In the center of the water clock is a marble figure that can only be one of the gods. He is depicted with a fishing spear slung across his back and throttling a sea monster in each hand. He looks noble—if a naked man can look noble when he has no face. Considering the intricate detail in every other aspect of the statue, from the froth on the waves twistingaround his knees to the curls of his hair, it’s an arresting thing to see the face is gouged away in great hunks as if someone took offense to it.
I look up to where a half circle is set above the figure’s head. Rays reach out from the center. Three of them are golden. Seven more are black. That is not the current time—but neither are there only ten hours in the day.
How very odd.
As I’m thinking it, a bell rings and I catch my breath as water pours from the half-circle sun into the waiting mouth of one of the sea serpents, who then turns on a lever, falling from the statue’s grip until its head is close to his feet, where it coughs the water into a narrow trough. From that trough, the water falls into the pool of green surrounding the statue and the sea serpent rights itself again.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I need no more proof that my husband’s ties are incontrovertibly to Okeanos, the God of the Sea. I need not even his own admission.
I climb back up the steps in a hurry, suddenly afraid I might be caught, remove the broom, settle the bed back in place, and snatch the book that had disguised the hidden room from the shelf.
My breath is coming quickly. But what have I to fear? The worst has already happened: My heart has been shattered, my people decimated, my husband drowned. What could this new husband do in his wrath that could top that? Nothing. I dare him to try. Him and his sea god sponsor.
I snatch upThe Twelve Furies of Vesuvius, readingquickly while standing beside the empty place on the shelf. I will put it back the moment I hear a sound. My heart is pounding.
It is a strange book indeed. Its author—who does not name himself—seems to think he is writing something factual, though of course it cannot be so. He lays out the names of the gods first and my eyes skitter down the list, hardly paying attention, for I know these names by rote: Aurelius, God of the Air; Glorian, of Growing Things; Heskatan, of Horses; Pagetto, of Travelers; Treseano, of Death; El’Dorian, of Love; Alexandros, of the Hammer; but my mind stutters when I get to Lichenchus listed here as God of War, when I know well the name of that god is Markanos. And now here is listed Typani, Goddess of Art, who ought to be Ordanus. I frown at the book as we reach the God of the Sea—who ought to be Okeanos. Who has beenworshippedas Okeanos for as long as my people have lived on the Crocus Isles. Instead, this whimsical writer has named Vesuvius, chaotic God of the Sea, Lord of Rage and Passion. I flip back through the book, frowning all the while. It is so very old that even in turning the pages the edges of the vellum crack and soft dust falls from the edge. The penned words—copied with care—are slightly faded, but even faded they speak boldly.
I linger over one passage.
“And so Vesuvius slew his predecessor, Chaolic, and passed from creature to god. For those we call godsare not such, but only caretakers under the banner of heaven.”
My already racing heart is caught by waves of hope and rushes faster still at this information. Can this be true?
“And, verily, the soul of Chaolic complained loudly upon her demotion and roared across the seas in many storms and threw her case before the Lord of Lords beyond the veil of the heavens, but the Lord of Lords heard not her plea, for it was written upon the bones of the earth that Vesuvius should take her place, and that the sea should boil, and the shores shrivel, and the people fear the sea for an age until another came and took his place after him. That other would be he who holds the souls of his dead close and walks with succor in his footsteps, blood and flowers line his path, and though his power is cleaved in two, so will he still bear the spear of judgment, and will he drag from the sea her riches and from the gods their prostrate obeisance.”
I can hardly breathe. Here, at last, is the hope for which I have been looking. If the gods can be killed and their places taken, then I can truly hold Okeanos to account for all he has done. It is possible.
More than that, I have the key to his ruin right here on this island, in this house, in the form of his chosen hero. My husband. The Fisher King.
My fingers practically tingle with the excitement of it, but I must be deliberate, for I am only a mortal and no mortal stands more than the most slender of chances against the will of a god.
I am no longer content to remain in this cottage waiting.
I know where Oke will be even though I have been married to him such a short time. He will be fishing. And I must see him with my own eyes so that I may weigh whether I might turn this champion of a god into a weapon for my own hand.
I make my way under the watchful eye of the statues. They make the lonely haunt feel as though it is inhabited by ghosts.
The sea is calm again today, soft, pale blue and so smooth it reflects the tufted clouds above. It mocks me in its peace, and for a moment I glare at it and tremble, but the tears do not come.
Tears will not bring back my innocent husband or the people who depended on me. They will not make wrongs right or tear down hubris or dethrone heartlessness.
A small part of my mind reminds me that neither will revenge. But that, I choose to ignore. I will feast on revenge. I will sup on retribution. I will sate myself with vengeance until I am aching with overindulgence.
I wait as the sun sinks lower and lower, wreathing this island in an undeserved golden crown.
I expect to see his sail while still a long way off, but instead he appears so suddenly that my heart freezes in my chest and I have to force myself to breathe.
His little boat has materialized from nothing and is beside the dock as if it never left, but his emergence is seared across my vision and I can see very distinctly the shape of his upheld hand—shaped like a bowl, just like before—and I wonder what will happen if I try to make that shape with my hand, too. If one mortal—even a god’s pet mortal—can perform such magic, surely another can as well.
He’s already lowering his hand, and I’m surprised that he smiles peaceably when his eyes find me. He is not put out that I am down on the beach waiting for him, then.
I help him tie his boat to the dock, my hands trembling.
“You are waiting for me,” he says as if testing the idea for merit.
“Yes.”
He is beginning that winning smile of his again, but I cut him off.
