by Diana Tyler
“Do you know the rest of the story?” Gennadius asks. I wipe my eyes, shake my head, and blow on a hot spoonful of porridge to distract myself from my emotions. “Dear, why don’t you explain?” Aspasia takes a breath, then draws the piece of amber back into her hands and peers into it as though it were a sacred artifact, a prize awarded by Helios the Sun God himself.
“The legend goes that after Phaeton’s death, his mother and sisters searched the world over for his tomb,” Aspasia begins, stroking the stone like a sleeping cat. “And when they found it, they stood around it and wept. For four months they wept.
“At the end of their mourning, they tried to leave, but could not take a step. They were as trees, rooted to the earth, and poplar trees they became, hardening fast with bark from head to foot.” Aspasia pauses and holds up the amber for me to see. “This is what their tears became. Solid amber.”
I reach for the amber, then look to Aspasia for permission to handle it. She nods. As I examine the fossil, I imagine that it truly is a remnant of the goddesses’ tears, translucent, tangible symbols of age-old human suffering… And then I remember that the goddesses were not human at all, if they even existed. What I hold in my hand is nothing more than resin, an oozing secretion that was fortunate enough to avoid the disintegrating effects of sun and rain.
“A tragic story,” I say, returning the stone to Aspasia. “But Phaeton and his weeping trees are a made-up Alpha tale. What have they to do with the Soukinoi you spoke of?”
“Soukinoi is the ancient word for amber,” Gennadius says, with the didactic air of a schoolmaster. He rubs his gray, bearded chin, contemplating what to say next. But instead of speaking, he reaches over and takes his wife’s hand.
“Our son was one of them,” Aspasia says, squeezing Gennadius’s fingers and the amber stone simultaneously. “He brought the stone to us the night he told us he was leaving. He said –” She takes a deep brave breath, releases her husband’s hand, and wipes her eyes before proceeding. “He said the Soukinoi had stolen the scrolls of the Eusebian Oracles at the Temple in Eirene…for safe keeping, he’d said. The most sacred passages, all the prophecies, are sealed in – ”
“Inside the amber,” I answer. “So they call themselves Soukinoi after the scrolls?”
“Yes,” Aspasia nods. “They say the Oracles and we, the followers of the Hodos, have wrongly judged the prophecies and are unfit to protect them from Eusebian delinquents or Alpha thieves.”
My brother was among the Hodos, that is, the Way, a Eusebian sect birthed seven years ago after the report of Python’s defeat by Phos in the Great Sea spread like a fever through the countryside and city streets, imbuing pedantic old philosophers and cynical young heathens with faith in their forgotten god.
Jasper told me that Phos’ sacrificial death would liberate us from the evil of Python and transform all of Petros into a new world, an indestructible, unconquerable, peaceful and eternal elysium called Adamas… But most Eusebians, and I am one of them, are not blind. We still see the baleful works of Python rippling out of the Great Sea like the venom-tipped tentacles from a monstrous squid. We have heard the howling of Harpies at the midnight hour, the screeching of a sphinx on starless nights, and see the hoof-shaped scars of Centaurs imprinted on the hands and feet of Eusebian children.
If Phos was victorious, why do the innocent still suffer?
“Our son joined the Soukinoi because he believed in their cause; he died fighting for it,” says Gennadius. “Our friends saw his body strapped to the back of an Alpha horse parading through the streets of Eirene.”
Aspasia begins to weep.
“He was just a boy,” her voice cracks. “A boy who thought himself an Achaean bound for the shores of Troy. He had a hero’s heart, our son.”
“What is the Soukinoi cause?” I ask.
“They are planning to wage war against the Alphas. At least, that is what they claim,” says Aspasia. “They recruit young Eusebians like the outlaws you met at the Okeanos. And like you…” Aspasia and Gennadius both look at me wistfully, sadness burning beneath their eyes, and I wonder if their minds have transformed me into a vision of their son.
“I believe your son was a hero, Gennadius,” I say. “I’m sorry he’s not here to join us tonight at your table. And, forgive me, but I think the Soukinoi are brave for standing against the Alphas.”
“Brave men must also be wise men,” Gennadius replies. “The Soukinoi terrorize for the thrill of it. They are stabbing people in the streets just for repairing Alpha sandals or selling them bread. “It is madness.” He strikes his fist on the table and furrows his brow, just as my father did when addressing matters he considered idiotic, reprehensible, or unjust. “Madness,” he repeats.
“Iris, you were nearly murdered because you were enslaved by an Alpha. Don’t you see? They don’t do this out of honor, but hatred!” Aspasia says.
“It isn’t true,” I whisper.
“What did you say? I am an old man, girl,” Gennadius says, using a ragged voice as he cups his hand over an ear.
“I said it isn’t true,” I say louder. “I met a Soukinos who saved my life…twice. The first time at the Okeanos and then again on the ship that brought me here.”
“Yes. Tycho,” Aspasia says.
My heart skips a beat, and I can barely utter, “How do you know him?”
“Everyone in Limn knows of him. He was once a Pythonian, and then, Duna knows why, chose to join the Soukinoi. He became the outlaws’ most notorious cut-throat. Praise Duna that he isn’t any longer,” Gennadius says. “He was responsible for the slaughter of dozens of Eusebians.”
“He still is an outlaw,” I object. “He was at the river just two nights ago, when he saved my life.”
Gennadius and Aspasia exchange glances, and then linger in silence, as if waiting for me to break it.
“What is it?” I demand.
“Iris, that night was Tycho’s last as a Soukinos,” Aspasia says. “She didn’t tell him why, but Carya asked him to endure one final mission. And now, wherever he is, he knows the reason – to rescue you.”
“I could have rescued myself. I have…” I pause, silently debating whether to tell them about the doma.
The amber stone begins to glow, and tingling chills begin to cover my arms as I am reminded of Carya’s words to Aspasia. I remember my imminent journey to the Soukinoi and their “amber walls”…to Tycho and his imperiled life. And I am warmed by the thought that as long as these prophecies ultimately lead me to the cesspool where I will scatter Acheron’s ashes, then I will embrace each one with an Oracle’s adoration.
Without warning, the warmth inside me grows feverish. The chills on my arms disappear in an instant and sweat glistens in their place. I open my hands just slightly to see them glowing yellow like the amber stone.
“Are you all right, child?” Gennadius asks. “She looks ill, dear,” he says, placing a hand on Aspasia’s arm. “Maybe it’s the porridge…”
“I’m…I’m fine,” I lie. “I just need to sleep, I think. You’ve been very kind to me. I’ll see you in the morning.” I lie again. I have no intention of staying here through the night. I am determined to make it to the Soukinoi fortress and join others like myself, others who want what I want, who will appreciate what I’m capable of. “Thank you for supper.” I slide my chair back and stand, pressing my burning palms into my tunic, hoping they’ll burn again when the time is right.
CHAPTER NINE
CENTAUR
Aspasia was wrong. The almonds and walnuts don’t help me sleep. I sit on my bed, facing the window and running my fingers along the blade of my Soukinoi dagger. I stare at the rustic weapon, transfixed by it as it flickers, dancing in a silky stream of moonlight pouring through the window. I wonder how many lives it has taken since leaving the blacksmith’s hands. I wonder how many lives it will take in mine, or if I will even need it.
Before my imagination can carry me into a crimson-colored nightmare, I hear a l
oud shout outside the window. Soukinoi, I think. The child within me, pitiable wraith that she is, wants to dive into the corner and cower until her brother comes to assuage her fears with strong arms and soft singing. But the avenger in me, less a girl and more a hunter with each passing hour, wants to test the caliber of my courage, to prove whether I am truly ready to join the ranks of the Soukinoi or if I’m still a worthless wanderer, self-deceived by a head full of heroes’ tales and a heart of intractable anger.
I fetch my cloak, resolved to either hunt down the source of the shouting voice or venture into the desert, to Ēlektōr, as Carya’s prophecy said I would.
I tiptoe through the house, careful not to wake Gennadius and Aspasia, though both of them snore dreadfully beneath a bundle of linen blankets; it is obvious why they’re never stirred by the ruckus outside.
I step onto the empty street and turn westward where the young waxing moon hangs low over the quiet homes of Limén. No shouts, no snoring, only misty rain and roaming cats darting in and out of alleyways. I turn around and gasp at the sight of the Moonbow towering untold miles above the mountains. Each of its seven arches seem to pulsate with a life all their own, a vibrant heart beating, silent but strong, within the body of sleeping sky.
“Come and get me you stinking swine!”
The taunting shout of a young girl’s voice leads me to the tannery, the stench of which is made more nauseating by the presence of a Pythonian Centaur stalking the premises like a half-starved mutt.
I duck behind a large pot, which thankfully lacks its usual malodorous liquid, and aided by the Moonbow’s brilliance, study the miserable beast for whom the folk stories do no justice. In the songs and nursery tales, Centaurs are almost always accurately portrayed as savages and drunkards, but the description of their physical appearance is surprisingly sparse; perhaps the imagination is left to wonder because, if given the facts, young children would never sleep at night.
From his rust-colored hooves to his rubicund face, this half-man, half-horse creature stands over eight feet tall. His shaggy sorrel coat is matted and patchy, a result of the warming weather and an indolent disregard for baths. His shoulders and withers are darkened with perspiration, his heaving flanks washed white with foam, and from the ample girth of his belly, I hear the repulsive gurgling of an appetite that never wanes. Almost camouflage against his body is a leather strap buckled around his midsection with an empty scabbard attached to it; I wonder if a sword is meant for it.
Above the equine shoulders, the Centaur is a man from waist to head – albeit, a man who looks as though he’s been cursed with unequaled ugliness by the mischievous goddess, Aite. His chest and arms, though undoubtedly strong, are covered in curly chestnut hair that sticks together in greasy clumps of dried sweat, dirt, and bits of food. His fingernails, uncut and coated with soil, remind me of an eagle’s talons. His head is completely shaven and, surprisingly, without bump or blemish…save for the Pythonian tattoo. Positioned behind the Centaur, I can see only the fat black line of the serpent’s meandering tail tracing along his spine up onto his scalp.
“Up here!” The girl’s voice cries out like a banshee from the roof of the tannery. As I turn my head I hear the Centaur grunt and paw the ground as his attention also shifts to Gennadius’s shed.
The front of his face now visible, I see the Centaur’s narrow, deep-set eyes and make out the serpent’s triangular head and its hissing tongue trailing down the length of his misshapen nose. The creature whinnies wildly, his stallion-like madness now provoked, and takes off galloping around and around the tannery, his tail thrashing harder with every dizzying turn. I wrap myself like a barnacle around the pot and slide around it until I am tightly wedged between it and the tannery’s brick wall and can see nothing but an unending line of jagged mountain peaks barring the way to wilderness.
I hear the clamorous sound of the Centaur’s hooves landing on the thatched roof above my head and out of view. He snorts three times, then speaks in a guttural voice and with a crude, unfamiliar accent that scrapes at my ears.
“A clever rat, you are,” he says. “You’ve done this many times before, haven’t you. Stealing Centaur swords has become a little game, has it?”
“My favorite game in the world, right after ostrakinda,” the girl replies coolly.
Ostrakinda… I had forgotten that game and how much I loved to insist to my brother and his friends that I be allowed to play it with them.
“You’re too little, Iris. You’ll be smashed like a bug,” Jasper would say.
“I’d rather be smashed like a bug than pent up like a bird inside with mother dicing onions,” I’d pout.
I can see Jasper now, sighing and then smiling at my stubbornness as he took from his tunic the oyster shell for which the game was named. “Then you’re on my team. You stay with me.”
I smile now remembering how elated I became at the sound of those words. I would take my big brother’s hand and join his side as teams were chosen, one called “Night” and the other “Day.” One side of the shell was smeared black to represent Night’s team, while the stainless side symbolized Day’s.
My brother would toss the shell into the air, and the team whose color struck the ground faceup took off in pursuit of the other. Captors, when tagged, were made Centaurs who then carried the victors on their backs as they chased down the remaining foot soldiers. My favorite part was towering above the rest of our playmates, I latched onto Jasper’s back, he upon the back of his make-believe Centaur shouting “Turn right! Over there! Behind that Juniper!”
“You and your little rodent friends are collecting our weapons for your pathetic revolt, are you?” the Centaur huffs, his voice growing louder as his hooves advance across the roof.
“Do you know what ostrakinda is, half-breed?”
“A game. You just said that. Do you think I am a moron?!” the beast yells.
“Well if it is all right with you, I would like to play it with you now!”
I now regret having taken this seat among what has proven a most unlikely theater; it’s doubtful the comedy presently unfolding will end with laughter and applause. I consider how I might sneak away, hoping that a role has not been written for me. I decide to stay put, fearing that a sudden move might mark my accidental entrance onto the bizarre moonlit stage spread out above me.
“Here!” the girl continues. A few seconds pass before I hear the sound of an object hitting the roof with a soft thud; I know it is an oyster shell. “Night! That means you’re it, half-breed! Come and get me!”
I hear the Centaur dig his fore hooves into the roof so hard I fear it might collapse beneath his fury. Carefree as a foal, the girl whinnies, launches the sword from the roof, then springs off of it herself, landing beside it, just three yards from where I hide. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she crumbles onto her knees and cries out in agony.
Where is the family that once comforted her? I think.
The Centaur makes his move. He leaps from the tannery and lands beside her, his pugnacious pest. Savoring each moment before he will surely trample and break every bone in her body, he approaches slowly, and then begins circling her like a corpse ready to be scavenged.
“You won’t scamper off so easily this time. Let’s see…I’ve had fish bones, dog bones and wolf bones,” the Centaur smacks his lips. “But never have I had a Eusebian girl’s bones in my soup. I hope they don’t make me ill the way your face does.” The girl tries to stand but falls helplessly and begins to crawl toward a non-existent refuge somewhere in the distance.
I feel the hair on the back of my neck bristling and my fingers tightening around my dagger. It might be time for me to intervene and try my hand at playing the apò mēkhanḗs theós – drama’s grand “god from the machine” who is lowered to the stage by a crane with the task of resolving the mortals’ conflicts.
“I’ll just need that sword of mine before I can cook my supper…” boasts the beast, who then ducks his head and begins hi
s charge.
“No! Please!” cries the girl, as loudly and as desperately as she can. To my surprise, the Centaur stops, and I begin to move, inching out of the shadows so the light can reveal how fearless, or how hopeless, I really am. I stare down at my hands, willing a fire to catch inside them, but they insist on remaining damp and dark in the rain.
“What is it - you have a few last words you’d like to say to the Moonbow over there?” the Centaur says.
“It isn’t worth it. I’m hurt, and I can barely lift your sword anyway,” the girl says, turning onto her back and throwing the sword a few scant inches in the sand, separating her wounded body from hell-shod hooves.
“Mighty Soukina…You should have killed me when you had the chance. That will cost you.”
As the Centaur steps toward her, I shut my eyes and fling my dagger as hard and as fast as I can toward his lower half. I hear a terrible yelp and open my eyes to see the Centaur fall onto his haunches with my blade protruding from them like a pin in a pomegranate, and I wonder how he felt it at all.
“Pssssst!” I hiss. The girl looks at me, jumps to her feet, and with two arms hurls the heavy sword in my direction. A clever girl indeed…
Next, the sprite sprints to the blade stuck in the Centaur’s backside and yanks it out, eliciting another earsplitting wail from the beast. The girl runs to my side, her windblown yellow hair and peach, cherubic cheeks masking her devilish bent.
“What took you so long?” she asks, jabbing me in the ribs with the butt of my knife.
With no time for questions, I lift the sword with two hands, point it at the Centaur, and remind myself that this isn’t a game. The losers don’t shake hands with the winners, then wash up and return home for dinner.
“I can wield this sword just fine, Centaur,” I say. He looks at me suspiciously and limps toward me. “I didn’t have to miss with the knife. I very easily could have sent it flying into the base of your skull, right through that serpent’s tail,” I lie.