in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children
The first time Medusa died she’d been a baby; a toddling little thing with dark tumbleweed curls and a nestling’s wings who’d pulled at Euryale’s hair. Euryale had howled at the injustice of it all (even then, she had an impressive voice) and bit her. In normal children, the result would have been marks and nothing more. In Gorgons, even baby ones, the retractable fangs had sunk in and the poison had flowed and there was no immortality in Medusa’s little body to fight it.
Her parents hadn’t known that she could die before that moment, and when Phorcys brought her back to life his Oracle’s eyes were troubled, troubled, troubled.
The second time Medusa died she’d been an adolescent; a reckless and rebellious girl, too beautiful and proud for her father’s peace of mind. A storm, a misjudging of the strength of waves and tide, and the churning water had grabbed her and battered her against the rocky cliff-face.
Her spirit had fled to her sisters, sobbing and begging and help me, please. The Gorgon girls had known that their blood to could heal; it was then that they worked out it could bind soul back to body.
This is the third time that Medusa has died and after she’s stopped screaming, after she’s stopped sobbing and cursing and whispering please, help me to the other lost souls, there really isn’t anything to do except find her body and wait.
Wait, and watch.
The water is rising and, really, somewhere in the numbness of her mind Medusa thinks that it hasn’t been so long. Not so long, and a boy with a dare, she said. Beware the boy with the dare, the god’s bastard which one does it matter Zeus Poseidon not Hades, our Lady has his heart Zeus from the odds, yes?
“Yes,” Medusa whispers to her snakes, “the boy with the dare.”
gifts of gods, knowledge…who knows?
“The Graea.”
betrayed usme?
She doesn’t answer, content to let them do her thinking for her. Content, numb
in shock
and she has screamed herself out, has she not? But even as she thinks that, the water is rising. The sand is bloodsoaked, but, and, really, it has not been so long since the boy had slit her throat and stole her head. The sand hasn’t claimed all of her blood yet. At least, that is what Medusa thinks as she sits in her cave and watches her body. The water, the ocean, the sea is pulling at it, tugging at it, and her jaw clenches at what it reminds her of.
She sees her blood still flow into the salty water, but it takes a long time for her to frown. On and on it flows, as if she were still bleeding to death. It is pouring out, rich and vibrantly red as if under the sun who sees all.
Medusa’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Even her snakes are silent.
Congratulations, her sister had said.
No.
And the Gorgon is on her feet, staring with her hand pressed to her mouth as if she were still alive.
Congratulations.
The blood and water are churning, mixing, mingling, combining
No.
forming the limbs and bodies and wings of
NO!
her children. Poseidon’s children. Their children.
in my body in my body oh oh nononono please I am going to be sick it was enough wasn’t with child oh no no no
his seed
his children
in my blood leeching draining my life in me growing within in me living within me he forced him inside and they stayed and
THEY WERE IN MY BLOOD
Their sons. Twins. The first formed nudges his brother up onto the sand, his own spindly legs still wobbly. Four legs, mane and tail and body of a foal with a nestling’s wings on his back and large dark eyes. He nudges his brother to safety and then collapses in a heap as babies do. His brother…she does not know enough of human young to know if he is tiny or large, but he kicks his little legs and flails his little arms and whimpers for his mother.
His mother can’t come.
She is a ghost, and insubstantial as all ghosts are. But neither of them know this. One gets up on wobbly new legs and nuzzles the headless body next to him. Nuzzle, pause, stare in confusion and then another nudge of get up, Mama, get up get up get up. The other frowns and flails and then starts to cry that thin, mewling cry of all newborns; angry and accusing all at once.
For her part, their mother is…If she had been alive, she would have been behaving in the most Greek-like way. Howl and scream and rake her face with nails and claws, that is how the Greek women show grief and despair and madness; and despite all her protests to the contrary, Medusa is Greek like her parents and her cousins. But she is a ghost, a spirit, a useless empty wraith that can do no harm, and so it is that their mother is doing nothing.
Nothing, but staring at them with the utmost horror.
oh gaia grandmother, please, this isn’t happening to me this isn’t happen to me please, grandmother, why…
why?
Her parents hadn’t known that she could die before that moment, and when Phorcys brought her back to life his Oracle’s eyes were troubled, troubled, troubled.
The second time Medusa died she’d been an adolescent; a reckless and rebellious girl, too beautiful and proud for her father’s peace of mind. A storm, a misjudging of the strength of waves and tide, and the churning water had grabbed her and battered her against the rocky cliff-face.
Her spirit had fled to her sisters, sobbing and begging and help me, please. The Gorgon girls had known that their blood to could heal; it was then that they worked out it could bind soul back to body.
This is the third time that Medusa has died and after she’s stopped screaming, after she’s stopped sobbing and cursing and whispering please, help me to the other lost souls, there really isn’t anything to do except find her body and wait.
Wait, and watch.
The water is rising and, really, somewhere in the numbness of her mind Medusa thinks that it hasn’t been so long. Not so long, and a boy with a dare, she said. Beware the boy with the dare, the god’s bastard which one does it matter Zeus Poseidon not Hades, our Lady has his heart Zeus from the odds, yes?
“Yes,” Medusa whispers to her snakes, “the boy with the dare.”
gifts of gods, knowledge…who knows?
“The Graea.”
betrayed usme?
She doesn’t answer, content to let them do her thinking for her. Content, numb
in shock
and she has screamed herself out, has she not? But even as she thinks that, the water is rising. The sand is bloodsoaked, but, and, really, it has not been so long since the boy had slit her throat and stole her head. The sand hasn’t claimed all of her blood yet. At least, that is what Medusa thinks as she sits in her cave and watches her body. The water, the ocean, the sea is pulling at it, tugging at it, and her jaw clenches at what it reminds her of.
She sees her blood still flow into the salty water, but it takes a long time for her to frown. On and on it flows, as if she were still bleeding to death. It is pouring out, rich and vibrantly red as if under the sun who sees all.
Medusa’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Even her snakes are silent.
Congratulations, her sister had said.
No.
And the Gorgon is on her feet, staring with her hand pressed to her mouth as if she were still alive.
Congratulations.
The blood and water are churning, mixing, mingling, combining
No.
forming the limbs and bodies and wings of
NO!
her children. Poseidon’s children. Their children.
in my body in my body oh oh nononono please I am going to be sick it was enough wasn’t with child oh no no no
his seed
his children
in my blood leeching draining my life in me growing within in me living within me he forced him inside and they stayed and
THEY WERE IN MY BLOOD
Their sons. Twins. The first formed nudges his brother up onto the sand, his own spindly legs still wobbly. Four legs, mane and tail and body of a foal with a nestling’s wings on his back and large dark eyes. He nudges his brother to safety and then collapses in a heap as babies do. His brother…she does not know enough of human young to know if he is tiny or large, but he kicks his little legs and flails his little arms and whimpers for his mother.
His mother can’t come.
She is a ghost, and insubstantial as all ghosts are. But neither of them know this. One gets up on wobbly new legs and nuzzles the headless body next to him. Nuzzle, pause, stare in confusion and then another nudge of get up, Mama, get up get up get up. The other frowns and flails and then starts to cry that thin, mewling cry of all newborns; angry and accusing all at once.
For her part, their mother is…If she had been alive, she would have been behaving in the most Greek-like way. Howl and scream and rake her face with nails and claws, that is how the Greek women show grief and despair and madness; and despite all her protests to the contrary, Medusa is Greek like her parents and her cousins. But she is a ghost, a spirit, a useless empty wraith that can do no harm, and so it is that their mother is doing nothing.
Nothing, but staring at them with the utmost horror.
oh gaia grandmother, please, this isn’t happening to me this isn’t happen to me please, grandmother, why…
why?