Entrevista

This is the Spanish version of Interview, a short story that appears in our new book, The Thread. Available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon.

Yo no pregunto ningunos acertijos. ¿Para qué? Me entretiene charlar con hombres en su idioma, nada más. O sus idiomas. Todas las lenguas humanas son parecidas: sujeto, objeto, verbo. Una vez que domines una, puedes hablar la otra.

Los dioses no nos dicen nada en ningún idioma hablado. Nos dan señales. Si no sabemos interpretarlos correctamente, es decir, en nuestro beneficio, ¡peor para nosotras!

Además, los dioses nos dieron cerebro para que pudiéramos pensar por nosotras mismas. La devoción no sustituye al cerebro.

Para que lo sepas: corro más rápido que cualquier hombre y cualquier caballo. Sólo lo menciono para que no te desgastes en vano. No es que tenga que retenerte aquí. Por mucho que disfrute de tu compañía, si quieres ir pa’ casa ahora, no hace falta correr, no me moveré. Pero no intentes colarte.

Por última vez: no matamos a seres humanos. Tenemos instrucciones muy claras al respecto: «No hacer daño a los humanos».

The Thread (𐄏)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

As long as I remember, I knew I was adopted. It never was a big deal for me. The official story I heard was that my biological parents died in a war inflicted by Father and he, out of guilt, took me to the palace. I’ll probably never learn the truth. In public, my adoptive parents did not treat me better or worse than the rest of my siblings. Well, Father didn’t show much affection toward either of his daughters. No doubt Mother loved all her children but, as she spent most of her time in the Women’s Wing, she developed much closer connection with us girls. And since it was only me who accompanied Mother to the Facility, our bond grew stronger.

𐘃

Mother never told me what I should do. She explained what I can do and what could be the consequences of that. I would not go so far as to say that there were no secrets between us. I can’t read Mother’s mind. She is very good at keeping her and others’ secrets. But I have many reasons to believe she has been most open with me. And I strived to return the openness.

As soon as I realised that my and Aster’s relationship is much bigger than that of brother and sister, I shared the news with Mother. She responded, darling, I knew it, but thanks for telling me.

Her reaction didn’t mean she didn’t care. Quite the opposite.

𐘰

One day she told me, Aster grew up without a father. I suppose you don’t want that for your child. So you two may want to talk through between yourselves whether it’s a good idea to start a family while Aster is in the Maze.

While Aster is in the Maze.

She said it almost casually, as if my lover’s freedom was simply a matter of time.

Then I realised that Mother was not hoping for a miracle to happen but actively searching the ways to achieve this objective. And counting on my help.

𐙀

As the Fates had it, the Athenian ship brought us the solution. The High Priestess, who at the time combined that post with her position as Head of Intelligence, was in cahoots from the start. To keep the status quo, you have to be open to change, she said. The stranger came to our land to change the status quo. Let’s put him in charge of the status quo.
The show must go on. One Monster in the Maze is quite enough for the purposes of the Programme.

And she was right.

𐙟

I am writing this as Aster and I are basking in the autumn sun on the desolate beach. He’s dozing off as I caress his African hair. After a stint on the continent, we moved again and now live in a fishing village on a small island far away from both Athens and our homeland. The people are friendly but not nosy; that suits us. Here we are known as The Foreigners and happy to be accepted as such. I keep in touch with Mother. She sends us letters every moon — mind you, separate ones for me and Aster. We read them aloud to each other and laugh. Recently she asked me, do you still play with your toy boy? A bit rich of her, considering.

𐘥

It’s true that sometimes I still act as an elder sister to Aster. In the past six years, I taught him to swim, to sail and to ride horses. So what? In his turn, he explained a lot of things to me, most of them hardly practical. Like probability theory. But he’s also shown me how to cook — which is great, because I always hated it. I wonder who he learned cooking from. Right now, he is into Italian cuisine and teaches me some simple dishes. He says, it’s the future.

Speaking of which: we don’t plan to have children yet. Aster spends a lot of time fishing, sometimes he’s away for several days. What he earns from selling his catch is enough for the two of us, but only just. For my part, I tried my luck giving private classes and discovered, to my consternation, that there’s no great demand for skills I can teach. There are no cities on this island. Maybe we’ll have to move once again. Wherever we go, it has to be next to the sea.

𐙡

I used to write a diary in Knossos. Not anymore. Here papyrus is scarce and expensive. Whatever we can get hold of, we use for writing letters. I scribble these notes on a scroll of washed papyrus that I bought at a flea market, still on the continent.

Conversely, the current resident of the Maze has taken to writing, I’m told. When he’s in a mood, he reads selected scrolls to Mother. He calls his work “memoirs”; according to Mother, it’s more like speculative fiction. She encourages him to publish it, under the stylus name of his choice and edited by herself. We’ll see. I, for one, would like to read it when it’s out. I even sent Mother my own suggestion for that name: Asteroid. Don’t you dare, she wrote back.

If our roles were reversed, I would reply with the same words. That Athenian and Aster have got absolutely nothing in common, apart from both being men.

𐘘

Why did I talk to him that night anyway? The High Priestess advised us just before dinner that there was enough intelligence gathered to confirm the identity of the spy. Yet I felt he deserved the benefit of doubt… until we talked. I saw it in his eyes. He stared at me as if saying, don’t worry, Princess, I’ll be back and I’ll take you. So I cut our conversation short and gave him the skein. By the way, it was Mother’s idea to make his route in the Maze as predictable as possible. In general, to replace his plan with ours. Him following the instructions confirmed what we already knew.

𐙷

What amazes me is that he bought into our plan hook, thread and sinker. He didn’t even bother to leave any wall marks after him, which was an obvious thing to do. Not that bright for a spy. Mother says, all these years he kept whingeing how I — that’s me — betrayed his trust. Some people got a nerve.

𐙈

Earlier this year, the High Priestess ruled out that the Athenian will ever be released, good behaviour notwithstanding. All evidence points to him being a serial killer and vigilante, also wanted by the authorities in Athens. So he’ll stay where he is. At least in the Maze he’s got a new identity... and the rest of his life. The Fourth Exercise is going ahead as planned.

𐙁

It’s funny how you try to get away from it all only to start bumping into people from the past. We met Dead while travelling in Italy. He told us the Island was getting too uncomfortable for him, without going into details. I strongly suspect it was Mother again who organised his escape, however Dead insisted that he had nobody to thank but himself. His latest contrivance supposedly allows one to whizz from the Island to the mainland in a matter of hours. In time, he said, it will revolutionise travel, but for now it’s too expensive to enter mass production. Aster nodded enthusiastically; I thought the old chap was losing his marbles.

𐚩

In other news, Mother’s long-time dream has come true: she has opened the School of Pharmacy which boasts world-famous lecturers and where she herself teaches twice a week. There were rumours that the Chair of Toxicology was offered to a certain Medea. Mother didn’t confirm or deny that. She maintains that the selection process is still ongoing and strictly confidential. For now they occupy the old Facility but tarting next academic year they’ll move to the purpose-built premises on the waterfront. I’m so happy for her.

𐙹

Isn’t it strange that these days I think about Mother much more than when I lived in the palace? No, it’s only natural. Back then I was thinking about Aster most of the time. Now I don’t have to.

I never ask about Father, and she never volunteers any information about him. In this, Mother and I didn’t change: we continue blocking him from our minds. I heard from the other sources that he might suffer early-onset dementia. I’m determined not to care.

𐘦

In her last letter Mother said, Ari, you made your own choice. You could have chosen any free man you wanted. But Aster, he didn’t know any better, or any worse. His only choice has been you. There’s no reason why one should stay with another forever. Now that he is free, he might fall in love with another woman. And you may discover that you don’t want to live with him any more. It’s fine by me. If I were faithful to my husband, there wouldn’t be Aster.

I still did not read this one to him. Should I?

I think I should. There’s also this part that clearly is for the two of us:

I am fed up with you lot addressing me as “Mother” as if there were no other purpose in my life. Stop it. From now on, call me Pasi.

𐘲

This story appears in our new book, The Thread, available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon.

The Thread (𐄎)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

Patient Visit Report

Name: Asterion, son of Pasiphaë
Age: 24 years
Last routine examination: five moons ago; no illness reported (as per the patient’s medical record).
Chief complaint: that he is restrained.
Other complaints: the continental breakfast portion size.
Description: the patient is disoriented (not knowing where he is) and confused about his own identity. Shows aggressive-suicidal behaviour. Talks about himself variously in first (“I’m a <illegible> hero”), third (“Have to destroy the Minotaur”, “Death to the Minotaur”, etc.), and both first and third person (“I’ll show him”). Uses formal titles for his close relatives (the Queen, the Princess) while can describe their appearance in greater than necessary detail. In spite of spending most of his life in the Maze, apparently unable to find his way around, e.g. to the bathroom. Paradoxically, immediately recognised me as his doctor (false memory) with the words “You’re late again, <illegible> quack”. Tachycardia.
Diagnosis: acute psychosis.
Immediate treatment: Her Majesty Pharmacy™ Herbal Sedative no. 21, orally, 1 dose with a cup of Valerian infusion.
Follow-up: continue with a daily dose of Herbal Sedative no. 21 for two weeks. Plenty of rest and <illegible>. 24-hour surveillance nurse attention. Weekly music therapy sessions (optional; flute is not recommended). Avoid alcohol and spicy food. Double portion of continental breakfast.
Revision: in two weeks’ time from today. In case of emergency, call me in.
Date: <illegible>
Signed: <illegible>

Note 1: the patient’s regular doctor could not be reached at the time of episode as she was off to a Mediterranean cruise. This report was completed by the Emergency Physician who was given access to the patient’s medical records under oath of non-disclosure.

Note 2: for the two weeks, the patient was kept at the Facility, then transferred back to the Maze after the medical revision.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄍)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

From the report of 𐄍, Senior Lieutenant of the Secret Service, responsible for the operation of detention

There was no difficulty in identifying the subject among the passengers disembarked from the Athenian ship, for he was considerably older than his companions. His behaviour also differed from that of the rest of the party. If the younger men and women were showing signs of anxiety and fear, the subject was smiling, joking and even trying to flirt with Her Majesty and the princesses who were all present at the farewell dinner.

The following morning, before entering the Maze, the subject bribed the guard to let him smuggle a bladed weapon^*. As the guard immediately informed his superiors, the agents were keeping an eye on the subject at all times ready to disarm him. At the same time, they were under strict orders not to harm him in any way.

Once in the Maze, the subject deployed a so-called “thread”, likely as a tracking device. The analysis has shown that the thread was identical to those on sale in the Ariadne Wools shop, one of the tourist traps of Amnisos. The thread had snapped approximately half-way to the central chamber which could be explained by the poor quality of the wool. This occurrence, when discovered, caused the subject to panic and run back towards the entrance; in reality, by repeatedly taking wrong turns, he was moving in the opposite direction.

The subject was apprehended in the central chamber of the facility where a group of operatives, myself included, were waiting for him. The subject was interrogated in situ whereby he grew agitated and aggressive. He did not provide any meaningful answer to the interviewer’s questions, instead interrupting this latter with questions of his own. After asking repeatedly where he could find “the monitor”, the subject was shown a mirror. The subject remained in a state of shock for several hours, until the Emergency Physician arrived (the Patient Visit Report is attached).

*	The cash obtained thus was fully accounted for and transferred to the Treasury, as is the standard practice for funds raised through controlled bribery activity.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄌)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

These youngsters were the crème de la crème of the new generation of Athenians. Not only rich but well educated, excelling in sports and arts and, let’s admit it, good-looking. Yet it seemed that, by sheepishly accepting their destiny, all of them lost the will to fight. Throughout the journey, the mood on the ship was positively funereal. I tried to cheer them up, but to no avail. On top of that, I heard words like “jerk” and “nuts” behind my back. What a bunch of losers.

After a few days in this disagreeable company, I was almost happy when we landed at Amnisos. In the port, we were met by a group of local dignitaries and a unit of royal guards. After a short welcome speech by one of the former, we were escorted directly to the royal palace. There we were in for a pleasant surprise. Yet another welcome speech — this time, by His Majesty the King himself — was followed by a sumptuous meal. Last supper, they called it jokingly. I, for one, didn’t get the joke.
One thing that irritated me in the beginning was that they sat down the boys, including me, separately from girls. The reason for that became clear when I realised that watching over the girls were two attractive female guards. Nice touch. The King was somewhat grumpy — as if the whole sacrifice thing was not his idea — and excused himself early, just after starters. As a consequence, the atmosphere in the banquet hall had visibly improved. The princesses were charming and chatty. One of them, who looked and behaved fairly different from her sisters, approached the boys’ table. She found friendly words for everyone and then, without hesitation, asked me to follow her. I took it as an order and gladly obliged.
To my disappointment, we didn’t go very far, just to the corner farthest from the tables. The princess and I had a brief conversation, of which later. Then she gave me a quick hug, a rather perfunctory one I thought, and urged me to return to my companions. Which I fully intended to do but was intercepted halfway by Her Majesty the Queen. Surprise surprise, she also wanted to talk to me.

I have to say that the women’s fashion here is extraordinary. In particular, the Queen’s attire as she wore that evening would make most Athenians blush. That includes me.

She led me to another corner and then, through a stoa, or a gallery, or a portico — one of those things there, I never remember which is which — to a small, tastefully decorated room.

Her Majesty told me, in so many words, to stay away from the princesses because there is no future in this sort of relationship. On the other hand, she added, if there is any interest at all in intelligent after-dinner conversations and possibly more, she could clear her schedule up to early hours of tomorrow.

“Alas, my friend, I can’t offer you much, apart from a night that you’ll remember till the end of your days.”

That’s what she said.

Call me picky but, in the light of my imminent slaughter, I wasn’t particularly taken by the offer. I mumbled something along the lines of me being tired after the sea trip and that I have to get up early, thanked her for the honour and rushed back to the dining room.

While I was away, the ambience had changed once again. The boys at my table, probably affected by wine consumption, perked up and were engaged in a lively discussion. Meanwhile, the girls were singing. I noticed one of the princesses at their table joining in the chorus. On the contrary, I was overcome by anxiety. I couldn’t wait for the dinner to end. The Queen returned to her place and from time to time was making fleeting eye contact with me, all the while adjusting her décolleté, but I was too distracted even to acknowledge the royal glances. Now I understand how rude it was of me.

My mind was flying back to the conversation with the princess. She asked some pretty neutral, I’d say innocent, questions such as “How was the sea journey?” or “Did you like the main course?”. Thank gods she didn’t inquire about my family. I had a distinct impression that all this chit-chat was for somebody else’s ears. And then, as she was hugging me, she discreetly slipped something soft in my belt pouch and whispered: “It’s your fate”.

The banquet was over shortly after midnight. I dreaded that we’ll have to sleep in some godawful shared dormitory, like we did on the ship. It was a relief when they brought me to my sleeping quarters, in a separate wing of the palace. At last, a private bedroom, even though for one night only and with an armed guard outside.
When I was completely sure of my privacy, I inspected the contents of my pouch. It included a ball of shiny silky thread (what the underground?) and a small papyrus scroll. A message! As I was scrolling (pun intended) through it, my heart started to beat with joy. The letter contained instructions how to reach the centre of the Maze and get back — with the help of the thread. Her plan was as genius as it was simple, why didn’t I think of it myself? I was kind of planning to use breadcrumbs for the same purpose, except I forgot to do anything about it, like to save a roll or two at the dinner. The thread is so much more reliable — and tidier.

The letter concluded with the line:

Good luck, xoxo Ari

Gods, so that was her name! During our short rendez-vous, she didn’t introduce herself, and why should she? Neither did the Queen. Nor did I, for that matter.
So I take it that Ari wants me to succeed and get back from my mission. Maybe we have a future after all? Good thing I didn’t hang after dinner with her nymphomaniac mother.
I was so excited with new hope, I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I was wrong.

I was woken to a gentle but persistent knocking on the door.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, momentarily forgetting that I was not in my home.
The guard half-opened the door.
“Would you care for some breakfast, sir?”
“Pardon me?”
“The thing is, you were randomly selected to be the first of your party to enter the Maze. By tradition, the person about to be sacrificed is given a choice: room service or to join their companions in the canteen for buffet.”
“Er... Give me a moment. Too much information to digest.”

Somehow the first part of the guard’s message was what I was foreseeing all along; I didn’t believe for a moment my selection was random but hey, it could play into my hands.

“Of course, sir. I hope it doesn’t take too long though. The kitchen is not open all morning, you know. Give me a shout when you are ready.”
With these words, he tossed me a papyrus scroll and closed the door behind him. Another letter? My heart began to pound again. With hands shaking, I unwound the scroll.

“Dear sacrificee #1”, it read (the number ‘1’ had been written in by a different hand). “We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Royal Palace. Your opinion matters to us. We would be grateful if you could provide feedback on your guest experience by completing the anonymous questionnaire (attached). Thank you for your visit, and we wish you every success for the future, whether or not —”

Furious, I crumpled the papyrus up and hurled it in the corner of the bedroom.
“Room service!” I yelled.
“Minoan or continental?” readily asked the guard from behind the door.
“Bring them both.”

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄋)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

From the (classified) memoirs of Her Holiness the High Priestess

I categorically deny that the youth undergo any type of brain-washing to instill hatred towards Athens. Why should we do that when the facts speak for themselves: it was their compatriots who turned their back on them, by sending them to sure death. Here, instead of brutally killing them, we offer these young people homes, loving families, the best schools in the region, health care — in short, everything possible for harmonious integration in our progressive matriarchal society. All under the simple and common-sensical condition: never return to Athens. But who’d want that, knowing perfectly well what fate is in store for them in their fatherland?

But of course we wanted to keep the true nature of the Programme secret from the Athenians: we need young men and women from overseas to bring fresh blood into the Island’s population. And, frankly, seven men and seven women every seven years is not too much to ask. Athens kill many more of their own citizens in mindless wars. As a matter of fact, we were doing a favour to them, and to humankind in general, by preserving the very best of their youth. The First and Second Sacrifices, sorry, Social Integration Exercises, were a resounding success. And then, as we were putting the finishing touches on the Third Exercise, we received an intelligence report that among the young Athenians en route to Amnisos there was a spy. And not just a spy: an assassin.

He had to be stopped.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄊)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

When I was a little boy, I didn’t think of the Facility as a prison. It was my home. And when I was transferred to the Maze, it became another, bigger home. I wasn’t intimidated by its size. I set to explore it and within weeks I knew the Maze as the back of my hand.

I was not a lonely child. Mother and Ari were with me. The teachers came to give me classes. I made friends with the cook and the cleaners. I loved the doctor’s visits because she always told jokes and brought me little presents. And when I was alone, I was not lonely either. There were so many things to do and to learn.

I think it was still my first year in the Maze when I received a visit from the High Priestess. She explained that a very important Celebration was coming to the capital, with many spectacular events planned. Unfortunately, due to my special status, I wouldn’t be able to attend any of them in person. Moreover, the Maze was designated as one of the venues and it was to be open to the public for two weeks. Not to the general public, but to a group of overseas guests without security clearance. During these two weeks, I was arranged to be moved to my old Facility to prevent inadvertent contact with the foreigners. All the usual security arrangements and calls of relatives remained in place, but for two weeks I wouldn’t have access to the modern amenities of the Maze.

“Sorry for the inconvenience”, she said.

I was not upset at all to spend two weeks in my old home. In fact, I enjoyed it. When I was back in the Maze, I noticed that they cleaned the floor and removed most of my scribblings on the walls, for the sake of foreign tourists I suppose.

This Celebration, whatever it was, was repeated in seven years’ time, complete with my two-week holiday at the Facility. The house seemed to be much smaller than I remembered it but all the cozier for that. Once again, Mother was coming daily, like in good old times.

One day, already in my teens, wandering about the Maze, I met an old man whom I’d never seen before but who appeared to know me. A man in his fifties, that was an old man to me.
“Greetings to you, Asterion”, he said.
“Greetings to you too, sir. And you are — ”
“I’m dead”, shrugged the man as if stating the obvious.
“With all respect, sir, you look alive and well to me.”
“It’s my name, young man. Dead. They call me Dead.”
What a conversation starter!
Dead said he was an architect, which was fair enough, and claimed that he built the Maze. This I couldn’t believe as he evidently had difficulties navigating his own creation. He said he entered the Maze for a routine inspection but left the map at home. I took him to the exit in no time. Dead was astounded.
“How do you do that?”
“I live here. I can find my way around here with my eyes closed.”
“And, if you don’t mind me asking… have you ever thought of escaping?”
“The exits are guarded. And what would I do outside? Where would I go?”
Dead assented gravely.
“Indeed. Oh well, I guess I’ll see you next time I’m here.”
Since then, we’ve met countless times. I reckon Dead was coming to the Maze more often than was necessary for inspection. I learned later that he had serious problems at home. For one of my birthdays, Dead presented me with a set of dice. He made me interested in probability theory so we spent many an hour playing dice trying to prove or disprove some of Dead’s more outlandish theorems.

Once Dead asked me:
“Can you show me where we are on the map?”
Ah. The famous map was produced.
“Sure I can,” I answered, perusing it. “Let me see, we are here. But what’s this?”
It turned out, I didn’t know the Maze that well after all. Criss-crossing the map, there were several paths that I had no recollection of whatsoever.
“Ah, them. These are tunnels.”
“Why have I never seen them?”
“Because the entrances are concealed.”
“And this?” I pointed at the pair of dashed lines that was disappearing beyond the edge of the map.
“Another tunnel that leads to the port. We were using it to bring the building materials for the Maze. Oh. Completely forgot. I was meant to carry out an inspection of the southern auxiliary tunnel.”
I bet he’d made it up.
“Can I join you?”
Dead gave it some consideration.
“Mmm... well... why not. Let’s go.”
As I followed him, I heard Dead muttering something like “see, I am not supposed to show that to anybody... especially to the boy... then again... what the underworld!” and so on.

That’s how I opened to myself a whole new dimension of the Maze. And not only that. For the first time, I was doing something forbidden. Although Dead never showed me the map or mentioned the tunnels again, with time I explored all of them. I located the entrance to the “port tunnel” but it was cluttered with construction waste and I wasn’t able to go very far. To my great joy, I hit on a number of tunnels that were not on Dead’s map. As a consequence, my mental image of the Maze, while increasing in complexity, shrunk in size. Using tunnels as shortcuts, I could get from any point to any other point in less than a quarter of an hour.
It was exciting, exhilarating even. Also dangerous. Maybe that’s why it was so exciting. I am trying to rationalise it now, but then I simply felt I had a secret that was not to be shared with anybody. Not even with Ari. Especially with Ari.

In parallel with the transformation of my Maze universe, my relationship with Ari also evolved. Other dimensions sprouted and the distance between us shortened. One dimension was temporal. When I was a child, I didn’t think much about time or the distant future. Now Ari and I were spending hours on end talking about what lies ahead for both of us. Ari always had her own life beyond the Maze and was looking forward to her, hopefully bright, future in the wide open world. My future had been decided by others, and there was little we could do about it.

“What do you think would happen if I ever get out of here?” I asked Ari once.
“You’ll see that the Island is another prison, only bigger,” she responded.
It dawned on me that I was on the brink of blabbing about the tunnels. Thanks to her response, I didn’t.
In any case, our conversations made both of us appreciate the moments where we still were together.

Another new dimension was also related to us growing up. Yes, you guessed right. I was not ashamed of me becoming physically attracted to Ari then as I am not ashamed of it now. Again, it was both exciting and frightening. It was new. Ari was a part of my life, well, forever. My sister, friend, confidante. We felt safe together and we felt safe when we parted because we knew that tomorrow we’d be together again. And now I was afraid. I thought if we crossed the line, I might lose her.

Dead used to say that nobody can see the future. What we can know is the chance of a certain event happening. One day, or rather evening — Ari got permission to stay overnight — I tried to express my confused thoughts in terms of probabilities whilst pacing to and fro about the room.

“If we, for example, multiply the predetermined probability of me staying in the Maze till the end of my life, which is one, by the uncertain probability of you...”
“Quit talking gibberish and come over here,” Ari proposed. “And stop fiddling with those dice.”

That night, we found ourselves on the other side of the line. And we were not afraid anymore.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄉)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

I never loved him, nor did he love me. The marriage was arranged by our parents. Still, for ten years or so I tried to play a good wife and mother while tolerating his infidelities.

And then, for the first time in my life, I fell in love. I was so head over heels, I threw away all precautions. No regrets. I was still young. I felt desired.

The bull provided a useful distraction. The idiot of my husband was smitten by it. Not surprising, actually, knowing where he is coming from. He spent all the days with that animal, and most likely nights too. That garden shed on four legs, I’m sure the hubby ordered it because his pet was not reciprocating. And he had the cheek to insinuate that it was me who used it. What for? Bulls don’t dedicate much time to lovemaking, ask any vet. The business per se takes a couple of seconds. I cannot imagine any woman who’d be thrilled by the experience.

And the real father? The man who I thought was the love of my life. A coward who, upon learning that I was expecting, fled the country. Typical. Even though my dumbass husband was so obsessed with the bull thing, he would never suspect me of having an affair with a mere mortal. Let alone African. (Ah, blessed double standards! There was no shortage of putitas of every social class and colour passing through his blasted Majesty’s bedroom in the early years of our marriage, when there still was some lead in his penicillus, if you know what I mean.) So, neither of these two ever saw my son.

To deliver, I had to go to a maximum security hospital, with the ward guarded by the soldiers, as if there was some kind of monster ready to devour people from minute one. I was attended to by the best doctors and midwives but still, it wasn’t nice. Besides, the labour was long and difficult. You’d think after so many pregnancies it would be a piece of cake but no. True, the baby was big. But when he was finally out, oh, believe me, he was the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen. And this was what my husband envisioned for my newborn son: life confinement. Who is the monster here?

Truth to be told, it was not even his decision. He couldn’t decide on anything without consulting the oracle, or so he says. Very convenient. As was when the wonderful bull went berserk and the same oracle recommended to be rid of it. The butchers here were offering good money but in the end the halfwit sold it for peanuts to the Athenians, whom he hates.

Of course I can’t be objective. My other sons, even when they were babies, all had my husband’s face. The daughters, no, they have my features. Even so, all of them, apart from Ari, rejected baby Aster. I didn’t expect my own kids to turn that racist. I totally blame their father. Also myself, for having children with this bigot.

Initially, they kept him in a heavily guarded house they called a “Facility”. It was spacious enough for a child and had a garden. Every day, until he was one year old, I’d come to the Facility to breastfeed and play with him, and Ari always accompanied me. Such a lovely girl. Later, perhaps inevitably, our visits became less frequent. As a teenager, Ari would go on her own to stay with her brother. By the boy’s tenth birthday, the current building was completed and Aster was transferred there. They said that it was better equipped than the old Facility, had everything a growing young man needs, like gym, library, workshops, spare bedrooms in case the visitors — such as me — wanted to stay overnight... Everything, apart from freedom, that is. For me, it’s just a giant stupid prison. Frankly, I preferred the old one, not least because it was closer to the palace. Now for me it is quite an undertaking. Eventually I would travel there just once a week. Maybe it was for the best. Aster must have grown tired of his poor mother bursting into tears every time it was time to leave. Ari, to be able to see him as often as she wanted, took horseriding lessons. Much to my husband’s annoyance, I have to add, but who cares. All these years she was my boy’s best friend. His only friend.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄈)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

As we mark the fifteenth anniversary of the inauguration of this majestic, awe-inspiring and, dare I say, labyrinthine edifice, I, in my capacity as Minister of Swift Justice, allow myself to say a few words. I know, I know, everyone is hungry, nobody came here to listen to another career bureaucrat. But hold with me, won’t take a minute, I promise.

It’s fair to say that ours is the first penitentiary in the world where a would-be offender is detained before, not after, he commits his heinous crimes. How do we know that he commits them? Why, by bringing him these innocent young people that he murders and devours, in flagrante delicto. Do you need any more evidence? But here’s the beauty of the situation: by placing the cannibalistic creature in our loving care, ipso facto we transform the disgusting unlawful killing into perfectly legal and even commendable sacrifice. Everybody wins, apart from the sacrificed youth, of course.

Lamentably, His Majesty could not attend this function today due to other commitments. Never mind that, we’ve got an equally or even more distinguished invitee with us. The most faithful patron of this monumental work of modern architecture, as well as a devoted mother, an animal lover, Doctor of Pharmacy and a ravishing beauty — folks, please give a big hand to Her Majesty the Queen.

To be continued...

The Thread (𐄇)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

So here I was, in a quandary of my own making. Did I have to ask my uncle for that signal in the first place? Now that the animal had showed up, I couldn’t just kill it. You must be blind not to see that it was not your common or garden variety bull. For all I know, it could have been my uncle himself. There was little doubt that the old guy would be mad at me regardless. The question was, what would enrage him more: my attempt to sacrifice him or my disobedience?

Next thing, my whore of a wife fell for the beast instantly. I am not good enough for her, give her a barnyard animal any time. To be fair, it’s not entirely her fault. This is what the gods do. They find it hilarious, to turn into a hooved creature, seduce somebody else’s missus and look at the husband’s reaction. What could I do? Swallow my pride and wear my horns, that’s what. O ignominy! By the time the word of scandalous pregnancy reached my ears, it was abundantly clear that the bull was what it was, no matter how magnificent, and not a god of any kind. Still, butchering the poor bovine — technically, the father of the future prince — wasn’t even on the table. I wouldn’t risk angering yet another god, my father-in-law.

What I did do, however, was to make sure that the abomination was securely locked up from the moment of its birth. The oracle told me to build a high security prison for the bull’s offspring. I charged my best architect with the project and didn’t spare money on it. It took twice as long as planned and was three times over budget. I was still grieving the loss of my elder son then. Controlling finances was not the first thing on my mind. As usual, I was the last to learn that the very architect built that wretched wooden cow. Really, I can’t trust anybody on this island.

To be continued...

A day in the life of Medusa

This story appears in our new book, The Thread, available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon.

Whoever it is, they don’t move silently around my garden. I am a light sleeper, so I wake up. I hear it, my dogs smell it, and my vipers see it with their thermal vision. Ultimately, it’s Salua whom the intruder has the misfortune to touch while sneaking past her. She brings him down with one swift move; a loud jangle ensues as he crashes on the floor.
I approach this sorry heap. Now he is quite visible, a young man. The snakes encircle him in a sort of a living wreath. He is cowering in terror, averting his eyes and, without much success, trying to hide behind a shield. The rest of the hardware is on the floor, still within his reach. I identify the object closest to me as the Helm of Hades that Salua must have knocked off the guy’s head. A bit further from me, a weird-looking sword and a leather bag.

“Welcome, stranger,” I say. “Before you do anything else, be so kind as to pick up your sword and slowly hand it over to my slave. Don’t make any sudden movements, my serpents don’t like them. Salua, towel.”
Salua fetches a towel from the bench next to the swimming pool to accept the sword.
The guy obviously understands my words for he does as told.
The same procedure is repeated with the helmet, the bag and the shield. Devoid of the latter, the boy crouches even more, looking down and sweating profusely. I am about to order him to stand up when I catch a glimpse of his footwear. Could these be the sandals of Hermes?
“Hey, take those off too.”
My guest obeys, albeit more reluctantly than before. Trust me, I empathise with him.
Now there is nothing between the snakes and his bare feet.

Of all weapons, fear is the most powerful. Even without the magic helmet, the boy had every opportunity to flee. A part of me still wishes he did. But no, he meekly allowed two women to disarm him. Now he stands no chance. All his magic gear is spread on the towel under the watch of Salua. Where did I see that shield?

“Hey, you”, I address him. “Get up. Slowly.”
He does, still staring at his feet.
“Good boy. Now, introduce yourself.”
“I am Perseus Eurymedon, son of Danaë of Argus”, squeaks the good boy in a curiously high-pitched voice that almost makes me giggle. I cover my mouth, feigning thoughtfulness.

Danaë, Danaë. This name rings a bell.

“Do you know the name of your father, son of Danaë?”
“No... Not really.”
The bastard son of Danaë is lying, but I decide not to dwell on his genealogy for a moment.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are Medusa of Sarpedon”.
“Why don’t you look at me?”
He keeps inspecting his bare feet as if seeing something new.
“They say... that your gaze turns every living creature to stone.”
“They who?”
Looks like he doesn’t have the answer.
“Listen, whoever they are, they are fools and cowards. The truth is, I can turn anyone – who’s not blind, that is – to stone. But only if I want to. I’ll show you.”
I whistle for my dogs. They come running, I pet them, kiss their noses and look them in the eyes. I walk towards Salua and make prolonged eye contact with her. (While doing it, I also wink at her, taking care that the boy doesn’t see it. Salua keeps poker face.)
“See?” I turn back to my prisoner. “Nothing happens. Now look at me.”
I come closer to him. Now there are barely two paces between us. The boy is younger than I thought. I am petite and he’s the same height as me.

I could have had a son his age, I suddenly think. If I didn’t do everything possible to not have a child, that is.

Cautiously, he lifts his eyes. He meets my gaze.
And nothing happens.
His face that never knew a razor retains some puppy fat. I would call it pretty, if not for those close-set, shifty eyes. He doesn’t keep eye contact for long.
“Now I have to tell you something. I can take your life in many ways, turning you to stone is probably the most merciful one. So. Behave yourself and answer my questions. Agreed?”
He nods.
“Good. What is your business here?”
The boy hesitates.
“Well?..”
“It’s...”
“A long story, eh? Don’t you worry, I have plenty of time.”
No response.
“Look, why don’t you sit down again and tell me your long story. Don’t skimp on the details. That will give you some extra minutes of life. What have you got to lose? Salua, pillow.”
Salua proffers a pillow; my prisoner takes it. I fetch my tablet and stylus, ready to take notes.
“Just don’t bore me, or I’ll cut you short”, I add.

So the boy sits down and begins his epic. He stammers at first, then little by little gets smoother. Instantly, dread sets in. No, he’s not a mere mortal. He’s a son of a god, and of a major one. I feel nauseous.

Danaë. I think I heard about her from one of my sisters. Another divine rape victim.

And this pup is here on a quest to decapitate me, clearly with supernatural help, what with all this kit he has zero experience with. Dispatching him will unleash the wrath of gods upon me. Ditto holding him prisoner: the gods will be alarmed by his disappearance. Letting him go is worse still: he’ll come back, and not alone. And his voice, gods, it gets on my nerves. No. He deserves death.

“So,” I interrupt him, “you are here because the king wants my head as a wedding present for his fiancée? Or maybe, just maybe, because the king wants to be rid of you?”

The boy stares. Apparently, the second (pretty plausible, eh?) theory never entered his mind.

“I don’t want to give you any ideas – it’s too late for this anyway – but, instead of trekking here, wouldn’t it be easier to get rid of the king?”

No, he didn’t think of that either.

Something tells me that it was the boy’s original destiny: to kill the king.

“Now, look at me. Do you believe I am an evil monster?”
He shakes his head.
“Did I cause any harm to you or your family, perchance?”
Ditto.
“Who am I, any thoughts?”
“A woman”, he mumbles.
Look at him, he’s blushing.
“Excellent observation. Anything else?”
“A very... beautiful woman.”
In any other circumstances, I’d feel flattered. Unfortunately for the kid, his ridiculous voice is as irritating as ever.
“Why, thank you, I’m glad you appreciate beauty when you see it. Yet you sneak here like a thief in order to murder a sleeping woman. Not very gentlemanly, don’t you agree?”
Sure thing, he agrees.
“I trust you realise that for my own safety I can’t let you live. But I feel generous today.”

I can’t believe my ears – is it me talking? Are you crazy, Med?
Salua looks at me incredulously.

“So I propose you choose the way you die. Not many people have this opportunity, you know.”

Just finish him, silly girl, I tell myself, stop talking. Many a villain met their end on account of their logorrhoea. Perseus knows too much, he must die. And yet I can’t shut up.

“I promise I can help you to meet your end with dignity.”

Gods, whom I hate, I sound horribly pompous. No, I didn’t think that through. Even if he kills himself, say jumps from a cliff – oh, there is a perfect spot! – the gods will be after me. Or will they? Do they know my whereabouts? If yes, why send the kid sniffing me out to Graiai? Ah, I see, that could have been another test. But what if they don’t?

A sticky silence descends. I look again at the towel. I have no doubts now about that shield. I used to be closely acquainted with its owner. What for did she lend it to the boy, I wonder. She must be well aware that it won’t save him from being petrified. If it were your dull run-of-the-mill bronze mirror, like I’ve got in my bathroom, it could just about work. But this one reflects the light perfectly. In fact, I could use it as a weapon. It’s simple physics. Or... Could it be that she wanted my assassin to fail?
Incidentally, years ago, she gave me a gift too. A parting gift, as it were. A pair of gorgeous Asian vipers. Why did she do it, I’ve no clue. Was it irony? Pity? Curse? Care? (Woman, you tend to overthink.) I named them Stheno and Euryale, after my sisters. So cute. Stheno turned out to be a male but then it was too late to change his name. Thus far, the old couple are alive and well, and the rest of the reptiles in my garden are their descendants.

What happens next shows that deciding upon Perseus’ mode of death was neither up to me nor up to him: the Fates, as the saying goes, have their way. The boy, who was fidgeting for a while, all at once jumps to his feet and makes a dash – where? We’ll never learn but I guess it dawned on him, belatedly, that he could have escaped from us. Alas, he treads on a serpent.

Short story shorter: Perseus is no more.

After shooing away my snakes, I find myself kneeling beside his still warm body. His brown eyes are, at last, wide open and don’t avoid my stare. But what’s this water on his chiton?
My tears, that’s what.
I didn’t wish you death, boy, I mutter.
Salua helps me to my feet. Her face is expressionless when she gives me her mighty hug. We stay embracing each other for a few minutes.
“Come, miss,” Salua finally says. “Go house. Salua take care the man.”
“No, Salua. I will do it. But I need your help.”
We have to act before rigor mortis sets in. Salua helps me undress the body. Perseus naked looks even less muscular than I suspected. Flabby arms and tummy, gynaecomastia. Boy, his garments stink. I tell Salua to wash them well and hang them to dry. She disappears into the house.
It’s time to do what I, and I alone, have to do.
Perseus told me himself that the harpe was there to cut off my head and the bag was to store it. And bring it back to whoever asked him for my head. Of course, poor sod failed the mission miserably, which is exactly what the king whatshisname was counting on, and, come to think about it, the gods were also half-expecting. No, I’m not gonna give them that.
I weigh the sword in my hand. It’s surprisingly light. Suspiciously light, even. And what’s with its weird shape? Won’t my own trusty xiphos be better?
In the end, I decide to give the harpe a go.

You might guess what follows, so I’ll spare you the details.

I need to get rid of the body. I don’t want anyone to see me lugging it about, even Salua. So let’s take Perseus out the same way he came: flying and invisible. And what did he use? Why, Helm of Hades and sandals of Hermes.
I inspect these objects. For obvious reasons, Perseus can’t wear the helmet now. Will it work on me?
I stand in front of a mirror and put the thing on. It’s not the most comfy hat in the world, likely adapted from the Thracian model, that covers most of my face – hey, it works! Not that well though. I become see-through but still discernible. The helmet is one of these shoddy “Made in Underworld” affairs that only make you invisible in the darkness. Also, it has got quite a latency. I take a sword in my hands and observe in the mirror how it slowly dissolves into something as transparent as myself.
So that’s it. I’ll have to don the damn helmet and drag the cadaver away from here. Will the sandals be of any help?
Yes! They fit and they work like a charm.
I fly the boy towards that perfect spot for Perseus’ suicide I was fantasising about. I – or shall I say “we”? – settle on the clifftop. The sun is about to set, and I am not going to miss the show. I find myself talking to my unlucky guest whom I, take note, embrace around the waist.
“Hey, this is perhaps the most beautiful sunset that you’ll never see. I know, you can’t hear me either. I’m sorry that you are dead, but this is the way things are. You shouldn’t have come here. Don’t worry, I will take good care of your head.”
And so on, this kind of nonsense, till the last bit of sun sinks under the horizon.
I stand up and lift Perseus. A few careful steps toward the edge.
“Rest in peace, son of Danaë,” I whisper as I release my grip.
In the twilight, I see the headless body slowly growing visible again while it plunges into the sea. It’s getting dark. I have to return home as fast as I can, without looking back. Down there, dozens of sharks waste no time either.

So you thought you knew the story.

Now consider this. His clothes, now clean and dry, fit me as a glove. My breasts are small and firm, even smaller than the poor boy’s man-boobs. The gods’ gadgetry also stays with me. Most importantly, my head is still on my shoulders. I’ll make sure that Perseus lives too – at least, for the outside world.

I can’t tell you what’s gonna happen next. I need some sleep first. I have to re-read my notes, then I’ll decide. Salua comes to check on me.
“You all right, miss?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Salua. I’m going to bed now.”
“Good night, miss.”
“Good night, Salua. You too have a rest.”

Off she goes.

Stheno and Euryale are nesting on my pillow. I am too tired to get up and fetch another one, and I hate to shake my life-savers off. I lay my head next to them and close my eyes.
Sweet dreams, my lovelies, I murmur.
My lovelies lay quiet, so I reply for them.
Sweet dreams, sister.

Burning Your Boats

by Angela Carter
foreword by Salman Rushdie

I started to write short pieces when I was living in a room too small to write a novel in.

Afterword to Fireworks

I was so impressed with Fireworks (also with myself, for finishing it), that I decided to read all of Angela Carter’s short fiction. So I acquired this collection and... nothing happened for the next few years. Last summer, I finally dug it out. It took me about nine months to read it, with breaks.

The book contains four previously published collections, including Fireworks, plus six other stories. Of collected works, The Bloody Chamber is the most conceptually and stylistically coherent one, all that Gothic horror stuff with an exception of more, um, light-hearted Puss-in-Boots. Black Venus is rather uneven. The best stories there are Our Lady of the Massacre, Peter and the Wolf and The Kitchen Child, this latter providing much-needed comic relief. It looks like Ms. Carter was fascinated with wolves: the real ones, were-ones and feral children. I like that.

American Ghosts and Old World Wonders is another mixed bag, redeemed by the tasty Text-Mex-Western Gun for the Devil and delightfully Borgesian The Merchant of Shadows (it made me reach for Internet to check if Hank Mann was really born Heinrich von Mannheim: of course not, and he never made a movie called Paracelsus with Charles Laughton).

While I researched my thesis, I was rooming back there in the city in an apartment over a New Age bookshop-cum-healthfood restaurant with a science fiction freak I’d met at a much earlier stage of studenthood during the chance intimacy of the mutual runs in Barcelona. Now he and I subsisted on brown rice courtesy of the Japanese waitress from downstairs, with whom we were both on, ahem, intimate terms, and he was always talking about aliens. He thought most of the people you met on the streets were aliens cunningly simulating human beings. He thought the Venusians were behind it.
He said he had tested Hiroko’s reality quotient sufficiently and she was clear, but I guessed from his look he wasn’t too sure about me.

The Merchant of Shadows

Cool World

a film by Ralph Bakshi

There goes €1 that I’ll never see again.

If you’ve ever seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit, don’t bother with this one. And if you’ve never seen Roger Rabbit, don’t bother with Cool World either: watch Roger Rabbit.

So what’s wrong with this film? Just about everything.

Cool World concludes the cycle Ralph Bakshi: Urban Noir, and about time too.

El París de los Dragones

by Tony Sandoval and Joann Sfar
translated by Lorenzo Díaz Buendía

Confused plot and too many dead or wounded dragons for my liking. It’s the romance between a Hawaiian strongwoman princess and a pansexual mermaid, coupled with a wicked sense of humour, that makes this comic worth checking out.

Piranesi

by Susanna Clarke

‘It’s all in the book I wrote. I don’t suppose you happen to have read it?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Pity. It’s terribly good. You’d like it.’ Susanna Clarke, Piranesi

It took ten years for Susanna Clarke to write her debut masterpiece. Another sixteen years passed before she published her second novel. And it was totally worth the wait. Because, you see, Ms Clarke has written a book that’s even better than Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. That’s what I call quality.

I don’t think the sixteen year gap was deliberate but the number 16 seems to be important to the author. As in the name of one of the characters. Or the number of etchings in Imaginary Prisons by Giovanni Battista Piranesi (2^nd edition; the first edition contained 14). Anyway, it’s a good number.

‘I was the greatest scholar of my generation. Perhaps of any generation. I theorised that this ...’ He opened his hands in a gesture intended to indicate the Hall, the House, Everything. ‘ ... existed. And it does. I theorised that there was a way to get here. And there is. And I came here and I sent others here. I kept everything secret. And I swore the others to secrecy too. I’ve never been very interested in what you might call morality, but I drew the line at bringing about the collapse of civilisation. Perhaps that was wrong. I don’t know. I do have a rather sentimental streak.’

La Isla del Doctor Schubert

by Karina Sainz Borgo
illustrated by Natàlia Pàmies

Do we have to compare the writer’s style with that of others? One can say It’s tempting to say I was about to say that Karina Sainz Borgo writes as concisely as Borges and as poetically as Márquez... But no, that would be denying the author her own style. I don’t know how proficient she is in Dragon but sometimes she writes in what must be close to the tongue of true mages, in Le Guin’s sense^*. I say “sometimes”, for the book published entirely in that language won’t be readable by most humans. Sainz Borgo is well aware of it. In fact, this novel (novella, fable, chronicle, whatever you call it) refers to another book called La isla del doctor Schubert, the real one:

La intérprete dejó por escrito la vida del navegante educado por un centauro, el último secesionista berlinés, expedicionario y cirujano que zarpó sin argonautas de un portal de la calle Lagasca. Encuadernada en silencio, La isla del doctor Schubert es la bitácora de un paraíso... para quienes consiguen soportarlo. Sus páginas están escritas contra el viento, y si los renglones a veces se quiebran es porque la prosa se marea cuando alguien la recita en tacones.

So it is not magical realism: it is magic, with no need for realism whatsoever^†. Doctor Schubert himself, ex-surgeon of the Kaiser, appears to be a nice guy, a powerful if a bit absent-minded wizard à la Magician from An Ordinary Miracle. And the story of two Juanas is a pure genius.

La isla del doctor Schubert is not especially difficult reading but it is intense. It took me about a month to finish the book — every evening I could read no more than one chapter. That’s magic for you. Be warned.

Al tercer día de su llegada a la capital alemana, el doctor Schubert halló una nota manuscrita en su buzón que alertaba sobre la desaparición del retrato que pudo pasar por un Modigliani. Cuando subió para comprobar si era cierto lo que afirmaba ese papel, encontró un trozo de pared limpia que señalaba su ausencia. Desorientado y confuso, convocó al jurado de la Secesión, pero todos habían muerto tras su última visita.

🐉

Tras sorber la primera cucharada, los hombres más fuertes de la isla se desplomaron como naipes. Despertaron confusos, con la mente en blanco. El bebedizo había borrado los tatuajes y las arrugas que surcaban sus pieles e hizo retroceder sus recuerdos. Con el paso de las semanas, perdieron los dientes cubiertos de sarro y en su lugar renacieron otros de leche. De su rostro áspero y barbudo una piel lisa e inédita. El doctor Schubert intentó perfeccionar su receta durante treinta cenas más.

🐉

El doctor Schubert suele perdonar la vida a los pasajeros de los barcos de recreo: criaturas alimentadas con col agria que una vez al año viajan por el mundo convirtiéndolo en un lugar peor. Justamente porque jamás aprenden de sus errores, quiso diseñar para ellos un castigo ejemplar, pero le fallaba la concentración.

🐉

---

*	Speaking of dragons: I didn’t know until now that there are only two surviving artifacts featuring the phrase “hic svnt dracones”. Apparently, mediaeval cartographers preferred more reasonable if a tad pedestrian “hic svnt leones”. Another day, another bit of knowledge. In any case, dragons were not the top of Doctor Schubert’s concerns.
†	“The dragons do not dream. They are dreams. They do not work magic: it is their substance, their being. They do not do; they are.” — Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore.