Muse Unexpected

by V. C. Birlidis

  “Hello, old friend,” she said to the sparks and realized she’d better tone it down a bit or the neighbors would think the kitchen was on fire. With one quick action, she flipped over the cup and saucer and placed it on the table, careful not to break the seal between the two. As she waited for the coffee grounds to slide down the sides of the cup, she retrieved the flower arrangement card. She sat back down and glanced at the card tapping the unopened envelope in a random and mindless rhythm. She placed it in front of her. Angelo’s gestures of love always took her by surprise.

  He shouldn’t have. The flowers were far too extravagant of a gift. She pushed the card away and turned her attention back to the coffee cup.

  After three minutes had passed, she couldn't wait any longer and pulled the coffee cup away. As soon as the seal was broken, sparks shot free and bounced around the room before fizzling out. She saw the coffee grounds’ sludge sitting in the center of the saucer and for a second she wished she hadn’t started this reading and was half tempted to wash the cup out without even looking at its contents, but she knew she couldn’t. This is for Sophie.

  She held the cup and stared down into pattern the grounds made. She knew it would be simple. She would glance down and her answer would be there.

  As Sophie would say, “easy peasy.”

  But it wasn’t easy peasy. The magic sucked her in so quickly; she was freefalling into a sea of coffee sludge, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She lost control and struggled to breathe, but managed to draw in some air as she coughed and choked, her body wracked with spasms. In the cup were ominous swirls that melted towards the bottom. A small red drop in the center drew her attention.

  The drop exploded, engulfing her in the same red, festering liquid the black omen had used. Worse than the liquid were the sounds of screams echoing in her ears. She slammed the coffee cup down, breaking the spell. The liquid disappeared, the screams died away and she began to breathe normally again, her mind racing back to the omen. She had never experienced a reading so powerful and although her mother had never told her what the fortune of death looked like; she knew death was what the fortune was telling her. Frantic, her mind swimming, she tried to remember any small detail that could tell her the omen’s message.

  She remembered the grotesque, burnt face, with coins for eyes.

  No, the coins weren’t the eyes; the coins were over the eyes.

  “Oh, God.” She thought about the ancient Greek tradition of placing coins over the eyes for the dead to pay the ferryman.

  “Why didn’t I see it?” She tried to remember what the omen was wearing. “It was a red robe? No, it was covered in blood. I’ve seen it before. The material was striped. No, it was pinstriped, like…” She paused a moment. “Like…like…like… Angelo’s business suit.”

  Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, as images of the omen flooded her mind. She was drowning in them. The ghastly mouth, howling, calling her name—its hand pointing at her. It was wearing a ring. A thick gold band of intertwining vines, with small cabochon stones. They were rubies. It was the mate to the ring she wore, except hers had sapphires.

  She pressed her lips together and her mouth began to twist, fighting the sobs swelling inside her. Her mouth burst open and she began to wail. She glanced at the small coffee cup and saucer and with a spark she didn’t know she’d created, shattering the coffee cup, saucer and the vase holding the roses. She glanced down at the now drenched and stained white card and snatched it from the counter. Her hand began to bleed from the small cuts caused by the shards of glass covering the counter. She ripped the card open with such force it tore in two. Placing both pieces in front of her, she read the message.

  You and me against the world.

  Love, A.

  Death was coming and she knew it was coming for Angelo.

  Chapter 3

  A strong breeze blew across the island of Chios, Greece, rustling Georgia’s bedroom curtains. She sat up in bed, immediately knowing something wasn’t right and breathed in, her nose wrinkling at the sour-sweet sent in the air she knew meant no good. The clock on her fireplace mantle made her moan at being awake at the ungodly hour of three a.m.

  Damn. Might as well get up and fix myself something to eat. She hesitated for a second, knowing the moment she stepped into the kitchen, Winnie would appear, insisting she make her a fried egg sandwich and a warm glass of milk.

  “It’s Callista.”

  An overpowering sinking feeling told her she was right. She rushed out of her bedroom, not stopping to change, nor caring to fix her frazzled appearance. Members of her own Vasilikós, similar to the other eight houses of inspiration, would be asleep, but she didn’t care. She was the Head of this Vasilikós and no one would dare criticize her about her appearance. The folds of her nightgown gently shifted and floated with every movement she made and she found comfort in the touch of it against her skin. She ran from one room to another, and rushed down the Grand Entry Hall’s staircase, almost stumbling on the last step.

  Callista… Sophia… Her mind raced. She was frantic.

  “The vines,” she said. She knew she would learn all she needed to know by seeing and touching the vines, maybe even tasting some of the ripening fruit. She knew what she had been waiting for was finally happening, but she needed to be sure before she acted.

  Flinging open the massive French doors in front of her, she walked onto the terrace overlooking the countless acres of vineyards. She drifted down the wide staircase leading to the orchard, her feet barely touching the ground.

  She reached the entrance within seconds and stood in front of a large gate made of iron and wood. Massive, almost foreboding, the gate had an extensive design on it of grape vines shooting in all directions and in the center of the gate’s peak, a figure of a woman could be seen tending and picking the grapevines around her. The vine’s tendrils ended in razor-sharp spikes at the top of the gate. Above her, a golden Sun god smiled as he watched from Mount Olympus, its’ worn, foreboding smile looking more like a sinister grimace.

  Georgia placed her hand over her heart and grasped a golden key that always hung around her neck on a long chain. She closed her eyes for a moment and raised her hand towards the lock. The lock was ornate and had figures of a group of smiling mischievous nymphs and a somewhat leering Pan playing his flute. Heat began to build in her hand and light shot from her fingers, sending sparks towards the gate. The gate’s lock came to life. The iron nymphs fluttered their wings and the sound from Pan’s flute filled the air. One by one the nymphs flew through the lock, followed by Pan, who got stuck half way through. As the poor faun struggled in the lock, Georgia heard a loud click and pushed the gate open, rushing in.

  The hundreds of fireflies that had been lulling about after an evening of mating sensed her presence and buzzed around her, lighting the walkway. She paused and took a sniff of the air. After reaching the farthest vine in the first row, she stopped in her tracks. As if drawn to it, all of the fireflies landed on a single vine where the grapes seemed to be ahead of schedule.

  “How strange.” The single bunch of grapes captivated her; they appeared to be bursting out of their skins. She hesitated.

  Stop being a fool, old woman.

  She stretched her fingers and reached for one of the grapes in the group and pulled it off of the vine. The grape she held wasn’t even part of the genus planted there. The fruit was green rather than the rich purple the vine produced and the fruit appeared iridescent with an unnatural glow that rivaled the light created by the fireflies. She sniffed at it and caught a little of the sour smell from the taut skin of the grape.

  “Well,” she said to the vine. “This is why I’m here, so I better get this over with.”

  She popped the grape into her mouth and bit down onto it. As her teeth broke the tough, leather-like skin of the grape, she understood this wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. An overpowering sour taste flooded her mouth. She gagged and fought every instinct in her body
to spit the vile thing out. She fell forward, her hands breaking her fall on the gravel walk. Pictures filled her mind and she thrashed from side to side. She saw everything that had happened to Callie in several quick, blinding and painful bursts.

  “Oh God.” A gasp escaped her lips and tears streamed down her face. She shuddered and her mind went blank. She lay there for a few seconds, frozen, unable to move as saliva pooled and bubbled in her mouth. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she shouted, Get up, get up, get up, you old fool.

  She shook off the paralysis, struggled to her feet and looked at the vine. As she had expected, the grape she had spat out into her hand and the cluster of grapes themselves had returned to their natural size and purple color. She placed the broken grape at the base of the vine and lost herself in thought as she walked back through the vineyard. The fireflies fell behind her, forming a funeral procession and the gate closed behind her with a loud clank.

  She was drained and yearned to sit at her kitchen table and rest her head on its well-worn surface. She took several deep breaths until a wave of nausea passed, and addressed the vineyard, with its row after row of vines.

  Sacrifice. I have sacrificed so much for this moment.

  “Callista hates me and she won’t make this easy,” she said to the vines. “But now, everything is different and my daughter will have to respect and obey what she has forsaken. This time I will do everything in my power to get things the way they should be. Callista will return and Sophia…oh, Sophia, what plans I have for you.”

  She sensed members of the Vasilikós were stirring. The first few women sleepily made their way onto the veranda. She leaned against the balustrade, waiting for the rest to arrive and gather around her. Some of the women carried lanterns, while fireflies surrounded others.

  “I will have to leave you for a short time. Suffering has fallen on the house of my daughter and I must go to her. I leave this Vasilikós alone, but will not return as such. I will bring them home.”

  A woman stepped forward and began singing an ancient song of mourning; the notes of her voice had a physical quality that hung midair and then, along with the fireflies, weaved themselves around the large group. The fog gathering around the vines drifted toward the veranda, floating around the gathered women. The singing woman glowed with a warm light as each note mingled with the mist, transforming the fog into hundreds of fluttering iridescent butterflies. She sang of a longing for loves lost, of want, need and regret.

  The sound of her song, along with the butterflies, travelled across the vineyard, crossing the darkness for many miles. They seemed attracted to a small cottage sitting on a hill where nothing grew. The dusty hill was covered in a mass of withered vines intertwining onto themselves, choking whatever trees, grass and flowers that had once made the hill one of the most beautiful places on the island. Only a single olive tree seemed immune to the vines, seeming to thrive yet producing no fruit. The tree stood in defiance of the vines—stoic, waiting and wanting. It almost seemed to be looking up towards the heavens, beseeching anyone or no one, as the curtains in the cottage’s upper bedroom window moved slightly.

  ***

  The woman in the house saw the butterflies, which stopped at the tree and rested on its leaves, seeming to try and soothe it. She couldn’t help but stare at the tree, which now glowed with hundreds of the butterflies, twinkling with their rustling.

  “Hope always seems to spring eternal. Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Let the games begin,” the woman said, as she let the curtain drop back into place. She paced her bedroom, exhausted, the weight of her burden heavy on her shoulders, but stopped. Depression, grief and rage surged through her and unable to keep her emotions in control, she rushed back to the window, ripping the curtains down and slamming the window open.

  Gathering all of her strength, she screamed, “Nothos!” and slammed her fist down on the windowsill, the impact creating an echo of shattering pottery that rushed back towards the tree.

  In the instance the sound touched the butterflies, the glowing creatures exploded into drips of light, lighting the twisted vines at the foot of the tree. And when the last fluttering bit of light died, she sat in the darkness, sobbing, her rage uncontrollable.

  Chapter 4

  If anyone were to ask Sophie what happened during the twenty-four hours after she arrived home from school, she would have said it was a painful blur.

  She’d arrived home from school two hours late and was greeted by her mother rushing to meet her, grabbing her into a hug.

  “Mom?” she said, choking on a strand of her mother’s hair. “Mom, you’re squeezing the breath out of me.” She struggled to loosen her mother’s grip, but was unsuccessful.

  “Sorry, honey. I…” Callie paused, her face darkening. “Why didn’t you tell me you were staying late at school? You had me worried sick, thinking something had happened. You can be so selfish. Damn, Sophie.”

  “Whatever, Mom. Once again you didn’t look at the schedule on the fridge. Today is my afternoon to help out at the school newspaper. You know that.” Sophie shouted back, hurtling her book bag down and splitting open the zipper. Her books fell out into a heap on the floor. Using it as an excuse to turn her eyes away, she bent down and gathered her books and the broken book bag into her arms. She was sick of her mother’s mood swings and right now she couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  Only have to last a few more years and I’m free. College will take me away from this crazy woman.

  When she looked up, her mother had raised her hands to touch her own flushed cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.” Callie reached for Sophie’s arm, but she pulled away. “I forgot all about it. It’s been one of those days.”

  She forced a small, pressed-lipped smile. “Whatever, Mom, I’ve got some homework.” Turning her back, Sophie made her way upstairs, careful not to make any sound. She knew her mother would be listening and she didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how angry she was. She had lied about having homework, but she knew it was the quickest way to get away from the big serving of crazy her mother was doling out in abundance. Here’s to hoping her level of freakiness isn’t hereditary. Freak. Freak. Freak.

  Opening up her calculus book, in case her mother burst into her room to go for Round Two, Sophie lay back against the neatly arranged stuffed animals on her bed, sending some of them toppling over the edge.

  She reached over and switched on the radio, snuggling deeper into the mound of soft plush toys and listened to the first strains of Vivaldi’s Winter concerto. A wave of weariness hit her and what seemed like a moment of closing her eyes ended up being a long and welcome nap. The memory of the argument she’d had with her mother was replaced with a world of nothingness.

  Several hours later, she opened her eyes and glanced at her alarm clock. It was nine p.m.

  “Shoot.” Her mind raced as she tried to remember her father’s schedule. He should have arrived home around seven-thirty and she wondered why her mother hadn't woken her up.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it back; securing it with a band she had around her wrist. She didn’t bother to look at her reflection in the mirror and unlocked her door, opening it a crack. There were several voices downstairs, talking in hushed tones, and this puzzled her because she knew her mother never invited guests on the same night her father returned from a long overseas trip. The old wooden floors underneath the shag carpeting creaked and in response to the sound the voices downstairs stopped mid-conversation.

  Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused and glanced into the living room, surprised to see several of the neighbors sitting there, talking with each other in hushed tones. The gold faux-brushed velvet, made during the ice age, furniture set didn’t have a single unoccupied spot.

  This is so not okay. No one goes into the living room, unless it was a special occasion like Christmas or Easter, or maybe a dinner party.

  She nervously smile
d at the group, wondering whether her mother would make her vacuum and rake the shag carpeting. She entered the kitchen and walked into an even larger group of people. Seated at the table was her mother, who had a bottle of whiskey and a glass next to her. Next to her mother was an ashtray with one of her father’s cigars in it. It was lit, filling the room with its scent.

  She stared at her mother and panicked because her gorgeous, always put-together mother looked twice her age, with streaked make-up, messy hair and bloodshot eyes. She knew something was wrong.

  “Mom?” Her voice squeaked. The sound didn’t catch the attention of anyone in the kitchen. She licked her lips and cleared her throat.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  Callie stood up with a slight teeter and walked towards her. When she reached Sophie, she hugged her then pulled away to look Sophie in the eyes.

  “Sweetheart,” Callie said.

  She caught the eye of her mother’s good friend and their long-time neighbor, Stephanie, trying to get some sort of answer from her, and when she saw tears beginning to swell in her eyes she turned back to her mother.

  “Callie,” Stephanie interrupted, with a choking sound, “wait.”

  Standing up, Stephanie took her husband Gil’s hand and they exited the kitchen, followed by the rest, leaving her alone with her mother.

  “Okay, this isn’t funny. What’s wrong with you?” Sophie demanded.

  “Honey, I need you to be strong. There was an accident and Daddy,” Callie began to cry. “He died.”

  She couldn’t remember what else her mother said because her legs lost all of their strength and she started to fall. She sensed her mother’s arms wrapping around, stopping her from falling to the ground. .

  At first, Sophie wished whoever was screaming would stop, but then she realized she was the one who was screaming—so out of control she could feel the strain in her throat, in-between sobs for breath. She tried to wrestle herself away from her mother, pushing her fists against her, but her mother held her tightly, saying what she assumed were Greek words of comfort.