Chapter XXXI
XXXI
They do not listen.
In fact, for the next few months, many more men come to our island.
It seems the sole messenger Stheno allowed to leave the first time shared more than just a warning.
Men are lured to our land like ants to a bowl of honey, fueled by promises of glory or wealth.
As more of them die, anger and revenge join the list of motivations.
That, I can understand.
It becomes easier for Stheno and Euryale to kill.
The first time, with Linus and his crew, killing men had felt like steps to a dance the three of us did not truly know.
That first time, I’d watched Euryale turn a man to stone, then flinch.
Stheno had glared around the beach with yellow eyes and turned men to stone indiscriminately, without finesse.
That changed as time went on. As more men arrived on our shores, as the coast became clogged with the statues of our victims, my sisters learned to make a game of it.
They herded the men like cattle, sometimes letting them believe they had a chance at escape before turning them to stone at the last minute.
They dragged statues to the place where the waves beat against the rocks and laughed as those statues were pummeled into tiny pieces.
I do not join them in their revelry and their games.
I learn to kill with more finesse, too, but there is, for me, something sacred in the act.
I tell myself that what I am doing is necessary, just, even righteous.
The great majority of the men who come to our island are evil men, I know that, but every so often, I find one or two who look lost. I imagine that they did not want to come to our island, that perhaps they did not intend any harm.
Sometimes, I consider asking them. My sisters turn them to stone before I ever can.
I’m seated on the shoreline alone, watching the tides roll in, when a boat appears on the horizon.
Often, the boats men arrive in are large and grand, but this one is modest, small, more of a raft.
As it draws closer, I see that it is occupied by a single person, a boy.
His skin is dark brown, his curly hair is black as a crow’s wing.
He’s tall, lean muscle covers his body, but there is still a trace of youth lingering in the fullness of his cheeks and in his dark, wary eyes.
I say nothing as the tides pull his raft to shore.
For a moment, he does not notice me among the statues.
When he does, he stiffens. His hands fly to the crude dagger strapped to his hip.
“Have you traveled far?” I ask gently, rising from the sand. The snakes under my head wrap stir, but I pat them quiet. The boy looks me over, apprehensive.
“I have come to slay the Gorgons.” The words are practiced, but his voice trembles as he says them. “Where can I find them?”
Gorgons. That is not a name my sisters and I have chosen for ourselves. It feels strange, like being forced into clothing that doesn’t quite fit. I tilt my head.
“You look young, to be a murderer.” I extend my hand. “Join me for a while?”
“I have come to slay the Gorgons,” the boy says again. He will not look at me. “Where can I find them?”
I find myself wondering about the boy’s mother, if she already knew, when she said goodbye to him, that she would never see him again. I sigh and pull off my head wrap. The snakes come to life, hissing and spitting with glee. The young man’s eyes widen, and he takes an instinctive step back.
“Are you very sure that this is what you want?” I ask half-heartedly.
In answer, he draws his dagger.
“Very well, then.”
The tide licks at our ankles as we circle each other in the sand.
I can tell by his footwork that he has had some basic training, but he still moves like a novice, like a man who’s never seen real battle.
We circle each other for a few more seconds before he loses patience and lunges, but with my enhanced speed, I easily dodge the blow, and the next one, too.
I close the gap between us, trying to make him nervous, but it seems to have the opposite effect on the young man.
Something within him ignites as he grits his pearl-white teeth.
With a cry, he lunges again, and this time I’m unprepared for it.
A white-hot pain blazes across my skin, and when I look down I’m surprised to see a thin line of red blood trickling down my biceps.
I’m momentarily mesmerized. The boy steps back, looking as stunned as I feel.
There is a discipline in the way I kill.
I have rules. I save my true brutality for the older, more salacious men.
The younger ones I tend to turn to stone quickly, as a kindness.
I decide that this boy is worthy of at least that kindness.
I start to summon the power behind my eyes as he shifts from foot to foot, reaches down the front of his tunic, and withdraws something from it.
I stop.
The pendant he wears is distinct in shape; I’d recognize the owl carving anywhere.
It has been months since I last saw a token of Athena, months since I was one of her followers.
The boy’s eyes never leave mine as he mutters a prayer, brings the owl pendant to his lips, and kisses it with a reverence that makes my stomach turn.
Something is building behind my eyes, but it’s not power.
When the tears fall and slick down my cheeks, it is not anger I feel, but sorrow.
I did not think, after all this time, that I’d left room in my heart for anything other than anger.
Now I know that sorrow is the real monster, waiting to attack its victims when their guards are down.
I don’t want to kill this boy, not really. I know that. I back away from him several steps, hands raised.
“Go home,” I whisper.
He stares at me outright, astonished.
“Go home.” I try to keep the desperation from my voice. “Leave. Now.”
Already the boy is backing away from me. He glances toward his small boat, still in the water, and I know he’s calculating how quickly he could get to it.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say. “But you have to go quickly.”
The boy starts to nod, then glances over my shoulder. I see a sudden renewed terror in his eyes, and I know without looking what must be there. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, and my heart plummets.
“No!”
It’s too late: The boy is already turning to stone. I whip around and find Stheno standing perfectly still. We stare at each other.
“You were going to spare him,” she says. It isn’t a question.
“He was young,” I protest. “He wouldn’t have harmed—”
“He came here to kill us.” There’s a new bite in Stheno’s voice. “He came here to kill you.”
My gaze drops. I have no idea if the men who come to this island know that I am mortal while my sisters are not. I stare back at the statue of the boy.
“Remember, all men are cruel, Meddy.” Stheno cups my face in hers. “Some are just better at hiding it.”
“But what if they’re not, Stheno?” I lift my gaze to meet hers.
“That’s a risk you can’t take. Ever.”
I don’t know what to say in response to that.
Some part of me understands that Stheno’s viewpoint is flawed.
Her universal disdain for men is no better than so many men’s disdain for women, or Kallisto’s disdain for all foreigners.
Some part of me also understands that Stheno is what the world has made her, and that I won’t change her mind.
She leaves me alone on the beach after that, and I turn to face the statue of the boy. The tide has covered his stone feet, and I can’t ignore the pang in my chest when I think of how close he was to freedom.
If only you hadn’t looked.
I’m walking toward his statue before I even realize it.
His arms are still half raised, so it’s easy to gently pick him up—even turned to stone, he is not heavy for me—and carry him out to sea.
I walk until the water is up to my chest, and only then do I let go.
I watch as the boy’s statue sinks into the blue-black depths, and I think about his mother.
I know she’ll curse me and my sisters; I know that, though my arm still bleeds, to her, we will always be the villains.
I spare one more look at the sinking statue of the boy, then trek back up the beach.