chapter four

“Gorgons.”

Many years ago in an idle afternoon, the type of still hours that will pass and be forgotten the next day, I found myself in a goddess’ lap, tracing tiny silver cuts speckling her palms.

“Monsters?” I had asked, because I did not know better.

“They are descendants of the daughters of Phorcys and Ceto. Progenies of the sea. Daimones with snakes for hair, pointed teeth, and wings on their backs. They say, their blood is both poison and medicine, one would only know in due course.” She shook me then, gently on the shoulders to stir away the daydreams. The world was too big and my head was not, most days it was hard to sort.

“Stheno, Euryale, Medusa,” she pointed at each of the three olive trees in our yard. “With just one glance, they reduced mighty enemies to stone. However …with no exception to their own kind—their hamartia. The irony does not escape them.”

I thought she looked a little sad then. “Were you frightened?”

From our oikos, I remembered the way the spring light danced through open windows and welcomed the scent of fresh hyacinth blossoms into our abode. Hecate, her lovely face was bathed in sun, her divinity worn on her skin like a silvery shawl.

“Yes and no,” she answered finally.

But I had pressed, an obstinate thing in my youth. “What could be worse than gorgons?”

Gorgon pirates.

The men had stilled, their eyes captured by an enchanted tawny gaze. Yet I find to my solace that their skin did not harden nor gray. My own body had stiffened, but still within my command. It is like moving through mud. The pirates, their powers must be diluted, presumptuously from generations of mortal predecessors.

A look of arrogance passes through each of their faces, now seemingly so inhuman I wondered how I had not seen past it. The glamour had melted off their features, losing its subdued roundness to something more bestial, skin the colour of the waxing moon.

A strange thought occurs me. They had little motive to attack a merchant ship. No jewellery, no treasure, not even women onboard. For a long while, their pretence had been human, playing swordfight with little prepubescent boys until the men forced their hand. Why?

The gorgon standing at the head of his pack is draped in the fanciest lynx coat, beaded with tiny winking emeralds. He assumes his dominance by striding forth, the pale green serpents cresting a makeshift crown. For a second, he simply assesses the situation, smiling at his answer. The rows of men and boys stand at his mercy, defenceless now lost their will.

He decides that he will not be a benign king. He moves up towards one of the large ship crew men, who is perhaps the captain, in his somewhat comely suit, some foreign insignia marked. The gorgon reaches one clawed hand to his breast, and then, in a fast powerful motion, rips the man's chest clean off in one long swipe.

My gods. It is a massacre.

An eruption of blood splatters our faces. Like retribution rained down upon us, fat crimson driblets roll on our cheeks. The man’s eyes are afraid but confused. They roll down to watch his entrails slither to his feet from the large gory empty cavity of his torso. They left his heart. Cruelly. Still jerking, raw and pulsing, half outside his body. He gurgles, and vomit mixed with so much blood spews from the edge of his closed lips. While his body does not allow it, his spine quivers with the need to bend over. I watch the roughened men around him, their throats swelling in soundless horror as their own vomit rises. My stomach churns, purging food where there is none.

No ordinary fear impales me then. Because I could be next. Or the small boy next to me. Not even my immortality will save me then.

The pirate is still holding onto the flesh, the flap of skin around his fist like a trophy. I realise I can see the layer of pale yellow, dimpled fat and stray fascicles of broken muscle still welded with bone, and my stomach heaves. His tongue snakes from ashen lips to lick away blood from his chin. Reptilian forked.

I jerk my head away from the sight, squeezing my eyes shut. It is a reactionary movement, yet I feel their enchantment already leaving me. Their powers are weak, I realize, they are much more human than they look. Even now, there is some sadness in my realization. They were humans born with mere traces of gorgon blood, and it had fated them to a life of ungodly miscreation by taking away their mortal faces.

I need to do something. I must. Lest I allow a gruesome fate to succumb us all. Must it be me? A selfish part of me thinks miserably. I had not wanted to get caught in the fight. I did not want to be a heroine, even less a martyr.

A couple metres behind us, a body twitches, making a small sound. It catches my notice. The gorgon that had been shot a while ago. But of course, he will not die so effortlessly with his immortal body. In contrast, to the other gorgon whose throat I had slit with a god-touched blade, the bullet did little harm. Interesting.

Peeking forward again, I watch the gorgons tersely. They are conversing amongst one another loudly, leisurely, like a comraderies’ night out at the pubs. It is dismissive. Still, we stand at attention, awkwardly suspended in our last positions, like time on hold. Two of the pirates have gone missing, dispatched to ransack through the ship. I hear them beneath our feet, tearing through the bunks and cargo. They return promptly, hands empty, reporting dutifully to their leader.

I lean forward, trying to capture bits their conversation, lingering on every vital syllable.

“-we've searched...there is nothing valuable onboard."

“…look again.…. Thetis asks this of me herself…she is never wrong."

And it is then I realize this is no simple heist.

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A godly intervention. I inhale shakily. Beyond simple mortal intention for riches and bloodlust. Goddess of the nereids, daughter of Nereus, the old man of the sea. Thetis wills and she will receive. If she wanted the stars, all the creatures of the sea will leap at once and try to pluck it from the sky. She will drag this ship into the depths of her domain if she likes it as decoration for her fishbowl.

From our stories, she is a vain and zealous goddess, like many. A mother that played part in orchestrating her son's prophesied demise. For his claim to fame, which would bring glory to her name and bloodline. And Achilles did so, fell at the haunches of the Trojan war, a demigod hero in the last threads of breath. When I think of her name I do not think of glory.

But I do not deny her of her power. She will move the seas to her desire. It is fact that whatever she fancied on this ship is already in her possession.

Bringing my body low, I begin to creep backwards. Shrouded by bodies of the men in front of me, it is not too difficult. The pirates have congregated at the head of the ship again, distracted by themselves. I shake the remnants of their hold on me, and tiptoe back.

The gorgon is on his back, eyes shut, his limbs convulsing weakly with life. Titian eyes snap open as I approach. He bares his fangs warningly, a beastly hiss finding his throat. I am afraid he might scream, and then I would be dead. Surprisingly swiftly, I hammer the hilt of my dagger into the soft surface between his eyes. I watch them reel to the back of his head, mouth falling lax.

Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and sink my dagger through the flesh of his neck. It gives way unexpectedly easy, like carving into butter. Until it hits bone, and I gag, acid rising to my throat. Then I begin to saw, shuddering at the sound of meat and bone against metal. Over and over and over again. I cannot help but pray for him, despite calling gods to my ear to witness the horrors of my own doings. I pray for his peace. I pray for those who will grieve his absence. I pray he will find another life, wearing a kind mortal face. It is my salvation.

And then when there is no more flesh to cut, only then do I open my eyes. My hands are black in blood, as is my blade. His hollow eyes follow me, flat copper coins beneath the lunar stare. I roll it over, tentatively, reach below his headscarf, and thread my fingers through the base of where his snakes writhes in torment. They seem to have life of their own, hissing scornfully at my touch. His head is heavy. From the weight or the guilt? I covet him away into my cloak, feeling the sickening press of his head against my stomach.

Some of the boys stare at me with watchful eyes. They are the witnesses of my transgressions. Near the back, their eyes do not meet the snakes’ gazes directly, less affected in power yet still immobile. The gorgon powers wane from their diversion, I deduce. Little trivial, yet idiosyncratic information, braced by nothing but uncertainty. I thread through them carefully, feeling row after row of them turn their attention towards me. My appraisers and my jury. And towards the executioners I march, with only the element of surprise in my arsenal.

A gorgon pirate begins to notice. He turns at my movement, focusing on my body, my protruding stomach, and when it is overdue, my face. He howls, because he is not unconquerable.

Their hamartia.

Breaking through the front row, I thrust the head in the air, releasing the snakes from their enclosure. I hear the wrathful bellow of the pirates, and my knees buckle. In three steps they would skewer me with their swords, or tear my scalp from my head with their bare hands. Instead, they glare with hateful eyes.

“Look…away from their e-eyes.” I tell the men. My tongue is slow, my jaw uncooperative. I have the gorgons’ full attention. But they do not know. I am a nymph. I am not docile. But a wild being as they are. Like moving through water, I trudge through their command. Their surprise is tinged with fear. Rightfully so. Because then I raise my blade, forged from divine hands and sacred hearths, still swimming in daimon lifeblood, scintillating like obsidian, and I start stabbing.

They do not cry. They simply fall.

The first, hacked like a tree. The second, I take away his eyes. Butcher my blade over the snakes on his head. They scatter like toes on the floor. There is no grace, my body would not allow. I move like a wooden sculpture come alive.

It is then, by the gods, that the men behind me find life to their limbs. They power their guns and fire. In four mighty shots, we are free. I finish it with my blade.

Too soon, the boys cheer, because I am still standing amidst a sea of dread. I will not look away. From the gore, the bloodbath, nor their sightless eyes. Their life pools in umber spills at my shoes, it dresses me, from the tips of my hair to my toes, in a cloak of darkness. A murderer and a thief. I find that Hades had been right. Everything I touch.

I destroy.

But I am not sorry, I think to myself.

A hand clasps on my shoulder, turning me away. It is the same man that had grabbed me some time ago. I look up at him. His face is not unkind now. Instead he looks at me, with an expression I cannot discern.

“La Diosa,” he says suddenly. Goddess…

My cloak…I realize it had come undone. My hair is damp and untamed, battling sea winds.

“I am no goddess,” I correct. My voice sounds slightly gauche, unfamiliar to the situation. You will not think of me as a goddess, if you had known I have been a parasite, exploiting the ship’s resources for weeks, I think shrewdly.

“Yet you bleed gold.” His coarse fingers find my wound on my arm, leaking ichor. I shy away almost instantly, afraid I would find greed in his eyes. But there is none. They are alit with awe. He presses his fingers together, almost bewildered.

I let him take his moment, instead I look around, until I find the beginnings of a silvery flask hiding away beneath a bloody coat. Fishing it into my hold, I give it an experimental joggle, flick it open, and pour it down my throat. The burn spurs tears. Moonshine. Like it was fermented from a wet boot.

“What are you doing?” he asks. I kneel, and refill the flask with blood.

“What will you do with the bodies?” I ask in lieu.

His eyes harden instantly. “We will throw them into the sea. Let the sharks feast.” He speaks like a de facto captain.

It will turn out he is, second in command of the ship crew. I would find out that his name is Rai, a retired soldier with a liking to the sea and coin. He is not so rough, once I get to know him. His heart is tender and beguiling. And he sings songs of the sea in his native tongue, and then of his home.

I am curious as how he does not surprise at my divinity. It is clear that he does not pray to my gods. I wonder if he is in war with his faith. But I do not believe it myself, because as he feeds me graciously, his lips still ghost over catholic prayers of thanks.

For the remainder of the week, he takes good care of me. And Theros (with some hesitation). He lets us rest on his soft bed, retiring on the floor himself, and placates us with fish and bread. We are easily tempted to his charms with food. The other boys do not even look in our way. I think they are afraid, because I have killed monsters when the monsters wanted to kill them. I did not blame them, instead, I listen to Rai tell me stories of his days in the military. Bristling, when he tells me I fight like a girl.

“I am a girl,” I counter.

He only grins in response, the corners of his eyes folding like bird’s feet. There is such benevolence in his gaze I feel the need to look away. Like looking in the sun, singing my retinas.

Suddenly, bashfully, I ask, “will you teach me how to fight not like...a girl?”

His answer is brief and full of promise. “I will do you one better.”

For more days we travel. I sleep in fear, awake to fear of Thetis and her wrath. But the day does not come, nor the night. The seas are gentle, granting path, and the winds are in abundance, guiding us with their gentle hands.

And then, the ship finds the shores of Barcelona one gracious dawn. The salmon sun arching over the awakening city. The Spanish soil is dark beneath my bare feet, soft between my toes. For the first in weeks, the ground is welcomingly still. And with the sea behind me, and all its vicissitudes, I come undone.

This, I realize, is only the beginning of what is to come.