Chapter 11 Before
11
Before
I wait for times when Pisinoe and Raidne are occupied and slip away to Jaquob’s hut. His strength isn’t returning, and despite my insistence, he refuses to eat the meat that I bring him, feigning fullness. A trapper by trade, he has a deep familiarity with landscapes and the food they’re capable of producing. He suspects the meat for what it is, but he never questions its origins. After a time, I stop bringing it.
His wound festers for the first few days, the open gash irritated by the midday heat. Thick yellow pus drenches his bandage. Flies begin to linger on his camp’s periphery, hovering in the heavy air like sentinels, their one-toned drone nature’s death knell. I try to prepare myself for the likelihood that he won’t survive, but the thought is painful—if he dies now, my deceit will have been for nothing. Proserpina hasn’t revealed his purpose, and her silence burrows beneath my skin like a tick on a deer; I can’t shake the unease it brings, leaving me no choice but to bear it.
And yet, to my surprise, Jaquob lives. After his first week, the wound stops leaking. It begins to close after the second. The flies end their vigil, and Jaquob’s energy slowly returns. He starts to laugh; he starts to leer.
My bare breasts distract him, so I take to wearing clothes around him. It’s been centuries now since those first sailors’ ropes burned my wrists, but in Jaquob’s presence, the memory is never far. It lingers in the shadows that pool beneath the beach plums and speckled alders, begging me not to let my guard down. But Jaquob never threatens me, and slowly, that kindness softens my edges.
“Was your mother a fae?” he wonders aloud one afternoon. He’s finally stopped asking me what I am, accepting that I’ll never give him a satisfactory answer. Now he offers suggestions of his own. His angels didn’t fit, nor did the Valkyries. The afterlife I guide deserving men toward isn’t a glorious one.
We’re curled up inside his tent made of sticks and pelts, lounging on a pile of furs. Very little space separates our frames, a distance that seems to grow smaller and smaller asthe days pass. To my surprise, I find that I enjoy his company.
Would I have enjoyed other men’s company, too? The question lingers uncomfortably, a more palatable version than the one I’m too scared to ask: Was killing them wrong?
The air is heavy today, and heat collects inside the tent. Summer, Proserpina’s favorite season, is officially over. Still, Scopuli’s meadows are heavy with flowers: purple asters and coneflowers, though no new lilies emerge to join the bloom that brought Jaquob’s ship. It’s been nearly three weeks now, and its elegant stalk now bends beneath the weight of its blossom; its vibrant orange petals curl at the edges. Each day that passes brings it closer to returning to the earth, and still, Proserpina is silent.
“A fae?” I respond slowly, reluctant to leave my reverie. Even the newness of Jaquob isn’t enough to lure me away from the thought of her.
“A fairy. Like Melusine.”
I’ve learned during our short time together that he loves to tell stories; though we both have chimeric bodies and an affinity for water, I have little else in common with his half-serpent woman.
“I don’t know if there are any fae in New France, but there are definitely spirits.”
“Tell me about some.” I lean into his words, desperate for more. Spirits, humans call them, when they’re so often more—lesser gods and their children. Could there be others like us close by, separated by only a thin boundary of magic?
He props himself up on an elbow to face me.
“There’s one that’s said to arrive with the winter. They’re emaciated creatures with pallid skin, as large as giants. They eat human flesh.”
My gaze locks on the crude ceiling above, where I trace the cracked lines in the dried leather, hopeful that my silence doesn’t betray the dread that pulls my muscles taut.
“Each human they consume makes them grow larger, so their stomachs are never full. They roam the northern forests, always hungry, always in pursuit of meat.”
I’ve punished so many men, and it’s never been enough to sate the fury I carry in the pit of my stomach. My mood darkens. “It sounds like they’re cursed.”
Like me.
I turn my head away from him, trying to hide the tears that mist my eyes at the recognition of myself in his tale: a bewitched immortal, doomed to feed on the flesh of men.
“Tell me another story,” I add, knowing the task will keep him from scrutinizing the dark cloud that’s swallowed me. Jaquob has no problem complying.
“Have I told you about this pendant I carry around my neck? Supposedly, it’s a relic of Saint Jerome. His remains were originally interred in Bethlehem, and although the Church won’t admit it, when they transferred his body to Rome, he didn’t make it there in his entirety.”
I don’t understand most of what he says, but my ears do know one word: Rome . A smile tugs at the corner of my lips—so the city Anchises prophesized still stands.
Jaquob is too busy pulling a golden chain from beneath his shirt to catch the flicker of recognition in my eyes. Once it’s free, he lifts its pendant so the sapphire in its center catches the light. My fingers brush against it, as softly as a whisper.
“It opens here.” He turns the pendant onto its side to reveal a small seam between two golden plates, and the clasp that keeps them closed. It’s a locket. “There’s a piece of his robes inside.”
“What’s a saint?” I ask, turning to face him again. Surprise sweeps across his features, widening his eyes, parting his lips. But he doesn’t laugh at my ignorance, nor does he linger on it.
“A saint,” he begins, “is a person who is holy, who has a closer likeness to God than the rest of us.”
“Are they gods, too, or just their children?”
This question elicits another smile, and he reaches to trace his fingers along my cheek as if he’s not sure exactly what he’s dealing with, as if he needs to prove to himself that I’m real. They’re a shock against my skin, and I recoil instinctively. Outside the tent, the memory of being bound vibrates in the shadows, warning against the warmth that rises in my chest.
He smiles sadly, but he doesn’t press me. “Where I’m from, we believe there’s only one God, and he only had one son. Saints are mortal men.”
Now it’s my turn to look shocked. “Only one child? Why? Did his son castrate him?”
Jaquob erupts with laughter. The sound’s infectious, and soon we’re both howling.
“When I was young, there were many gods and goddesses. But that was a long time ago. What made Saint Jerome more godlike than other men?”
“He was blessed with an ear for languages. He translated our holy text from Hebrew into Latin.”
“And why do you wear a scrap of his clothing around your throat?”
“Because saints are sacred. I figure it can’t hurt to keep a conduit to God close. Think of all the miracles it might be performing without me realizing it.”
I shrug, conceding his point, and a pregnant silence settles in the space between us. He slides in closer to me, and my pulse thumps loudly in my ears.
“What happened to you, Thelxiope?” His voice is a whisper, so quiet I have to strain to hear it. His hand reaches for my face again, and when I try to look away, his fingers gently guide my gaze back to his. I feel the color rising to my cheeks beneath his stare.
“Being here, like this, is a punishment.” I don’t have the energy to explain everything to him; I don’t owe him access to my most painful memories.
“Your gods are cruel.”
“ All gods are cruel,” I counter, and he has nothing to say in response.
Instead, he leans his head closer and presses his lips against mine. I’ve never been kissed by a man, only by Proserpina, and though he’s gentle, it still feels treacherous. Outside the tent, insects churr in the afternoon haze and my memory screams.
My hands find his chest, and I push him away as a storm of emotions clash for control: the terror, yes, of him managing to physically hurt me, but also desire—why shouldn’t I let myself enjoy this? Is that why Proserpina sent him? And, oh, gods, now the guilt. “I already told you—I’m not your friend, Jaquob.”
“Don’t be cruel, Thelxiope.” His eyes are pleading, and he reaches for my hand, but his baiting has the opposite effect. As soon as the word cruel passes over his lips, I’m struck by the image of the dead women who washed ashore with his ship. Suspicion unfurls inside my gut, but I don’t voice it yet.
“Being cruel would be allowing you to believe you’re safe here.”
The sparkle of longing vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a flash of annoyance. “You never let me forget.”
His words hang in the air before settling into silence, and I draw my feathered knees into my chest.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” His desperation to route the conversation back to flirtation is palpable in how he lifts his chin to me. He wants me to offer myself. Men, even the ones who are pleasant to be around, are obnoxiously predictable.
“The day your ship washed up on the beach, we found seven women.”
In the moment of a blink, his lips press into a cold, straight line, but then they twist down with confusion. “That doesn’t sound like a question.”
“Who were they?”
He turns his attention to the tent’s entrance. A gentle breeze blows through the glade behind us, rustling the autumn-soaked leaves. “I didn’t know there were any women aboard.”
“How could you not have known?” I ask incredulously, but then I remember the marks around their wrists. Is it possible that their presence was hidden from him? “Don’t lie to me. Please.”
He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, then meets my gaze once more. “I don’t know anything about them, I swear it. It’s unlucky to have women aboard, so perhaps their presence explains how we ended up here.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I cough gently to clear it.
No, dear Jaquob. You and your men were fated to land here, women aboard or not. But why?
Am I simply supposed to save him? Because I didn’t save her the night she was taken, and after she ate those pomegranate seeds, no one could?
I’ve never been able to fully accept she was tricked into doing so. As her closest friend, her other half, I tell myself it’s because she was too clever for that. But isn’t believing so the darkest kind of wish fulfillment? If she chose, then her fate isn’t entirely my fault.
Except what reason could she possibly have had to commit herself to that place? To Dis? Heat blisters beneath my skin, and my palms grow slick. This is usually where my line of questioning comes to an abrupt halt, a book slammed closed to avoid learning its ending.
Did she do it because she decided to love him? Is that what all of this is? Her way of showing me that it’s safe for me to love someone, too?
I won’t love again, I can’t love again, not without her explicit blessing.
“What happens next?” I blurt out, and he looks puzzled. But of course he is—it’s not really a question for him. “What’s your plan? You can’t stay here.”
He watches me measuredly, taken aback by my outburst.
“I suppose I’ll need to build a boat,” he posits. “But that’s no small task. It’ll take a few weeks.”
My body vibrates with the suggestion. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks with no word from her, so I will force her hand. Either she can tell me what he’s for or he can return to the sea. I’ll no longer sit idly by and wait for the gods to dole out their favors, and for one single time in the entirety of our pitiful existence here, I won’t grovel in blood for her mother’s mercy.
“I understand,” I say, and I do. “Is there a way I can help?”
“I could find a lot of what I’ll need if you let me search Scopuli’s beach—”
“No.” I’m surprised by the power behind my voice, the finality. “It’s not possible, and I forbid you to ask me again.”
“But you said—”
“Draw me the pieces you need, and I’ll find them for you, but you can’t go anywhere near Scopuli.”
“I’m growing restless here,” he admits.
“This will give you something to do, and then you’ll be off,” I say, marveling at how quickly relief unspools the tension in my muscles. This isn’t a perfect plan, but it’s something. For the first time since stumbling across his broken body, I feel a semblance of control.
“Well, then. It sounds like I’m building a boat.”
Cursed spirits and drowned maidens visit me in dreams. I’m soaring over Scopuli headfirst into an approaching storm. The clouds are rolling in too quickly, too fast for any natural squall. Lightning forks across the sky in a thousand different directions, its force sending me spiraling downward. All around me, thunder tears open the heavens.
I fall to the beach where the dead women from the wreck stand vigil. They face Rotunda, pointing decaying fingers at the island across the strait. Their eyes have rotted away, but they watch me still with wide, empty sockets. Bloated tongues fill their open mouths, which try to wail, but the only sound that escapes is the gurgle of the water that choked them as it spills out of their throats. Their sorrow, their rage, it’s so heavy, and it’s directed not only at Jaquob, but at me—I want to beg for forgiveness for my part in their fates, want to ask them how I can fix it, but before I can, their swaying bodies fade, replaced by a field of lilies.
Proserpina lies in its center, and a gaunt creature crouches over her middle. Its skin is gray and too small for its frame, stretched so tightly across its body that all the bones beneath are visible. It’s a monster of vertebrae and ribs and scapulae, all angles and edges. A set of horns—or are they branches?—adorn its misshapen head and stretch to the sky like a crown. When it raises its hideous face to look at me, my feet fall back in alarm. I know the black eyes that bore into mine. Although he’s little more than a skull, I’d recognize him anywhere.
Dis.
Blood drips from his razored teeth, and his lips curl into a twisted smile. He’s been feeding from her, eating the contents of her gut cavity. A swarm of black flies erupts from the wound and encircles his head in a dark, pulsating halo. Their buzzing fills my ears. I turn to run as Dis unleashes a victorious, hateful laugh.
“Thelia!” Proserpina screams for me, her voice broken by my betrayal. And although there’s nothing I want more than to save her, I don’t look back.