Galinthias

When my mother looks at me it is as if she is seeing me the day I was born, belting thunder, and covered in gore. Her gaze sparkles with the miracle of it. I don’t understand what is so miraculous about a dirty, scruffy-haired, ten-year-old boy. When my father looks at me it is with stiffness, as if he sits on nails and my hands are red. My hands are not red. I washed the blood from them long ago with the help of Mother’s gentle fingers and briny tears.

Well, they had looked at me like that over a year ago, as Father decreed, I should go tend to the herds with his shepherds for a time. How long? I’d asked but he didn’t answer. Mother told me this wasn’t a punishment. Father’s pained grimace made me think it was exile. But what would I know?

I stumble in my bare, too-big feet. The herders ahead are chattering, staggering under the weight of wool in their arms and slung over their shoulders. They don’t notice me, struggling on the uneven course out of the mountains. I wonder if I’ll see my parents when we reenter the city. If they’ll fetch me back to the palace Father claimed when they escaped Mycenae. Beyond the next sculpted crest, the buildings of Kadmeia pebble the plateau rising from the mist. (Kadmeia is the name we call the Mycenean Thebes. There is another Thebes near the Necropolis that I’ve heard traders speak of. I never wish to go there. It is a land of other gods.) Helios is low and burning. He’ll have the mist gone soon.

A dark shadow slithers around two stones, flowing downhill. First I think it is a stream, but it does not continue between the divot in the mountain side. Then it must be a snake. A constrictor, spawn of Python. The nursemaids used to whisper of how I had strangled two venom-filled snakes in my crib as a newborn. Their eyes would beg for the tale but I never spoke of it. How can I be expected to remember something that happened when I was an infant?

Lost in my head the dark trickles out of sight before I can catch it. I wiggle my fingers to remove the dawn mountain chill. That’s okay. I don’t think it meant us harm. I didn’t want to have to kill it.

The snake makes me think of hideous gorgons, those women with ashen skin and serpents for hair. It must be hard for them to sleep with all those writhing, worming bodies. At least they aren’t poisonous. I don’t think so, anyway. Do gorgons get bit by their own hair? The idea makes me giggle even though it’s not really funny. It’s more sad. Perseus, my great-grandfather, might have known. I wish we could speak to shades in the Underworld, I would ask him. He’s the only man to have ever slayed one. Medusa, who’s grim head ended up set in goddess Athena’s shield. There’s a fresco of Perseus brandishing it, regal and god-like. I think I look like him, though I’m stouter and broader of the shoulders and where his face is that of a hawk mine is wide like a lion’s. My hair crimps, long and loose as a lion’s mane. So, Mother says. I haven’t seen a lion.

There goes the darkness again, slipping closer. I pause and tip my head. The herders still pay me no mind and I hate my empty hands. They wouldn’t let me carry any wool or skins, afraid I might rip them on accident or in a fit of madness. They think if they ignore me my anger will dwindle, and I won’t bash their skulls as I did Linus’. It only makes me scraped raw and lonely. If sorrow is the oposite of anger, then maybe they’re right.

A shadow shimmies between stones, twining nearer. Green gems flash at me from within it’s indistinguishable face. A raised tail waves like a banner. My hand flashes as I try to grab it just as I would knuckle a fish from a stream, but it evades me easy as a man cringes from death. A frown creases my small lips. I jiggle my calloused fingers. I’m not used to missing. My scuffed toes stop moving completely and I stare into the distant conifers. The shadow streaks towards the trees, at a diagonal from the path.

“There is something here,” I raise my voice to the herders, murky-brown eyes bright with curiosity. It is rare I face new things. Herding is mostly the same. Wake up, eat, brush the flock, keep them here or there, scare wolves, try not to fall into stony crevices, pretend you aren’t eavesdropping, don’t cry when you discover someone has stolen your blanket again, fall asleep cold. Repeat. You get used to it.

One of them looked over his shoulder, tunic grimy with sweat and distended belly bouncing. “Come on, Heracles. Or we’ll be late to the market.”

I just stare, fingers twitching, longing to strip off my tunic and run as if in a race. “Will my parents come?”

The other jockeys the fat one. I do not use their names, for they don’t seem to like mine. When it passes their lips, they either wince or spew it with the grace used to speak of sewers. This one’s skin is a permanent dark tan from many burns of the sun, and he is knobby. I count his bones sometimes when I’m bored. A flick of my fist and he would topple, breaking everything along the way to the ground. “Just come, boy. We’ve work to do.”

I remain rooted to the spot as they amble, about to crest the rise. They slap at each other now, laughing and bellowing louder than the whole herd put together. Out of the corner of my eye the shadow weaves about tree trunks, somehow darker than their shade. “There is something here. I think it wants me.”

“Nothing wants you boy, that’s why you’re with us,” the fat one chuffs at a loss for breath.

The slender skeleton man sneers, flicking his companion’s bloated, laboring stomach. “Keep up, boy, or aidos will be proud.”

Aidos is the word for shameful. It is a Mycenean expression. Keep up or you will bring us shame.

The breeze pushes their sweaty stink to my nose. They don’t hesitate to cross the rise and vanish behind the spur of earth without me. My gaze flickers to the trees and I meet the darkness’s stare head-on. It is more shadow than anything, those eyes perfect liquid dripping among the dark. Narrowing my eyes, I see it. Two pointed ears, tail wrapped over paws, a rippling sea of black fur, and a soft pink nose.

It’s a cat.

The cat meets my stare with surety, as if it knows secrets about me. I cock my head. “I don’t have any secrets.” The breeze spins my words lazily, hampering my call. It’s true. If anyone asked me about Linus, I would tell them. Sometimes the knowledge butts against my teeth like a battering ram against Kadmeia’s gate. But no one asks, so my thoughts remain locked up.

The shadow mimics me, tilting it’s head, whiskers flicking. I swat away a gnat and take a step off the path. Quick as a bird the cat slides among the trees. “Wait!” I cup a hand to my chapped, too-pink lips. Cats aren’t owned by many here, they go where they please. In the year I’ve traversed the mountains I’ve never seen anything smaller than a panther. I stand on my tip-toes to peer at the trees. The herders’ cackling has faded.

A sound, violent and gentle jolts through the rocks. It vibrates into my sore soles. I hold out my hands, expecting one of Poseidon’s quakes. The world stays still, the buzzing insects hold their breaths. My heart patters in cadence. A low sung word enters my being, Galinthias.

I frown. That’s familiar but I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve met anyone by such a name. Then, seeping up from the ground, Heracles.

I obey with a jolt. Feet pounding the stones and toes curling into wild grass, I rush up to the woods. My legs pump with strength and my blood whooshes in my ears. A grin tugs at the corners of my lips with force. Still, the rumbling continues, growing stronger.

Conifer branches jostle above me, blocking the sun. Shade splinters into my eyes. Pine needles stab my calloused heels. I kick pinecones and dodge roots and gullies. The shadow keeps ahead of me. Winding through the trees and high-altitude scrub with little effort. My lungs and calves burn. Showing my teeth, I continue. The easy rumbling pushes me onward. I never tired physically as others have. Mother says I’m godborn but will not tell me which Olympian did the siring.

I bound up a slope, cascading pebbles, and dirt. The dew is still slick and coats my feet. My nails are filthy. I burst from between the branches of an evergreen and halt, panting. The darkness is sitting in a small clearing. The cat watches me, not even winded. The rumbling is radiating from it’s chest. It’s purring. Setting my jaw, I plop down, cross-legged before it. The purring ceases. Heracles, the voice resonates, prodding my mind.

“Cat?”

The cat shakes its head, lifting one paw to lick it. A pink tongue darts, stroking inky fur. The routine is enthralling. I stare at the flash of thin fangs. It’s so much neater than a tawny panther, like a painted piece of glass. I get the feeling it shouldn’t be out here, where so much is bigger than it. An eagle could snatch it on the slopes. “Why are you here?”

I am Galinthias. Pale green eyes the consistency of an eggshell blink, heavy. I feel judged. You know me, child.

“You’re not my cat.” I press a hand to my chest, voice dipping. “I wish you were my cat.”

The cat puts its paw back on the ground and blinks again. I am Hecate’s companion.

“H-Hecate’s cat?” I scramble to my feet and step back. Mother said that Hecate is the titaness of darkness, of bad magic. Forcing a thin breath through my nose I hold my ground. I’ve already left the path, might as well find out why. “Are you lost?”

No, a purr again that I feel warm through the earth. I came for you.

“Me?” Its lousy for me to ask, I know. I shouldn’t question a sacred creature’s words. Mother thinks I’m special but isn’t that just an excuse to explain why I’m stronger than other boys? Why I’m stupid where they’re smart and I killed my tutor in a fit of rage while they did not?

It is time you learned.

“Learn what? I’m learning with the herders.”

Learn the ways of a warrior. You are destined for great things, Heracles.

I bow my head, hands balling into fists. “I’m not.” I can’t be. I know where murderers go in the Underworld and it’s not Elysium.

Look at me.

Sniffing, I raise my chin. The cat is glaring at me, tail coiled over prim paws. I am Galinthias, it repeats. And I did not become this so that you could waste your potential.

My forehead creases, my eyebrows dipping like severe boughs. Something fuzzes at the edge of my memory. Some tale Mother once fed me like herbs to soothe me to sleep…

The cat straightened. I was your nursemaid. Hera set forces in motion to prevent your birth. I undertook to distract the goddess of childbirth, one of Hera’s divine daughters, announcing that you had been born. She was so shocked her concentration broke and your mother was released.

“Galinthias,” I breathe, gaze round with wonder.

Hera turned me into a cat to punish me. Now I serve Hecate.

Something catches in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

If possible, the cat’s expression softens. There are worse fates.

I shrug, picturing the blood spouting from the crack in Linus’ skull.

You will be a hero, Heracles.

Shaking my head, I look to the ground. “I have tainted myself with crime.” The words taste like mud in my mouth.

You were purified. Now you will learn to control your rage.

What if I can’t? I want to wail in a way I haven’t since I was a baby. My jaws clench. Now the truth curdles inside me, and I cannot speak it. I have waited for this moment for so long, and now I freeze. How can I describe the way my temper closes over my head like water? It drowns me, I’m at its mercy.

Come closer, child.

The cat’s gaze is intense and steady. Breathing ragged, I drag out a step. My feet are stone. The moment it takes for me to reach her is really an eternity. The world seems to flip and turn. I wonder if the purification didn’t work and this vision is a way for the Furies to lead me to my death. How can I trust this is real?

I lean down, grasp at her silky fur with my clumsy fingertips. The cat’s reaction is swift. I see it first as a shadow. Her spine curls, her lips draw back, as her neck recoils her paw shoots out. Thick, shining claws emerge where there was none before. One snags my skin. Blood beads across my palm. The trickle fills my life-line with red. A hiss tumbles from her throat, ears pressed back. She’s a demon.

There’s that blackness swamping my vision. I look down on her from a great height. The sting makes me startle, but the ire replaces the pain with purpose. My other hand swings downward. I grip her scruff in my hand and lift her above me as if she’s a feather. The cat yowls and thrashes. My nails part the fur. Her claws flash. I could break her neck. No, some part of me begs. The rest doesn’t listen. I shake her hard until her eyes cross. Why would she turn on me after asking me to come to her?

Her paws stroke the air slower now, but she still writhes. There is a flash of crimson, a spot of something wet and thick on her paw pad. All my muscles go rigid. The pain fills me with a dull beat. My eyes narrow. I take my bloody thumb and brush it over the spot. More blood. A small broken shaft like an arrow. The cat’s struggles renew, fallen to mewing and kneading nothing.

There’s a thorn wedged in the cat’s paw.

The world grows muted. Sweat breaks out on my brow. I swipe it with the back of my hand and feel the blood smear. Blowing a breath through my nose, I huff twice more before bringing my shaking hand up. It takes all my concentration, all my nerve, to push back the black rage. My muscles bulge as if I hold a charging bull by the horns. My earlier thought resurfaces. I don’t want to kill it.

I don’t want to hurt anything else the way I did Linus. Not because I can’t stomach the life leaving the eyes or the empty vessels, the last weak sputter of air from their stifled lungs. Not because the missing throb of a pulse. But because it was so easy for me, so quick. There is no honor in being controlled by some force that isn’t you.

I don’t have to hurt her. I can do this. My whole frame trembles. Whoever my god-father is, I’m sure he laughs. My lips press flat. I don’t care. I’ll show him.

The pad of my thumb fumbles on the shaft. The cat kicks and lurches. I hold her steady. My pulse is an anvil on the interior of my wrist, striking the delicate bones. It is a chant, end this, end this, end this.

My grimy nails slip off the thorn three times, then hold. I yank it out without ceremony. A bit of blood leaks across night-dark fur. I toss the thorn aside. The cat screeches, piercing my hazy mind. I drop her and try to cover my ears.

That’s when I notice the rustling. The shift and clop of hooves. I lift my head, straightening and altering my stance all at once. At first all I see is a man’s torso, sculpted and dark and hairless. He is taller than any man I’ve ever seen, even at the agora. His face is lined and grave, brows heavy, lips heavier. His nose is large and straight as an accusatory finger. His long mane is braided down his back. He carries a bow over one shoulder.

Then I notice the rest of him. He’s not riding a horse, he’s melded with one. His chestnut coat gleams with sweat, the hide magnificent, the scent wild. A centaur. Father calls them savages. My mouth drops open in awe. He holds no weapons. I can’t read his face. Is he a savage? My muscles freeze once more but my pulse doesn’t spike. If it’s a fight he wants, even though I’m just a boy and would lose, it is a fight I will give him. Just don’t ask me to swing first.

After several long moments, he releases a sigh. “You could’ve killed that cat.” My eyes dart to find Galinthias, but she has gone. I shake myself as he speaks again, feeling as if I’ve just emerged from a desert mirage travelers speak of. “I’m glad you didn’t. You have the baring of a hero.” There’s a twinkle to his wise features. “I’m Chiron.”

Chiron must’ve witnessed everything. It takes a moment to recall the cat’s words, but then the ice releases me, and I smile. “Heracles.”