Cinyras and Myrrha

Content warning: this is a retelling of the myth of Cinyras and Myrrha from Ovid's Metamorphoses. As in the original story, it deals with some troubling material, namely incest, and a coupling which would nowadays be considered statutory rape. This is not described in graphic detail, but does serve as the backbone of the plot, and thus may not be suitable for all readers.

Let it be a dream, Cinyras prayed. By the gods, let it be an awful, loathsome dream.

He wanted to drop to his knees, to feel the reassuring texture of the wooden boards beneath his skin, to supplicate himself before whatever daimon had forced this image upon him. But, of course, he was frozen. Wasn’t that always the way—when men faced horrors beyond their comprehension?

Before him stood a girl, a daughter. His daughter. His Myrrha.

“She is yours.” That is what the old nurse had said to him. And he—foolish man, foolish mortal—he had liked the sound of it at the time. He, with his chest puffed up in pride and blood singing with lust. Her, a maiden, come to him willingly, driven by a desire for his person and struggling to overcome her virgin shyness. How could he not enjoy the idea? Mine, he had repeated silently in his head as he felt for her in the pitch dark. Mine, he had repeated aloud, voice a near-growl, when they were at the climax of their passion. Now, of course, it rang back at him in ironic truth, like Juno’s curse upon the poor nymph Echo: mine. My own Myrrha. It was the third time the word had danced through his mind, and now it was drenched in horror. 

Three was a significant number. Three Gorgons. Three Moirai. Three Erinyes. Three judges he would face in Hades when his time was up. He had always considered himself to be a decent man. He made the proper sacrifices, had led his people well, had raised an admirable daughter (O Gods, his poor daughter). He had never feared that final judgment before. He had always pictured him going to it one day, old and withered, with his head held high, hands spread out before him as if to say, “What secrets do I have to hide? I have committed no crimes.” But now the thought set him to trembling. In part, the feeling was simply dread, a fear of punishment, of some all-seeing eye bringing to light that awful sin which had, until now, mercifully remained hidden by the cover of night. However, the other half of him wished for such a chance at condemnation, longed for it with near-panic, for some higher power to come and censure him, scold him like a child and ease his guilt.

He was all division and indecision, still frozen in his chambers with his daughter before him. His daughter, his sweet Myrrha. She whom he had loved since she was a babe, she whose hand countless princes had sought in marriage, she who had wept and fretted at the thought of leaving her home. “What sort of husband would you like?” He had asked her. To which she had replied: “A man like you.” Foolish, foolish man. He had thought it the pleasant sort of thing a daughter said to please her father, the sort of thing she might say to try and sound wise beyond her years. Of course, now he could see that she had meant— But, gods, how could he have known?

Oh, why had he asked for a light? Why had he lain with anyone at all?

And—

why was he drawing his sword?

Cinyras felt as though he had aged a hundred years. A hundred lifetimes had passed since the servant, heeding his request, had entered with the lamp, and the image of his darling Myrrha had flickered into view before him, pale and trembling with full knowledge of her wrongdoing. Dimly, however, he registered the fact that almost no time had passed at all. Myrrha still stood before him, having leapt from the foot of the bed. She was half-turned away, posed to run, but not yet fleeing, not yet sure of her father’s response. In her eyes, Cinyras fancied he could see something of the sweet, innocent child he knew—a daughter, frightened, shamefaced, looking to her father for comfort. It was almost enough to bring him down from the edge of his own terror, the urge to go to her, to comfort her, to make the whole nightmare disappear.

But it was too late. His hand was on his sword. Why? Why? Who was his target? His daughter? Half-naked and weeping? Himself—as punishment for what he had done unknowingly? Or perhaps that damned nurse. It had been her, after all, who had brought the girl to him. It didn’t matter. Not really. He was a learned man, he knew the nature of the universe, he knew the ways of magic, even if he himself did not dabble in them. Like calls to like. The horror of such a scene could elicit naught but more horror. The play was not yet finished. Not quite.

The Morai drew on his strings.

Cinyras drew his sword.

The very sound of the blade seemed an attack on the scene. Its stillness fractured, then fell away, as if there had never been a moment’s pause among the players. Cinyras was breathing hard and brandishing his blade, feeling marginally better to have a sword in his hand, to be doing something, even if he still could not decide who to cut down. Myrrha was scrambling backward, yelping, eyes fixed on the glint of gold metal that swayed and sparkled before her. Cinyras could find no trace of the girl had known in her now. Her eyes were those of a woman, frightened, but hardened to her fate, and quite sure of the fact that she would find no sympathy in those around her.

Myrrha fled. Cinyras’ sword wavered and drooped slightly toward the floor. When his wife found him, bringing with her the scent of sun and soil and sacred smoke, he could do naught but weep. Her questions went unanswered—for, how could Cinyras explain what had transpired? How could he know where their daughter had fled to? She was gone, and for weeks, for months, remained hidden from them. Discreet inquiries, inordinate bribes, frantic pleas, all fruitless. No one knew of the princess’ whereabouts.

At last, Cinyras himself set out on foot. What led him, he could not say. He knew not where he was headed, and wandered seemingly without direction. Perhaps some kind god had taken pity on the poor man and was ushering him to some far-off land, propelling him forward as a fortunate wind fills a sail, drawing him ever-onwards as a scent draws a hound after a hind. Regardless, it seemed to Cinyras, somehow, that he was following in Myrrha’s footsteps. The trail may have been old, long gone cold, but he could have sworn on his life that he could picture his daughter traversing the very same landscape. He could see her picking her way through the same dry fields, ducking under the same broad-leafed palms. He left Panchaia, and could see in his mind’s eye his daughter doing the same. Leaving behind the only land she had ever known in favor of foreign anonymity.

As he walked, Cinyras thought of Myrrha. Not as she had been when she fled—that image was always before him now, when he swept his gaze across the unfamiliar landscape—but as she was when she was a mere child. When he turned his gaze inward, that was what he saw, his Myrrha, no more than three or four years old, grinning at her mother, laughing on her father’s knee, amusing herself in the fresh air of the courtyard. A thousand happy scenes played out in his thoughts, now mocking his present pain, now soothing it with fond nostalgia. Still, he trudged onwards, until he came to the Sabaean land, and there he stopped.

Hidden as he was in a thicket, no one but the gods could see Cinyras where he stood. Yet he had a perfect view of the clearing before him. In the very center, as though planted with the tenderest care, stood a young Myrrh tree. Its sap glinted faintly in the sun, weeping from the rough bark like a girl’s tears. Its trunk was split, near the earth, and Cinyras could see the figures of women (were they women? They moved like tree branches in the wind) drawing forth a child, a babe, just-born, from the tree’s embrace.

When the sun’s light lit upon the boy’s face, all the scene’s viewers—Cinyras and the strange women alike—drew in a sharp breath. It was like looking at a painting, like looking at a sculpture, like looking at the sun. Were he not sure of the boy’s parentage, Cinyras could have sworn that he was the newest child of Ares and Aphrodite, so close in appearance was the boy to Eros himself.

Funny, that. The boy could have been a twin to the very same god who had failed to work his charms upon his mother. Out of all the suitors who had vied for Myrrha’s hand, Cinyras had never once seen the God of Love’s arrow pierce her youthful flesh. No man had moved her. None had caught her fancy. Eros could not excite her to any thoughts of love. At least, not until—

well, not until the end. Perhaps the gods did have a sense of humor after all.

When his son, his grandson, that beautiful golden-faced babe, finally let out a hearty wail, Cinyras was glad of it. The boy’s cries hid his own half-smothered moans of grief and horror.

And had Cinyras looked up, he would have seen that the Myrrh tree, too, had redoubled its weeping.

Though, with no mouth to cry from, of course, her sorrow was silent.