5. Medusa #3
Qhatu smiled faintly. “As legend says, the valley resists outsiders’ lungs unless you invite it to share its rhythm.” He began to walk, beckoning them to follow. “If you agree, we’ll begin at K’awina Pukara. The ceremony isn’t painful. In fact, most say it feels…illuminating.”
Medusa mustered a weak laugh as she fell into step beside Perseus. “Illuminating sounds better than nauseating.”
Qhatu’s smile widened. “Then come—I’ll show you the way.”
As they started down the snow-dusted path, Medusa stumbled slightly over a hidden ridge of ice. Before she could right herself, Perseus slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her.
“Careful,” he murmured, leaning close. “Want me to carry you again, or are we saving that for emergencies?”
Medusa rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed. “I’m not that sick. But…” She exhaled and let him keep hold of her elbow. “…I’ll allow it. For efficiency.”
“Efficiency,” he echoed dryly. “Right.”
They followed Qhatu deeper into the village until they arrived at a wide stone circle half-buried in snow. Spirals were carved into every slab, catching sunlight like silver threads. Smoke curled from a brazier at the center, its flames pale and glimmering.
“This is K’awina Pukara,” Qhatu announced. “The place of laughter and breath.”
He reached into the brazier and lifted a small clay bowl of fine gray ash.
“First, the Spiral Marking.” Qhatu stepped closer to Medusa. “May I?”
She nodded, and he gently touched her forehead, chest, and the tops of her boots, leaving soft spiral traces of ash on her skin and clothing. A faint, metallic scent rose with the heat of the fire.
“The ash carries the mountain’s whisper,” Qhatu explained. “It helps your body sync with the valley’s pulse.”
Next, he retrieved a spiral-shaped horn of pale wood, carved with twisting grooves. He handed it to Medusa.
“Breathe through the Thriqo. Three cycles—inhale, pause, exhale. Don’t rush.”
Medusa accepted it gingerly, glanced at Perseus, then took her first breath. Cool, crisp air poured into her chest, startlingly clean and somehow sweet. She repeated the cycle twice more as Qhatu chanted in a language full of rolling consonants.
When she finished, her head felt lighter, as though something had clicked into place behind her eyes.
Qhatu smiled. “Now for the final step.” He poured steaming liquid into a wooden cup and offered it to her.
“Snow Spirit Tea,” he said. “Melted snow, Yana Killa leaves, and honey from frost-dwelling bees.”
Medusa took a cautious sip and blinked. A surge of warmth unfurled in her chest, pushing back the headache’s sharp edges. The tea tasted bright, almost citrusy.
“How do you feel?” Perseus asked, watching her.
Medusa lowered the cup, surprised to find the pain retreating like a tide.
“Actually better.”
Qhatu gave an approving nod. “Good. You might notice, for a while, that sounds seem to echo…in threes. Or shadows flicker oddly.”
“Careful, or you’ll have Thalia thinking there’s three of you,” he whispered in her ear. “One is already enough mischief for me.”
“Hey. I’m the picture of normalcy.”
“Sure, Thalia .”
Somewhere on her scalp, a snakelet rustled in smug agreement.
Qhatu led them through narrow lanes where timber houses wore blankets of snow on their peaked roofs, and colorful woven banners fluttered like birds against the crisp sky. Medusa, now breathing easier, fell into step beside Perseus.
“By the way, don’t forget—I’ve got those days off coming up,” she reminded him.
Perseus rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “What the hell is with you and these days off? We’re in the middle of a mission.”
Gods, please don’t ask any more questions. “Just remember I need them,” she insisted, pointing a finger at his chest for emphasis.
“Fine,” he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth quirked in reluctant amusement.
They followed Qhatu until the lane opened into a wide square ringed with stone terraces and towering prayer poles strung with brilliant ribbons. Medusa came to a sudden stop, staring.
The village square was alive with color and energy.
Children in thick ponchos played tag between sculpted snow pillars.
Women in layered skirts sold woven talismans and bundles of herbs, while men gathered around steaming pots of tea.
A towering ice sculpture of three interlocked figures—a human, a jaguar, and a condor—glistened at the center.
Medusa blinked, scanning the crowd. But there were no magical beings that she could sense, no ripple of divine power, no shimmer of Underworld magic.
“It’s…beautiful,” she murmured, a crease forming between her brows. “But where are the otherworldly beings? Valle Trigénico is supposed to be a crossroads.”
Qhatu turned to her, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Patience, senora. The valley doesn’t reveal everything at once.”
Medusa smiled faintly, still glancing around, hoping to catch someone with magic.
“Your accommodations are up the hill,” Qhatu said, gesturing toward a winding path flanked by snow-laden trees. “It has a great view of the valley.”
“Thank you.”
They began to walk through the square, weaving past villagers.
A glimmer of bright color caught Medusa’s attention.
She slowed, then drifted away from the group toward an art piece composed of interlocked spirals carved from wood, embedded with what looked like crushed gemstones that sparkled under the sunlight.
As she studied the piece, a younger woman stepped forward, no older than twenty, with long curly hair and a necklace of silver disks that chimed when she moved.
“It’s called Echoes of the Peaks,” the young woman said shyly. “We wanted it to feel like how the mountains seem to sing when the wind moves through them.”
Medusa tilted her head, fascinated, and studied the teen more closely. In the sunlight, she saw a faint shimmer dancing over the girl’s skin—a familiar ripple of magic that made the snakelets rustle curiously in her hair.
“Who’s the artist?” Medusa asked, leaning closer.
“Me,” the girl said, cheeks pinking. “And my brother and sister. We always make art together.”
Before Medusa could get another word out, Perseus suddenly appeared at her side, sliding his hand firmly around her elbow.
“We need to go,” he said in a low voice, guiding her back toward the center of the square.
“Wait,” Medusa protested, twisting to look over her shoulder. “That girl—she’s magical. And she has a brother and a sister. That could be important!”
“I know,” Perseus said, glancing at Qhatu. “But we really need to go.”
Qhatu gave an apologetic bow of his head. “I’m sorry, senora. The weather will be turning. We must get you indoors.”
Medusa frowned. “What? The sun is out. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” Qhatu agreed, peering up at the sky. “But the weather is unpredictable here. I can feel a storm coming. It’s best to get you home.”
“Fine,” Medusa said, still casting glances back toward the art stall. “Do you know that artist?”
“No,” Qhatu shook his head. “But that’s their family’s stall. We can visit them again after the storm.”
Perseus scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “How long do you think the storm will last?”
“A couple of days,” Qhatu replied. “You arrived just in time.”
Medusa stopped in her tracks. “A couple of days?”
“Well, you’ll get your vacation days now, won’t you?” Perseus gave her a crooked grin.
Medusa sighed as they started up the slope toward the path. She should’ve asked about the accommodations sooner—and made absolutely certain she’d have her own place. But now it felt too late.
Still, she tried. “We’ll have…separate places, right?” she asked cautiously, looking between Perseus and Qhatu.
“Yes,” Qhatu said with an earnest nod. “You’ll have separate rooms. But you’ll both be in one home.”
“Oh.” Medusa froze, nearly tripping over a rock. “One home.”
Perseus shot her a sidelong look, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath. Then, clearing her throat, she tried again. “Any chance I could get my own place?”
Qhatu spread his hands apologetically. “I’m very sorry, senora. This is the only spot for visitors. We don’t get many, so this house was prepared especially for you.”
Medusa felt a flicker of guilt tighten her chest. She forced a polite smile. “Of course. Thank you so much, Qhatu. I really appreciate it.”
Perseus leaned closer, murmuring under his breath, “Well. There goes our professional boundaries.”
Medusa elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Don’t make me turn you to stone.”
He grinned. “Kinky.”
She groaned and kept walking.
They reached the house nestled partway up the hill, its carved wooden beams adorned with curling motifs that reminded Medusa faintly of serpent scales. Qhatu led them through a quick tour—the cozy sitting room with thick wool blankets, the small study crowded with books, and finally the kitchen.
“It’s fully stocked from what Senor Bob arranged,” Qhatu said, gesturing to the rows of labeled tins and fresh produce tucked into baskets. “All brought in with you on the helicopter. You should be able to heat up or cook anything you need.”
“Gracias, Qhatu,” Medusa said, offering a polite smile. Perseus echoed her thanks as he peeked inside a cabinet.
But Medusa barely heard them. A fluttering warmth had begun low in her belly—a delicate shiver like the brush of silk, winding tighter with every breath she drew.
She blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but her skin felt suddenly too sensitive, each fold of her clothes whispering over her body like a lover’s touch.
She pressed her fingers discreetly to her temples, willing the sensation away, but it only pulsed deeper, a faint ache spiraling outward like heat rippling off desert stones.
“So, should we figure out dinner or—” Perseus started, leaning on the counter.
“I need to lie down,” Medusa blurted, sharper than she intended.
Perseus straightened, brow creasing. “Is it the ritual? Didn’t work after all?”