Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1) (3 page)

My pause elicited a pathetic display. He bat his head swiftly to make sure no one was looking, then got on his knees and clasp my hand. The begging began: “It is expected of us! I am not asking to take you away from your family. I want to provide, not scrounge. Have you not thought of the future?” There was more ferocity than blubbering in his pleas. He was being reasonable. I told him to stand and allow me to think.

I have not considered marriage since the age of ten, thinking myself above childbearing and knitting. It was enough to cook a meal for myself; I did not have the heart to feed a family. With the possibility in front of me, it seemed more like an inconvenience than catastrophe. Another one of life’s trials.

Aiden is only half a fool, enough to outshine his peers by a mile. A shred of intelligence and a heart of gold go a long way. He knows when to speak and when to listen, when to quarrel and when to abide. He is not whimsical or irascible, neither lethargic nor aloof. As far as personable qualities are concerned, Aiden trumps me by quite a bit.

I accepted his proposal. He planted an awkward kiss on my cheek and embraced me far too tight. There must be certain stipulations, I mentioned. We would not move into his house. Most importantly, he would swear fealty to me. The vows of marriage meant little unless they are sworn with blood. He procured a dagger and we slashed our palms, then clasped hands and held tight for a moment. He looked at me with a warm smile and pulled me close. I felt the heat from both our wounds and the slight thump of pumping blood. He kissed me on the lips and moved away. We silently parted ways.

My uncle inquired about my bloody palm. I told him about the oath with Aiden, and he laughed so hard it was somewhat frightening. He scrubbed and wrapped my hand with linen, reciting the story of his proposal. They swore a bloodless oath, and within a year, my aunt ran away with another man. Since they were separated before I was born, it was odd to think of her as such. My parents think her a wicked woman. If I did the same to Aiden, his father would also curse me.

I am aware of the infallibility of oaths and curses, yet contemplation on the subject chills me to the core. Aiden and I are bound for eternity. I could leave this island tonight, never see nor think of the boy again. Thenceforth, nothing I say or write would ring true. I could expound an event in perfect detail, using precise language with no embellishments, and it would be utterly false, whether I am consumed by guilt or impervious to my own lies. A broken oath is a blemish on the soul that can never heal. It is a formal acknowledgment that life is smoke and mirrors. To pierce this flimsy veil is to invite everlasting consequences. I will not chip away at something so pernicious. When the sky and ground merge into one and all that is real becomes known, I only hope to have found the peaceful sleep of death.

Quiet nights tend to breed superstition. Something needs to account for this unbearable dread. Out my window, I see a pitch of darkness the moon cannot pierce. There is always a trace of awe in the fearsome. My teeth are chattering and knees shaking, and I taste panic on the tip of my dried tongue. It is sharp and more like a pain than a flavor.

I have wept for close to an hour. Perhaps far less. This night has been moving at a crawl.

What have I done? I loathe marriage and I loathe this cursed island. Why am I here? Why did I mix blood with a near stranger? Must we truly spend our lives together? Here I am, wracking my brain in an attempt to bypass our verbal contract. He swore fealty to me. Did I do the same? I do not think so. But what do my thoughts matter behind such weighty matters?

Nothing can rid this fear. It has seized control of my mind and sends chilly pangs down my spine. The cause? An acute case of doubt. These brief moments of weakness are as devastating to my complexion. Yes, when faced with the insoluble, appeal to vanity. Sleep. In the morning, I will recover my cheer and think with a clear mind. Nothing restores hope like a little sunshine.

Entry 6

I read my last few entries and can scarcely recall my distress. It seems so trivial in retrospect. Just as prescribed, the sun cured my melancholy. A solitary stroll along the coast provided a heaping helping. During my walk, I thought back to the festival. It is quite an odd thing. I am used to peculiarities because of my family, especially my uncle. This takes it to another level. I will try my best to describe it, as well as the town’s other unique customs.

During the festival, an effigy of Luther and his horse, Bellicose, are placed in the center of town. The horse, shaped by wood and stuffed by straw, is ignited for a large pyre. Flanks of horse meat are roasted over the flame as a speech recited by the mayor explains the importance of the celebration. It is a tribute to the town’s founding, though not quite the specific date of its discovery.

The story follows Luther, Arthur, and Paul. Their second visit to the island called for a thorough investigation. While Arthur and Paul searched the circumference, Luther and Bellicose scouted the rest. He boasted covering ten times their ground with the beast’s assistance. The others frequently heard the horse’s whinny and firm trot. When Arthur and Paul met on the beach at nightfall, there was no sign of Luther. After an hour of waiting, they lit torches and set out into the woods.

They were guided by the savory aroma of roasted meat. Bracing their courage, the men followed the scent until it led to a campfire. Luther, forehead wrapped by his torn shirtsleeve, held a skewer of Bellicose’s thigh over the flame. Something spooked the beast, hurtling them both off into a small ditch. Luther sprained his ankle and cut his head open, and Bellicose broke a leg. Not for lacking rations, Luther had felt compelled to eat the horse after being forced to put her down. The others joined in while discussing their findings.

Upon burying the bones of Bellicose, Luther cast the first vote to occupy the island. The territory, rich in resources and generally habitable terrain, would be adequate in settling a small town. With the means in their favor, it was a matter of putting their ideas to a test. The yearly celebration sheds any doubt regarding the town’s prosperity. It now doubles as a tribute to the missing Luther, whose declaration to put their plan into action gave the others courage to face potential failure.

That is why we begin each feast with horsemeat. Will this tradition end with the passing of Arthur and Paul? The latter, husband to Hilda, is a thread away from dementia. The man functioned as a mentor to Arthur and Luther, refusing his share of leadership because of old age, though I would also assume it was to honor his pupils. According to my uncle, Paul was something of a sage, a jack of all trades in terms of knowledge. A shame his mind is withering with his decrepit body.

The mayor, on the other hand, will be around in the foreseeable future. Though we may discard the effigy when it crumbles in a few decades, we will continue to eat horsemeat for as long as the town persists.

Six months after the festival, marking the date of the town’s official occupancy, we celebrate with the exchange of gifts. However, there is a twist to spice it up! Six gifts of exquisite quality are put up in two contests. One is a physical trial, and the other of wit.

The first competition consists of three races: by foot, horseback, and wood chopping. The second competition consists of three trials: riddles, storytelling, and trivia. The winner of each collects a prize. I won all three of the second competition during my first year. My uncle, one of the judges, told me he would enter next year unless I competed in the first competition as well. Since Hilda’s brains went stale, I will probably be asked to judge. So much for his challenge!

The prizes differ between competitions. The first: shoes, a saddle, and an axe. The second: a hat, a cross, and a rabbit’s foot. I don my fox skin cap, write next to my holy cross, and wear the rabbit’s foot around my neck. I have only attended one of these contests, so I do not know if the prizes vary from year to year. Gifts are exchanged between family members, but these are far from extravagant. A few exchange with friends, usually related to their trade.

These are the two main holidays. Since the town has continued to thrive without many obstacles, I have no doubt we will continue to find more ways to celebrate our good fortune. And perhaps the bad, as well.

On an unrelated note, I have the first week of study planned. I shared the preparations with my uncle, and he insists that it will take the students at least a month to absorb so much. I hope he is correct. It is a tedious task meant for one more nurturing than myself. I have, once again, been questioning my qualifications. True, a former nanny and a budding scholar seems a perfect fit. Unfortunately, no amount of knowledge can compare to a disciplined patience. I should practice Hilda’s approving nod and genial smile.

I am also set to marry Aiden in three days. My uncle and Father have volunteered to build us our own cottage. With the help of Aiden and his father, they may finish within a month. Soon enough, we will have our own cozy living space. I can face this without fear. On the contrary, I look forward to spending more time with Aiden.

Further expectations may need to be fulfilled. These are a distant, yet inevitable future. I look to those days with dread. Is the rejection of motherhood a product of a sick mind? I must answer affirmatively, though it hurts to do so. But to answer in such a way, I further question. What went wrong? When did it go wrong? How did it go wrong? Dwelling on the subject makes me queasy to the core. I am not meant for self-reflection. In me is something like a Gorgon. When our gazes meet, it is I who petrifies.

Entry 7

I spent most of the day with Janice. Her mother, Penelope, thoroughly instructed us on the wedding ceremony, not very dissimilar to that which I was accustomed. However, the few differences are odd and Penelope could not account for them. It was how she and her sisters had been married, and it seemed more natural than my description.

The bride and groom are joined by their parents. If either pairs of parents are unmarried, the union would be impossible. If either father is deceased and the bride is not a virgin, the widow must witness the consummation. If either bride or groom is remarrying because their former partner is deceased, a libation of wine is poured before the vows. If their former partner lives, the remarrying bride or groom must grip a barbed stick to renounce their former vows, and a libation of their blood is poured over the grave of their nearest deceased paternal ancestor. If either the bride or groom has a child from a previous marriage, the child is reared by a barren or impotent or elderly citizen.

I have a theory concerning these bizarre customs: rather than enforce the sanctity of marriage, these stipulations are meant to discourage it. If one were to birth out of wedlock, and dismiss the product of marriage, there are no external consequences, as long as one of the parents raises the child and both parents are publicly accounted for. This would prevent Bob and Sue from having Jack, and Bob and Hilary from having Jane, and Jane and Jack from having something that should be frowned upon.

It appears that key figures of the community are forced into marriage, unless they were married before their arrival, such as my parents and a few others. I suppose the pact is considered the type of virtue that should be present in authority figures.

My detachments from these customs further prove I am an outsider. Though I have grown to love these people, and I gradually adapt to their ways, I will always feel as a stranger. There are many others like me, perhaps the majority. In time, if the town retains its isolation and their traditions thrive, anything outside will become irrelevant. Thus, the community’s ultimate purpose, as proposed by Luther. According to my uncle, his friend longed to meet the island’s grandchildren. He would find his idea’s fruition in them.

With that in mind, it sounds like an experiment. Like Luther, I wish to see its fruition. What sort of people would this small society breed? I do not have the time to ponder at the present time. I hope to see it grow, and as long as the others share the same sentiment, it may prosper. Luther and the mayor were impeccable in the choice of their fellow inhabitants; the elders are admirable people. I may tease Hilda’s old age, but only out of sheer wickedness. Her keenness happened to disperse prior to my arrival. She was, and if you catch her at the right time, still is, capable of carrying conversation on many subjects. When I explained my curriculum, she may have had a correction or two, which I may have adjusted.

My generation is praised for their diligence. It is too soon to tell for the next. Knowing I have a part in their development gets me giddy. I cannot tell if it’s nerves or excitement. Compared to other outsiders, I have been given preferential treatment. This is due less to my performance and more to my uncle’s influence. He told me this to injure my pride, for which I am grateful. I must never take the town’s trust for granted.

He imparted the story of a wise wolf, whose wisdom was infinite and behavior impeccable. Its renown reached a local village and raised the beast’s status to that of a sage. One day, a young girl visited the wolf’s den for medicinal advice. After a few teachings, the girl showed a natural talent for healing. She lived in the wolf’s den, where they both aided the sick and injured, her of body and him of soul. The girl failed to honor a request to visit the town and attend a sick child. When the boy’s condition worsened and days passed, his mother went to the wolf’s den. She found the wolf with a bloody maw, in the process of burying his pupil’s bones. When asked why he had devoured the poor girl, he replied: “Your village has become too successful at hunting because of my teachings. With no prey, what was I to do?” The woman returned to the village and announced the wolf’s betrayal. They offered their sage surpluses of meat, but their supply soon diminished, and whoever did not starve was devoured.