by Raye Wagner
~ προχωρήσουμε ~
It was late, as seems to be typical when babies are born. Isaak had gone to get Priska as soon as Phoibe had explained that the baby was coming. Labor progressed through the night and into the early hours of morning.
“Isaak!” Phoibe’s voice was shrill, and the pain of labor made speaking difficult.
“I’m here.” He stood at her side, wiping the sweat and tears from her face.
“Isaak! No, please, make it stop. I can’t do this!” Phoibe writhed.
Priska came back into the room. “Isaak, I need you to help her focus. Help her breathe through the pain, and when I tell you, help her focus on pushing.” Priska’s instructions were direct, and Isaak was grateful for the woman’s aid.
It seemed like only minutes later, and the sound of a baby’s cry was heard. Phoibe wept as did Isaak. Priska’s heart was full as she attended to bathing the little one before handing her to her mother.
It was still dark outside. It had been especially dark with the new moon. Priska thought the sun must be rising as light came in the eastern window. She looked up, but a glance around the room told her something was wrong.
The light radiated from the east, but the western window was still pitch with night. When the door opened, Priska felt her heart stop.
“Touching, so touching.” The voice was beautiful, musical, but laced therein was the ugly bitterness of sarcasm. The speaker was the most striking figure Priska had ever seen. To say he was good-looking was a severe understatement. He was tall. His hair, skin, and eyes all golden, and he seemed to glow, reflecting light and warmth. With his presence, the room smelled of summer. Despite all of this, Priska felt fear.
Phoibe struggled to sit up. “Apollo?” Her voice was tired, slurred.
“Phoibe.” He acknowledged her, but there was no warmth in his voice.
“What are you doing here?” Her hair hung loose and untamed, and in her rumpled chiton, she was a beautiful mess of beauty and bewilderment.
Priska could feel the fear in the room, it was so palpable it was almost its own creature.
“Didn’t I tell you you’d see me again? I thought I made that very clear.”
Priska recognized the tone in his voice. She had heard it before: it was that of a scorned lover.
“Apollo, please!” Phoibe struggled.
“PLEASE? You don’t even know what you are asking for!” His rage was fierce, and Priska cowered away.
“Please, don’t hurt my baby. Please!” Phoibe held the infant tightly to her chest.
“Your baby,” he spat. “She should have been our baby.” And then he turned to look at the man who had won Phoibe’s heart. “Him? You spurned me for him? He’s so… ordinary!” The word was like a dagger.
Isaak stood up, his fear gone. He put himself between his wife and the angry god, knowing it would likely be his last move.
“Why would she want you? A self-absorbed god. Not when she could have a man that would love her, and be true to her, for his entire life.”
Apollo looked at Isaak, but said nothing. The room brightened, and Phoibe screamed as she blocked her baby from the rays coming from Apollo’s body. It only lasted a few seconds, but when the light receded, Isaak was gone. There was a small pile of ash on the floor where he once stood.
“Now, will you have me?” Apollo’s voice broke the shocked silence of the room.
Phoibe looked at him, her rage gone, her spirit broken. “I will never love you. I would rather die than be with you.”
“So be it. Hear the curse that you have brought upon your offspring.” His eyes closed momentarily, and then he spoke,
On this night, and in this land
Hear the curse, How it will stand.
Your body and your beauty be
Touched and marked eternally of me
And when your family is complete
Then Death will visit on swift feet
And rob you of the joy divine
The joy that should be yours and mine
Until we wed, and love and more
This shall stand forevermore.
Again the room brightened, but then the light radiating from Apollo’s body seemed to focus inward, until there was only a pinpoint left, and then it too disappeared.
The light from the fire seemed almost inadequate, and it took a few minutes for Priska’s eyes to adjust. When they did, a small shriek escaped, and she ran to Phoibe’s side. Blood pooled on the bed, dripping onto the floor. Phoibe was hemorrhaging. Priska’s first step was to remove the infant from Phoibe’s arms. The task was almost impossible, and every second seemed like the precious minutes she would need to save Phoibe’s life. When she finally extracted the newborn, Phoibe’s eyes opened.
“No, Priska. Please. Let me hold her until I go.” Her voice was only a whisper.
Priska felt helpless. “I might be able to stop the bleeding.”
“No, Priska, I don’t think you can heal this.” Phoibe’s breathing became ragged. “Please, make sure she is cared for.” The silence was punctuated with the rattle of Phoibe’s breath. She struggled to raise her head and look around.
“Priska?”
Tears ran silently down Priska’s cheeks. She stroked Phoibe’s already cold hand, and pushed the hair back from her clammy forehead.
“I’m here child.”
“Dido. Name her Dido. And tell her…tell her how much I loved her, and how much I loved her father.”
“Of course.” Priska hummed quietly, holding Phoibe’s hand until it went limp. Then she stood, closed Phoibe’s eyes, removed the infant from her mother’s arms, and pulled the soft blue wool up to Phoibe’s chest.
It really looks as if she is sleeping, Priska told herself, and then shook her head as she noted the gray pallor that bespoke death.
Looking around the room, she noticed the silver wooden cradle and soft ivory blanket lying therein. She took the blanket and wrapped Dido into it. She placed the infant into the cradle and, sitting in the chair opposite it, rocked the newborn to sleep with her foot.
When she woke the next morning it was to the cries of a hungry newborn. Priska pulled herself up out of the chair, feeling stiff from a poor night’s sleep. She knew she would need to notify Damon of Phoibe’s death, and dread slowed her feet. Absently, she picked up Dido and was shocked at how much heavier the bundled infant felt that morning. She pulled the blanket away to change the child and almost dropped her.
I must be hallucinating, was Priska’s first thought as she stared at the changeling. After shaking her head to clear her vision, she reached out her hand and stroked what could only be described as fur on the hindquarters of this new creature. Priska continued to unwrap Dido and found something that left her mind reeling. This creature, that just last night was an infant, was still human from the waist up, but on her back were wings, glossy golden feathers that deepened to a dark auburn. And from the waist down, she appeared to be a cat. A lion, Priska thought.
Knowing this must be part of the curse Apollo placed, Priska tried to focus on what his exact words were.
~ προχωρήσουμε ~
Priska had never been present when the Moirae, or Fates, appeared. She had helped birth many babies, but had always left shortly after. She knew this would be different. She also knew she owed it to Phoibe that Damon be there. For, perhaps, he might want the changeling.
The three of them waited for the Fates to come; Dido cooed, unconcerned of the power they were awaiting.
Morning passed into afternoon. Priska sat in the rocking chair, almost at ease with the idle time. Damon paced the small cottage, restless, uneasy, anxious. His mind reeled from the story Priska had shared. He would occasionally sit and weep, silent tears, for his daughter, for the cursed creature that wa
s his granddaughter. The tension rolled off his body as he paced, and ebbed as he cried. The day passed slowly.
It was just dusk. The sky filled with hues of purple and crimson. The air was starting to cool. Priska had fed Dido, and she was now sleeping in the cradle that had once been Phoibe’s. Priska stood to build up the fire for the evening wait. Damon, having exhausted himself, sat by the dying fire in a state of bewilderment. Priska stirred the embers, and as she straightened a bright flash lit the room.
There they were.
The three Fates stood in the center of the room. The young women were breathtakingly beautiful. One was fair, with long golden hair, a hint of roses to her creamy skin. Another had dark, almost black hair cropped at a sharp slant. Her pale skin and dark eyes emphasized the angularity of her features. The third had soft chocolate curls and warm russet skin. It was easy to identify them as they held their respective instruments in their hands.
“Who will raise the girl?” It was Lachesis who spoke first. She radiated concern, her warm brown eyes looked quickly around the room. She held a rod of about a meter that she gripped in her left hand. The stick was clearly marked with symbols at precise distances. She seemed to be measuring each individual as she spoke.
Priska looked at Damon, but his red-rimmed eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“I will.” Priska’s voice was determined, and she felt joy at the prospect.
“It is as you said, Lachesis.” The voice was sharp, which matched the angular features on this young lady. Her eyes were dark, cold, exacting.
Priska felt goose bumps rise on her flesh.
It was Atropos who spoke, identified by the shears she had at her belt.
“But it must be fair. There is so much that has played out that has been unjust.” The young lady that spoke, hardly looked up from her needles. She was slender, with hair the color of honey. The click of rapid knitting had been uninterrupted since the Fates had arrived. “I will not allow the gods to cut this life short.” Clotho’s blue eyes looked at Atropos reprovingly, and Atropos’s eyes dropped.
“I had not seen it coming, Clo.” Atropos’s voice was biting.
“Even so, I would like to see us unite. I hate wasting thread I’ve made.” She looked up, and stopped knitting. Her eyes met those of each of her sisters, and when they nodded in assent, she took a book from under her cloak. Its cover was dark red leather with gold lettering.
“Here is the history of the girl’s mother, and the curse that was placed. This record is written by our hands, so it will be unbiased from human or god. It can be read only by the Sphinx, or those whose intent toward the cursed creature is pure.
We will also allow the creature ample thread, such that she will have her choice of when to pass to the underworld. Until she conceives, she will remain immortal. There is much she can do with this time. This is what we will do.”
Priska found her voice. “Can she break the curse?”
“The curse was placed by a god. The words are binding. Even Apollo cannot retract it. The terms must be fulfilled.” Lachesis explained this in measured words, knowing the weight of what she said.
“But it is unfair.” Priska sounded angry, but the anger was really her frustration at being helpless.
“Child, you have seen much in your days, but you have much left to see. The gods are often rash, selfish, and thoughtless. They are also omnipotent. Their words are irrevocable and immutable. Until Phoibe, or now her offspring, loves Apollo, the curse will stand as pronounced,” Clotho explained.
Priska nodded.
“Our time draws to an end here. If you have further questions ask them now.” Atropos demanded.
“Why?” It was the rasping voice of Damon. His face was haggard, and it bore the grief of his loss. He looked at each of the young women as though they might provide understanding to his broken heart.
The silence in the room was deafening.
“There is no reason.” Clotho walked up to the mortal, and met his gaze. “It is not right, but we cannot change it.”
“Then who? Who can change it?”
“I do not know who has that power.” Clotho shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” She stepped back two paces, bent her head, and her needles started clicking.
Atropos and Lachesis stepped up to join their sister. “Hail and farewell.” They addressed the room, and in a flash they were gone.
“Damon?” Priska walked over to the man, still standing where Clotho had left him. “Damon?”
He turned and looked at her, shock on his face. “Priska?” His voice sounded on the edge of hysteria. Priska led him to a chair, had him take slow, deep breaths, and instructed him to close his eyes. She hoped he would sleep, but when he looked up at her only minutes later, his eyes still wild, she knew it had been too much.
“Damon. Are you awake then?” She bustled around the room, picking up as though it needed tidying.
“Asleep? What do you mean?”
“You must have fallen asleep. I heard you cry out ‘Why?’”
“Why? I…I thought the Fates… Phoibe’s baby is cursed...” He sounded confused, unsure of what to believe.
“Damon,” she said, trying to keep her voice controlled, devoid of the tension she felt. “All the stress of the last few days, and staying up half the night... I think you are exhausted. We are still waiting for the Moirae.” The lie was delivered purposefully.
He nodded his head slowly.
Priska snapped her fingers. “I know. Why don’t you go home to Thalla? Aren’t the boys home, too? You all just need some peace right now. I will wait with Dido. I will tell you everything you need to know.”
He nodded; his mind numb. He allowed Priska to lead him to the door, and without a goodbye he started to walk home.
The next morning, Priska came alone to Damon’s house. She had left Dido sleeping, knowing no one would go near a house that death had recently touched so heavily. She told Damon the Fates had come, and that Dido had been taken to be with her mother and father. She saw relief pass over his face, and then guilt that he should feel that way. She knew her presence would be a reminder to him, so she added a farewell. She said that she was going to visit family in the north county.
He nodded, his mind overwhelmed by the horror he was still trying to convince himself was only a dream.
Priska bid him to make her farewell to the rest of the family, and then she walked out the door.
~ προχωρήσουμε ~
Priska left the small home of Isaak and Phoibe. It was a few hours after dark, and she hoped to avoid meeting anyone. She carried Dido wrapped in a blanket. If anyone were to look, they would see the angelic features of Phoibe in infant form. Priska sighed, remembering when Damon had first brought Phoibe down from the grazing land. It seemed like just yesterday and now…She squared her shoulders, committing herself to do right by Phoibe’s child. As luck would have it, Priska met no one that dark night, and so as she walked, she planned.
Priska returned home to pack. She would not raise the creature so close to where Phoibe grew up. It would not be fair to Phoibe, Damon, and especially Dido.
Priska looked around her home. It had been nice living in Belen: quiet, serene– up until recently. With a sigh, she went to gather those few things which would be difficult to replace. She went out to the stable, pulled out her cart, and began to load it. They would need provisions until they established somewhere, she thought, pulling sacks of wheat down, loading Phoibe’s favorite grinding stones. She took seeds, cured meats, olives, and some flour that had already been ground. She would need to take a milking goat, she thought to herself. Moving…transition…it would be more difficult with a baby. A baby? What do you call a cursed creature?
Priska went to check on Dido. She was sleeping quietly in the cradle Hera had given Phoibe.
Priska felt resentment toward the removed goddess. As she reminisced on her limited experiences with the gods, she couldn’t think of a single time they had gotten involved and there had been any real benefit for those whose lives they touched.
She returned to the packing.
They would live remote, at least until Dido was older. As long as it took for Dido to be comfortable and self-sustaining, Priska committed herself. She shook her head, and with a deep breath she acknowledged she had no concept of what she was getting herself into.
How do you raise a monster?
EPILOGUE
Athan swallowed back bile. He’d had no idea. This was certainly not the picture of the gods he had been taught in the conservatory. Not that he had believed they were all good, far from it. But to be so cruel? So vindictive? He had thought that was all in the past… The past… This was the past. He shook his head.
Having been friends with Symeon, Athan had met Apollo a few times. Sure, he’d been arrogant, but that was to be expected, right? And even though Athan’s father, Hermes, and Apollo had a lot of history, most of which was pretty bad, Athan hadn’t held it against Apollo. Overall, he had thought the god to be friendly, an ok guy, at least as far as gods went.
Athan shook his head with disgust, and glanced at his watch. It had been just over an hour since Hope left. One hour. How could one hour make your world seem upside down?
How on earth did she have a book about the Sphinx? How had Leto gotten it from the Moirae?
He looked at his watch again, as if willing time to have passed, time that would bring Hope back. How long would it take her to cool off?
Because she had to come back.
She had to.
INDEX OF MYTHOLOGY FIGURES
Aphrodite- Goddess of love, beauty, desire, and pleasure