‘It is not you that will pay. Though I hope you will! Oh, I hope that the Nereid says no and that you will die! I will take care of Andromeda – she will be safe! You have no idea, none at all, what kind of a creature the sea god is! I would not wish him upon my worst enemy, let alone one born of my flesh!’
My mother struggles against the power that holds her in place. ‘But it is my flesh she is born of! Mine! She ismine! You mothered your children – you let the first two kill each other, and Cepheus and Phineus paid for it in their passivity! Well, my daughter will be immortally glorious.Youmay squander your godhood with fear! You may let your children sicken and die. You may waste your divinity!’
My grandmother drops her. My mother crashes to the ground. My grandmother advances, leans over her. ‘Youknow nothing of godhood.’ Achiroe pronounces each word clearly, each syllable ringing with that of which she speaks. ‘You know only stories and little girls’ dreams of fame. I was once like you. I craved and wanted. But only fools and men speak of immortal glory. And you are no man. The gods will drink your blood and laugh at you.’
My grandmother does not come into my room. Her reeds whip about her still, in a gale force of rage and loss and hatred. She retreats from the palace to the quiet of her river and I am glad for it. My mother rights herself. It is the first time I have seen her hands shake.
She returns to the feast. I lean against the door, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears.
‘You once asked me who I would be if I could choose.’ I do not look at Ceto as I speak. The tapestries tell me their stories and I listen, really listen, for the first time. ‘I would be someone who is trusted by her inferiors, loved by her equals and disregarded by her betters.’
‘That is wise.’
I look at her. Her face is twisted and crumpled. The blankets are a ball in her fist. ‘Ceto?’
She pulls back our sheets. Red stains the bed. I think of Persephone. I think of the silver arrow, pointing the way, the direction of feminine change. I think of pomegranate juice.
She does not tell her master right away. She dances on the limit of the oath to stay by my side as the building within me breaks and I am furled in agony. It is nothing like the last time, the time before I took Amphitrite’s potion. The pain begins in the same place, but radiates outward, downmy legs, across my back. It feels like a punishment. It is years of avoidance catching up with me. I do not know how to lie, I do not know how to be. Night draws in but the dark offers no comfort, and I am seized by a terror that I will never know comfort again, that all old things will cease to be and I will lose all peaceful parts of myself.
Ceto suggests going for help, going for Achiroe, but I gasp a refusal, order her to stay and cling to her until my knuckles pale. There is so much blood, far more blood than my mother prepared me for. I am amazed there is any left in my body. I can feel Ceto’s panic. She is not mortal and her own body does not behave this way, she is made of golden ichor and her flesh is not so mutable. She does not know what to do. She does not pray to the gods because the gods won’t listen, so she murmurs our stories as if they are orisons, my name is a devotional on her tongue and eachI love youpromises relief even if it does not come.
I begin to drift away and it is blissful, though I know I am entirely too wrong for this to be sleep. The night is in my apartments, it is in my room, it creeps through the window, blinding our watching hippos and claiming me from my bed.Maybe I’ll die.I am hopeful, I want her to follow me into this dark. I am miserly and the world does not deserve her if I am not there to enjoy her too.Don’t leave me, I think,you are better at the dark than I.
I hear her say, ‘Meda.’ And then, ‘Come back to me.’
15
Aethiopia
We call them crimson naiads, though they are neither crimson nor our kin. We claimed them, with their long limbs and plumage like coral and quartz. When they are born their feathers are like camomile petals, soft and small and light. They hatch in the spring, their parents harvesting the fruit of their diligent efforts, and leave on straggly wings before the Nile floods. When they return, they are unrecognizable and dazzling. They tell us of their journey, of oceans that stretch wide, of mysterious snow – fine as natron but colder than I can comprehend and reaching from crystal mountains to the horizon – and of water dyed pink, rosy like the welcoming dawn. I am with them as they land there, here, this pool of Eos, where they dine and duck and become strong. I fly on downy wings and submerge with them. It is a place between things, a lake of saltwater, and so belongs to neither naiad nor Nereid.
It is a while before I am aware that my eyes have opened. My view is so pretty I am sure I am dreaming it. Everywhere is soft berry and it settles me as ancient comfort; this pigment is old as Gaia herself. I am floating easily. The pain is gone and though I am tender still, I am strong. The water is heavy and supports me and I am awash with comfort once more.There is a hand at my back to keep me in place and I ask for her because I know she will answer.
‘Ceto?’
‘Meda.’ She is lined and crumpled with worry and exhaustion. The ends of her hair fan in the water around us.
‘What happened?’
‘You were not well.’ Tears have tracked through dust on her face but her mouth is a resolved line. ‘Your time came – and it was very bad. I did not know what to do. You – there was – I did not know you could be so pale. I did not know what to do.’
‘Where are we?’
‘It is the pink lagoon. It is separate enough from the sea that your naiad blood does not reject it, but there is enough salt to heal you.’
Salt.I understand. ‘You spoke with your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘You brought me to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘She told you to take me here.’
‘Yes.’
‘I would have thought she would have wrested me from you and left me to die.’
