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Sing to me, O Muse, of the rage of a mother who has lost her child. Sing to me of the mother of monsters, sleeping in her cave, hiding from a world where men call themselves heroes after hunting and slaughtering her children. When her last is born, she doesn’t give him a name. Many of his siblings have been slain long before he was even a thought, and so she hides him away. Though it has been many years since he’s seen her, he remembers her beauty, of a childhood spent never more than an arm’s length from her coiled scales as any further would cause her great alarm. When he is old enough, and she can no longer keep him and his curiosity confined to her cave, she sends him to his brother. Who is better equipped to guard her youngest than the three-headed hound who never sleeps? What’s more, there is little chance of a mortal killing him for glory while he is concealed in the Underworld. Perhaps it is cruel to keep him sequestered from others with only his books and the dead for company, but it is very possible this cruelty will be a kindness. The years roll by, eons to mortals but a mere blink to them. When he is nearly a man and she can no longer contain him, he ventures forth and finds himself awkward and unsociable amongst his peers. In the end he hides himself away from them as he makes them uncomfortable. They would name him fear or terror, but those names are taken and still are not the right name for him. No, Echidna’s only human-resembling son will never be well-known enough to the outside world to have a name attributed to his power. Instead he is given the epithet all his siblings share – monster. A mother can live with that, as long as her child is alive. * From the top, the platform on which the shrouds of the top mast are anchored, Don Malarkey keeps watch. There is no moon tonight, but the stars shine bright in the inky darkness. At one point in his life, keeping watch alone would have been unbearably dull. Those days, along with the uniform, rigid structure, are gone. Once upon a time, Malarkey was rarely alone; now he always but never is. “Quiet tonight,” a voice chimes up next to him and another agrees. “It was,” Malarkey grouses, reaching for his pipe and something to light it with. “Someone’s grumpy. Not getting enough sleep?” Malarkey doesn’t respond. The breeze picks up, stinging every so often as it whips across his back like a punishment, like a penance of sorts. There are marks there, silver lines speaking of harsh taskmaster who took any excuse to use one of his men as an example for others. Grabbing his shirt he pulls it on and pulls his knees into his chest. The seas are still empty around him. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” he feels the barest of touches on his back, so light it could all be in his head. “He can’t?” His words are bitter ash in his mouth. Skip and Alex settle down on either side of him to try to block the breeze, but it goes through them. They’re more solid tonight in the absence of the moon, restored versions of their living selves instead of the faint, broken shadows the moon reveals them as. Some scars can’t be seen; some scars will never heal. “It’s clear tonight.” Years of practice is the only thing that keeps Malarkey from jumping as Captain Speirs appears from seemingly nowhere. “Watch report.” “No sightings, Captain. The seas are calm.” “The seas are.” The Captain’s eyes seem to glance to either side of him, but Malarkey knows that cannot be the case. “Get some sleep.” Malarkey does not need to be told twice, as Captain Speirs is not the type of man who likes to repeat himself. The captain is a strange man, but Malarkey can’t quite put his finger on what it is about Captain Speirs that is unsettling. Perhaps it’s the silence, or maybe the unnerving stare, but Captain Speirs has done enough for him and the others who once served on the HMS Toccoa that Malarkey sees past the off-putting aura. Malarkey would follow him to Hell and back if need be. Climbing down the mast, Malarkey nods to Martin at the helm before going below deck. They’re low on fresh water, so he doesn’t bother to do more than wipe at his skin with a rag before stripping down and climbing into his bunk. He imagines warmth when in he reality he can feel nothing as Skip and Alex curl around him. Whether it is a magic of sorts or all in his head, Malarkey doesn’t know and isn’t sure if he wants to. A terror lives in him, a cold fear one day Skip and Alex won’t be there anymore and when that day comes he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “Go to sleep, Don,” Skip whispers in his ear. Sleep delivers him from Oizys, who stands invisible to all at the end of his bunk with a sadness in her expression as she studies the three of them. She traces her mark on his exposed ankle where it hangs over the side of the bunk, preventing all but one of her brothers from visiting him tonight, to let him have one night of peaceful sleep. *
And Nyx (Night) bare hateful Moros (Doom) and black Ker (Violent Death) and Thanatos (Death), and she bare Hypnos (Sleep) and the tribe of Oneiroi (Dreams). And again the goddess murky Nyx, though she lay with none, bare Momos (Blame) and painful Oizys (Misery), and the Hesperides ... Also she bare the Moirai (Fates) and the ruthless avenging Keres (Death-Fates) ... Also deadly Nyx bare Nemesis (Revenge) to afflict mortal men, and after her, Apate (Deceit) and Philotes (Friendship) and hateful Geras (Old Age) and hard-hearted Eris (Strife).
- Theogony, Hesiod * Hurricane season is upon them, and judging by the unease the waters have had in the past few days, bad weather is soon to come. The air feels heavy and stale, the waves are choppy; the poor weather matches Floyd’s mood. Tonight is his watch from the top, and in the dying light of the sun he can see the beginning of the storm. The Black Dog is on its way to Port Royal to seek safety in the harbor. There is no point in trying to escape or hoping to navigate around it. Floyd has learned you can’t outrun a hurricane. Asleep next to him, Charles, or Chuck as he likes to be called when he remembers what he likes being called, fidgets restlessly with a frown on his face. It’s been one of the worst days he’s had in awhile, and Floyd does not trust anyone else to watch over him. Most of the time Chuck can be left without a minder as his moments of forgetfulness are not harmful to himself or anyone around him. On days like today, he wakes up thinking he is still a petty officer under the Royal Navy and has been taken prisoner by an unknown crew, never mind many of the crew on the Black Dog served with him on the Toccoa. Floyd maneuvers Chuck so his head is in Floyd’s lap, and he can run his fingers through Chuck’s hair to quiet him. The frown fades from Chuck’s face, and after a minute he settles down. Floyd’s fingers trace the scar on Chuck’s temple, no longer red and nearly faded to silver as the years have gone by. “Foolish boy,” he whispers though only the stars can hear him up this high. “It wasn’t worth this.” The air around them shifts, a subtle difference in weight and temperature many wouldn’t notice, but it sends a warning like a bolt of lightning down Floyd’s spine. Carefully as to not wake Chuck, Floyd makes sure Chuck is securely moved before pulling himself to his feet and putting himself between Chuck and the woman standing on the edge of the top. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” her voice is deceptively childlike. “You could tell him the truth.” Her hair is black as pitch, and if she had a soul it would be darker. Once upon a time Floyd remembers taking her hand, skin soft and the pure color of moonlight but colder than ice, as she pulled him back into the realm of the living. He thought she was beautiful before discovering how cruel she could be, a cruelty he found mirrored in himself. “They say true love conquers all,” she says in a sweet tone with a smile that would speak of hope if it was on anyone else’s lips. “Lies, forgotten memories,” and here she whispers, “even death.” “What have I told you about my ship, Eris?” Her smile goes from sweet to a razor-sharp amusement when Captain Speirs joins them on the small space the top takes up. This is not the first time Captain Speirs has appeared to chase Eris away, and Floyd knows it won’t be the last. “Are you this mean to my sisters?” She sticks her bottom lip out in a mockery of a pout and feigns shedding a tear. “My sweet little cousin… I’m sorry, what name are you going by these days?” “Leave.” “Same name as always, I see. Don’t forget me,” she tells Floyd, blowing him a kiss as she begins to fade from view. “Til next we meet.” A silence as vast as the waters around them stretches between Captain and First Mate. The uneasy feeling Eris brings does not leave Floyd’s body as he sits back down and draws Chuck’s head in his lap once again, burying his fingers in Chuck’s hair as his eyes drift toward the storm on the horizon. No, you can’t outrun the hurricane. * Shifty doesn’t remember who named him Shifty. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t his mother, it wasn’t the father he never knew; somewhere in his gradual transition into this confusing, mortal world he stole someone else’s name and was given another. It’s the middle of the night, and he is on watch. Shifty prefers the nighttime watch high over the ship, sitting on the small planks of wood that make up the lookout deck, or top as he learns it’s called. The harsh light of sun on the water still hurts his eyes; too many years spent hunting at night or in the shade of the forest have made him sensitive to direct sunlight. It is also much quieter at night and the countless years spent in a softer existence leave Shifty seeking solitude when he can find it. Shifty sees things others cannot or will not; this is a gift and a curse, depending on the day. He is born on an island before there is even mention of sailing west, before there is a new world to be pillaged and plundered. The remote corner of their island is safe for Shifty to wander and explore, but as he stops ageing and watches his mother grow old and eventually pass, Shifty hears the calling of the waves. “Will I ever convince you to come back to me?” His patron appears out of the moonlight, cloak covering her body and a hood concealing her face but he would know her anywhere. “The hunt is dull without you.” “Someday,” he tells her, “when I’m not needed here.” Under the starlight, she sits with him while working on fletching her arrows as he scans the sea for any signs of trouble. He misses this silent fulfillment, not that he isn’t happy on the Black Dog, but there is a part being her companion that is irreplaceable. He is her student, and under her tutelage he quickly learns new skills and old secrets. She teaches him how to hunt as she taught his father and his father before him, to be her companion like his ancestors had been. They’re up there in the stars, shining down on him as his years turn into centuries and his Goddess’s temples crumble as her name is forgotten. Captain Speirs joins them, leaning against the mast with his pipe in his hand. Though silent, they both sense him before he arrives as years of honed instinct make it near impossible for anyone to surprise them. “I thought you were one of the Night’s daughters,” the Captain comments, smoke drifting from his mouth as he speaks. “I hope you hold me in higher regard,” she responds, smile both beautiful and terrible. “I fear you’ve taken another of my companions from me.” Captain Speirs tenses for a moment, barely noticeable, but to Shifty’s sharp eyes the captain’s movements scream with unease. “I am in your debt,” he says after a moment’s pause and she hums in agreement and the tension is gone again. They stay there together until the horizon hints of the sun. Just as the first ray hits the water, she turns to Shifty and places a kiss on his forehead. Nodding at Captain Speirs, she disappears as if she was never there. The bell rings for the watch to change and Shifty pulls himself to his feet. Captain Speirs’ eyes are still trained on the horizon and Shifty follows his gaze to the thin ribbon of land off in the distance. “You owe me no allegiance,” the Captain tells him as the sound of someone climbing up the ladder is heard. “If you wish to return to her, I cannot keep you here.” Shifty thinks of leaving the island he was born on, of the storm that threw him from his tiny boat, of resigning himself to death only to wake up in a stranger’s hut, plucked from the seas as if by divine intervention. “It’s dangerous to travel the waters alone,” Shifty echoes what the captain told him centuries ago when they first met. There is a brief flicker of amusement on the captain’s face, and it disappears as he does before Shifty’s relief reaches the deck, leaving Shifty alone for a glorious moment of solitude as the sun breaks free of the horizon. * In his room filled with clicks and chimes, Frank listens to the heart of the ship beat as he works on fixing items damaged by the salt in the water and air. Today he’s removing the last bits of rust from one of Shifty’s rifles and making sure the moving parts of the flintlock are functioning as they should. One of his larger projects, a silver box decorated with a picture of a what appears to be a woman that is half-snake and inscribed with foreign script, sits nearly finished on his small workspace. Captain Speirs brought it to him months ago, covered in barnacles and rust, and only in the past week has it begun to shine again. In the three years Frank has been on the ship, he has restored countless items for the captain. He’s not sure what the captain does with the items once he is finished, but rumor has it he brings a package with him to deliver to the Currahee every time they dock in Port Royal. The clocks chime in perfect unison; outside a bell tolls seven. Frank hastily stores his tools, not wanting to be late to relieve whoever is on watch, and runs from his room up to the main deck before scrambling up the ropes to the top. To his surprise, Captain Speirs is the one on watch, and he nods as Frank mutters a greeting. Frank can count on one hand the number of times he has seen the captain up on the top, and knows he only comes up for one reason. “Should I be flattered?” Nemesis appears as an old woman today, wrinkled and bent beneath a heavy gray cloak. “It is not often you seek me out. Alas, you must wait until I finish my task.” She reaches out a gnarled hand toward Frank and he allows her to take his hand. Her other hand reaches toward his face, cupping his chin and looking into his eyes searching for something. Satisfied at what she sees, she releases him. Frank isn’t sure why she still comes to him after his vengeance was had, why she shows him her favor. All he knows is he is not the only one on the ship being watched over, not the only one being moved like a piece in some larger game. “You are better every time I see you,” she smiles at him and pats his hand. “I am happy for you.” “Only because of you,” he responds and she laughs at his cheek, flicking the tip of his nose. “Keep your eyes open and your ears shut as I talk to the good captain,” she tells him with a wink before turning to where Captain Speirs is waiting to speak with her. “What could be so important you break your silence toward your kin?” “I seek an audience with your mother.” Frank doesn’t miss how one of Nemesis’s eyebrows arches before she schools her features into indifference. The ship rocks a little harder than normal, and he grabs a rope to steady himself; the turbulence has not affected either of the others. “And what shall I tell her is the reason?” “Her children.” Nemesis frowns at Captain Speirs who continues to be the embodiment of calm indifference. “This has gone on for too long.” What ‘this’ is Frank doesn’t learn, because the air around them shifts and though he can see they are speaking, he can hear none of it. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the captain gesture between him and Nemesis at one point. She seems to shrug off his concerns, which causes the captain to clench his teeth, his tell of anger. The sky begins to darken and the wind picks up, rocking the ship as the two continue to argue. There are shouts on the main deck as the sails pick up too much wind for their current course and causes the ship to lurch. Throwing himself at the mast, Frank holds onto the leather straps and ropes. This commotion grabs Nemesis and Captain Speirs’ attention, and the clouds dissipate and the wind subsides as if they were never there. “- punishing me through them.” “Everyone must face their trials, even you.” Nemesis turns around and taps the watch Frank keeps on a chain around his neck. “A heart, for when you were heartless. My sisters are not as kind as I.” Unlike her sisters, Nemesis does not invisibly linger like Misery or fade in and out to taunt like Strife— she is retribution and she is abrupt in her comings and goings. Alone on the top again with the captain, Frank remains silent. Captain’s Speirs’ jaw is still clenched, and Frank has no desire to be on the receiving end of his fury. “I am sorry you had to be part of this,” the captain tells him before disappearing just as abruptly as Nemesis. “But what is ‘this’?” Frank asks the empty space around him. Only the sounds of waves breaking against the side of the ship answer. * Johnny doesn’t know how he got caught up in this mess. Johnny feels like he says that a lot. Hiding is easier now there is a new world to hide in, one that doesn’t know or has forgotten their myths. Their names and disguises have changed over the millennia, but Johnny and Bull have always traveled the world together, each trusting the other to keep them safe. The Black Dog is the best place for them, hiding in the open under another man who isn’t a man, just like them. No one hunts them anymore, because no one thinks they are real. Perhaps academics who take words literally, and think the Minotaur is half-animal and not just a large man, or think someone whose piercing gaze could turn someone to stone could literally turn someone to stone, should be thanked for making creatures like Johnny and Bull nothing more than stories. Expressions, metaphors, poetic devices—they are nothing more but faint memories of a bygone era. The captain doesn’t expect them to forget their birthright, that they were born for a purpose. Monsters are born to kill, to destroy. There is guilt shared between them, of the legends they started when they were younger and mindless, before they knew they could have more. Before they knew they could have purpose. Out here there are monsters pretending to be human and humans becoming monsters. There are monsters everywhere. * When the Keres are born from Night, they have one purpose: to find men on the battlefield, close to death, and pull their souls to the underworld. Their sharp white teeth stand out on their blood covered faces, grim-eyed as they glide through red mud and pull their chosen victims down, down, down. Since man was created they have been busy as all men fight over resources they think should be theirs and imagined slights. They might have had separate names at one point, but now they are all Keres. They inhabit the underworld when there are no battles needing their attention, companions to Cerberus and Charon. And it is there, within arm’s reach of Cerberus, that one of the Keres understands infatuation, if not love. He doesn’t have a name, this dark-eyed son of Echidna who visits his brother with some regularity. Unlike his siblings, this one looks like a God instead of a monster, and she finds herself tumbling down a path she does not want to go down. But oh, is he handsome when he ends a life for her brother to take. It is exhilarating watching him on the battlefield and dragging away the souls he’s touched is like breathing for the first time. When he rejects her advances, she understands what the mortals feels when she rips their soul from their body. When he finds love in another, well, she is not one of the hateful daughters of Night for nothing. She takes the undeserving mortal and puts him on land with a curse to never set foot in the sea and convinces the cetus to drag him down to the depths if he comes near to ocean’s shore. She calls upon her sisters, upon Misery, Strife, and Retribution, to set tasks for Echidna’s son to gain back his prize, to feel firsthand every hurt she has felt. In a locket around her neck, she keeps the mortal’s string, a gift from her apportioning sisters. She might not have the scissors, but time is no mortal’s friend. * The light of the full moon hides him from the Night and her daughters. The Black Dog docks in Port Royal, and his crew quickly scatters to make use of the short time they have. There are thirteen nights a year the moon is strong enough to hide him from the strongest effects of Keres’ spell, and with Shifty’s appeal to Artemis, the moon shines even brighter. In his pocket is something needing to be delivered, and he makes sure the ship is well guarded before setting off into the night. For years Echidna’s son was viewed either in terror as a beast or in adoration as tool of death. With most of his sibling’s dead and his mother’s eventual murder, there was no one to see him for anything more than a monster. And then one day as he wandered from the lands of his kin, he pulled a drowning young man from the water. A young man who saw him as a hero. Perhaps it was one of the Moirai punishing him for spurning their sister, or perhaps Love’s arrow had poor aim, but Echidna’s son gave his heart to a mortal and the Night’s daughters took him away. Carwood sits on the small porch of the Currahee, nodding off in his chair after what was most likely a long day of work. He takes a minute to study the mortal man, to see how he has aged since they met, to hate himself for making Carwood the prize in the game he never wanted to play. Oh, how he hates himself for putting Carwood’s life at risk for these stolen moments, for making his crew members be pawns for someone else’s petty need for revenge. Mortals are nothing but playthings for the Gods, momentary toys that can be forgotten, broken, or destroyed without a second thought as there will always be more. There are two tasks left before him, and he shudders to think how many people died for him to complete the task Nemesis had given him. He thinks of Oizys constantly following Don and not allowing Skip and Alex’s souls to cross with Charon, of Eris letting Chuck trade his memories for Floyd’s life and taunting Floyd with that knowledge; he will not fail in helping them, in completing the Keres’ quest. “Ron?” Carwood’s voice is heavy with sleep, but when he sees Ron his smile is like the sun breaking across his skin. “I’m here,” Ron crosses the space between them and kneels on the gritty, sand covered board so he is eye-level with Carwood. “You should be in bed.” “I’d rather see you,” Carwood is barely awake. “Mmm I have…. Message from Captain Winters.” “Barbarossa left a message?” Carwood chuckles and smacks Ron’s arm as he yawns, “You know he doesn’t like being called that.” He yawns again before shaking his head to try and wake himself up. “They’re getting their mast repaired. Again.” “The Fox?” “Who else would be so bold?” “Well, Harry for one. Captain Grogan is going to succeed in hitting him instead of the mast or sails one of these days.” Ron smiles as Carwood bursts out laughing. It’s hard not to fall in love with Carwood when there is joy on his face and Ron can’t help but lean forward and kiss him. He feels Carwood still laughing as they are pressed together and he smiles for what feels like the first time since the last full moon. Standing, he pulls Carwood to his feet, and they stumble into the small bedroom behind the stockroom. Later, when they are intertwined and Carwood is fast asleep, Ron lets his eyes map every inch of Carwood’s body, afraid someday he won’t have this. If he is not fast enough, Old Age, another of the Night’s children, will win and his mortal lover will be taken from him. From where his coat was thrown on the floor, he pulls the silver box with the engraving of his mother and places it with the rest of the spelled items on Carwood’s dresser. Keres can keep them apart, but no one will be able to hurt Carwood within the walls of the Currahee with these here. A gentle tapping comes at the door. The first hints of the coming dawn can be seen, and he must leave while the moon can still hide his presence less they become a modern Orpheus and Eurydice. Burying his face in the nape of Carwood’s neck, he kisses the warm skin there and murmurs a promise that someday it won’t be like this, someday they will be together. Eos is making her way across the sky, opening the way for the sun when Ron returns to the ship. In the light he can see the Easy Eagle off in the distance, missing its main mast. Now there’s a story, he thinks to himself with a chuckle as he climbs back on board and is informed they are provisioned and ready to sail with all hands accounted for. He nods to First Mate Talbert, who calls to weigh anchor, and soon they are smoothly gliding along, sailing toward open waters. He watches his crew—cursed mortals, demi-gods, monsters—working together and thinks there is no one he would trust more on this quest with him, whether they’re aware of it or not. * Sing to me, O Muse, of a place where monsters must become heroes.