by Diana Tyler
“What are you doing, you fool!”
Orpheus was approaching, playing a harp-like instrument Chloe had never seen before. She felt herself calming down and a sublime apathy taking over, erasing every shred of anxiety.
Circe was on her knees, rocking back and forth and groaning for Orpheus to stop, but after a minute her groaning ceased. Her hands collapsed to her sides as she, too, succumbed to the hypnotic song. Circe bent over and reached for the pitcher, but she faltered and fell to the ground, out cold in two seconds.
Chloe opened her mouth to speak to Orpheus, but he pressed a finger to his lips, and with his hand bade her sit down on the fountain. Then the music faded as she lay down and felt consciousness slipping away…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TRAPPED
Orpheus cursed himself as he emerged from the Psychro Cave sump, the mortal girl sleeping soundly in his arms. Why had he intervened? He should have let Circe strike the girl. The blow wouldn’t have killed her. She would only have been knocked out so the seed could be forced down her throat. But Orpheus knew full well that he had acted for reasons that far outweighed merely keeping the girl unharmed.
It was Circe’s frieze that had done him in. Though he hadn’t lied when he’d told Chloe it memorialized old heroes, he’d kept the whole truth concealed, hoping in vain that if it was left unspoken, his pathos, his vexatious pity, would be repressed. But he’d been unable to repress the memory of the song he’d written, so very long ago, that lamented the marble men.
“Men of courage, men of renown, bound for adventure all your days,
You sailed the breadth of the wine-dark sea, for which Petros gave you praise.
When your ships found harbor on Circe’s Isle, you feasted heartily, drank her wine,
And one by one, you each transformed into cattle, leopards, swine.
Never again to hear your children’s laughter, never again to kiss your woman’s face,
You are explorers made brutes, now trapped in time, in Petros’s most wretched place.”
Though Hermes hadn’t divulged the details of the doom he’d planned for Chloe, it hadn’t taken Orpheus long to see plainly what was intended. Chloe, this unremarkable Vessel—Vessel of what, Orpheus couldn’t guess—would join Circe’s collection of debased human beings.
Orpheus thought he’d had the strength to go through with his mission no matter what it entailed, that his love for Eurydice would overrule his sympathy, and silence any treasonous thoughts against his father. But his poet’s heart had been rent, torn in two by the sight of his fellow men creeping along the ground, their intelligent eyes completely vacant, simply desolate black holes where hope of escape had once flickered.
He was a poet, not a heartless mercenary. He couldn’t hand someone over to be turned into an animal, especially not an innocent.
Orpheus propped Chloe up against her bags and gently leaned her head against a stalagmite. Innocent, he thought, scowling. You know nothing about this girl, you fool.
He spat on the cave floor and kicked a cluster of cave pearls into the water. In a little less than an hour, the sedative effects of his lyre playing would wear off; he had to get Chloe home. But then, what of him? What of Eurydice?
A cloak of cold air wrapped around him. He waited a few seconds, and then watched as Hermes’ golden wand materialized near Chloe’s head and waved in circles around it. His dog-skin cap appeared next, followed by Hermes’ torso, legs, and finally, his ruddy, devilish head.
“I could have put her to sleep myself if that was what Apollo required,” said Hermes spitefully. His wand continued to wave, reinforcing the lyre’s spell.
Orpheus winced at the rebuke and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t retaliate or try to defend himself. That would only dig a deeper hole.
Hermes pointed to the lyre poking out of Orpheus’s backpack. “If I could play that piece of trash, the Vessel would be a little oinker by now, happily eating slop and rolling around in her own filth.”
“She knew about the seeds,” Orpheus said, hardly opening his mouth.
Hermes’ eyes closed as he took a long inhale through his flared nostrils. “An irrelevant point, my dimwitted nephew.” He lowered the wand and floated closer to Orpheus. “Whether she knew about the witch’s wiles or not is no concern of yours.”
“How did she know? Who is she?” Orpheus couldn’t control the rising volume of his voice. “You’ve told me nothing.” He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pouch. “This has told me nothing.”
A smile played on Hermes’ lips as the gilded wings of his sandals fluttered like those of a hummingbird. Even when he was outraged, he appeared to enjoy the nuances of confrontation. “You’ve been dead for how long, nephew?” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Forgive me. That’s an unfair question, more suited for a mathematician than a poet who must count with his fingers and toes.”
Orpheus flexed his fingers. How he wished to show his uncle that his hands could do far more damage than lulling poor maidens to sleep.
“No matter the number,” Hermes continued. “The point is, you existed in the Vale of Mourning as the world spun on without you. Meanwhile, Hades, Apollo, and the other rebels and I have been busy keeping things intact. Busy influencing, strategizing, observing, acting and reacting, making sure the Eusebian religion stays buried and their god unknown. I find it amusing that you think you’re entitled to know anything.”
The sides of Orpheus’s head began to pound, more with frustration than offense. While in the Vale, he’d learned of the genocide that had wiped out a group of Eusebians who followed a religion called the Way, known in Próta as the Hodos. Various sects were suppressed and destroyed all throughout Orpheus’s mortal life. It wasn’t that knowledge that troubled him; it was his waxing concern for the girl he knew nothing about, this Vessel.
He looked at her dozing peacefully, her chest slowly rising and falling, her hands folded on her lap, and thought of Eurydice, how senseless it had been for her to die, killed by a viper at just eighteen.
“Perhaps if you’d told me why she’s so valuable to you and the other mighty rebels, I wouldn’t have taken pity on her,” Orpheus said to Hermes.
He brushed past Hermes and reached down to scoop Chloe up, then lay her down again when he heard the discordant clanging of wind chimes and felt a violent gust beating against his back. He turned and saw Hermes hovering above the sump, his wand pointing down into the water that now roiled and churned as though afflicted by a squall.
“Come and see,” Hermes said, with a cordial bow of his head.
Orpheus hesitated. He had a feeling he knew what vision waited for him in that pool, and just the thought of it caused a stabbing pain in his chest.
“You asked for revelation, did you not?” Hermes shouted. “Come and let me reveal to you all you’ll need to do your duty.”
Orpheus cocked his head to the side. “My duty? Why not just drop me back into the Vale? I’ve failed, haven’t I?” His orotund voice echoed through the cave like a surging crescendo. His eyes flashed to Chloe, but she didn’t stir.
“You think it’s that easy, do you?” Hermes sniggered. “You are the one Apollo appointed. You are the one with the talent to charm. You are the one who will do this job.” He floated higher above the water, and with a slight move of his wand, he calmed the waves. “She’s ready to see you, nephew,” he said, gesturing to the smooth black surface.
Orpheus shook his head, his teeth grinding. “I know what you’re going to show me. It isn’t necessary, uncle. Please.” He would beg if he had to.
“Orpheus! Orpheus!”
It was Eurydice’s voice, calling for him in panic.
“What are you doing to her?” yelled Orpheus.
He ran to the edge of the sump and stared in. He could see straight down into the same cell Apollo had shown him at Hades’ palace. Only now it was completely bare. No dead flowers, no marble bench, no trellis
of lifeless vines, just his darling wife backed up against the prison bars as snakes came slithering toward her. It was easy to see by the dark zigzagging stripe that ran down their backs that they were vipers.
Eurydice looked up to the ceiling, toward the portal through which Orpheus could see her. Her red, tear-stung eyes darted from corner to corner; she was searching for him.
“She knows you can see her,” Hermes said, his tone nauseatingly blithe. “Do you insist on being shy?”
“Let her see me!” the poet roared, his right arm stretching up to Hermes, intent on strangling him. “And as my true self.”
“You’re certain?” Hermes said, wisely staying out of reach. He folded his arms, pointing the wand toward the wall behind him. “You know she cannot physically die again. She will simply be in pain for a very, very long time. The venom reacts quite nastily with ichor.”
Orpheus watched as the army of snakes, no fewer than a hundred, flicked their black forked tongues and encroached on their prey; their hisses were almost deafening.
“Now!” Orpheus pounded his fist on the cave floor.
Hermes grinned as he lowered his wand and waved it until the murky water became clear as hand-blown glass and a beige tunic replaced Orpheus’s jeans and jacket.
“My darling,” shouted Eurydice, inexplicable happiness replacing sheer horror, if only for an instant.
“My love, I’m here,” Orpheus called back. “Darling, sing to them. Sing and they shall be like lambs at your feet.” He reached out and gingerly traced her face with his finger, wishing with everything he was that he could stand in her place. Why must she be tortured for his defiance? “The song I sang on our wedding day, do you remember it?”
“Oh, Orpheus, haven’t you heard your wife sing?” said Hermes. “It will only speed them up.”
“Shut up,” Orpheus snarled out of the corner of his mouth so Eurydice couldn’t see. He listened as she began to hum and softly sing the first verse, but alas, the vipers were not quelled. They hissed louder, encircling her as she spun and pressed herself against the iron bars.
Orpheus stood and looked imploringly at his uncle, who still hovered along the cave wall, looking on with perverse satisfaction. “What do you want,” Orpheus said, hot tears welling as his hands and heart trembled.
“I’m glad you asked,” said Hermes.
He flew to Chloe and squatted behind her, brushing her hair with his fingers. “All you have to do is make her trust you. Be her confidant.” Hermes pulled a small book from his satchel and flipped through its pages. “The All-Powerful has already been working. He’s shown her the past, and she has written all about it in here. She needs a friend, Orpheus. A teacher.”
Orpheus looked back to Eurydice. The snakes were just an arm’s length away, ready to strike at any moment. He could see slick tears trailing down her cheeks as she reached her hand up toward him, completely helpless, completely innocent.
“I’ll do anything, just stop this,” Orpheus pleaded as he dropped to his knees, joined his hands and bowed his head in supplication.
Hermes snapped the book shut and tossed it to the poet. “I am so pleased by your cooperation,” he said, though there was only sarcasm in his voice. “I know your father will be very proud.” He bounded to the sump and stirred the crystal water with his wand.
A weight that felt like a thousand tons lifted off Orpheus’s chest as he watched the vipers shrink back and dissolve into dark ribbons of shadow. “All’s well, my love,” Orpheus cried out, as the water darkened and the cell seemed to descend to a lower level of hell. “I love you.” He felt his heart breaking as she replied in kind, her flaxen hair fading into the void.
Hermes crouched beside the poet and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Tell the Vessel who she is, and that you are like her. An Asher. Her doma could manifest at any moment, so it’s of utmost importance, for your sake and mine, that you make quick work of it. I have no doubt that Apollo will give us Prometheus’ fate to share if you don’t.”
For the first time, Orpheus noticed fear, raw and undisguised, slide across his uncle’s face, overtaking it as a sheet of rain engulfs blue sky.
“I don’t know who she is,” Orpheus said, twisting himself free from Hermes’ hand. “You’re babbling on like a senile fool.” He rose from the edge of the pool and punched a limestone column so hard his knuckles bled.
“Control your passions, Orpheus.” Hermes waved his wand, transforming Orpheus’s clothes once more. “I will teach you what is necessary. Nothing more, and nothing less.”
“Where will the girl go if she cannot be killed?” Orpheus thought for a moment and then said with confidence, “I shall not take part in making her one of Circe’s pets. Eurydice would rather suffer in the viper’s den than learn that I ever came close to assisting such an abomination.”
Hermes floated over to Chloe and picked her up. “You will leave that to me,” he said as he placed her in Orpheus’s arms. “Return her to her bed and then go to Lake Thyra. Once you’re back in Hades, your education shall begin.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WARNING
Ethan Ross knew when he saw the Moonbow in the sky two nights before that it was no coincidence the Religious Council was hosting private meetings with the Fantásmata.
The sound of rain and a bright shaft of moonlight had awoken him just before dawn, and he held his breath as he went to his window and opened the blinds. In the southeastern sky there was a full moon hanging low, it’s right half hidden behind a cloud. To the west was the deluge of rain the meteorologists predicted would arrive. What they did not predict—could not predict—were the seven arches that appeared over the colony for the first time in untold thousands of years.
Ever since his mother had deciphered the scroll, Ethan had been drawn to it, transfixed by the few scant glimpses of history they’d been allowed to study. He’d never heard of—much less seen—a Moonbow, the phenomenon Iris described in her letter. It seemed a rare thing for her time, too. What had it meant back then? And what could it possibly portend now?
Tonight, Ethan couldn’t sleep. He was lying awake, watching the shadows of tree limbs sway and shake across the moonlit ceiling. He’d been to the window twice, but the skies were clear, and it was still too early for the Moonbow to form, regardless. Even the question of what it represented and how it might be connected to the Religious Council and the Fantásmata had dissipated somewhat, making room for an even more troubling question, a more personal one.
It wasn’t even a question, really. It was a reality he had no idea how to handle. He’d proven that earlier when he sat in the cafeteria with Chloe and just stared at her, probably making her feel like a fool, as she spoke about things he’d pondered constantly since that day with her father.
In the dim light, Ethan could just see the faint white scars, below his elbow, where the beast had sunk its teeth. And although it had been eight years, he could still recall, in sharp detail, all that had happened, even though at the time it had rushed by in a blur.
Ethan sat up, switched on his desk lamp, and walked to his closet. He pulled the stepstool from the corner, then climbed to the upper shelf and began rummaging through dusty boxes of old clothes and toys he hadn’t touched in years.
When he was ten, he’d put the diary at the bottom of a box marked Stuffed Animals, figuring it was as good a hiding place as any. Plus, he’d reasoned that the word “animals” would remind him of the rhino-sized wolf he’d seen stalking the shores while his mother was digging pottery out of a hole. But that had proved an unnecessary measure to take; he always knew exactly where the diary was and had been tempted to open it countless times over the years.
After sweeping piles of hoarded papers and books onto the floor, and pushing aside box after box, he finally found the one he was looking for and carefully lowered it from the shelf. His breath caught in his throat when he opened it and spotted the diary wedged between two stuffed animals he’d received on Lycaea: tawny wol
ves with white chests and cheeks, not unlike the one he’d seen that day.
He hadn’t planned it that way. At eight years old, he wouldn’t have been clever enough to consider any association between the creature he’d seen and the festival that honored the Unknown God, and, for reasons unexplained and uncontested, paid homage to the wolf with costumes and trinkets. But now the images struck him like a hand to the face, waking him up to a clue, a confirmation: a signpost pointing him to the Moonbow, Iris, and Chloe.
Either that, or his active imagination was trying to make things more interesting than they really were, and the best thing he could do was pretend there was nothing to see.
Ethan carried the diary to his bed and flopped onto his stomach, holding the book out in front of him as if it might sting or bite. After the incident had happened, he’d scribbled everything down and stashed the diary away, knowing his parents would have to report his “strange sighting” were he to tell them about it.
As a boy, he knew little about the Fantásmata, but the fact that his mother’s body tensed and her voice shook whenever she spoke of them was enough to dissuade him from ever mentioning anything out of the ordinary. Even his questions about how their world was ruled he mostly kept to himself. He’d had sense enough to keep secret what he’d seen, and how he’d been healed, and had left it in the past. Until now.
With a sigh, Ethan opened the diary and flipped through it until he found the section written in permanent marker, the entry he never wanted erased. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he began to read.
Today was vocation day at school. Every kid got to go to work with his dad all day, or his mom if she wasn’t home taking care of a younger sibling. Since my dad works at the Religious Council, which is off limits most of the time, I went with my mom to the place where she does archeology in Ourania.