Origin of the Sphinx

PROLOGUE

Athan watched Hope go. He wanted to follow, but knew better. They were both angry. A little space and time would help cool them off.

She’ll be back
, he reasoned.
All of her stuff was here. She would come back. And then they could talk.

He stepped back on the drive and turned to the house. The front door was still open. With a sigh, he decided it would be more comfortable waiting inside, and he crossed the threshold into Hope’s house.

Closing the door behind him, he surveyed the living room. It was full of boxes, most of which were clearly marked: books, clothes, towels. There were a few boxes off to one side, marked with just the name
Leto
.

His initial thought was colored with surprise; he hadn’t known the Titan goddess had any other children besides Apollo and Artemis. His confusion was heightened as he thought about what Hope had said about her mother dying; how she hadn’t known her father. No. It wouldn’t be the first time a god had raised their child. It was rare, but it happened. And Leto could have easily faked her death. Or more likely, Hope was just repeating the story the Titan goddess had instructed her to.

He lifted the lid off the first box. On top of a folded cream sweater lay a large, leather-bound book. It looked much like a journal; the cover a soft deep red. The gold lettering on the cover was in ancient Greek, and Athan traced the inscription κατάρα as he read aloud to himself the translation, “Curse.”

Curious, Athan cracked the cover, and started flipping pages. Three distinctly different scripts scattered through the pages, and while the lettering was the rich black of fresh ink, some of the first pages were yellowed, as if by time. The latter pages were crisp, white, and blank.

On the inside cover a blurred inscription in gold caught Athan’s eye. Athan focused, and the words shifted to solid lettering.

On this night, and in this land

Hear the curse, How it will stand.

Your body and your beauty be

Touched and marked eternally of me

And when your family is complete

Then Death will visit on swift feet

And rob you of the joy divine

The joy that should be yours and mine

Until we wed, and love and more

This shall stand forevermore

— APOLLO

Athan flinched. His best friend had been Apollo’s son. Symeon. Despite the fact that it had been almost two decades since his death, the wound still felt fresh.

Athan shook it off and forced himself to focus. He racked his brain, thinking of curses Apollo had placed. The most obvious one was the Sphinx. He had been searching for the monster when he stumbled across Hope.

His interest piqued, Athan sat on the couch and, by the soft glow of the floor lamp, he started to read.

CHAPTER I

She was livid. No, not livid, more than that.
What is the word
, she thought. Anger was too mild a description. She realized there is no word adequate for the emotion. She could see the seething red, taste the bitterness of betrayal. He was cheating. AGAIN! Hera had agreed not to lead another rebellion, but there had to be a way to strike back!

She was sitting on a hill, far away enough from Olympus that he wouldn’t notice her. He almost never noticed her anyway. If Hera hadn’t been so upset she would have observed that it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining; the clouds thin and few. The birds were chattering about the urgency of nests and food. Shepherds had started staying out in the far grazing areas for days, even weeks, at a time.

The bleating of a lamb pulled her from her reverie. As she raised her head, he came over the crest of the hill. Everything about him seemed warm and inviting. He was tanned from a life spent mostly out of doors. His umber hair was touched with gold and his eyes were a rich hazel. There were small creases at the corner of his eyes, and she could see, as he came up the hill chasing after the lamb, that he was smiling. So engrossed in his chase, he didn’t notice her until he caught his quarry and straightened.

“Hello, Damon.” She said in a voice as smooth as silk.

He looked confused, as though he trying to place this beautiful woman, alone on a hill far away from civilization.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I can’t seem to remember you. Do we know each other?”

An idea had come to her as she looked at the handsome man. “Come here, Damon.” Her voice was compelling. “I want you to help me with something.”

She knew he would come. She could tell this would be easy. And, she thought, probably quite enjoyable, too.

~ προχωρήσουμε ~

The next year, when the days began to warm, Damon put his things together to go to the higher pastures. It was still early in the year, but he couldn’t help reflect on the previous summer– and the beautiful stranger he had spent it with. He wondered if he would see her again, and his heart skipped with anticipation.

He had spent the surreal summer living with her, as man and wife. She had walked with him, slept under the stars with him, and fed him food unlike anything he had ever seen or tasted before. It had been…magical.

And like magic, the Grecian beauty disappeared as abruptly as she had appeared. He awoke one day, toward the end of summer, and she was gone. He waited two weeks in hopes that she would return. Waited until it was almost too late. He returned to the lowlands just weeks before the first snow.

Years before, Damon spurned the traditional government appointment after completing his education. His older brother had been more than happy to see Damon leave Athens and settle in the distant country. When their father died, Damon inherited the country estate, and communication between the brothers had ceased. Damon felt free to enjoy the life of a shepherd, the life he had always wanted. That had been three years ago.

Damon had not married, as had been expected. He accumulated enough of a herd to pay a suitable bride price, and his land was more than adequate. But he waited. He bought two slaves, who became more like loyal friends as they helped tend the land and care for the sheep. But still he waited.

And then last year…

There had been speculation that Damon would marry Thalla when he returned from the summer grazing. It would have been an excellent match for both families. Thalla’s family had been in Belen for generations, they held both wealth and prestige. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like Thalla, he had even thought himself in love with her…

But his heart and soul had been captured and consumed with the mysterious woman. And he couldn’t get her out of his mind, or his soul.

When Damon made it back up to the grazing land, he was only slightly surprised to see her. He had hoped he would, had anticipated the meeting, ran through what he would say if she were there. But when he saw her, he was speechless.

“Hello again, Damon,” her voice was soft, subdued.

He could hear the underlying sadness. If he had looked in her eyes, he would have seen the pleading for forgiveness, for understanding. But he wasn’t looking at her.

All of his attention was focused on the bundle in her arms. He walked slowly, his heart full in his throat. When he stood at her side, she pulled back the blanket to reveal a creature so beautiful, she took his breath away.

“This is your daughter, Phoibe.” The woman’s head bent over the little one, and she crooned a lullaby. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. “Damon, I need you to care for her. I can’t…” Her voice broke, and her emotions spilled down her cheeks. “Please, Damon?” She leaned over her daughter again, kissed her once, and laid her into Damon’s arms.

He was overwhelmed. This just couldn’t be. Before he could respond, the blanket fell away from the young infant. His protest caught in his throat. She was so fair. Her skin was cream and roses, dark lashes framed hazel eyes that could only be his. The soft downy of her hair was a dark honey, and her face…her face was cherubic. Damon felt his heart expand.

“How,” he started, and looked up. But the beautiful woman was gone. Stunned with the events, he sank to the ground.

Little arms pushed at the confines of the cocoon, and Damon pulled his daughter free of the blanket. His eyes caught a silvery mark on her arm. He looked closer and was surprised to see a perfect outline of a peacock imprinted on his daughter’s inner forearm. His finger traced the figure, and his mind whirled. What had he done? What was he to do now? He spent the remaining daylight in a daze.

Just as the moon rose, a bell-like voice startled him.

“Hello, Damon.”

A petite young woman stood in a pool of moonlight. Her midnight eyes and dark skin contrasted with the pale silver of her hair. Damon blinked as if the apparition would disappear, wondering if he was in the middle of a dream.

“Who are you?” Overwhelmed, his civility disappeared, and he stood, cradling his daughter in his arms.

“My name is Artemis,” the girl replied. Her features were delicate and fine, and when she smiled, the darkness of the night withdrew as the moon grew brighter. “The maid you hold is a demigod, so I have come to give you instruction.”

“A demigod? But that means her mother…” He was unable to vocalize the reality as it hit him. A sinking feeling, starting in his chest, pulled until he hit the ground. His knowledge of mythology was not strong, despite the education he had received when he was young. He had never
really
believed, though.

The girl nodded. “Hera. Her mother is Hera.”

“Hera.” His voice was hoarse, full of shock.

“Damon, listen. My time is limited, and there are things you must know.” The small figure of Artemis took a step towards him. He could see that she carried a silver bow on her back, her fitted leather clothing was that of a hunter. His disbelief ebbed as she drew near.

Artemis explained that the demigod he held in his arms was his daughter, and would be his responsibility; to care for her, to raise her, and to teach her.

“This child is the first demigod born to Hera.”

Damon blushed as he thought of the previous summer.

“You need to know, Damon, there are certain dangers to demigods.” Her voice dropped, and she said more to herself, “Not the least of which is the jealousy of other gods.” Artemis shook her head and continued, “Demigods do not get sick, and nothing mortal will kill one. There are, however, immortal weapons, monsters, and, of course, the gods can all kill a demigod.”

“How will I protect her?” His anxiety was real, palpable. How was he to do anything?

“What is her name?” Artemis, on her tip-toes, was attempting to look at the babe in Damon’s arms.

“Phoibe,” Damon whispered. His eyes were drawn back to the bundle, and he lowered his daughter so Artemis could see.

“Ah, yes. Truly a shining one.” Artemis brushed the baby’s cheek, then looked up at the father. “Damon,” she addressed him firmly now, “the maid will be free from harm from any realm until the age of womanhood, and then as such she will need to be able to care for herself.”

The immediacy of this burden felt lifted, and Damon inquired after Hera.

“I’m truly sorry, Damon. We may be gods, but we are far from perfect. My own opinion: Our immortality doesn’t actually lend towards self-improvement. Sadly, many of us, well, all of us at times, do things without thought of the consequences. We will outlive the consequences, so to us, sometimes, they don’t matter. Well, at least not as much as they should.”

He was trying to decipher the meaning behind her monologue; his face reflected his confusion.

“You will likely not see Hera again,” Artemis spoke plainly. “She had to make certain agreements to prevent war within her immortal family. I’m sorry, Damon.”

Artemis looked empathetic, but it couldn’t touch the hole in Damon’s heart. He nodded, his only response that he had heard.

Artemis looked at the sky and sighed. “Now I must go. If I might make one suggestion?”

When Damon nodded again, she continued, “Let Priska help.”

“Priska?” Damon was bewildered with the suggestion. “The old woman that spins and weaves?”

Artemis nodded. The first streaks of sunlight brightened the night sky; in a flash Artemis was gone.

Damon sunk to the earth, exhausted. Phoibe was sleeping; Damon stretched out, put the babe on his chest, and slept.

~ προχωρήσουμε ~

The summer swept by.

Phoibe captured Damon’s heart. She was quick to smile, quick to laugh. She smelled of sun-kissed lilies, like her mother, and when she slept, it was either in his arms or a make-shift sling that hung around his torso.

All too soon the summer ended. Damon had no idea how to explain Phoibe’s presence once he was back to the village, so again he delayed his departure until the nights were chilled. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he set off, his herd following behind him, and his daughter asleep in her sling.

As he came to the outskirts of Belen, he noticed Priska, the old weaver, out by the road, almost as if she were waiting. He waved, and she beckoned him over to her gate.

“Damon. Damon, come here.” Her voice was leathery and warm. As he approached he noticed, for the first time, how incongruous her piercing indigo eyes were: so alert and young in an old, pruney face. “I see the gods have given you something.”

Damon was so startled he tripped over his own feet, his face raw with shock.

“Not to worry, Damon,” Priska continued, giving no heed to the stumble. “I will keep your secret. You should know that a man claiming to be your brother came to town a few days ago. He told such a story. But I see what you have there, and if you need my help, I will give it.”

“Thank you, Priska,” Damon stammered his reply.

She nodded once, turned, and walked across the courtyard to her home.

“Come here my little ones,” Damon called the sheep to their pens when he got home. He took pride that they came when he called. He had raised almost his entire flock from the time they were lambs. He would need to sheer them now that they had returned to the low lands. He had waited too long, spending too much time on the mountain. Too long. He would need to focus. Responsibilities won’t hold for daydreaming now, he told himself.

Damon walked into his home. He was grateful, not for the first time, of being so removed from the center of the village. As he closed the door behind him, his thoughts were on his evening meal, and getting to bed.

Suddenly the thought hit him, he would need somewhere for his daughter to sleep. Where would he put a cot for her? He turned to measure his home, and was surprised to see a silvery wooden cradle, intricately carved…just to the right of his bed.

He walked over and touched it with his toe. It rocked soundlessly back and forth. The bedding looked luxuriously soft, and when he stroked the creamy fabric he felt as though he were touching clouds. He reached inside the sling, pulled out the sleeping Phoibe, and gently laid her in the cradle.

It was odd, the immediate feeling, as though he had set a part of himself down. It was just that he had held her one way or another for the last three months. The emotional toil caught up, and Damon lay down on his bed, still in his clothes, and slept.

He woke the next morning to Phoibe’s cooing. She had her toes grasped in both hands and was trying to get them to her mouth. Her swaddling clothes lay loose surrounding her in ethereal threads. Her face lit up when she saw him.

“Hello, little Phoibe.” He bent to kiss her forehead, and jolted upright, startled by a knock at the door.

“Damon?” The voice was soft and vaguely familiar.

He opened the door and saw Thalla, the merchant’s niece.

“Thalla.” Taken off guard, his anxiety lessened his manners. “What are you doing here?”

After last summer he had avoided her, feeling at odds with his emotions. He had actually been surprised when Thalla’s uncle, Praxis, had come to ask if Damon would be opposed to someone else seeking Thalla as a bride last winter. Damon had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Hera, that he had quickly conceded that if someone else made an offer, they should move forward. That had been the last time Damon had spoken to Praxis, and the last time he had thought of Thalla. Until now.

“I’m sorry, Damon,” Thalla stood at the door, but her body had shifted away from him. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, no. You just surprised me.” Damon stood staring at the young lady. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in waves. Her skin, just touched with olive undertones, glowed with the summer sun. He had forgotten how beautiful she was.

“I came because your brother was in town yesterday. He explained that you had agreed to raise his daughter because his wife had died. I don’t understand this though, it’s not like you have a…” She stopped speaking and blushed.

When Damon didn’t respond, Thalla continued, “I didn’t know you had a brother.” It was almost an accusation.

Damon shook his head. “We haven’t spoken in years. He is much older than I. He left home for schooling, and then politics, all before I was grown. When our father died, he took everything in town, and I got our country estate. I’ve been here since I was 17.” He felt warm, too warm…unsure,
uncomfortable
. “I guess there is still a little you don’t know about me.” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, to commit the treason of trust. Not when he had already caused her pain.

“Can I see her?” Thalla asked.

“Of course.” He obliged willingly.

Damon stepped aside, and Thalla entered. Her movements were gentle, and as she pulled the covers back from the infant she gave an involuntary gasp.

“Oh, she’s beautiful.” Thalla paused and looked back at Damon, who was still standing at the door. “There is definitely a family resemblance.”

Damon shifted, but did not respond.

“What’s her name?” Thalla’s attention was back on the baby.

“Phoibe.” Damon responded. He had the uneasy feeling that something was not quite right.