Remy Martin ~ A History

Remy

My name is Remy Martin—yes, like the Cognac. However, this is not my given name. Once, long before America was discovered, my name was Romulus of Rome. It is strange to be over two thousand years old and have the love of my life compare me to “a lot of broken statues and gladiators.” I remind her that those to whom she so flippantly refers were new when I was born; she only laughs and returns to her video games. That is how it is in this day and age. So quick to forget the past.

I only wish I could forget it so easily. I have many times witnessed first bloodshed in war—I have been silent spectator to the rise and fall of nearly every great civilization in the world. When I was known as Romulus, my Brother Remus and I founded the city of Rome. Our origin is complicated: filled with treachery, abandonment, victory, and revenge. With the blood of the god Mars coursing in our veins and the nature of wolves, no one could defeat us. No one, that is, but our selves. Thus, this tale is not of my birth, but of my death.

Once my brother and I built the magnificent city of Rome, I was elected King. Unfortunately, my brother was not pleased with the decision. He became distant and reclusive. Remus spent his time building a wall around the city, claiming we were in need of fortification. Though the city was under no threat, he insisted on exerting endless hours and resources to his folly. 

Upon completion of his Gods-forsaken wall, I challenged his claims that no man could penetrate his barrier and survive. To my utter chagrin, my brother chose to prove the wall's effectiveness himself. As I and my court looked on, a newly determined Remus vaulted over the wall—the god Pluto claimed him before he set foot on the other side. My brother sacrificed himself so no army could overtake our city's wall and live.

My brother and I had overcome so many odds we thought ourselves immortal. We had the strength and speed of the Gods, but as we came to learn, we lacked the Gods' everlasting ability to live.

I was left to rule the Empire alone, feeling the weight of my brother’s death profoundly. A short time later 

I formed a group of several men who would act as leaders to my regions and help me rule. However, I now knew that one day I too would die.

I could not have that.

In fear of my brother’s fate and the impending shuffling off of my own mortal coil, I set out to find the Gates of Tartarus. I intended to take up the matter with Pluto himself.  

It took me years to find Pluto. When I did, he turned out to be one of the more reasonable Gods; he advised me to live my life and abandon my search for immortality. I have wished many a night I had heeded his words. When Pluto realized I would not be swayed, he grudgingly suggested I pay a visit to 

Lilith, but to be wary of any gifts she may bestow upon me.

High in the mountains over Rome I found her, living alone in a lavish villa overlooking my metropolis. Lilith had a veil of long blond hair, cunning blue eyes, and a beauty beyond compare. How such a woman so close to my domain had escaped my attention, I did not know.

When I asked for the secret of her immortality, she showed me an eternity of nights feeding off the life’s blood of my people. 

I was reluctant to accustom myself to such a life of horror and regret. But alas, I was helpless before Lilith's beguiling beauty and sinister charm; she held a power over me I could not fight. In seeking her, I had traded my freedom for immortality.

I had wanted to live forever, but not like this.

I continued to rule over Rome for many decades, but as Lilith’s influence over me grew, so did her influence over Rome. Under her power, Rome transformed into a brutal, cutthroat society determined to conquer every land within its reach by any means necessary. She was power-hungry: demanding sanguine tribute from the people. If I did not concede, she would descend upon the city and force me to help her bloody my fair streets. 

When my maker was not appeased, crimson cries of the proletariat and aristocracy alike echoed through the alleys. She orchestrated wars and drove me to dominate neighboring countries through terrible and atrocious means. The night we took Sabine was horrifying, one which will remain etched in my memory. The screams of the men and women haunt me to this day.

Rome could not survive in this manner. Crops dwindled along with the people. Mobs formed. A civil war loomed on the horizon and I would not, could not, allow my beloved Rome to be torn asunder by her own citizenry. I made a desperate decision: one night, in the midst of a terrible thunderstorm, I left Rome. 

I slipped from Lilith near dawn and began my long journey, hiding in caves during the day and traveling by night. When I could not find humans on which I might feed, I lived off what animals were near. Each moment was torment as I felt her calling, beckoning me to return.

I sought Pluto, begging to be released from my bond with Lilith. Unfortunately, I was beyond even his help. 

My only remaining option, Pluto asserted, was to kill her; but in doing so, I would damage myself terribly. Our blood-bond was all encompassing; I would live, but my soul would be torn asunder. Pluto assured me I would one day heal, but not before passing centuries of loneliness, anger, and desolation. I heeded his warning, but knew I would rather live an eternity in pain than spend it enslaved by Lilith.

I made the long journey back to Rome with the secret to Lilith's demise. Her wrath was terrible. As punishment, Lilith locked me away until my own hunger drove me mad. She then loosed me on my own army: I demolished an entire battalion before coming to my senses. I was sickened as I looked upon the horror I had wrought upon the people of Rome—my people. I had become a bane to the very home I had created, to the very city I sought to protect.

Lilith had to be stopped.

With loathing, I acted as Lilith's obedient slave until she was confident in the totality of my submission to her every whim. It was a long year of unspeakable torment to me, but my people were safe, and would be from her horrors forever. 

One morning while she slept, I forced myself awake, and snuck into her chambers. There, I cut off her head, burned the body, and carried her ashes to the temple of Pluto where I asked for his acceptance of her infernal remains. As her ashes flew up onto the winds, I knew Pluto had heeded my pleas: Lilith was gone. In that moment I crumpled, feeling as though the heart had been ripped from my chest. It was torture beyond anything I had ever experienced. Yet, I was free from her control—I was a free 

Roman once again. I would have rid the world of her presence a hundred times over, regardless of this wrenching in my chest. 

Once I was able, I returned home. There, I vowed never to make another of my kind.

Unfortunately, when I reached the city of Rome I found her so changed she was no longer mine. 

However, knowing she was safe from Lilith, I decided it was time to go my own way.

I ceased to be Romulus of Rome. From then on, I had no name. I wandered the world a shred of my former self, in pain and utter devastation. True to Pluto's word, my torment lasted centuries.

Then, one day, when I felt as though I had nearly become accustomed to my suffering, the pain subsided and I began to heal. With no goal for the long life ahead of me, I settled in Europe in a land called “Britain,” before it acquired the “Great.” It had once been part of my own territories making it familiar enough to be a comfort and yet different enough that I could exist without constant reminder of my past.  

From Britain, I moved to France and settled near a small commune: Point-Remy. I spent many years in this idyllic locale. As the people came to know me, they bestowed upon me the name of their patron saint—Saint Remigius—and affectionately referred to me as “Remy.” The people and their saint reminded me of the home I once knew in Rome, before the death of my brother, where life was divine and we were loved by our people. I spent nearly a century in Point-Remy, and though I loved my home in France, I eventually had to leave.

I changed cities every few decades, continents on occasion. I even fought in wars when necessary. Mars still favored me in battle and I won every skirmish in which I participated.

When I eventually tired of the world and its politics, I settled in the New Americas to sit back and watch the human play unfold around me. There, I adopted the last name of Martin after the distiller of my favorite Cognac, and Remy Martin was born.

Slowly but surely, supernatural beings settled in this new Land of Opportunity and wreaked much havoc, particularly throughout the American South. I helped the supernatural law, the Order, establish rules to keep more fearsome and stubborn supernaturals in line. 

The Order eventually discovered my history and began referring to me by my given name—Romulus existed once again. This time as enforcer instead of king. My former name drives terror into the minds of those who are familiar with my terrible deeds. However, to myself, I remain Remy Martin: a solitary immortal who becomes Romulus only when needed.

In all this time, I had kept my vow never to make another. That was, until Pluto—who is more popularly known now by the name Hades or simply Death—called upon me for a favor.

I have tried to relay this story to my love, but as such a young creature she, unfortunately, has the attention span of a gnat. One day she may listen and she may become frightened of my past. But ultimately, it makes little difference. We are who we are—we are bound to one another, and not even time can sever these bonds.

The Wraith

The Wraith

~Tales of Ithiria~

Written by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Talese Shertzer

~

The crunching of dried leaves underfoot was rhythmic, slow, and relaxed. The target was unaware of being watched. It was going to be an easy kill; so easy it hardly seemed worth it, but the money was right.

The Wraith waited with rapidly diminishing patience and realized that his mid-afternoon whiskey was wearing off. He checked his bag for another flask. No luck. Cursing his tolerance, the scruffy predator leaned against a thick branch and waited. His tree vantage point provided excellent camouflage and an easy view of his mark.

The Wraith slowly filled his lungs and listened. There was a lot one could learn by simply listening. He could tell if someone was careless or cunning, if someone had a limp or a hunched back, even the very mood they were in, if he only listened hard enough. The man, if he could still classify himself as such, could hear everything. Not just the chirping of birds and scurrying of marmots in the foliage. He could hear wolves stalking deer in the distance, fish splashing in the stream a mile away, even the whispered creaking of the trees. It was easy for him, no more strenuous than breathing. Ignoring it was the difficult part. If he hadn’t learned to drown it out years ago, he might have gone mad. He could hear every creature in a five mile radius, but not a one of them could hear him. It was vital he stay calm while tracking and hunting; if his emotions flared they would sense him, as sure as they could sense a forest fire.

He groaned as he listened to the man’s steps: his prey was in no hurry and would not be in striking distance for some time. With little else to do, the Wraith took his knife and began flaying an apple, red from white. He hated waiting.

Idleness was the Wraith's greatest enemy, static moments tempted bad memories. Memories of death, cities in ruin, rivers of blood, lovers engulfed in flame. They were all visions of another life—of a man formerly known as McTrave. He had been a good man, a man who operated by the codes of honor and valor. A King among men. That man would be disgusted by what he saw now: a two-bit assassin for hire known simply as The Wraith. A name given to him by those who had survived his brief company. He was a horrifying apparition amongst the world. McTrave had died long ago, shriveled and disappeared after seeing everything he cared for reduced to ashes. All that remained were nightmares in a hollow shell.

After spending years hunting ghosts, the man had given up. The old McTrave thought he could find a way to bring her back, but he'd traveled from one end of Ithiria to the other and found nothing. Each devil he encountered was naught but a waste of time. Any Mystic worth their salt knew better than to consort with him, they could sense what he was. They knew to be in his presence was to tempt death. Years had passed and McTrave was no closer to getting her back than he was to finding a way to rid himself of this cursed existence.

With nothing left to live for, McTrave had set to wandering, taking jobs where he could and doing the one thing at which he excelled: destroying life. He took no joy in his endeavors and was sure to be quick in closing his deals. No need to cause the slaughtered more suffering than necessary. His exploits had become legend. His terrible deeds were even used to frighten children away from of the Woods. Well, at least he'd achieved some good, he thought as he tossed his apple core, pulled a rolled cigar from his bag, and lit it with the spontaneous flick of a finger. What did he care if he was reduced to being a story book monster? Even the followers of The One True God were starting to adopt his misdeeds into their lore. How he hated the pious contradictions of this new Religion. He'd spent years setting fire to their temples, but every time he destroyed one, two more sprung up in its place like some terrible hydra. The bastards.

The Wraith pulled on his cigar, instantly reducing it to ash. Annoyed, he sent the burnt remnants fluttering to the ground. Yet another cigar ruined by his infernal temper. He leaned back, trying to get his mind in the game, and heard footsteps approach. To work, he thought as he cleaned the blade of his hunting knife.

He waited as the target leisurely passed beneath his hiding place in the foliage. The man was actually whistling. So jolly, so carefree. For a moment, the Wraith almost hated to strike, but he was in the perfect position. It was keep it clean now or let it get messy later.

With a step, the Wraith plummeted to the forest floor. In an instant it was done. His prey continued a pace before realizing anything was wrong. Curiously, he wiped the blood from his throat and looked at his hand. He turned to the Wraith questioningly, then gurgled as he fell to the forest floor.

“There are worse deaths,” he told the dead man as though it might be some comfort.

Just then, McTrave caught a draft on the wind. He smelled something familiar, something he had smelled on the man who hired him. Glaring down, the Wraith used a foot to roll the body onto its back. The man, his prey,was no more than a boy, his facial hair just starting to grow. He couldn’t be older than seventeen. What could a boy of his age have done to deserve death?

Then he saw it: the hair, the eyes, they were the same as the client who had hired him. It wasn't until then that he understood what he had been paid to do. He was accustomed to dealing with murderers, cheating husbands, thieving employees, revenge, an eye for an eye, the whole bit, but not this. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He steadied himself on the trunk of a tree. What did he care that he had been paid to kill the man’s own son? Why should that bother him?

It was the boy. He had been so happy, so unsuspecting, no idea his own blood wanted him dead. The Wraith didn’t kill children, despite popular belief. He was a monster, but even he had his limitations.

“His father would only have hired someone else,” came a creaky voice from behind him.

He didn’t need to turn to know who, or rather what, was was there. “I should have asked. I know better than to go into a job blind,” he replied, staring bitterly at the dead boy.

Had he grown so tired of it all that he could let something like this slip?

“You’re burning it,” the voice called.

The Wraith looked up to the smoldering hand print he'd made in the tree.

“Malachi, we need to speak,” the voice, little more than the crackling of burning leaves and smoldering wood, groaned.

“Do not call me that. I am not Malachi.” The Wraith pulled his hand from the burning bark, cleaned the boy’s blood from his knife, and turned to the thing behind him. The little creature was more rock than man: a three-foot hunk of smoldering volcanic magma with stubby appendages and the vague suggestion of facial features. “We have nothing to discuss. Now go away.” His growl was both demanding and pleading.

“No, Malachi,” it replied. “This time you must hear me. Things are happening, things you must be part of.”

“Why? Why can’t you find someone else?” The creature of fire had followed him since he could remember, but it had always left when commanded, without question. Why the hell wouldn’t it leave now?

“There is no one else,” the little man replied. “This is not the existence you wish. Why pursue what you hate?”

“This is all that is left of me.”

The creature looked saddened but did not back down. “I will help you,” its voice was gravel in a tumbler. “I know what plagues you. I see it. I feel it.”

“You do not know my pain!” the Wraith hissed and the leaves beneath his feet began to smolder.

“Not as you do, no. I see you are tormented. I know you do not want others to suffer.” The Wraith did not argue. “Follow me. I will hide the memories, but that is the limit of my ability.”

The Wraith looked at him fully for the first time. “You can make them go away?”

The little man hesitated. “It is dangerous. I cannot block one memory alone. I can take all, or nothing. Eventually the effect will ware. When it does, there is no telling what will happen, but it will be painful.”

“I do not care,” he replied darkly. “Anything is better than this torment.”

The little man sighed heavily. “As you wish.”

“What do you need me to do?” His mouth was a set line, his eyes blazed.

“You must guard an item vital to the existence of this world. I will show you.”

The creature started into the woods, moving faster than its stature should allow.

The Wraith followed. He did not want his memories, any of them. He did not care for this life and would do anything to be rid of his past. It seemed amazing that the little man of fire had been the key to his salvation all along. He knew the creature would not have agreed had it not been desperate for his help, but he did not care, nor did he care enough to consider the danger. If McTrave could not find her, could not die to join her, than the Wraith must forget her. If that meant forgetting everything, so be it.

The End

Rhett Steamrun

Rhett Steamrun

~Tales of Ithiria~

Written by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Talese Shertzer

~

The night air was filled with fog so thick one could hardly see a hand in front of their face, let alone a gang of boys lurking across an alleyway. This particular passage was especially dim—one of the few in the Industrial Domain still lit with gas lamps instead of electric lights.

Everett waited patiently for their target to reach the flickering street lamp on the corner. That's when he would give Glasser the signal.

Everett often spent his nights scouting wealthy areas for the boys to pick pock in. It was their way of life. But lately it had become tiresome. It wasn’t that Everett had suddenly developed a moral outlook on stealing. The rich horded their wealth and could afford to lose a few coins—especially in the Industrial Domain. Industrialites spent ridiculous amounts on trinkets and baubles designed to assist with tedious tasks like brushing teeth and knotting gold-embossed bow ties. Everett heard there was now a machine designed to tie shoes! Citizens of the Industrial Domain had actually grown too lazy to bend over their own stuffed bellies. What was this bloody world coming to?

Everett never felt bad for stealing, not when it was between a new necklace for an air-headed Industrialite or a meal for him. But he had never relished the taste of harming others. However, theft kept him fed, healthy, and even funded his experiments.

As Everett checked the pocket-watch in his waistcoat, he felt twitchy. He always felt that way before something bad happened. Tonight, he had an idea of where that bad wind may be blowing.

Glasser.

Normally, he and his brethren kept a low profile when thieving. They only targeted those who looked like they could afford it. No more than a couple targets a week, and never in the same spot. Ignoring these rules was exactly how people got caught, and Glasser was growing dangerously close to that line.

Glasser had been pushing high-end hits in the same wealthy areas. The others said nothing because of the payout. The upstart had even roughed up the last couple of targets, leaving them with black eyes, even a broken arm in one case. There had been a small blurb about it in the back of the local paper, Industrial Highlights. They weren’t exactly making headlines, but they were garnering attention, which was both foolish and dangerous.

Ever since hitting puberty, Glasser had been reckless. Their patriarch, Varlet, had warned them about the powerful effects of hormones. He'd said that the onset of manhood was a delicate time in which it was the most important—and the most difficult—to keep a level head. Glasser was not adjusting well to this transition. Then again the boy rarely listened. Everett was only sixteen, but he heeded his lessons and learned fast, faster than the other boys. And definitely faster than Glasser.

The flash of an emerald necklace caught his eye, pulling him back to the here and now. Their target had reached the softly hissing lamp-post. This was the signal point. Everett pulled a flint lighter from his vest and flicked it once as she turned onto the side street. Almost instantly, his four companions, headed by Glasser, hurried into the alley after her.

Everett waited a moment, making sure the street was deserted, and followed the boys into the sideway. He could faintly hear the woman struggling as he approached.

“We got it,” one of the boys called as they rushed past with the necklace. “Best hurry back to the Boiler Room, it's getting late.”

“What about Glasser and Hodge?” Everett asked.

“They said they’d meet us. Don't worry about them, we got the jewels,” the other boy insisted as they hurried off into the fog.

Everett moved to follow when he heard muffled screaming from the passage behind him. Were Hodge and Glasser still holding the girl? Cautiously, Everett stepped back against the heavily shadowed wall and crept forward. When his eyes finally adjusted to the dim alleyway, he spotted three figures in the mist. Something was wrong.

“Hurry up then,” Hodge whined at Glasser impatiently. “How many more valuables could she possibly have?”

“Quite a few,” Glasser called in a dark tone. “Why don't you run along. She won't put up a fight. Will you, dearie.”

“You never leave a brother without back up. Rule number one,” Hodge insisted.

“Just go!”

“If you get into trouble, Varlet'll take it out on me.”

“Do it! And if I find you've told anyone, I'll have your head on a pike.”

Without another word Hodge ran off, passing Everett without so much as a blink of an eye. Silently, Everett approached Glasser and the target. When he finally reached them, anger rose in his cheeks. It was now clear exactly which valuables Glasser was after—the degenerate was fussing with the lady's skirts. Everett could put up with the attitude, even the violent tantrums, but this was the last straw. Someone had to teach Glasser a lesson.

Everett unhitched a leather case at the side of his belt and gently turned a small crank, initiating the chain reaction. He only every used the defense mechanism in emergencies, but Glasser was spry. Who knew what he would do when confronted. A gentle humming—taut with unseen energy—coursed through the line that ran up his back, over his left shoulder, and down to his hand.

His steps were careful as he approached the struggling pair; one wrong move and the blade Glasser had at the girl's throat might slip.

Everett knew he would get the drop. Glasser was too busy fussing with her knickers and from the look of things, he had gotten tangled in her petticoats. Everett was suddenly glad it was fashionable for Industrialite women to wear so many flouncy layers.

In an instant, he snatched Glasser's dagger and placed a hand to the heathen's neck. The bright electric current dropped Glasser to the ground before he could utter a word.

“Run,” Everett told the girl. Without a word, she gathered herself and hurried down the way, wailing for the police once she reached the open street.

Glasser lay on the cobblestones struggling to regain the use of his muscles. Everett would have to adjust the power next time, the scoundrel was already coming around.

“What'd you do that for?” he muttered, his words fuzzy as his lips proved uncooperative.

“You went too far this time, Mate.”

Everett dragged Glasser to the nearest gas lamp, removed a thick wire from his belt, and bound him to the post.

“Let me free and I'll let you continue breathing,” Glasser hissed.

“I don't think so. You've broken too many rules. You're a danger.”

“Your stupid tricks won't keep me here long.”

“Long enough. That wire is tested up to three hundred pounds. You aren’t even a buck fifty.”

“I'll tell the Varlet. You don't turn on a brother.”

“You aren’t my brother. Too long you've gotten your way and now it's time to pay the piper. Maybe some time in lock-up will teach you how to behave. Good luck ratting me out from a jail cell.”

“Jail?” Sirens sounded and hurried footsteps echoed down the alley next to them. “Let me go!” Glasser panicked. “I'll pay you anything. I have a stash under the loose boards beneath my mattress. You can have half!”

“Not this time. Give the boys in stripes my regards.”

“You're no better than me, Steamrun! You're no better!” Glasser's yells faded as Everett hurried out the side road, down a few narrow passageways, and finally out to the docks. Everett knew his moral compass didn't exactly point north, but he couldn't stomach the abuse of innocents, no matter how spoiled and petulant they may be.

~

Everett sat at the air dock, his satchel close at his side. Glasser had a lot more stashed under his bed than he'd thought possible. The boy must have been cheating Varlet for years. It would be more than enough for a new start. He would have to change his name though. Glasser wouldn’t stay in jail forever and Everett knew enough of the boy to know he was not the forgiving type.

A sister at the orphanage he'd been raised in used to call him 'Rhett.' Perhaps it was time for Everett's story to end and Rhett's story to begin.

The End

Medusa's Reflection

Written by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Talese Shertzer

~

People had once flocked from all over Greece to see the magnificent Temple of Athena. The land had been a paradise before the goddess herself punished it. Now, the island lay barren, the trees leafless—naught but a forest of skeletal silhouettes starkly etched by the setting sun. Ancient abandoned vessels lined the tiny coast, marking the waters where they rose to the shallow's edge. The ships, once the pride of their various regions, now floated desolate and dead, nothing more than additions to a cryptic collection. Much as their masters to Medusa's ever-expanding Stone Garden.

Medusa slithered across the deserted ruins that served as her prison. Squinting against the sun, she gazed down at the shore, recalling the island's former glory. Lately, the threat of a new ship on the horizon seemed ever-present. Black marks on the edge of her vision. The one now was just a speck in the distance. Soon enough it would breach her shore and a new horde would disembark, in search of her head.

Medusa picked at the statue of her latest victim. He wasn’t much older than she had been when cursed to this wretched existence. She longed to trade places—he was free to run in the Elysian Fields, eternally happy. She, on the other hand, was cursed with Immortality. True, on a few occasions, she had been close to death; yet each time, when she thought release would finally be hers, Hades sent her away—eyes averted from her petrifying gaze. She could die, she could be slain, but Athena’s curse kept her soul rooted to her serpentine body. The afterlife was forever out of her reach. There were no Elysian Fields for Monsters.

Gingerly, Medusa touched the fresh scar on her cheek. The last ship to visit had brought Spartans onto her shore, brave soldiers come to conquer the Mighty Snake-Haired Gorgon. Vicious and vile men, the lot of them. If not for her cursed stare, they might have gotten her. In the end however, victory had been hers. Another fleet turned to stone. Trinkets for her Gothic gallery of failed heroes.

The great screeching of her Sisters drew Medusa’s attention to the sea. They cried warnings of the oncoming ship, which advanced faster than expected. Why her Sisters cared whether she lived or died, Medusa did not know. Even they, her own blood, could not meet her deadly gaze. They kept their distance, protecting her from afar.

Medusa did not know of her Monstrous Sisters until after she had been cursed. Nor did she know that her parents were great sea creatures. In hind sight, it made sense. The priestesses of the temple had raised her. However, she had always been drawn to the sea. In her youth she would see things in the water she shouldn’t have: faces looking up at her from reflecting pools, strange creatures jumping and swirling in the distance. Perhaps thats why he took an interest in the first place.

Her former life seemed a pleasant dream. So many years had passed on this desolate island. Had her face ever been framed by golden locks instead of hissing snakes? Had she ever danced on white sand shores with adoring patrons? Had she ever been surrounded by anything but death? Her old life seemed so silly compared to this harsh reality; yet she would give anything to have it back.

Tonight was the full moon. Her one night of peace every cycle—the night the sea looked its most beautiful. As she made her way across the vast temple, Medusa found her reflection in a shard of mirror. She could just make out her face: still young, still cruelly beautiful despite the scars and snakes of her hair. It was an evil joke that her face had not changed—Athena’s constant reminder of what Medusa had once been, of her former humanity. Without this face it would be almost easy to forget that she was ever raised as a human, so easy to be lost beneath the snakes and claws.

The serpents crowning her head curled around her face, as if to comfort her. It was painful even for Medusa to look into her own eyes. They seemed every color at once. It made her eyes ache, and yet it was hard to look away. She suspected this was how the warriors felt: compelled to look into the eyes of death, to peek into Pandora’s box.

Medusa slithered solemnly toward the back gardens of the demolished temple. There thrived the only life left on the miserable island. It was her sanctuary: beautiful grounds fed by the waters of a spring fountain, the only place untouched by Athena’s wrath. The garden was a gift from her beloved, a place teeming with flora and light. Here, there were no eyes to see her, no flesh to turn stone. Flowers of every kind grew, their colors so vivid, so full of life. It was the one place Medusa felt a true connection to her former self.

At the edge of the fountain Medusa coiled herself and waited, watching the shifting colors of the sky as the sun sank beneath the sea. The moon shone brilliant, causing the ocean to sparkle. She sat entranced by its beauty while behind her the waters of the fountain began to stir. The spring rose and gently frothed and shifted as a flowing form emerged from the fountain. Strong, wet arms wrapped around her shoulders. With a sigh, she settled back into their embrace.

“How are you this evening, Dearest?” a strong voice echoed.

Her heart leaped; gently hissing, the snakes of her hair calmed, her eyes closed, and she smiled. “Better now.” The fluid figure rose up to sit next to her on the fountain's ledge.

She gazed up at the translucent liquid version of the man with whom she'd fallen in love so many years ago. His cool lips brushed hers, his waters calmly washing over them. He tenderly returned her gaze.

And winced.

Even in this form, her eyes had the power to bring him pain. Medusa’s heart sank, she could see the hurt reflected in the pools of his eyes. She turned back out to the sea.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked her.

“You know it is,” she laughed lightly.

“It's all for you,” his cool moist hands ran down her arms, sending shivers through her. “Sing for me.”

“No, my love,” she replied solemnly. “My voice has gone to rust with misuse. I have no time for such frivolity. Warriors come by the dozens to cut me down.”

“Your voice is sweet as ever,” he sighed, kissing her cheek. There he noticed the fresh scar. “They have marred your beautiful face.”

“You are a fool to call me beautiful,” she hissed sadly. “These Hunters, they grow in number and strength. Or perhaps I grow tired. I have been here too long.”

“I have pleaded with Zeus to free you. However...”

“I am a danger. He will not let me go. No living thing can survive my gaze… not even you.”

Medusa continued to watch the approaching ship. There was nothing he or anyone could do to stop them. Athena decreed that anyone looking for Medusa’s head would find calm waters and a favorable wind between them and the island. Her love had argued with Zeus, but Athena would not be reasoned with—not even by the King of the Gods.

“They are coming for you, my dearest,” he told her suddenly.

She wasn’t surprised. He always tried to warn her when danger was nigh. “I saw the ship on the horizon this morning,” she told him, staring at the daunting silhouette in the distance.

This one made her uneasy, there was something different about it. In all her years she had never seen a faster ship. “Let them come,” Medusa told him with false confidence, “I will be ready.”

“Not this time,” he replied, to her surprise. “He is a son of Zeus.”

Medusa looked to the flowers of her garden. She had lived here so long, wishing she could leave, wishing she could put an end to this gruesome imprisonment. Now her love said she would soon be conquered.

“You can try to fight him, but he will win,” he told her sadly.

“You wish me not to fight? You want him to take my head?”

“I want nothing of the sort. But there is nothing you can do.” She could feel his grief. “Athena has shown him how to defeat you.”

Medusa sat silent. Many times she had longed to die, longed for the afterlife, whatever it held for her. Now, hearing she would be dead upon the ship's arrival, she was not sure what she wanted.

“Then let me die,” Medusa sighed. “Perhaps I will finally find my peace in the Underworld.”

“Athena will not let you go so easily.”

“Easy?” Her snakes spat and recoiled. “You call centuries of entrapment on this island, of being tangled in this body, easy?”

“Steady, my love,” he soothed. “Athena has decreed that you will be defeated. But she has bound you in this body, and so you will remain. Zeus’s son wants your head as a trophy. There you will be captive. Forever looking out.”

“Dreadful!” Medusa hissed. “This is to be my fate?”

“I have a solution,” he replied. “I cannot keep him from slaying you. However, I can keep you from an eternity of service upon Athena’s shield.”

“How?” she asked, her snakes' tongues flickering. All their eyes turned towards him.

“Sleep, my love. Apollo will keep you in dreams until Athena has done with you. You will not wake, you will not feel the blade. Nor any other torment.”

Medusa rest against him once more, his rippling waters soothing her angst. She only ever felt at peace when she slept, when the sighing and susurrrations of the snakes were finally silent. A far more agreeable fate than the alternative.

“Then I am to remain like that forever?” she asked.

“I will come for you, as I have come every waxing moon with Apollo’s protection,” he smiled down at her, softly placing his cool, damp cheek against hers. “Until then, be steady. Sing for me. Sing, and think of what sweet dreams await you in Apollo’s care.”

Poseidon wrapped his aqueous arms around her. Enveloped in the lapping tranquility of his embrace, Medusa sang sweet songs of Water Nymphs and Sea Creatures. Her voice was rough, but her songs could still tempt the Gods down from Olympus. She and Poseidon lay together by the fountain till the sun rose. There she remained until the Son of Zeus came to claim her head. 

The Gingerbread Witch

The Gingerbread Witch

Written by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Talese Shertzer

~

Missy sat in the living room of her Gingerbread Home watching her son sink his fangs into a toy truck. She had never had this problem with her daughters. Then again, their father had been a Sorcerer and not a Scientist. Her new husband was a good man and brilliant, but she wished he'd mentioned his family’s genetic quirk before they’d had a baby together—it had missed her husband entirely, but hit her son full force. Puberty was not going to be fun.

She sighed and watched as her little boy swallowed the rest of his masticated tinker toy. No matter how much she fed him, he never seemed satisfied. The kid was no bigger than a Dwarf, but could somehow manage to eat an entire roast duck and still have room for dessert. At least living in a Gingerbread House provided her with extra food.

Missy sat back and cackled unexpectedly. Irritated, she put her hands to her temples and rubbed. She'd had this awkward version of Tourettes since she could remember, yet it never ceased to annoy her. Annoyance and frustration were feelings she was all too familiar with lately. She groaned as she thought back on the last year of her life: it hadn’t been good. Her husband had been gone researching some experiment, her daughter was away on the school Extension Trip, and her experiments to correct her Tourettes consistently resulted in her skin becoming a different color. Today her skin was a dark lime—but it was better than the canary yellow of the day before.

The throbbing in Missy's temples was just beginning to subside when the door chimes intruded on her calm.

“What now?” Missy groaned. Then cackled. Then got up to answer the door.

She really needed to check her Crystal Ball more often; she was not in the mood for visitors. Looking through the window, Missy was surprised to find Genevieve Goose standing on her candy apple red hard-candy porch. When she opened the door, the pleasantly rounded woman looked up through her little round bifocals and smiled tentatively through her round, rosy cheeks.

“Hello, Miss Wicked. I need to speak with you, if you have a moment,” Genevieve greeted politely.

“What a pleasant surprise. By all means come in.”

Missy let out a sigh as they settled into her couch. This wasn’t a wholly unexpected visit and from the look on Genevieve’s face, she was not the bearer of good news.

“I think you know why I’m here, Miss Wicked.”

“Missy,” she corrected, letting out a loud cackle.

Genevieve jumped slightly but continued. It wasn’t her first trip to Missy’s house.

“I’m here on government business. I think it will be easier if we keep this formal,” Genevieve replied.

“If you insist, Ms. Goose.”

“Thank you,” she nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s about those children you sent away a few months back. They’ve been making some rather...ahem...wild claims about you.”

“Yes, the rumor mill has trickled back to me.”

“Then you are aware of their accusations?”

“Yes. They're ridiculous! I would never eat a child.”

“I know that, Miss Wicked.”

“You know their background. The children were raised as con artists. Their parents had them begging on the streets before they abandoned them here. Terrible people!” In her disgust, Missy cackled abruptly.

“Well, the children will be fostered by their Uncle in the Industrial Domain.”

“Good, get those two cretins as far away from me as possible,” Missy sighed. “They nearly ate me out of house and home, then blamed me for how fat they got!”

“So, they did accuse you of fattening them up?”

“Yes, they got mad because I made them do chores, which you know I ask of all my tenants since they're staying and eating for free. They are the two laziest children I’ve ever seen. They even attacked me when I caught them stealing from my pantry! They nearly shoved me into my own oven trying to get away. Had I actually gone in, I would have been flambé, I could cook a horse in that thing. That was the last I saw of them and good riddance!”

“Yes well… they said you threatened to serve them up for dinner.”

“It was a joke!” Missy could no longer hide her anger. “One little joke about them being fatter than the turkey we were having for dinner and suddenly I’m a cannibal?”

Genevieve cleared her throat. “I believe you said,” she pulled out a small file and read, “ʻyou two are so round I should serve you up for supper. We would have meat for weeks.’”

Missy sighed then let out a high-pitched laugh. The cackles were always worse when she was stressed.

“In hind sight, that might not have been the best thing to say, but seriously. I have three children of my own. Why would I want to eat those two?”

“I’m sorry about all of this.” Genevieve sounded tired. “We thought setting you up out here to help lost travelers was such a wonderful idea. The number of people lost to the Black Woods has seen a substantial decrease in the few years you've been here. Building your house out of sweets to help people find it turned out to be a brilliant idea.”

“Well, it’s just easier for me to maintain,” Missy replied modestly. “I’m terrible with thatch and wood, but give me an oven and some sugar and I can produce miracles.”

“It was all working out so nicely.”

“Was? How bad is it Genevieve?”

Genevieve Goose shifted in her seat. “Well… I mean the Cinderella rumors just blew over.”

“Oh, not that,” Missy groaned. “None of that is true! You can go ask her, or any of my kids! I treated her like one of my own. You know what a clean person Cindy is—can't stand to leave a dish unwashed or a floor unswept. She was happy as a clam in my home. But when she told that dullard husband how she spent her time, he took it and ran with it! You know how the Charmings are about my family. They’ve hated us since grade school.”

“I know, but it’s the rumors,” Genevieve sighed. “Get enough people talking and they can make a Saint a Sinner. It’s all gossip, but you know how that spreads in town.”

“One of the many reasons I was happy to move out here in the first place.”

“Missy…” Missy took a deep breath, barely able to restrain a nervous cackle. This was it, the really bad news. “You’re going to have to close down the program.”

“No!” Missy was stunned. Cutting back her funding or salary she could handle, but being let go all together? “You’re firing me? How am I supposed to support my kids? My son is only two, his father’s always off on some wild goose chase… no joke intended. Amanda just left a few months ago on the Extension Program. You know how expensive that trip is! This is practically my entire income.”

“I’m sorry, Missy. I’ll do what I can, but we’ve been told to disband the project.” Genevieve placed a sympathetic hand on Missy’s shoulder. The two had been good friends in grade school. Mixing business with friendship was always difficult. “You also have to remove the 'Lost and Found' spell you created to guide people here,” Genevieve's voice was soft .

“That was a strong piece of magic. It won’t be undone easily,” Missy groaned.

“You have to, dear. It’s this new Government. You know it wouldn’t be like this if they had kept the monarchy. Then again, our little program might not even exist if King Richard hadn’t stepped down.” No matter how much kindness Genevieve put in her voice, there was no comfort for Missy. “And…” Genevieve sighed.

“Another and?”

“The Higher Ups have requested that you lay low until the brunt of the rumors stop circulating.”

“What?!” Missy’s cackle was almost a scream. “I'm under House Arrest?”

“Not as bad as all that, but essentially. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Amanda is away and there should be more than enough time between now and when your Son starts school for this to disappear.”

Her bifocals winked in the sunlight streaming through the sugar glass windows as she looked up at Missy. “You know I would help if I could, but I’m not going to be here much longer. This job is starting to get to me. I don’t think I'll be working for the Government anymore.”

“No! What are you going to do?” Genevieve seemed so content working for the Government. Missy wondered how many surprised one day could hold.

Genevieve thought for a moment and gave a little shrug.“Not sure. I have a teaching degree. I may apply for a position at Legends Primary.”

“Well, they would be lucky to have you.” Missy meant it; Genevieve was a good woman..

“Thank you, Missy,” Genevieve smiled sadly. “Please try not to worry about all this. There's a decent severance package and I’m trying to find another job you can fill in the meantime. You still have your home. You’re a very resourceful woman; I know you’ll bounce back. You always do.”

“Thanks,” Missy replied unenthusiastically. She unfolded her lanky frame from the couch to walk her rotund little friend to the door.

“I really am sorry,” Genevieve apologized again as she descended the hard candy steps. Turning back, she flashed Missy a smile,“By the way, that shade of green is lovely on you.”

“Thank you,” Missy’s chuckle was sincere. “Let’s get together for tea some time soon.”

“Only if you make those blueberry crumpets you do so well.”

“It’s a deal.”

Missy waved and watched as Genevieve disappeared from her yard. She cackled loudly to the empty yard and shut the door.

“Great.” Missy's forehead hit the door with a soft thunk. The sugar glass creaked in response. “I really need to start checking my Crystal Ball.” She turned to find Brody eating his way through the fruitcake fireplace. “I suppose I could start a candy store,” she laughed as she scooped her son off the floor. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He let out a resonating belch of agreement.

The End