
Men can be such useless beasts.
I can understand the ruined kitchen. That’s just brute appetite - gulps of honey and wine. Although a civilised person does not usually smash the cooking pots and trays, or tip priceless cinnamon and pepper into the ashes of the hearth.
The splintered loom is less forgivable. If one has feathers or fur, I can understand dispensing with textiles. But for a woman who lives on an island, alone except for pets, amenities like dresses and blankets are essential to banish Nyx’s chill. Perhaps the intent was to harvest a night’s firewood. If so, this pile of wood was a short-sighted exchange.
Even if I can offer generous explanations for the damage to the kitchen and loom, I cannot understand the shattered harp.
Never mind the vandalism to precision woodwork and meticulous paintings of birds. Just replacing the snapped strings will require extracting, treating and braiding animal tendons, as well as patient tuning for pitch. For an elaborate task like that I will need to summon one of my special tradesmen, something that should never be blithely attempted, as well as an intrusion on a lady’s sacred privacy.
Obliterating a musical reservoir of comfort, excitement and transcendence to satisfy a moment’s brutish impulse is at best parched and sullen madness. None of my pets would be so callous and reckless.
And so on through my palace. Scrolls where I record my experiments and investigations, defiled. The mosaic I have been assembling of hideous Scylla, disintegrated into broken tiles. The pigpen’s fence, toppled, with the swine sleeping in my bed.
And me, poor Circe, trying to work out how to handle an unfettered man rampaging across her island, while her nose is clogged and her eyes are bleary.
And all because of those olive trees!
You might think a woman with the sun as her father and a sea spirit as her mother would be able to snap her fingers and fix anything. I’m not Hera or another of the denizens of Olympus, I can’t wish a nuisance into the shape of a bear or crane. I need to first prepare the body with potions and herbs, and only then can I use my wand to focus my will, and coax out ancestral memories of gills and flippers into liquid and rippling flesh.
Despite what you may have heard from a certain slanderous poem, I do not turn sailors into pigs or lions for my own amusement. True, there’s an element of self-defence, with lustful and violent men who intrude on my realm tempted to devour a feast, and then shifted into more tractable forms. But it’s really charity work.
Men have such short and unhappy lives, always at war with each other, one failed harvest or city away from starvation or the precarious life of a slave. We have no such social problems on my island. I take away all of a man’s fear and rage, and give them priceless security and comfort, as well as an animal’s pristine absorption in each incandescent moment of existence.
I even sing to my pigs, first thing every morning, while I feed them handfuls of barley. Sometimes, if one of them is being especially cute, I give them a little kiss on the forehead.
This is my routine. Once all the animals are fed I take my breakfast, usually bread and fruit. Before it gets too hot, I like to explore the forests and cliffs, both to lift the soul through nature and for exercise, as even a goddess needs to stay in shape. Some days, I see my nymph cousins splashing in the sea and trade gossip, or converse with my father in the sky on the politics of Olympus. At midday, I amuse myself with reading, weaving, singing, or another hobby that takes my fancy, and graze on figs or plums. In the afternoon, we all work to make this island a happy home, whether it is lions digging furrows for seeds in the farms with their claws, pigs mopping the palace floors with their snouts, wolves fanning the flames of the hearth with their tails, or me shelling beans for pottage with my hands. In this way, we provide for ourselves, and lack for nothing. For dinner, I eat in the banquet hall with the animals lounging at my feet. After that I play with the animals until dusk, throwing balls for them to catch or stroking their fur.
Nights are for incense and investigation, as I raise a mystic fire, and by studying the dancing shapes in the flames explore this world, and the realms beyond. Nights are best for this, as there are always things a woman must do out of sight of their father. I talk to spirits, untangle mysteries, expand my powers, and seek guidance and wisdom. In some cases, I barter with spirits for favours, as I did when I conjured a host to cut and place the stones for my palace, although that was the whim of a younger woman, and these days I find it a bit too fancy for my needs, and hard to keep clean.
I have almost forgotten the capricious jealousies of my youth, and am happy to live a quiet life of self-sufficiency and reflection in the company of my pets, with only an occasional castaway or conjured lover for spice.
So despite what is implied in a certain poem, I am far from a monster. And I do not deserve these wheezing lungs or this awful rash, certainly not while I need to think up a plan to capture an unsupervised, rioting man.
All because of those olive trees!
A batch of delirious and sunburnt men had landed their ship on my island, aimless and adrift after marauders devastated their city. Welcoming them with my most winning smile, I suggested a picnic. An empty field, a gentle breeze, sunshine, good company, music, food, wine… And yes, everyone had a lovely afternoon.
Normally, when a new allotment of sailors arrives I expand the pigpen, but this time I was inspired by my nocturnal investigations to try something different.
I have more than enough animals, and grow my own herbs and crops, but this island has no olive trees. Studying other lands through my sacred fire, I saw how useful they can be, and not just for that touch of pepper in fun recipes.
One wave of my wand, and where there had been slumping and haggard refugees, there was now a beautiful grove of proud and serene olive trees.
As I said - charity work.
That night, I went to bed at peace with the cosmos, dreaming of a handsome young man pouring an amphora of olive oil down my hair and body.
The next morning, I could barely open my eyes.
My eyelids were red and puffy, and I could hardly breathe with the stiffness in my lungs and the blockage in my nose. At first, I thought another enchantress had somehow put a curse on me. The truth was far more horrible.
I'm allergic to olive trees.
I brewed a few potions to soothe the symptoms, and they helped, but not enough. I barely slept that week. Constant choking and sniffling took the sparkle out of life. It’s hard to enjoy a simple morning walk when you're itching from a rash that's more interested in the crevices of your body than a Mycenaean King who hasn't seen home for ten years. One morning, I even forgot to feed the pigs, that's how tired and miserable I was.
With great reluctance, I was forced to declare my tree transmogrification experiment an incomplete success.
And so, I selected one of the trees, watered its roots with the appropriate potions, and waved my wand to convert it back into a man. After this, I would change the remaining olive trees.
I expected he would be disappointed to return to being a scruffy man after a week as a dignified tree, and as a consolation intended to turn him into a pig or a wolf. I did not expect so much… violence.
He turned his fists on me, and I ran into the forest to escape.
He in turn moved into my palace, eating my food, and destroying my humble treasures and careful scholarship. Sneaking in while he looked for me on the island, I wept at the devastation.
Have pity for Circe, an exile on her own island, hunted by an illiterate barbarian by day, and sleeping in damp caves at night, groggy from allergies as unrelenting as the furies.
Even in this desperate situation, I had options. I could ask my father for help, but as we all know, aid from your parents is never completely free. I could order my tame lions to attack this man, but once they tasted hot blood, I might not be able to restrain them.
But I am Circe, daughter of Gods, Queen of my realm. I am all I need.
I do not like to kill my pigs, but if it is necessary, my knife will not shake or hesitate. I selected a smaller one, stuck it, cleaned out its insides, and fastened the meat to a shaft of green wood.
At midday, I began a fire at the shore, and erected a spit for the pig.
By nightfall, the smell of roasting pork summoned the man.
Even with access to my kitchen, this man would have never learnt how to prepare food, leaving that task to women or slaves. I knew his hunger for hot, fresh meat would tempt him after a few days of uncooked beans and grain.
He pulled the pig from the fire, and bit into the sweet and juicy flesh - tainted with the herbs and chemicals necessary for me to work my magic.
I emerged from behind a rock, still splattered with blood and gore from killing the pig.
He saw me. I waved my wand.
As you know, I am not malevolent. I help men find better lives. Up until that moment, I intended to turn him into a pig, and let bygones be bygones. But this had been an awful week, I was exhausted and stressed, and even a pig can get up to mischief if it has the will. Why take the risk?
That's why I turned him into a beetle.
Watching it skitter on the ground, I knew this was a good resolution. Beetles get to see the world from a fascinating perspective, and I can be confident this beetle won't unleash further havoc. A good outcome for both of us.
But why take the risk?
Squish.
Things have returned to normal. I have had enough of visitors for now, so my nymph cousins steer all wayward ships away from my island, or sink them if they become too persistent. I have renewed my comfortable routine of salutary walks and magic research. As for the roast pig, I shared it among the animals, because I do not believe in wasting food. And I no longer have to worry about allergies.
The loom and harp were challenging to replace, and I did have to make some deals with unsavoury spirits. There was even enough wood left over after the loom and harp for a new chair, and let me tell you, after all this excitement, I intend to do a lot more sitting.
Fortunately you get excellent, sturdy wood from olive trees.
Men can be useful, after all.
Comments