Shimmering Splendor Read online

  Memory of the rage and of the broken voice in which Aphrodite spoke of the blood token causing the spell to burn down to Eros’s vitals crushed the tiny seedling of hope. Psyche ran from the pack and weapons without touching them. She knew Aphrodite’s fear and anger were neither a lie nor a pretense, nor was the cry about how she had struggled for years to keep Eros alive and Psyche had almost destroyed him. Then Eros…Teras…was dying. Hopeless tears racked Psyche again and her body stiffened with tension as she waited for Aphrodite to come and say he was dead and tear her into pieces. She waited and waited, listening for the condemning step, shaking with grief and fear—but Aphrodite did not come. And when the tears were wept dry, the little hope that had been crushed was well watered and again lifted a slender, bright thread above the dark morass.

  Young and strong as Psyche was, there came a limit to her endurance of being racked between hope and despair. In the very depths, while she felt that death was too good for her and any torture Aphrodite inflicted would be less than she deserved, she fell on her bed and sank swiftly through the black hole of total despond into the soft darkness of sleep. Exhaustion sank her deep; horror’s hook in her soul pulled her often toward the surface. Thus the soft sound of hurried footsteps jerked her awake and she sprang from her bed still half asleep, feeling her heart pounding in her throat, and not knowing why.

  The broad smile on Melba’s face as she rushed in to gesture Psyche to come with her made Psyche’s heart pound even harder, but with an entirely different beat. The old woman’s eyes were bright and such a look of pleasure lit her face that Psyche rushed past her, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard, certain Eros himself had returned. She did not wonder why he had not come to her room himself; at first Teras had never entered the house without her invitation and her heart told her that if Teras and Eros were really the same person, Eros would extend that courtesy again until he was assured she would accept him.

  The terrible shock she received when she saw Aphrodite in the courtyard numbed her so that for the moment she felt little. And in the next moment she had taken in Aphrodite’s expression, and pain and fear fled and the seedling of hope sent down strong roots. There was severity in the exquisite face and anger—but no pain! No matter what Aphrodite told her, Psyche knew that Eros was not dead and not in danger of dying. The joy made her courteous.

  “Lady,” Psyche said, curtsying. “I thank you for your kindness. I thank you!”

  “You have little cause to do so,” Aphrodite said.

  “But I do!” Psyche smiled brilliantly. “I know from your face that my Teras is alive and no longer in danger. No matter what else you say, or even if you punish me for the mistake that caused him so much pain, I still thank you.”

  “He is alive and in no danger of dying,” Aphrodite snapped, “but far from recovered from what you did to him. He is very ill and it will be long before he is strong enough to leave his bed.”

  “I am so sorry, so sorry for his pain.” Psyche’s eyes filled with tears and she clasped her hands prayerfully. “You must know how much I grieve for my foolishness. Please let me come to serve him. I will do anything, anything at all. I will clean the chamberpot, scrub the floor, wash the linens—anything. I know he is angry. Let me be there—”

  “You arrogant fool! You think a few words of grief and sorrow can wipe out the harm you did? Do you think that if Eros sees you doing a slave’s work he will instantly forgive you and take you to his bosom again? It will be a long time indeed before you come next or nigh Eros. You will have to prove to me that you are worthy to serve as his slave.”

  Sudden rage sent flags of red to Psyche’s cheeks. “How?” she shrieked, meeting Aphrodite eye to eye, her fury such that the goddess blinked. “I have been trying for half a year to think of a way to prove my love. Tell me how to prove love and I will do it.”

  Aphrodite laughed. “With patience. That is how love is proved. That is the only tool you have not tried, because you are a greedy, snatching, common slut. I will teach you patience.”

  She raised her hands, bringing to Psyche’s attention a large bag she had been holding. Suddenly she upended the bag and shook it wildly while swinging it from side to side, sending the contents showering out of its mouth over the smooth stones of the courtyard.

  “There was, weighed on the finest scale in the temple of the Corn Goddess, exactly one-half stone of mixed seed. Pick them up and place them separately, each seed with its own kind.” She laughed again, not kindly. “Eros will sleep for many days recovering from the injury you inflicted on him. If you can separate and gather the seeds before they sprout, he should be awake. I will come from time to time to see how you progress. When you have completed your task, I will tell him of your obedience, and I will ask him if he will deign to use you as a slave.”

  Psyche was so astonished that she simply stood with her mouth open, rocking a little in the rough movement of air as Aphrodite disappeared. Then she looked down at her feet, watching the seeds disperse even more widely as they were blown by the wind of Aphrodite’s passage. She had expected to be ordered to perform some dangerous feat, possibly one that would likely prove fatal or end in maiming or destruction of her beauty. But this was simply useless and silly.

  Insane. Aphrodite must be insane. What kind of proof of love could picking up a number beyond imagining of seeds be? Without truly thinking of what she was doing, Psyche squatted down and picked up five long seeds of wheat. As she stared at them, she saw attached to her finger a tiny rape seed. Tiny, tiny and black, almost indistinguishable from a fleck of dirt that also clung to her finger.

  Her knees began to ache, but she dared not sit down because seeds would be pressed into the woolen cloth of her dress. Still not really thinking, acting by instinct, Psyche began to brush the seeds together into a heap to clear a space so she could at least sit or kneel. Sitting beside the heap, she began to pick up seeds and put them into separate piles. When she judged a candlemark had passed, she looked at what she had done and began softly to weep.

  The task was impossible. Even if she ordered the four old servants to help—and that, she was sure, would be a violation of Aphrodite’s intention—there was no way half a stone of seed could be gathered and separated in a reasonable time. And likely the servants would not help, any more than they would carry a message for her.

  Yet if she did not try, Aphrodite would tell Eros…Teras…that she did not care enough for him to do a task that was not dangerous but was simply dull and distasteful. Psyche’s tears flowed more freely. Teras might believe that. He was already unsure that she cared for him. Aphrodite had believed she had tried to kill him to be free of him. Did he also believe it?

  Psyche closed her eyes against the stabbing pain of doubt and fear. If Teras believed that, she had lost him forever and she would either be returned to her father—in which case between fear and hatred she would not long survive—or she would be abandoned here, to live alone forever. She shuddered and opened her eyes. Better to stare at the impossible task than to envision that future.

  As she looked, a seed in the pile moved. The motion had no meaning for her at first; she assumed it was slipping from an insecure position. But then it slid away from the base of the pile and she saw it was being carried by an ant. Her finger went out to crush the thief before it stole the seed and made her impossible task more impossible, and then her breath sucked in.

  Ants were myriad. Within her was a spell for drawing like to like. With no more clear thought, Psyche gently picked up the tiny creature and closed him in one hand. Then she used her arm to sweep the seeds away from a narrow path so she could leave the courtyard without crushing them. In the house, she gathered as many empty vessels as she could carry. Returning to the courtyard, she set one jar on its side and imaged an ant hole with its faint, odd smell, the tunnel into the earth, the many chambers within—magically a nest perfect for every ant. Then, she found the spell in her well that created likeness, and touched the jar.
/>   She felt a slight chill as power flowed from her to the jar, but was too enthralled by seeing an impossible hole in the stone courtyard where the jar had been to consider how much she had been drained. Psyche gently placed the ant in front of it, holding her breath until she saw the ant climb into the “hole,” and a little later, emerge without the seed. Hastily she took another seed of the same type and laid it in the ant’s path. The creature found it, seized it, and turned toward the hole from which it had come. Psyche began to cry.

  “I promise you,” she whispered as the tiny creature disappeared down the hole again, “your labor will be repaid. As much as you carry today and more will be laid out for you and your kin.”

  By the time the ant came out of the jar the second time, Psyche had two more spells ready. One enhanced the sending of messages. Psyche hoped it would also enhance whatever one ant did to bring her fellows to the source of food she had found. The second spell was a spell of binding, which made a particular thing infinitely more desirable than any other, combined with a phrase that extended the spell to all things of the same kind. She recaptured the ant and picked up a third seed. When the ant had taken the seed, she cast the spells and found she had sagged to her knees, fortunately in the cleared path she had made. Gritting her teeth against a wave of nausea engendered by a wash of weakness, she gently set the ant down beside the “nest”.

  After that she felt so dizzy that her head fell forward on her chest, and for a little while she dared not lift it or open her eyes lest the vertigo sweep her into unconsciousness. Her growing anxiety overcame that fear and she opened her eyes before she was completely recovered. When she did, she almost cried out with revulsion. The courtyard was alive with moving black specks, thousands on thousands swarming everywhere, even over the hand she had placed on the ground to support herself, and the small pile of seeds she had made was heaving and squirming.

  Revulsion was replaced by a hope that lifted her head and parted her lips. Out of the pile of seeds and from all over the courtyard, a thread of ants and moving seeds was stretching toward the “nest”. Psyche watched the pile with a new anxiety. However, it soon lay still, cleared of the only type of seed the ants were at present willing to regard as desirable. They spread more widely over the courtyard, sometimes running over her, but not distracted by her odor or that of her clothing because they sought only one thing. And even though they traveled farther, more came so that the thin line that went down into the “hole” with seeds and returned without thickened into a cord.

  Psyche spared a few moments to go within and tell the servants that they must on no account come out into the courtyard and to find more empty vessels. She returned breathing hard, as if she had run a great distance, but she was able to rest after that, sitting by the “hole” and murmuring little prayers of thanks to the Mother—the only god she could pray to because she knew the Olympians were not divine. She was alert enough to be troubled somewhat later when she saw many ants running about aimlessly while the rope of them that carried seeds got thinner and thinner as fewer returned to the “nest”. Then she realized, with a heart that began to leap between joy and anxiety, that they had collected all the seeds of the first type. Not daring to allow herself to think or doubt, she reached out for the next seed she saw and captured one of the ants on her foot. She recast the spell of binding and placed the ant and the seed she carried some distance from the “nest”.

  Suddenly the pile of seeds was moving again. Psyche gasped and placed her hand over the original “hole”. If the ants brought back the second kind of seed, the two would be mixed and all her effort for nothing. Biting her lips, she counterspelled the “hole” to be again a jar. With the spell still rising in her, she was racked by a pang of grief for the last time she had used a counter-spell. A lick of fire seemed to run through her veins as her concentration wavered, but she put aside grief, ignored both pain and weakness, and “saw” a jar, not a hole, a jar—and it was there.

  She was shivering with cold, bent over the jar, which she clutched to her bosom, but she was not as dizzy and nauseated as she had been after the first spell-casting. Quickly she laid a second jar where the first had been, imaged a perfect ant nest again, and cast the spell on a second jar. A wave of weakness that covered her in a clammy sweat followed, and her head sank onto her breast, but she forced her eyes up and around and saw her little helpers busily trundling seeds into the new “nest”. Triumph sang in her. Psyche lifted her head, straightened her body, and breathed deep. She had found a way to accomplish the impossible.

  The triumph bore her up each time she cast her spells anew. She would not feel hunger and thirst because she dared not take time to eat and drink lest her helpers escape from her control. She would not “look” to see how dry of power was her well. Somewhere she found strength to ignore the pangs of hunger, and bit her tongue and cheeks to bring to her mouth the moisture she needed to whisper the spells. Somewhere, each time, she found the power to feed into the words. And the ants ran to and fro, and the jars filled.

  Before night fell, the task was done. Until the last ant emerged from the last “nest” and none returned, hunting restlessly for the last seed, which had already been gathered, Psyche remained upright. Then she drew once more on the aching hollowness within, feeling as if the blood of her body was draining into her empty well. With that last strength she negated the spells she had been using. She watched with dimming eyes as the number of ants diminished; she watched until she saw that the black specks remaining were not moving at all. Tears gathered in her eyes for them—poor, innocent creatures driven until they died for no purpose of theirs. And weeping, she slid away into darkness, and lay in the courtyard almost as empty of life as the little husks.

  Chapter 17

  Psyche woke in her bed, first puzzled by her terrible weakness and then rigid with terror—until she saw on the chest several rows of jars. Melba, who was sitting on a stool, reached out and patted her hand, and Psyche whispered first a hoarse thanks and then a request for water. Having drunk, she repeated her thanks with fervor.

  She had never dreamt the old servants would have enough initiative to ignore her command not to come into the courtyard and to gather up the jars as well as bring her in and put her to bed. Never before had they stepped outside their normal round of duties. Later, she realized that they must have been watching—and felt the magic, too—and reasoned out what she had done. Much later she discovered they were truly fond of her. At the moment, however, she was only grateful without wondering why or how. What she wanted was food, and drink, and then more food. She was at first too weak to lift herself or feed herself, but the old women, helping each other, attended to her.

  When she had eaten until she could not swallow another bite, Psyche slept. When she woke, she was strong enough to sit up and, with a servant’s help, empty her bladder and bowels. Relieved of those pressures, she was ravenous again, and when she had eaten, sleepy.

  Psyche was not quite certain how often she repeated the pattern, although she was aware that she was stronger each time she woke. The last time her eyes opened, it seemed to be early morning and she felt no more than her usual appetite. Nor did she feel any need for a steadying arm when she swung her legs out of the bed, so she smiled and shook her head at Melba, who was again watching her.

  “Thank you, but I do not need help anymore. I am well now. I cannot say how grateful I am to you and to Hedy and Titos and Kryos for your kindness and care of me. I wish I knew what you desired so I could ask Teras—”

  She stopped and bit her lip. Who knew if she would ever see Teras again, or if she did, whether he would wish to reward or punish the servants for helping her. But although Melba shook her head, she smiled. Apparently the servants did not fear that any request to Teras on their behalf would bring trouble upon them. The old woman also made some gestures that Psyche thought must mean she and the other servants were happy and needed nothing.

  Perhaps it was true. Certainly the servants we
re not overworked, although they had enough to do to keep them busy. They were well housed, well fed, well clothed, and probably too old to desire excitement for its own sake. Psyche had no idea what had caused their muteness, but she knew they communicated freely enough with each other. Thus they had companionship.

  The word brought her thoughts sharply back to Teras. She looked anxiously at the jars on the chest, but they were all safe and each was covered with a piece of waxed cloth. That made Psyche frown. It indicated that she had been recovering long enough to make protection of the contents of the jars necessary.

  “How long has it been since you brought me in from the garden?” she asked.

  Melba held up a hand with the thumb curled under.

  “Four days?” Psyche guessed.

  The old woman nodded, and Psyche thanked her again and went to relieve her bladder. Then she washed and dressed and combed her hair and went down to eat in abstracted silence. She was certain Aphrodite had said she would return every few days to see how she was progressing. She put down the piece of bread she had smeared with fragrant cheese. Titos was bringing in a platter of thin-sliced cold meat.

  “Has Lady Aphrodite been here?” she asked.

  Titos looked puzzled, then pointed to the courtyard, to Psyche, to his eyes, to Psyche again. She understood and nodded.

  “Yes, I saw her four, no, five days ago, when she came. I meant, has she come since then, during the time I was ill?”

  The old man shook his head, but not with a nervous jerk or so quickly as to hint he had been ordered to deny something, nor did his hand shake as he laid down the platter. Psyche laid a slice of meat over the bread and cheese and bit into them with satisfaction. Aphrodite had not come. Her chewing paused. Did that mean that Eros was worse? She began to chew again and swallowed with an effort, then laid down the bread, her appetite diminished.