Shimmering Splendor

by Roberta Gellis

  The title made her freeze for a moment and then slowly reach for the scroll holders. The History of the Olympians, she read. This must be forbidden to her people, Psyche thought, and was swept again by the conviction that the book room was a trap. But she was already caught and already condemned. What worse could befall her than to be drawn into the blackness and be lost?

  Curiosity was a stronger impulse in her than fear, she found. Although self-preservation bade her roll up the scroll and look for something safer, she found herself reading. The beginning was harmless enough…perhaps. It was an explanation that the author felt a translation was necessary because continued and increasing dealings with the native peoples was making their language more familiar to the Olympians than the old tongue they had brought with them.

  Brought with them? Psyche wondered. Did gods come from somewhere? She twisted the roller to expose the next section of text and began to read about Kronos’s quarrel with his father, his attempt to seize power, and his expulsion from his nation together with those who had supported him.

  It seemed only moments before a sustained ache in Psyche’s neck and shoulders forced her to straighten her back. Only then did she realize that the light was failing and she had been hunched forward, leaning closer and closer to the manuscript in an attempt to see better. She sighed and rose, shaking out her creased gown while she wondered whether she should restore the scroll to its original place in the hope of concealing what she had been reading. Before she could decide, a glow lit the gallery outside the open door and one of the menservants holding a lamp gestured to her and made a sign of eating.

  Psyche decided to leave everything the way it was. Was not her purpose to enrage the monster? In fact, she was tempted to take a scroll down with her, since there was no one to whom she could talk while she ate, but she could think of no way to prop up the manuscript or to protect it from stains. However, with her head full of the descriptions of the homeland and conflicts of the Olympians and the powers wielded by its rulers, she hardly noticed her solitude or the food she consumed. At last, still thinking about whether power alone should define what was a god and wishing she had someone with whom she could discuss the question, Psyche pushed away the cup of wine with which she had been toying and left the table. She would walk in the garden for a while, she thought, and then go to bed.

  The vestibule was empty, the door to the courtyard open. Seemingly, this house had nothing to fear from thieves or attack. Psyche looked up as she stepped out, noting the bright stars in the clear sky and the brilliant moon.

  “I hope the house is to your taste,” a man’s voice said.

  Chapter 7

  Golden lamplight and silver moonlight alike were swallowed up into the utter blackness Psyche confronted. Its spreading base seemed to cover half the courtyard and its rounded apex appeared to reach the tops of the trees. Shock, disappointment, and rage followed each other and rilled Psyche to the exclusion of fear. She had begun to be happy with the books and her thoughts. It was not fair to have that happiness snatched away before she had really tasted it.

  “Begone!” she ordered. “Begone, you foul thing!”

  “Why do you call me foul?” The voice was ravishingly beautiful and held no threat. “I have done nothing to merit your insult.”

  “I agreed to be sacrificed to Aphrodite,” Psyche spat. “I never agreed to be a monster’s bride. You had your chance to do what you wished with me when I fell senseless. Now I am awake, and I will resist you to the death.”

  A very human chuckle drifted out of the dark. “But does not the fact that I did you no harm when you were helpless imply that I may be trusted?”

  Psyche shuddered and shook her head. Her fear was diminishing, but her revulsion for the blackness that seemed to swallow into nothingness everything it touched was only increased by the lovely voice and the warm laughter.

  “Trusted?” she echoed. “No! It tells me of your cruelty. You want me awake and suffering. I will not yield. I did not make this bargain and will not keep it. I will not be befouled by you.”

  “I can promise that you will not be befouled by me, for I am the cleaner and more honest of us.” A cold note, steel-hard, somehow did not lessen the music of the voice. “I do not believe that you would have watched your father futtering a sow—a very nice sow, I admit, but not at all attractive—for the rest of his much shortened life. I do not think that you would have allowed your whole family to be made scapegoats, or seen your sisters and their children driven from their homes as well as your brothers. You know you would have agreed to any terms. You are lying and dishonest, seeking a crack in your promises so you can ooze out of your bargain.”

  Psyche winced. What the creature said was true, and it hurt. She stared into the blackness as hard as she could, but she could see nothing. The inky shadow did not eddy or swirl. It was as if a piece of the world had been cut away and replaced with pitch. She shuddered again. She had no answer to the monster’s accusation, but she could not agree to yield herself. She could not even conceive what torture a mating with such a being would cause or what could be the result of such a mating.

  “I will not,” she cried. “You are a monster!”

  “Who is the monster between us?” the black cloud asked. “Your face and form are beautiful, but your spirit is monstrous—a lying, cheating thing hiding its self-interest in a pretense of noble sacrifice. Is it not monstrous to break your word and your promise to be a sacrifice—no way was specified—to expiate the sin against Aphrodite? Is not the punishment meet and fitting, that she who claims to hate love and beauty be mated to monstrosity without love? Which of us then is more monstrous? I—upon whom it is better not to look, but who has tried in every way, even cloaking my monstrous form in darkness to spare you—I, who will honestly try to fulfill, my pledge to be a good husband, or you?”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Psyche’s breath rattled with her trembling. “But it does not matter. I cannot yield myself. I cannot. I am too afraid.” She caught her breath on a sob. “I beg you,” tears spilled over and more sobs made her words almost unintelligible, “kill me and be done. Do not torture me. Just kill me quickly.”

  A slight movement in the black pall, a swelling toward her, made Psyche retreat a step in acute terror. She realized as her lips parted to scream and no sound emerged that she had expected more reassurance, more concessions—not death. She had no longer believed the monster was dangerous and was acting a part, lying to it—and herself—hoping to shame it into giving up its claim. The movement ceased. The shroud of darkness stood quiet.

  “Psyche, I will not torture you or kill you, even if you refuse me forever. I will do you no harm for any cause. I will live in the hope that you will come truly to understand what you have been known to say, that beauty or ugliness is no mirror for the soul beneath.”

  The voice, soft now, was pure music. Yet for a moment, Psyche thought there was a kind of familiarity to it. She could not pick out exactly what was familiar, though, and the overlying qualities, the smooth music and rich timbre, were not associated in her mind with anyone. Moreover, having the reassurance she sought, she guessed that the monster had never meant to threaten her, had possibly been reaching toward her to comfort her. On the other hand, it gave no sign at all of giving up its claim to her.

  “You say you will not kill me. You imply you will not force me. Then what do you want from me?”

  “For the present, your company. For the future, your willing acceptance of the sacrifice you promised.”

  She wanted to cry, “Never.” The thought of willingly offering herself to be swallowed by that black nothing was too horrible, but silence would buy time. As long as the creature kept its word, she could live; and life, as she had learned a moment ago when she thought she was about to die, was sweet. What she did not know was how she would endure being in the presence of the black emptiness day and night. Surely she could bargain for some time alone.

  “How much of my company?”
she asked cautiously.

  A hearty laugh burst from the cloud. “And you call me a monster!” the voice cried between chuckles. “First you plead not to be tortured only to be killed quickly, and when I offer you a fingertip of kind assurance, you bite off my whole arm, demanding guarantees about how your precious time will be spent. Should you not be down on your knees, thanking me for my mercy?”

  “Should I?” Psyche asked, shame making her waspish. “You have been lauding your moral superiority to me. Would it not decrease the perfection of your soul’s beauty if you enjoyed the groveling of your victims?”

  “Ouch! That prick hurt,” the cloud said, trying to sound wounded, but clearly amused. “And my feet are starting to hurt too—”

  “You have feet?” Psyche asked, glancing down. She could see nothing, but the remark somehow was reassuring.

  “Large ones,” the monster replied, and Psyche knew it was doing, what served it for smiling, “and easily made to ache by the weight they carry. Will you not invite me to sit down?”

  The amusement made her more waspish. “I? Invite you? This is your house, is it not? I assume the bride is brought to the bridegroom’s house—”

  “The house is Aphrodite’s. We are both her servants—and, I suppose, have equal rights to her house.”

  Involuntarily Psyche took a step toward the cloud, asking with sympathy, “Are you too a victim of the goddess of love and beauty?”

  “A victim? No. And neither are you, although you have not yet understood Aphrodite’s forethought, kindness, and mercy. As for me, when others would have condemned me to death for no reason save my appearance, she saved me, gave me a place to live, looked on me without flinching, and has never failed or faltered in her kindness.”

  Psyche’s lips parted to make a caustic reply, but she thought better of it. There had been no laughter in the voice at all when it spoke of Aphrodite. The creature loved the goddess and might be more enraged by an insult to her than any challenge to itself.

  “We see with different eyes and feel with different hearts,” she said moderately. “But if the house is as much yours as mine, you must feel free to sit where you like and when you like without needing to wait for my invitation.”

  “Then let us sit in the garden,” the monster said. “If you sit on one end of the bench near the fountain, perhaps you can imagine that you are talking to a suitor sitting in the shadows at the other end.”

  “Very well,” Psyche agreed, but she did not move.

  “Go ahead and pass me, Psyche,” the cloud urged softly, “You must learn to trust me.”

  “I am afraid to pass too close.” She heard the high tight tone hinting at hysteria, swallowed, and tried to explain. “I cannot bear the thought of being swallowed up into that blackness.”

  “There is nothing in the cloud that can or would harm you, Psyche. Nor will it swallow you. It only conceals what enters it; it changes nothing. It is a disguise to hide my appearance.”

  “It is a horrible disguise!” Psyche exclaimed, but she gathered her courage and hurried past the black blot. Her skirt even brushed the darkness, confirming what the creature said, for the cloth disappeared as it entered and emerged unchanged as she pulled it away. “If you are allowed a disguise,” she snapped back over her shoulder, “why did you not choose that of an ordinary man?”

  She shuddered and faced forward again as the darkness began to move, flowing across the courtyard behind her. She had to grip the bench to keep herself still as that blot of blackness advanced across the moon-silvered grass, but when it shrank down onto the other end of the bench and blended into the shadows, the horror diminished. She had almost forgotten her question and was surprised when the beautiful voice came from the shadow.

  “I had most excellent reasons for choosing this disguise. The most important to me is that I did not wish you to form an affection for any face other than my own, which you might well do if I wooed you wearing the disguise of an ordinary man. Another reason, perhaps more important in the abstract, was that to disguise myself as an ordinary man would have violated the terms of your punishment—that you be bride to a monster. I am Aphrodite’s servant and I am obliged to fulfill my obligations to her.”

  “Then why do you simply not force me and be done with your obligation?” Psyche snapped.

  “Because I want more from you than to be an unwilling sheath for my shaft. That, I can find anywhere. Like any being, I desire a home, love, children. For me to have that, you must be happy, Psyche. And when you are happy, you will admit that your punishment was just and that Aphrodite is wise and kind and gladly acknowledge her power—so we will all be content.”

  “If you are going to preach at me all the time we are in each other’s company,” Psyche said nastily, “I will begin to doubt your promise not to torture me.”

  “For someone in the last extremity of terror, you have a venomous tongue,” the blot snapped back.

  “If you are going to pretend to be a suitor, that is what you must expect from me,” Psyche retorted. “I was not very welcoming to the richest, noblest, and handsomest of the men who came to court me, so how can you expect to be more gently handled when you tell me you are a servant and so ugly that you must hide your face in a black blot?”

  The cloud sniffed with disdain. “Black blot, indeed. I am more awesome than a blot. And the circumstances are different. Those suitors bored you to death, not to mention that they were so jealous they would have made your life miserable and perhaps—”

  “If the rich and handsome would be jealous, am I to believe that the poor and ugly will be less so?”

  No answer came from the shadow, and Psyche was suddenly remorseful. She had been cruel, and whatever was in that blackness had done its best to be kind and reassuring. Likely the poor creature had no more choice about what it did than she. It had said it was Aphrodite’s servant. Servants do not do their own will, but obey.

  “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I have been so frightened and so despairing that I have lost all sense that others have troubles and sorrows. My tongue is naturally sharp, but I fear it is now spiteful because I am overworn with waiting and expecting a dreadful doom.”

  “Of course,” the darkness said. “I must ask forgiveness too. I meant to give you time to grow accustomed and came in the night so I would blend in a little and you would not be reminded every moment of my strangeness. I did not mean to increase your fear by making you wait for your ‘terrible doom’. Even the sweetest lyre is shrill when it is strung too tightly. Go and rest, Psyche, in the knowledge that your doom is nothing worse than to sit, thus, and talk to me.”

  Psyche jumped up as if she had been released from bonds that fixed her to the bench. “Thank you,” she said, and then possessed of a dreadful thought, added, “Where will you go?”

  “Not into your house,” the monster replied. “I will not come again until tomorrow night. You may meet me here in the garden, or if it rains, let the servants darken the house and I will come within so we can talk in comfort. You need not fear that I will mistake that invitation for another. I will leave you when you wish to be free of me.”

  Guilt stung Psyche again. “You said Aphrodite allowed you to live in this house. Do you have some other place to go? I—it is not fair that you should be cast out of your home.”

  “There is one other place where I am welcome. I will not sleep under this roof until you are ready to call this ‘our’ house and welcome me into your bed.”

  Psyche paused, the rigidity of her body showing her denial. Then she turned and fled. Eros remained on the bench, wrapped in his cloud of darkness, which was no more than a faint, dull mist to his eyes. Smiling broadly, he watched her cross the courtyard and enter the vestibule. Probably it was now safe to dispense with the cloud, but it was not necessary. He felt no significant drain in power while he wore it. He was not sure whether that was because he was bursting with the Mother’s Gift or whether Hecate had woven a specially durable and economical
spell.

  He had been a little surprised at Hecate’s willingness to accommodate him without Aphrodite as an agent, but only a little. He knew that Hecate was unaffected by his beauty and indifferent both to the Olympian prejudice against him and to Zeus’s orders—perhaps because she was not an Olympian. She came from someplace in the east, the same area in which that mad boy Dionysus had spent his youth and early manhood—and Dionysus had never avoided him or tried to seduce him either.

  Eros shook his head. Come to think of it, compared with Dionysus, Hecate was positively ordinary. But Eros did not think Hecate had accommodated him out of personal peculiarity or indifference to Olympian opinion. Nor had she been much interested in the payment he offered for the spell. She had accepted the jewels he brought, but had put them aside without a glance after touching his hand: she had smiled at him—and Hecate rarely smiled—and called him Mother-blessed.

  Eros looked around. When Psyche was ready, he would build a shrine to the Mother here; She might not come to it—but She might. Since he had laid himself down in the woods near the palace to sleep at the Mother’s shrine, it was as if he had Her special blessing. During that sleep, his power had not only been restored but doubled, tripled, and from that time, everything had gone right for him. The spell on Anerios continued to work perfectly. And like a private miracle, an impulse had sent him to watch with the scryer just when Hyppodamia had begun to pray for the lifting of the curse.

  The scryer knew he had been dealing with the problem in Iolkas, so she was satisfied when he said it was unnecessary to trouble Aphrodite with Hyppodamia’s prayers. Thus he was able to translocate to the temple and forbid any more prayers for Psyche’s pardon while bribing Anerios with the offer of a week’s mitigation of the curse and complete lifting of it, if at week’s end Psyche were sacrificed.