The witch of the ship

I know what happened. What she did. I’m telling you. Don’t believe her. Listen to me. Listen before it’s too late or in case I forget. It went like this:

1.

We’re young but I feel old. Old and tired, as if I was supposed to do some great deeds but I got lost on the way, all tangled up. Between lectures, there’s Ari, her olive skin and eyes too light for her face. She’s the force driving me through it all. I learn for her, I pass exams for her, I haven’t quit this goddamned university for her.

She lets me into her room in the evening. I expect someone there, some kind of party, a gathering of her acting friends, all going on about masks, rituals and legends, and so pretentious about it. Ari is the centre, of course, and she’s the only real, raw element in this picture of freshly built university hierarchy.

But not this time. This time we’re alone and I feel like I’m being led on an invisible string, hoping she never lets go of it. I’d be lost without it, forever stumbling in a maze of university corridors and my own choices, my own desires not good enough to tell her about.

She throws herself on the bed, sinks between cushions and blankets, and pulls me in with her. For a moment we’re a tangle of hands and bodies, and lips, until she ends up sitting on me and I end up breathing just for her. Her cow necklace is dangling in front of my eyes when she leans in and tucks away hair from my face, examines me all, absorbed, attentive.

“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”, she asks suddenly, her light blue eyes pining me in place.

This unnamed calling, I think to myself. The feeling that in another life, I had a mission, and a villain to slay.

“I don’t know,” I try to play it down. “I guess I could be more ripped.” She smiles. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” Silence for a second, under her watchful gaze. “I think you already are.”

“Ari,” I reach out my hand and she lets me touch her hip. She’s right, of course. I already am. What did I think? “Will you love me now?”

“Not yet, darling.” She says it in the softest voice, and it’s sweet as nectar. I know the words say something cruel. But all I hear is music and a promise. 

* 

So I should stop pacing and just calm down? After… after her? Fine. Fine, I’m calm now. But I can feel it slipping. Do you feel it slipping, too? Let’s go over it again, so you can tell someone, if I can’t. If my mouth isn’t mine anymore. Just listen:

2.

We’re young but I feel old. Old and tired, as if I had to keep fighting with someone, some unexplainable force, out of this world. Between lectures, there’s Ari, her long black hair and sharp mouth. She’s the leash and I walk around behind her like she’s leading me.

She lets me into her room in the evening. I expect someone there, some kind of cult session, like when they’re playing pretend, all ancient occult texts, tablets and grimoires, with the air of stolen props, not real works. Ari is the centre, of course, but for some reason she often graciously lets me join her, lets me lie at her feet, lets me put my trusting neck in her lap.

But not this time. This time we’re alone and I can feel her longing, her restlessness that drags me to her, fascinates me. I want to ask her a thousand questions and live in the web of her words. Instead, I just listen whenever she speaks.

She throws herself on the bed, sinks between cushions and blankets, and pulls me in with her. For a moment I get to taste her, until she ends up sitting on me and I end up fixed on her. She seems almost hungry when she leans in and touches my face lightly, examines me all, absorbed, attentive.

“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”, she asks suddenly, her light blue eyes pining me in place.

The visions of ships and rocky islands in my head, I think to myself. The feeling that in another life, I fucked up. I did something great and ran away, and left her. But that’s not possible. How could I ever leave her?

“I don’t know,” I try to play it down. “I guess I could do something with my hair.” She smiles. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” Silence for a second, as she tangles her hand with my curls. “I think your hair is perfectly fine.”

“Ari,” I reach out my hand and she lets me touch her hip. She’s right, of course. My hair is fine, the curls and the horns, always there. What did I think? “Will you love me now?”

“Not yet, darling.” She says it in the softest voice, and it pours over my throat like kykeon. My vision blurs. To me, she says she will.

*

Do you see now? No, I’m not a betrayed lover. Who would she betray me with? I just want to tell you before… before it’s too late. I feel like it’s getting late. Don’t you? Just… just once, okay? So we have a clear story. No, not a story. A story is like a myth, a legend. And I mean facts, this really happened:

3.

We’re young but I feel old. Old and tired, as if I had to repent for past sins, and maybe they were mine, but I can never name them. Between lectures, there’s Ari, and I feel like this is the only person in the world who sees my faults, and can live with them.

She lets me into her room in the evening. I expect someone there, some kind of academic debate, philosophy names dropped offhandedly, in a contest of stacking concepts instead of actually talking. Ari is always the centre, of course, and she laughs, and asks me, “What do you think?”, as if I was able to list the paradoxes behind this or that, pinpoint the moment when a teleported person moves identity from one place to the other. The way she looks at me, she can strip my atoms one by one and I would only beg, “More.”

But not this time. This time we’re alone and I don’t even have any words, any insight, I feel so close to the centre of everything, of pure being, I don’t feel any danger. Because she’s here. Everything will be forever easy, and forever with her.

She throws herself on the bed, sinks between cushions and blankets, and pulls me in with her. For a moment I get lost in her, touching soft skin, discovering bays. She seems almost happy, but set on something, focused, when she leans in and strokes my horns, examines me all, absorbed, attentive. Like she’s checking something, or looking for signs.

“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”, she asks suddenly, her light blue eyes pining me in place.

The guilt, I think to myself. There’s the smallest tinge of some melancholy saying that it might be my fault, her state. That she lost something that I had, or I destroyed something of hers. But that’s not possible. How could I ever have any power over her, when she is the only thing that made me pass safely through the labyrinth?

“I don’t know,” I try to play it down. “I guess I could do something about my ass.” She smiles. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” Silence for a second, and she reaches out to touch my tail almost hesitantly. “I think your ass is great.”

“Ari,” I reach out my hand and she lets me touch her hip. She’s right, of course. My ass is fine, the tail and all. I’m sure I even used it to touch her once or twice, and made her giggle. What did I think? “Will you love me now?”

“Oh, darling,” she mutters, reaching out to me, and I let her, even as my heart sinks a little. She touches my face and it’s delicate but it’s that careful look of a sculptor examining their work. “I think you’re ready. Ready to sail.”

*

Sure, I’m okay. I don’t know what I’ve been rambling about. I don’t know why I used to be like that, honestly. I have a lecture to get to, let me just fix myself first. There’s a mirror there. See? All fine, the horns and the tail, and everything. Normal. Guilt? What guilt? No, I’m fine, I’m not a monster. I’m telling you one last time and this time hear me, because I’m not repeating myself again:

4.

We’re young and I feel young. Young and powerful, like the whole world is mine. Because it is, it can be, why not? Between lectures, there’s Ari, and I’m her guardian and she’s mine. This time she won’t let anything happen to me and I will love her until I die, or I’m slain.

She lets me into her room in the evening. I see the usual mess, ancient texts in Greek, a ship in a bottle that she’s been so carefully crafting. It’s a real piece of art, all tiny pieces put by her hand steadily, one by one, through that tiny neck. It needed so much time and patience, careful examination and knowing exactly what to do. I love it.

We’re alone and I almost want to overthrow her, surprised by my own sudden force. But I stop, of course. Ari is the one leading here, always will be.

She throws herself on the bed, sinks between cushions and blankets, and pulls me in with her. For a moment I can discover her whole, and it feels like I haven’t seen her for ages, like I’m looking at her with new eyes, finally awake, finally myself. She seems to be in bliss, but almost vengeful, beautiful and powerful, my own witch, my own sculptor, my shipmaker. She examines me all, absorbed, attentive, like she wants to make sure.

“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”, she asks suddenly, her light blue eyes pining me in place.

I think to myself about her question. But I don’t see anything. I know she’s only provoking me anyway.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Nothing, really. Right now I’m the person you chose. Why would I change anything about that?” She smiles.

Silence for a second, and she reaches out to touch my torso, runs her finger over my skin. She’s satisfied. “Yeah.”

“Ari,” I reach out my hand and she lets me touch her hip. I sink my nails in her body lightly and she twitches, breathes in, almost a moan. “Do you love me?”

“Oh, darling,” she laughs, reaching out to me, and I let her, catch her in my arms and don’t let go. This time she really moans, and tries to grab my horns, steadies my head, so that our eyes meet. Hers are made of steel, deep blue ocean, this kind of violent water that drowns ships. “Of course I do, my no longer Theseus.”

She gets up, guiding my hands on her body like it’s a maze, but I already know it by heart. Her bull necklace dangles over my face when I enter her.