Chapter 6 #3
My mother replies in looks alone, running her eyes over Ceto’s form, taking in those muscled legs, that thickly waving hair.
I see the judgement wrinkle her nose. Legs hardened by activity are considered masculine by my mother – they would intimidate a man, they are unappealing.
The unbound hair, unbraided and unadorned, tangled probably, unkempt, uncared for.
My mother reads arrogance here, a lack of modesty.
This creature does not deign to impress, feels she does not need to be perceived.
She believes that she can exist as she is and my mother scorns her for it.
I covet the defiance but choose my mother’s scorn instead – it is safer.
We raise our eyebrows at each other in silent condemnation and I welcome the bond of our conference.
‘What word from your lord and master, my future son?’ my father asks with the air of a man centring himself, becoming comfortable once more.
She tells him what she told me. My parents exchange a glance. My father shrugs. My mother nods.
‘Very well, nymph. You may accompany our daughter about her daily tasks. Do not hold up her progress. And each night, when you return to the sea god, be sure to tell him of how we have welcomed you, how we have not got in your way. She is our little queen; we do not intend to break our oath. You may also relay how finely she plays the harp, how well she sews and how beautifully she speaks literature. She will reward you, I’m sure, when she is your queen. ’
They nod, a unified dismissal. They are together in something, for once. They are enjoying it, I can tell. My father kisses my mother on her cheek. I am, momentarily, happy for them.
I turn and the nymph follows me once more.
I return to my apartments and she follows me there also.
This is strange to me. No one ever comes into my apartments, save the servants.
My mother’s women draw back and away from us.
The ones who would usually fuss and hover press fingers to their mouths and say nothing, eyes round with hope and worry.
This is how we proceed throughout most of the day.
Everywhere I turn, there she is, leaking contempt like the dark oil of her hair, spilling from her as from a golden ewer.
The sons and daughters of nobles and advisors peer at us from behind columns, endlessly curious and yet fearful to get too close.
I would not mind so much, if she was silent and unobtrusive.
Certainly, she is not talkative. But she is a scathing ghost, capable of belittling with the merest tilt of her chin or purse of her lips.
I stumble over poetry and fumble my harp strings.
She snorts and I resolve to make no more errors, to not allow her to unnerve me, but the resolve itself shakes me; I have never needed resolve before.
I have spoken the words and they have come forth, I have reached for the strings and my fingers have never erred.
Today is different. I must become accustomed to an unfriendly audience.
She does not speak again until after lunch. She watches from the corner of my apartments while I eat and then follows me outside, turning her head westward, marking the beginning of the sun’s descent.
‘Do you spend every morning inside, in lessons?’ Her eyes are closed, relishing the play of warmth on her eyelids, but I can hear the way she twists the last word, as though she does not think very highly of my intellect.
‘Yes. I suppose you don’t take lessons, do you? I bet you can’t even read.’
‘I learned at the feet of the Lord of the Sea. I had lessons aplenty.’
‘You probably spend your days drowning men and sinking ships.’
Her eyes flash open and she grins at me. Her teeth snap, the incisors the sharpest of any I’ve seen. It is menacing and I jump backwards, despite myself. She laughs softly and the sound snakes over my skin. I shudder and curse myself.
‘Why would I drown men? It would be a terrible waste of fresh meat.’
I cannot tell if she is joking. My face scrunches in disgust. ‘So you’re a scavenger as well as a savage and a serpent. I’ll have to get rid of you when I’m your queen. I can’t have attendants with such awful taste and such poor manners.’
‘You don’t look like you’ve tasted much of men, little queen.’ She turns my epithet into something saccharine and mocking. ‘I’d wager they’ve tried to take a bite out of you, though.’
I flinch. ‘I am the princess,’ I say with a conviction I do not feel, ‘I am favoured by the gods. No one touches me.’
She is unimpressed, probes again. ‘And what do you do after lessons? Retreat behind your palace walls once more?’
‘I do whatever I like. Swim or fish with my grandmother or spend time with my mother.’
She nods as though she suspected as much. ‘And that is whatever you like?’
I think of walking about the grounds with Phineus, stretching our legs, long, languid, as though whatever we shared could be endlessly extended. ‘Sometimes I pick fruit and flowers.’
‘How small you are!’ She says it with a laugh and that laugh makes me want to scream. I want to rage, I want to throw something or hit her. I am not prone to violent temper, but I would do it if I wasn’t so sure that this would only make her laugh harder.
‘I cannot be much younger than you!’
‘That is not what I meant by small.’
I can feel myself coming undone. She is joyfully pulling at my threads, creating a kind of new internal chaos, and I storm away, towards the Nile, towards safety.
She follows me, of course, and I realize that this, this is how it will be now.
There will be no more minutes of silent, solitary pause in the orange grove with my mother, never again will it just be Achiroe and I, splashing our feet in the waters of our home.
I will only be alone when I am sleeping.
She will be with me always, and when she is not, when I am finally granted a reprieve, I will be pulled below the surface of her waters, I shall sink into her home and be a wife to her master.
I do not care that she is watching, that she may laugh. I run for my grandmother. I find her where I always do, sitting waiting for me on the banks. I fling myself into her lap; I cry and cry and cry.
And Ceto – Ceto is there.