A Note from the Editor
- Issue 1:
- The Goddess by Jes Sweat
- Conversations with Jack by TheCroakingFrog
- Must write poems or I will scream by Jane Harvey
- Untitled Poem by Frances de Larminat
THE GODDESS
by
Jes Sweat
The mountain, high and rocky, was not covered with the lowland's olive groves, heavy with oily fruit—but wise, sturdy beeches. My teacher and I relaxed in the grass among spring flowers, and my attention was towards him, both in body and mind. I studied the cloth he wore, how it draped across his torso. I studied the way it moved in the wind, revealing his shoulder, collarbone, and chest. I revealed the same shoulder, the same chest—aware of how I might appear to him or anyone else.
Sweat pooled above my lip and other dimpled places. I looked to the sky and observed the sun's chariot, just past its mid-point. The first hot day of the new year. I wondered if my teacher, diligently gathering plants for medicine, ever looked to the sky and felt a familial affection.
That’s how I first learned about my teacher—the great tales of beasts and men, immortals, semi-mortals. I loved the old stories. He was born from the union between an ancient god, no longer seen or worshiped, and a common water spirit. Upon seeing the newborn, his parents were not surprised but disgusted, and discarded him for his strangeness. And so he was found, helpless and alone, by the sun who raised him, with his twin sister, the moon. They taught him all they knew, and he became known for each of their qualities—both intellect and instinct, knowledgeable in the ways of learned men and wild beasts.
"In late spring we collect helleborine, if we can find it," he told me then.
"It is long-stemmed and upright, with white sword-shaped flowers—the shape of which conveys its protective qualities. Defender of immunity, it can return the sick to right, and keep wounds from becoming putrefied or corrupted."
I plucked one. Its thick stalk shot up into a ladder of delicate-looking flowers. Dragging my finger along the edge, and found it was not as fragile as it appeared, maintaining its shape under pressure.
I felt the breeze then, grass licking at my skin, sunshine, waving flowers; all the energy of springtime, bursting from the underworld. I wished these days would never end.
"Teacher, you have taught many great men."
I traced the edge of a blade of grass, then tore and rolled it between my fingers.
"You’ve taught my father, as well, who only wants the best for me. But I am no hero.”
I began tearing grass by the fistfuls, raining them down upon the earth like plagues.
"I want to lay in the meadows, observe the seasons and their changes, cure life and tend to it—like you do, teacher. You stay in the woods, among the flowers and small creatures, studying, listening, learning."
My face was hot.
I could feel my teacher's eyes on me, but I could not meet them.
We sat there.
The trees swayed, their leaves gently whooshing.
He said nothing, and I could wait no longer.
I glanced up at him, crinkling my eyes at the sun, afraid he would be upset with me for speaking against my father's wishes. Instead, he smiled.
"Some men desire to do great things, for which they need guidance on how to please the gods. Some men are also fools, and fools are led by hubris or by ignorance—and if by ignorance, the fool may displease the gods without ever knowing."
He stared over the mountain, and beyond the sea.
"But those who come to learn from me cannot claim ignorance. And if they anger the gods, they will die knowing exactly the reason. A hero may choose to sacrifice himself anyway."
My teacher had lived a long time. Had he, in that moment, remembered everyone he ever knew?
Feeling the weight of his words, I rolled onto my back. A cloud swept across the sky. The grass pricked my back and arms. I thought I had understood him. I should find a way to please my father and stay true to my own heart—but my teacher's lessons were not always direct, like seeds in the breeze, not the soil.
I watched him closely, as we left the grove and journeyed deeper into the woods. He trotted ahead of me, pointing out cyclamens, anemones, and strawberries. He collected various medicines and tucked them away in his bag. I enjoyed watching him work, but I still felt a busyness in my chest. I wanted clarity around my confession.
He moved with ease, never careless. I had studied his intentionality. On his back, he carried a bow and quiver. Less like an instrument of death than one of music, his bow was lovingly carved from the branch of a wise, old tree.
He stopped, and put up his hand. The wind had stopped too, and I listened.
Birds sang from far away. I scanned the dense branches for movement. Some trees had begun budding, but the woods were still tawny and leafless, punctured from time to time by ghostly young beeches.
Then, I saw it. A flash.
A whisper of white; a candle's flame.
My teacher knew that I saw it then. He waved his fingers, urging me closer.
I knew what he wanted. I wiped my sweaty palms against my tunic. He crept behind me. I drew my bow and a single arrow, swiftly. I nocked the arrow and drew back my arm, using all my strength to keep it steady. My fingers tensed and my eyes searched carefully for the doe's tail. On my shoulder, I felt my teacher's hand, guiding. He pressed my arm into place. When he took his hands away, I knew it was time to let the arrow fly.
I hesitated.
I had loved the sport of archery as a child. I liked the way the bow felt in my hands, the uncomplicated power of it—how the whole world seemed to stop when I focused on my target. Father was delighted, of course. He boasted that I would become the greatest hunter in all the world. He had me practice every day, and I enjoyed it. The men had me shooting stuffed hides and wooden shields. I didn't know it was for killing. Someone should have told me. I could have avoided all of it; but I wouldn't disappoint my teacher.
I held my breath, released the arrow, and waited. There was a moment of stillness broken by a fluttering of birds. I went to find it, the deer's lifeless body, cradled amongst the fallen leaves. The arrow had landed straight behind the shoulder, and into the lungs. Quick and painless.
I sank into myself, heavy with grief. I was not pleased.
-
"I give so that you may give."
My teacher cut a lock of hair from the doe's head, and threw it in the fire where it sizzled.
He would skin the hide and hang it on a nearby tree. An offering.
The creature's tongue splayed out the side of its mouth. Its dark eyes and lashes, deep and lifeless. I couldn't watch my teacher work, so I prepared greens, mushrooms, and other foods from our afternoon in the forest.
I remember when I saw an animal butchered for the first time. I was six. I had gone to the kitchen for a snack. It was the afternoon, and the servants were preparing for a feast day. The cook came in with several carcasses over his shoulder, his smock stained red with blood. He took one of the rabbits, cut off its head and held it in his hands as casually as if he were peeling a potato. Revolted, I threw up my breakfast in a nearby vase, and ran. No one saw me do it, but I was certain my father would know it was me.
My teacher handed me a bowl of offal, cut into small pieces.
"For your hounds."
I thanked him and took the bowl outside, breathing in the cool, twilight air. I could see the sunset's pink hues zig-zagging through the trees, carrying the birds' rapturous melodies announcing the day's end.
Just down the hill were the dogs. My faithful companions—good hounds, and smart. They stayed away from the cave, and especially my teacher, who they were wary of. He didn't want to be bothered during meal times, or while he portioned the meat. But if it were up to me, they would never leave my side. Father will lock them in the kennels when I visit, but one day I'll have my own house, just me and the hounds. They'll sleep in my bed, eat my food, and come with me everywhere.
They could smell the offal from far off, but their discipline kept them from jumping. I sat down with the bowl on my lap and began slicing off pieces, tossing them into the crowd. I'd ensure they all got an equal piece. After eating, they puddled around, and I pet and scratched as many as I could. It was getting dark. The days were still short—sunny, but maintaining the brevity of winter.
I trudged back up to the cave, sore from exercises and the day's wanderings. My teacher's shadow cast a daunting figure up the wall. He was like that in my mind, too. Did gods cast shadows larger than men? Could they change their shadow’s shape? I had heard the stories of gods disguising themselves as beasts and men. To seduce women. To play tricks. I'd like to think I'd know one, if I ever came across any. That the air around them would feel different.
My teacher was already eating as I approached, and pointed to my bowl on a stone by the fire.
“You spend much time with your hounds."
I dragged my spoon around the bowl, filling it up with rich liquid, and trying to avoid the meat. There wasn't much to avoid. I imagined it was a courtesy.
"They're wonderful creatures. Better than most men I've met."
He raised his eyebrows.
"And is it true, you've named them all?"
"Some men fantasize about having sons. I need only my hounds."
"That may change."
"I thank the gods every day, to be away from my mother and her match-making."
He laughed.
"And you leave tomorrow? To see your family?"
"I wish I didn't."
"Your father will want you there, on his birthday."
“I’m sure he will. Like a golden cow he loves me. For his glory, not mine."
I knew my teacher disliked the way I spoke about my father, but he wouldn't chide me, for chiding only wounded, and a wounded man may not learn.
"To grow up is to understand the indifference of the fates."
I frowned, trying to puzzle it out.
"Can't I stay with you, teacher?"
He shook his head.
I stared into the flames, felt the tightness in my forehead and chest. I set down the bowl, no longer hungry. I felt as if my stare might burn the fire out completely.
In the morning, my teacher had prepared me a travel bag, with food and drink.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"Today you need all the energy you can get."
I had gone to sleep pouting, and overslept. I felt ashamed.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
"There are many ways to be a great man. We need men like you. Who love the forest."
Perhaps he could read my thoughts. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek and along my chin. I turned to check my satchel, so he wouldn't see.
"Thank you, teacher. I—"
"Safe travels, now."
Words were not enough. So the hounds and I set off at a good pace, braiding paths through the woods.
-
It was dark when we arrived. The great hall was filled with smoke, large fires burning at each end. The long table that transected it held guests of all kinds, and on the dais sat my father, in flowing linen robes. He held his glass high, laughing and shouting, receiving well-wishes for his next solar cycle. I drank along with him, but made sure to add water—not wanting to say or do something I'd regret.
Mother was next to me, her hair piled up with gold pins, and a heavy necklace above bared breasts. She drank deeply. She laughed too loudly. She retold the same old stories while father sat women on his lap, stuffing his face in their hair. An inventor, a hero, the son of a king. We were cinders in his presence. Mother put her arm on mine.
"My son, my dear son."
Her speech was drooping. She tightened her grip.
"I don't know what I would do without you. No, I think without you, all my faith in men would be lost. I pray to the gods every day. Thank you for making my son gentle."
She spoke to me, but her eyes were elsewhere.
"Thank you, Mother. I miss the simplicity of the woods. I’m a stranger here, among the people."
She let go of my hand and laughed, her head all the way back.
My aunts, uncles and cousins watched us from across the table.
"Do you think Father would let me go back?"
"Of course not."
"What if I devoted myself? To the forest? To the goddess? Caring for her shrines.”
"No, no, dear, don't be silly."
"I would honor her with my skills, with my love of animals—"
She turned to me with glassy eyes, dark and narrow.
"You would devote yourself to the goddess? Become a priest?"
"Why not?"
"You cannot. You must live here, to rule, to marry. Make a family."
"And if I refuse?"
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Have you been speaking to my sisters?"
"About what?"
I turned to look at them, but she grabbed my face and pulled it just a few inches from hers—her wine-soaked breath, hot and cloying.
"Your…"
The lines around her eyes and mouth became more prominent. She appeared to change her mind. She looked aged, and tired.
"You mustn't follow the gods lightly."
She let go of my face, and I rubbed my jaw where her nails had been.
"They don't understand the ways of men. We are their playthings. They live for ages and ages, and we live but for an instant."
She smiled.
"Don't worry about all that. You have time. You're still young, and your father is alive and well."
I looked around the room, and all I saw were drunk fools. Warriors with no war to fight, growing soft around the edges. Paranoid nobles and their attendants. There was an ache in the pit of my stomach, waiting to dance at the full moon—to feel the dewy grass at my back, to hear the rustle of trees and the hot sun on my skin.
"The gods are not your friends, son."
She placed an olive in her mouth and spit out the seed.
"They shine too brightly. And if we look upon their true forms, we die."
-
The attendant woke me. It was dark now, just before dawn. I had slept poorly. I slipped on my hunting tunic. Outside, the moon shone brightly, a pale crescent. I said a prayer to the goddess, who protects small creatures, and went to check on my hounds.
Dogs in kennels are a dark sight—I prefer them in the woods, majestic, perched like sphinxes on strong haunches. They were expecting food, but all I had was water. An empty gut gives a sharp tooth, father says. Once he had caught me feeding the dogs before a hunt. I played stupid, pretending not to know better—and I was beaten twice: once for feeding the hounds, and again for lying.
When I released the dogs into the yard, they whirled around in blurry circles. The men looked on, impressed. The men had readied our equipment. They stood waiting for my father, who lumbered over.
"Open the gates!"
The journey was quick, and we reached the forest's edge as the sun broke over the mountains. It would be a clear day, there would be no clouds. Father's priests gathered to bless the endeavor, chanting and praying, burning this and that.
At midday, after many hours of stalking, we found ourselves in a clearing. I was exhausted, tense. I rolled my neck around and stretched my arms above my head. While the attendants prepared lunch and the men drank from their wineskins, I found a quiet place to sit at the edge of the grove.
I watched the sun dip across the sky. I had sharpened my arrows and blade, and bound more fletching. I wanted to get on with it, but the men had become drunk—and father had them telling stories. Some of the tales were better than others, but many were awful. Barbaric. Lewd. After each story, father’s laugh became louder and louder.
Finally, he glanced my way—eyes unfocused and red with blood.
"Did you hear that, son?"
I did not look up.
"My son… He doesn't care for men's talk. He looks like a great man—but inside he is still just a boy."
I could feel their eyes on me, but I kept my head down, and focused on my lap. Flies buzzed in my ears and around my eyes, which had begun to water. I tried to ignore it, but he went on.
“He never played with the other boys, spent all his time alone. I caught him once, down by the creek—catching frogs and looking them over. Letting them go…"
He trailed off.
I looked up to find he had gone limp. The men called his name, but he didn't stir.
The attendants rushed around with water and remedies.
In the commotion, I slipped away. I left the grove, walking deeper into the woods—and when I was finally out of earshot, I ran. I ran to the top of the mountain, panting. I stepped onto a rocky ledge. I saw farmlands below, patterns of green and yellow. In the distance was the city, and the jewel-blue sea beyond. The wind tickled my face and hair. I laughed.
Turning inland, I descended into the valley. The canopy grew thicker, and the air wetter. Along my path was a pile of ferns on a mossy rock. In their shade was a crack in the rock’s face, and out of the crack trickled cool spring water. I cupped my hands to let it pool. The water was clear—cold and pure. I poured the first cup on the earth, to the spirits who resided there.
Then I drank.
It was good.
I drank again and again until I was cooled from the inside out. I turned to leave, but something stopped me.
Splash, splash, splash.
I tensed, turning slowly to follow the sound. It was not far. A path of ferns led me down the hillside and into a thicket of willows, draped in ivy and moss.
I came up behind one and peered around it.
There was a dark pool, mirror-like, holding the forest’s reflection. That’s when I saw them.
There were two, leaping through the water—their hair and bodies flowing like fine silk, their colors alternating between flesh, dew, and glass. Then more came, spilling over each other, laughing and embracing, playing and splashing, disappearing under the water.
I tiptoed around the pool for a better look. There were so many, and I didn't want to frighten them. Gripping a tree trunk, I pulled myself behind it, but the ground gave way, and I sank to my knee.
Frightened, I let out a small sound.
Had they heard me?
I crouched there, holding my breath. As slowly as I could, I pulled my foot from the mud and back onto firm ground. When I looked back to the pool, they were gone.
I let out my breath.
Was it a dream?
I pinched my face and arms.
No, not a dream. A miracle. A sign.
I thought of my teacher. What would he say?
I would go right now and tell him!
But when I got up, I saw nothing but light.
-
Pale, white light!
I put up my arm to shield my face.
I looked again and saw large, round eyes.
Staring into me, and through me.
Eyes lit by the somber elegance of the moon.
Her eyes.
I shivered from top to bottom.
Impossibly cold, her eyes. Silver.
Her face and body, slippery, like water.
She was like a woman, and also not at all.
I forgot to breathe.
It was so beautiful that I forgot to breathe.
-
When she spoke, it was the voice of many—deep and commanding.
"Now you are free to tell them all that you have seen me bathing."
I tried to protest.
"If you can tell."
But I couldn't.
All I could do was run. So I ran.
I ran faster than my own mind could comprehend.
I felt every muscle.
I heard every insect.
I was on all fours, pulling myself then launching forward. The forest was a blur of green, orange, brown, yellow—faster, faster, faster!
I was flying then. Great leaps over meadows, logs and streams.
When my body could no longer run, I walked.
I came upon another pool, and when I glanced down, the placid surface reflected a surprising image—dark eyes, long lashes, elongated nose with dark nostrils; ears that sprang up, swiveling, covered in tawny fur.
Then I heard something familiar.
My hounds, rushing towards me.
"There you are!" I tried to call, but no noise came out—and in their barks were not the friendly greetings to which I was accustomed, but the growls and yips of the hunt.
Too late, I realized who was behind them: the familiar gait of my father, with the setting sun behind him. I stared into his eyes, and he stared back.
He did not recognize me.
I thought, maybe, I could be free. No destiny, no war, no family, no city, no seat. Just another creature in the wild.
It was a sweet dream, but not a real one.
As the hounds fell upon me, nipping my arms and legs, I knew it was already too late.
And with one final breath, I heard my father exhale and let his arrow fly.