Shimmering Splendor

by Roberta Gellis

  Once more she paused, when she thought she heard a faint cry, but it might have been an owl and it was not repeated. More important, nothing moved on the open hillsides, which were well silvered with moonlight. Psyche picked and stuffed until it grew difficult to cram any more fleece into the bag. Then she pressed her gleanings down, which she had done before, but this time she could pack the wool no tighter and she drew the neck of the bag tight with its draw-cords, tied it firmly, and slung it over her shoulder.

  Until that moment she had felt little beyond the driving need to fulfill her task, intensified by her growing guilt. Now that her quest was finished, it all seemed too easy. Suddenly, she was frightened. Surely the sheep were lying in wait for her; she pulled her javelin out of her belt and started to push frantically through the brambles and brush. Naturally the javelin tangled in the thin branches and she jerked it loose repeatedly, forgetting to watch for the edge of the bank until she nearly fell into the stream again.

  Gaining the safety of the water only woke new fears. Surely she would turn her foot on a stone, break her leg, hit her head, and drown. But instead of extra caution, Psyche found her fears generated haste. She had to struggle with herself not to run in the water, which surely would have brought her to disaster.

  Safe on the opposite bank, she began to run back to camp but almost immediately stopped short, aware of a thrashing in the brush ahead and to the left, between her and the bank of the stream. Between her and the camp, too. Psyche shuddered with terror. Was the beast coming from the camp? Had it hurt Atomos?

  “Atomos!” Psyche shrieked.

  “Here!” he bellowed in return.

  His voice came from where the sound of breaking brush had come and that noise became louder. Still in the grip of unreasoning fear, Psyche imagined that he was fighting something dreadful. Hefting her javelin, she ran toward the sound, saw a huge shadow, and thrust.

  “Psyche!” Atomos roared. He wrenched the javelin from her grasp and threw it on the ground. “That is the second time you have tried to kill me—”

  “No!” she cried, clutching at him. “I would never hurt you, never!”

  She lifted her face and found his lips. A raw flame raced from her mouth across her breasts down her belly. His mouth was what she knew and loved; the way his body fitted into hers was part of her, what she had known from her first experience of a man in precoupling play. He took fire with her; his hands touched her, and she knew that touching too.

  “No,” she cried again, and pushed him away.

  “Psyche,” he murmured, his hand outstretched, but making no attempt to grasp her, “it is too late to say ‘no’. You cannot pretend that you do not want me.”

  “I want Teras,” she said, her breath coming hard and fast as she backed away. “I am afraid of Eros. You have been kind to me, and between my loneliness and my fear I have painted your face into my Teras’s blackness—”

  He uttered a gasp and Psyche hesitated, then went on. “I am sorry if I have hurt you, Atomos. I warned you that if you really cared for me and did not merely woo me on Aphrodite’s order that you would be hurt.” Her voice shook on the last words, but she steadied it. “There was hunger in that kiss, but that hunger is for Teras, not for Atomos.”

  “You are a fool,” he replied, but strangely, he sounded smug and self-satisfied. His voice held not the smallest harshness of pain. Then he said—rather anxiously, she thought—“Eros is an Olympian. You will be happier with me, a native like yourself.”

  Tears filled Psyche’s eyes. “Teras was also an Olympian. If Eros and Teras are the same, then I can be happier with no one than with Eros, and he deserves the chance to show that exposing the beauty of his face has not stripped away the sweetness that was hidden in the black cloud.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” Psyche snapped. “It is too dangerous for us both to remain together longer. I will take my pack from the camp and find somewhere else to sleep. I cannot prevent you from following me, but I can and will prevent you from coming close enough for me to see or hear. Farewell, Atomos.”

  Chapter 22

  Those were brave and honest words, and they were the last that Psyche uttered. Although he had been thrilled both by her response to Atomos and her rejection of him, Eros was quite exasperated by Psyche’s determination to separate. He had followed her back to the camp still pleading for her to change her mind, not about admitting that she loved Atomos—Eros was a little ashamed of adding deliberate temptation to the trial he had set poor Psyche—but about returning to Olympus alone. In a way, he understood and even honored her decision not to expose either herself or “Atomos” to further temptation, but it was also foolhardy.

  The wilderness they had traveled, as she well knew, was not totally benign. She should have been reasonable and made some compromise, or at least accepted the fact that if he followed far enough behind her to be out of sight and hearing, he would not be close enough should danger threaten her. Instead of discussing the matter, she had silently gathered her belongings and set off downstream, pausing only to throw rocks at him when he persisted in following her. She’d hit him twice, hard enough to make him angry and tempt him to catch up with her and shake some sense into her. But he thought better of that. He knew Psyche. She would try to hold him off with the javelin, and one of them was likely to take greater hurt than a minor bruise.

  He compromised by lengthening the distance between them, trying to make her understand that he only wished to be near enough to protect her, not near enough to importune her, but she would not yield even that much. And when he saw her weaving from side to side with weariness, yet still struggling onward, he realized she would continue walking as long as he continued to follow. Then he gave up; he was only driving her farther and farther from the campsite, where he had stupidly left his pack and where he had to return.

  Furious with himself and with Psyche, Eros at last yelled at her that he was going back and if she were not an idiot, she would come back too. When he arrived, he dropped down onto a pallet, threw more wood on the fire, and glowered at it. He was not really worried about her safety in this area. He had seen no signs of any predators when he was hunting the previous day, and the sheep on the other side of the stream guaranteed no predators from that area either.

  Half his rage, Eros knew, was owing to guilt—and fear. Psyche was honest herself and would not be pleased with his deception. He knew he should drop his disguise, go after her again, and confess, but a tiny dissatisfaction fed his bad temper. He knew it was unreasonable, but he had wanted her to pierce his disguise as Atomos and recognize him. So he sat and stared into the flames, smiling one moment over Psyche’s steadfastness and frowning the next over her blindness and stubbornness—waiting for her to grow frightened and return, proud when she did not, and so weary at last that he lay down on the pallet he had gathered for her, on which he thought he could detect her scent, and slept.

  * * *

  Desperation—for that kiss she and Atomos had shared had shaken her far more than she would admit—had made Psyche’s decision adamant. She drove herself on and on out of disgust and terror, although each wavering step made her wonder whether she would be able to stay on her feet if Atomos persisted in following. When at last he had angrily told her he would follow no farther, she dropped by the first tree with low branches, a tree she knew she could climb quickly if she were threatened, and lay still, too tired at first even to unfasten her blanket and draw it around her. After a while the trembling in her limbs eased and she pulled off her wet boots, drew on dry stockings, and huddled into the blanket. At least the sack full of fleece made a comfortable pillow.

  Slowly warmth returned to her body, but nothing could warm her heart. Tears ran down her cheeks and soaked into the bag of fleece. It was a terrible thing to know oneself for a whore. She had lied to Atomos and lied to herself for days. Teras was only a vague memory of joy and pleasure; Eros was a future terror; Atomos was the man for whom she yearned. Psyc
he shuddered.

  How could it be? Could she be such a lecherous slut as to be incapable of faithfulness, to be inflamed to lust by whatever man was close by? How could any woman be so light-minded? It was less than two moons since she had last lain in Teras’s arms. She could hear his voice, feel the touch of his hands, the taste of his mouth…or was it Atomos’s voice, hands, lips that she recalled? What was wrong with her that she could be so easily beguiled, that she could so completely forget everything about the being in whom she had delighted for almost two years? How was it possible that she could not recall one single jest or gesture that was purely Teras’s, not echoed by Atomos? What kind of an idiot—

  At that point, Psyche’s thoughts stuck. She was not an idiot and never had been. She was not even a fool. Had she been a fool, she would have been enchanted by her own beauty. She would have been happy to act like a graven image, satisfied with an admiration that cared nothing if she were as hollow as an artwork cast in brass. She would never have seen the dangers inherent in her abnormal beauty, never have warned her father, Iolkas might now be ruined by war or destroyed. No, she was not a fool.

  Nor, Psyche thought—tears drying and lips thinned as an idea came to her mind, one too strange to be entertained, for a native, but perhaps not so impossible for an Olympian—was she particularly lustful. Until Teras had taught her the joys of the body, she had found the kisses and touches of the men she could not avoid rather unpleasant—and a few even repulsive. That thought brought the realization that she could tell one man’s kiss and touch from another’s. She remembered that even when accosted in the dark, she had known which of her suitors had caught her into an unwelcome embrace and pressed his lips to her hand or cheek or mouth.

  Was it not strange, then, that she could not tell Atomos from Teras? She had kissed and caressed Teras, talked with him and laughed with him for almost two years; Atomos she had talked with once, briefly…and even that once, so long ago in her father’s house, his jests, his tones of voice—had they not been near those of the monster? Teras had worn a black cloud to hide his features. Was it utterly impossible that he should wear a different disguise? Suddenly she thought of the way he—whoever he was—had gasped when she said she’d seen Atomos’s face in Teras’s blackness. Was that because her guess had been too close to the truth?

  No, that could not be. She had burned away the blackness and seen Eros lying in her bed. But if Eros had worn one false seeming, why not two false seemings? But why the pretense at all?

  The one true note in everything Atomos had done was saying he wished to protect her from harm. Would not Eros wish to protect her if he loved her? She had wondered why, if he were well enough to prepare her clothing and weapons, Eros had permitted Aphrodite to send her on so dangerous a journey. Gritting her teeth, Psyche pushed herself upright. Because, of course, he intended to accompany her and see that she was safe!

  But why? To punish her for hurting him, for dispelling his disguise? She did not doubt that she had really hurt him, that he had nearly died from her meddling—the children’s words had proved that. But what sort of punishment inflicted only pleasure? She liked hunting; she liked camping out. Until she had begun to fear that she was growing too fond of Atomos, she had been enjoying herself enormously.

  The juxtaposition of those two ideas was a new revelation. Psyche’s teeth ground together again, this time so hard that she could hear the grating noise and hurriedly relaxed her jaw before she broke something. That idiot! That consummate idiot had dreamed up this entire plot to test her devotion. She reached out and snatched a javelin from her pack. This time she would kill him!

  Psyche was so furious that she had risen to her knees, only to find her body trembling so much with fatigue that she knew she could not walk. Even the small check was sufficient to make her realize how ridiculous she was, Atomos/Teras/Eros, she could hurt none of them. Beat them over the head with a distaff, yes! If only she had a distaff! But try to kill any…all… Her mind whirled as she realized that that was what she had done, nearly killed him.

  She knew she had only wanted to clear away the darkness, to look on the monster she loved, no matter how horrible, so she could prove she loved him, the monster, that she did not fear him or pretend love because she was a prisoner. But how could he—whichever he was—know that? She had told Aphrodite, but how did she know Aphrodite had told him? But she did know. Only Eros could have provided the travel gear she had taken from Aphrodite’s house, and that loving gesture doubtless came from a man who hoped she meant no ill.

  Psyche’s teeth gritted still again. They had planned this together, Eros and Aphrodite, to make her appear ridiculous, because she was not an Olympian. Because… No, that was only false pride speaking. No matter what she said, how could Teras/Eros/Atomos know she had not tried to kill him? He had a right to test her, and she had no right to be angry. Had she not asked Teras a hundred times, if not a thousand, how she could prove her love? But, right or no right, Psyche was thoroughly annoyed.

  The testing was over. She had proved herself. She had passed every test…well, almost. There was the small problem of her attraction to Atomos. Suddenly Psyche uttered a smothered giggle. No wonder Atomos felt smug instead of hurt when she rejected his avowals and reiterated her love for Teras. Atomos was Teras, so it was doubly noble of her to have resisted him. Psyche sighed and closed her eyes.

  She did not really sleep. A delighted contemplation of her reunion with her naughty lover kept her at least minimally alert for the coming of first light. However, for the first time in many, many days, she was completely at peace. All the tension—some of which she had not even been aware, but which robbed her of much of the benefit of sleep—drained from her muscles, and she truly rested well and deeply. When the color beyond her eyelids lightened from utter black to a grayness, she opened her eyes and smiled at the false dawn.

  Although she had not been consciously thinking, Psyche had resolved other problems while she rested. She had decided she was tired of living alone. She was tired of being treated like a blot on the landscape, a shame to be hidden, because she was native and not Olympian.

  While she believed the monster was hiding his one bit of joy from a cruel Aphrodite, Psyche had been willing to endure the isolation for his sake. But to spend so many bored, miserable, lonely hours to pander to pampered Eros? No. Eros had his proof that she was faithful and loving, not a fool, not a lecher. She had confronted Aphrodite. She would no longer consent to be imprisoned in the lodge. Much as she loved the lodge, she intended to be free to come to Olympus anytime she liked and remain as long as she liked.

  This time Psyche had no trouble at all getting to her feet. She did not mind the dampness of her boots. She slung her pack and her bag of fleece over her shoulders as if they were thistledown, and she set off to retrace her steps to the old campsite as if she were walking on air.

  What had seemed hours of struggle and many leagues while she was trying to escape Atomos resolved into a couple of stadia and, perhaps, a quarter of a candlemark of walking time—and that only because the last half of the journey to the camp she crept slowly and quietly, hoping to catch Atomos/Teras/Eros still sleeping. In that she was successful, and for a moment she stood at the edge of the woods and watched him tenderly. He was sunk into that first depth of sleep that told her he had sat listening and watching for her almost all night. Then, her eyes alight with mischief and satisfaction, she advanced silently on her prey.

  With great care she loosed the bag of fleece from her shoulder, lifted it high, and dropped it on Atomos’s head. “There is the fulfillment of my task,” she snarled, and in the same instant she kicked him, quite hard, in the behind. Atomos jerked upright, gasping with shock.

  “Monster!” Psyche stamped her foot, suddenly furious at the sight of Atomos and full of a sense of injury she knew was unjustified. “I know you now! I never saw your face, but I know the touch of your hands and lips better than the touch of my own. Whatever face you wear, you ar
e my monster.”

  He sat gaping at her, eyes blinking as he tried to come fully awake.

  “Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she asked, submerging in the memory of her recent unhappiness her knowledge of the physical injury she had done him.

  “No,” he said, grinning. “Not at all. For I have won such a prize as is worth any price.”

  “Including that of an underhanded trick that caused me great misery? Do you not understand that for days I have been thinking myself the lowest kind of whore because I could desire Atomos when I loved Teras?”

  He shook his head, still smiling. “Did I charm you? You hid it well.” Then the merriment died out of his face. “You are true as steel and as pure as gold, Psyche. You are my soul. When I am apart from you, I am truly a monster.”

  “Not a monster. The only monster I ever knew was a better person than I, far better. But that trick you played is worthy of Eros. Are you also Eros?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Do not think so ill of Eros. When you are with Eros, Psyche, he, too, will have a soul.”

  “Will you stop talking as if I were an avatar of the Mother!” Psyche snapped. “You cannot divert me by flattery from the disgusting thing you did. Games! Olympian games played on a poor, stupid native.”

  Eros was shaking his head, saying, “No. No.”

  Psyche ignored the protest. “Now show me your reality,” she cried. “Bestial or beautiful, I do not care, so long as it is the truth.”

  He bent his head, shivering as he dissolved the spell, and then looked up. “I am Eros. This is the truth.”