Mestra #4
My father sold his whole stable that day, each one of those god-touched horses, Oak twice, Fury twice, River and Bright-face once each.
I came back to him each time, as one of the deer that used to graze our fields, then a long-legged hunting dog the King of Sparta gave us, then the falcon again.
I was dizzy with all the changes, as if I had drunk unmixed wine.
At the end of the day we had so much food, he was still working his way through it, and he rode me home with a huge sack balanced across my neck.
I was careful to place my hooves soft as a cat so his bones would not be shaken.
I could feel the crumbs falling across me as he chewed, and I shivered them off with pleasure.
At home, he peeled the crackling skin from a pig and ate it down to the trotters. By moonrise, the room was only bones and grease stains. He looked up. “What else?” he said.
“I’m sorry, that’s all there is.” I reached to put my hand on his, in comfort.
He grabbed my wrist. His fingers had no flesh left on them at all. Against my skin they felt like claws. His breath was ragged, and in the firelight, his eyes were pricks of gold, fixed on me.
“You ate,” he said. “You think I don’t know? I can smell it on you.” He pushed close to me, and inhaled. His face was sharp and thin, all skull.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had a handful of bread, and a bite of cheese. That’s it, I swear.”
He still held my wrist. We were far from the city, far from anyone. There was a wildness in his face. I should change, I thought. But all my forms felt far away, held back by the pressure of his grip. Instead, I blurted out:
“You could ask Demeter to release you. We could replant the trees.”
The words landed on him like a hot coal. He nearly threw me from him. “I owe her nothing.”
“But—”
“No!” He hit the table with his hand, so hard I was afraid he would shatter a bone. “It was just a grove! There was no temple there, no priests, she had no claim.”
That’s what he had said to the workmen too, and when they still would not obey, he’d seized an axe himself. I had gone to see the grove once, after. All the silent trunks, stretched out across the earth, and the great bare sky overhead.
“Go to bed,” he told me. “We’ll sell cows tomorrow. And take the chamber pot.”
There was no smell to his leavings. The pot had a few drips, and a single dry pebble.
It was as if all the food that went into him vanished into air.
I dumped the pot, rinsed it, and left it outside his door.
My room was on the other side of the house.
There was nothing in it but some old blankets, we both slept on the floor now.
I would enjoy being a cow, I thought. They always seemed so calm, chewing their grasses all day.
But I could not stop thinking of the rawness in his face.
I listened hard in the darkness, but I heard nothing, no footsteps.
I rubbed my wrist where it ached, and shivered.
Then I rested my scratchy chin on the comforting bulk of my arm, and slept.
My father sold me to the third farmer we met.
He insisted, however, that the farmer milk me first, and give him the milk.
When the man touched my udders I would have yelped, if I’d had my own mouth.
I almost bolted. But my father was watching, and I made myself subside.
I am a cow, I told myself. Dainty the cow, I am Dainty who was always a good milker, and I do not mind.
My father lifted the foamy bucket to his mouth. His throat rippled as he swallowed.
The farmer tied me to a small olive tree in his yard. His neighbor was feeding his chickens. He called out that there was wild talk in the city, about girls who disappeared, and horses too.
“But hopefully not cows,” the farmer said.
The neighbor laughed. “No cows.”
“That’s a relief.” The farmer patted me.
There was a thick patch of grass near where he’d put me, and I hung my head down, as if browsing.
I didn’t really eat because I didn’t know what would happen to the grass when I was myself again.
A woman came out of the house. She had a big belly, and a round, pleasant face.
“You found one!” she said.
“I was thinking we’d call her Lucky,” the farmer said. “The man selling her looked half-starved. It’s a miracle he hadn’t eaten her.”
The woman reached down to rub my forehead. “Hello, Lucky.”
I pressed my nose against the tickling grass.
I’d never felt sorry to steal from rich lords, or men who kept girls bayed in their house.
But this farm was small, and they had a baby coming.
Half-starved, the man had said. But my father looked more than half.
His hair hung in strings. His eyes were sunken and his lips gone.
His belly nearly touched his spine, even though yesterday he had eaten enough to feed the whole city.
And before that, all our stores, all our horses and gold.
It was as if every bite only hollowed him further.
I thought: we could rob a thousand lords and farmers and all in between, and he would still be starving to death with his mouth full.
I waited until evening to slip away, because I thought the farmer should at least get one milking in payment.
The moon was high and waxing, but I didn’t need its light, I could have whatever eyes I wanted.
As far as I could tell there was no limit to the number of creatures I could be in a day, and each change was its own pleasure.
I leapt through the grass as a deer, then trotted as a fox, then flew as an owl.
My father was in the dining hall. The moment his gaze touched me, my feathers vanished, and Mestra returned.
“Father,” I said. “I don’t want to be sold anymore. It’s not helping you.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been thinking the same. And I have found the answer.”
I had expected him to storm and argue and demand to know where I’d been. But his voice when he’d spoken was his king’s voice, calm and steady.
“The answer?” I said.
“To the riddle behind the god’s gift. First, why did he not give power to me directly? Well, that is easy, the goddess blocks him. He blessed you instead, so you may help me. Which you have tried in your own way to do.”
I had waited so long for him to say so. I felt like I might start weeping. “Yes,” I said. “It’s all I’ve wanted.”
“Now the next mystery: Why was his gift to you so great? Well, it must be great, to break the goddess’s curse.
But a mortal cannot bear such power long.
You remember what happened to others who carried the gift of shape-shifting.
Proteus was deposed and cast out, Thetis ravished, and Metis swallowed by Zeus.
And they were gods. You do not want those ends, do you? ”
“No,” I said.
“Therefore we must rid you of it, and so save us both.”
The room was very warm. He had heaped the brazier high with wood, and the smoke was stinging my eyes. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“It’s simple. The god has filled you with his power. He has consecrated you, and made you his ambrosia. A piece will be enough.”
“A piece.” My head felt like it was floating away.
“Yes.” He held up the knife, its edge shining. “To bring his power into me. Pull up your sleeve. I think somewhere below the shoulder will be best.”
“As myself?”
He frowned. “Who else should you be?”
Oak, I thought. Or the fisherman. Or anyone else who could bear this better than I could.
But then I would be letting them be carved.
I pulled up my sleeve. My flesh was thin, but there was something just above my elbow.
I felt as if I were watching from a long way away, as if I was my falcon again, hanging in thin air.
He put the edge of his knife to my arm, and drew it swiftly across.
The line of blood leapt and began to spill hot over me.
My eyes watered, and I bit down on the bunched fabric of my dress.
He made another quick cut, and lifted a flat chunk of flesh the size of a poplar leaf.
He carried the flesh to the brazier and delicately worked it onto a skewer’s end.
It felt as if he had flayed my whole arm, and my foot was wet where the blood fell.
I did not want to look at the wound, but I could see it out of the corner of my eye.
A red gash that welled and welled. I should press something to it, I thought.
The pain was beating with my heart. But this was the end, I reminded myself.
It was the end of pain. After this, my father would no longer suffer. We would be happy again.
The smell of roasting meat filled the room.
He turned the skewer and inhaled. “See,” he said.
“Ambrosia.” He lifted the dark clot from the flames, blowing on it.
With his thumb and finger, he placed it in his mouth.
His eyes closed, and he chewed. I saw the great muscles in his jaw working, stark against his skin. He swallowed.
When his eyes opened there was joy in them. “I could taste the god’s power. Now I will be free. Watch.” He held out his hand. “There!” he cried. “Look, did you see it? The curse lifted. Mestra!”
I swayed on my feet. The smoke and the heat pressed in on me. I felt dizzy, like I was changing, but the change did not come.
“It only lasted a moment though. I must not have taken a large enough piece. We need another.”
I heard my own weak whine. “I thought it was only one.”
“Only one more.” His voice was impatient. He lifted the knife. “Daughter, let us finish this. I thought you wanted to help. This is your chance.”
This is your chance.