io.

  I follow the river until I see something in the distance. I walk toward the blur of colours and movements. As I grow closer, I see a group of people coming towards me: smiling people in colourful robes and bright headdresses. They hold out their hands to me. I stand there, frightened at first and shy. A man who seems to be their leader, a priest perhaps, approaches me first. He bows his head. He says something but I do not understand his language. When he speaks in Greek, I smile in relief. “Welcome,” he says. “We have been expecting you.”

  They lead me to the river where women gently wash my face and hands. What river is this? I ask the priest.

  It is called the Nile.

  He takes my hand and guides me to a brightly-coloured chariot. I am lifted up and placed in the chariot. He sits beside me and the horses draw us along the river. All the others follow behind us, singing in their language something that sounds sacred and mystical. We follow the river for a long time. Then I am helped out of the chariot by kindly people and led to a small boat. We travel a short distance. I see ahead of me something that looks like a mirage — an island of palm trees and purple mountains. We float through the gates until we reach shore and disembark. Another chariot is waiting for us — one painted with pictures of gods and priests. I am led to a glorious temple wi
th columns and walls painted with many bright colours. We walk through this huge stone building, through room after room, many with statues and sculptures, to the centre chamber, the sacred place of the goddess. Several priests are there, waiting for us.

  They think I am a goddess, a miracle, and they seat me in front of a statue that resembles me. A goddess with cow’s horns. People come to worship me. Isis, they call me. Goddess of fertility. They believe I brought flooding to the land and saved the crops. They feed me with fruit and wines, fresh juices, grains and spices. They bow to me. I am uncomfortable with that. I, who was once a cow, am revered as a goddess.

  But I worry that I am sick. Perhaps eating grass has poisoned me. Every morning I vomit into the earth. I am feeling heavier. I fear that I am a heifer once more, look down, but see slim legs. I hold out my arms, test my fingers. I look at my belly. It is larger and rounder, and my breasts are fuller. I confide in a priestess, a woman with kind eyes who has the gift of healing. She touches my belly and asks me questions. Then she smiles and tells me that I am expecting a child.

  Zeus did not rape me but he touched me, just his hand to my belly, caressed me, lifted my dress to touch my bare skin. That is all he did. I am still a virgin. But now I am with child, his child. I pat my stomach, soothe the baby inside me. It will be all right, I tell him silently.

  The months go by. The Egyptians are so happy that I will be a mother, that I, a virgin, will give birth to a new god. They feed me and care for me. I am fertile — like the Nile River. I will bring prosperity to the country.

  My labour is not long, not at all painful. I hold my son so closely. I have never known such love. I sleep with him in my arms every night, rock him, kiss his beautiful face. I do not dare put him down, am afraid to sleep. I fear the wrath of Hera if she knows that I have given birth to Zeus’ son. I name him Epaphus, “touch,” born from the touch of Zeus.

  I do sleep finally, but when I wake up, he is gone. I search frantically, calling his name, asking for help, but no one can find him. I know that Hera has taken him. She is angry at her husband, will not allow me to raise my son. But I will not lose Epaphus. I will travel the entire world if I have to until I find him. I set out across the desert, search for years, travel many miles, through blazing heat and unbearable cold. I pray to the goddess Rhea, Zeus’ mother, who protected him from his own father, Cronos. She is my son’s grandmother. She is the mother of us all. I beg her to save my baby from harm and to bring him back to me.

  I return to that piece of land and cross to the other side of the sea, walking east, then north. In my mind I hear drums, cymbals, singing, feet stamping on the earth. I follow that strange music. Finally, after days of walking, my skin sunburnt, my face moistened by tears, I hear music, music that is outside of my mind. I follow until I see a passageway guarded by two lions. I hesitate. Will they devour me? I look cautiously at each one — then I keep my eyes straight ahead and walk through. The lions do not move, though I hear their heavy breathing.

  Men are dancing; women, too, dancing, dancing to the sound of throbbing drums. They are dancing around something, somebody. I draw close. They do not stop, so I peer through the gap between two dancers. I see a little boy, dressed in ceremonial clothing. He is sitting cross-legged on the ground. His eyes look both frightened and proud.

  When he sees me, he calls out. Who are you? The dancers move aside, are stilled by my presence.

  I am Io, I call out. Io.

  The dancers look at me and then at the boy.

  Mother? he asks. I was told you would come.

  He is so handsome. Tears come to my eyes. I approach slowly. Do not fear, my son, I tell him. You are the son of Zeus. The dancers and their goddess have hidden him from me but now they know that the time has come for me to take him home.

  Epaphus, I say, and hold out my hand. He takes it and we start the long journey home. Home — home is now Egypt, not Greece. I know that that is where our futures lie.

  Finally, I find love and a man who wants to marry me. I marry Telegonus, King of Egypt, who will treat Epaphus as his own. My son will achieve greatness, for his father is the most powerful of the gods, and his stepfather is the king of Egypt. Epaphus will become King someday, will be the founder of a great city.

  Sometimes I still dream of grass, its fresh smell, its soft texture, its bitter taste. Here, where I live now, there are only sand and some stubbly plants that rip your fingers if you touch them. Sometimes I feel a growling sound deep within my stomach. Mmmmooooo.

  I live in the desert, but near the Nile River, the fertile crescent. Though the waters of this river are refreshing, they are not the cool springs of Greece. Someday my descendants will return to Greece, the place I still long for but will never see again. There are some who worship me, but I am not a goddess. I am Io. I reach out my hand, so grateful that I have fingers. Every morning I paint my toenails, delighting in feet, in hands, in my soft skin.

  Sometimes at night I hear a mournful cry, the ugly screaming of the peacock, whose tail is covered with eyes that no longer see. But when he struts by me in the morning, I see that he is beautiful, his tail spread out in splendid glory — beautiful but impotent. All he can do is shriek and strut.

  Now I am sitting quietly with my granddaughter, telling her the story of my life, teaching her what it means to be human.

  “What was it like to be a cow?” she asks.

  I crouch on all fours. Come, let’s be cows together. We pretend that we are eating grass.

  Moo, I say.

  Moo, she repeats.

  Let’s do it again, Yiayia.

  We stoop and munch at air.

  Mmmm, delicious, I say.

  Mmmooooo, she answers.

  I tell her about Greece, my homeland.

  Are there cows there? she asks me.

  Oh, yes, I answer.

  Will you take me there someday?

  I do not tell her that I will never go back there. I know that she will go there with her sisters. You will live there someday is all I tell her. You will be fine. Pray to Aphrodite, and do not allow yourself to be tied up. Beware of arrogant gods.

  Is there grass there? she asks me, mooing happily.

  Yes. It is very green and very tasty.

  Are there monsters?

  When I lived there, there was a giant creature with one hundred eyes and every eye could see.

  Is he still there?

  No, he is gone, conquered by music. His eyes cannot see us now.

  What about the giant you saw on the mountain?

  He will be saved by someone in our own family.

  Good! She smiles.

  We sing together, dance on all fours, nibble at invisible grass.

  The Cave of Lust*

  DARKNESS. DEEP INSIDE the rock. Tunnel that never ends. I do not dare go any further. I hide in the corner, hoping he will not find me. I hear breathing at the cave entrance, step back a little further, touch something soft, almost scream but cover my mouth with my hand. The soft object moves and gasps. “Shhh,” I say.

  After a few minutes, the creature at the cave entrance moves away, and I turn toward the soft thing behind me. “What is it? Who are you?” I ask.

  “Just me, an old person here, just nothing, a thing, a piece of scrap, a used rag, hardly even a woman anymore, but still a woman, still with all parts of me intact and somewhat functioning. I am here to save you. When he comes for you, I will go to him, satisfy his desires, keep him from devouring you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I was once you. Someday you will be me.”

  I don’t know what she means but I am quiet.

  “Sleep now,” she says. “He won’t come back for a while.”

  So I do. I sleep but dream of a caged beast, playing the bars as if playing a xylophone. He has forgotten to ask for his freedom. He just plays music.

  The old woman shakes me. “Wake up, here eat something while you can.”

  I take what she hands me
, put it in my mouth. It is as hard as a rock. I take it out of my mouth with a gasp.

  “Hold it in your mouth for a few minutes. It will soften. It’s just bread. I’m sorry I don’t have anything else. But there is water. He always brings fresh water.”

  Once the bread is softened, it is not bad. I chew it and swallow it. I’ll need my strength. Somehow I’m going to get out of here.

  “Tell me who you are,” I ask her.

  “Nobody, really. He took me from my parents, brought me here when I was young. I’ve belonged to him ever since.”

  “How terrible! Did you never try to escape?”

  “At first. But, now, this is my life. I can help others, the young, the virgins. It is not your time yet. I will let him take me, and you can run away.”

  A roaring fills the cave. Something dark is blocking the entrance. He is huge and terrifying, a dark shadow, a beast, he is death. “Is he death?” I ask the woman.

  “The death of innocence, he is. But not death to life. He lets you keep on living. That is worse than death.”

  He is moving towards us. I shrink back into the darkness. The old woman pushes me behind her and whispers, “Hide.” I go as far back as I can. I feel the earth behind me and find a blanket, crouch underneath it.

  “Where is she?” he asks. “I want her. It’s her turn!”

  “Not yet,” the old woman tells him. “She is too weak and tired. Give her a chance to get her energy back. You don’t want a limp rag. There’s no pleasure in that. Take me — I’m feeling vigorous today.” She moves toward him. He reaches for her and pulls her toward him.

  “Shh, not here,” she says to him. “Let’s go outside, under the apple tree. Let her get her rest. And the fresh air invigorates me.”

  He gurgles in pleasure, and they walk outside.