Before by Jessie Harrell Read Free Book Online

 
    BEFOR E :
    Eros before Psyche
    by: Jessie Harrell
     
    Copyright Jessie Harrell 2012
    Mae Day Publishing
     
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    Cover designed by Leigh Schinaia
     
     
    Exile is supposed to be punishment. Temporary exile, temporary punishment.
    The last time I shot Zeus with my arrows and made him seduce a mortal woman in the form of a goat (it seemed funny at the time), he imposed the later sentence. Six weeks in Media. Six weeks in a region where the gods are ignored in favor of some sort of religion called Zorastrianism. Whatever that is.
    Zeus even took my wings, so I couldn’t sneak back. I didn’t know he could do that, but one shake from his staff and they were gone and I was dumped on my ass in the middle of some City I’d never seen before. There I was, the god of Love, cast off Olympus like a leper.
    Someone needs to learn how to take a jok e .
    As I stood and dusted off my cloak, the reality of my exile hit me. I felt like a thirsty man in the middle of the ocean. People were everywhere in this overrun region, yet not a single one would offer me a tribute. No small clay figure, no offering of incense. Nothing to feed my hungry ego.
    Without the prayers and tokens I so desperately craved, I figured I’d be dead on my feet by the end of those six weeks. I was right about being dead on my feet, just wrong about the reason.
    ***
    Greeks don’t build places like this. An artificial hill, surrounded by a low, stone wall, rose up to meet the night sky. At the top, flames licked at burning logs, reducing them to brittle bones. The air stank of sandalwood as revelers pressed against each other, battling for space to toss their meager twigs into the hungry inferno.
    Hunkered down in a rough wool cloak, I’d snuck in to watch the religious ceremony. I stayed against the perimeter, hoping to enjoy the spectacle anonymously. But the flames cast these creepy-seductive shadows against the walls, making me feel watched. And present in the moment of the dance.
    The longer I watched, the more I wanted to join the swirling crowd. The movements of those performing the ritual were hypnotic, reminding me of the way Maenads twirl for Dionysus. But one figure dancing before the firelight stood out from the rest.
    Her slender hips pulsed with the rhythm of the drums.  Soft, brown curls swirled down her back, caressing her shoulders and barely tickling her waist. I watched her move, entranced by the way motion flowed from her.
    When she turned her head and caught my prying gaze, her eyes were as emerald as any gem. Finding my stare, she narrowed her lids for a moment. Then she smirked, shot me a wink, and went back to her dance.
    That was all the invitation I needed.
    The rest of the night was a blur of sour wine, too much smoke from the bonfire, and lust so consuming I thought it might swallow me whole. There I was, the god of Love, but she held all the power without even realizing it. Or maybe she did know. Maybe that was part of what intoxicated me too. In Greece, no mortal girl could bend me. None dared. But in Media, I was anonymous in a way that gave me a freedom to just exist. Here, I could be anyone. No pressures. No expectations. No women holding back in reverence to a god.
    I remember circling her in our dance. The flames shot shadows across her face as we spun, still not touching. In the changing light she was mysterious. Then aloof. Then hungry. Her eyes seared into mine, like burning pools of emerald oil. My skin ached for her to touch me. Just reach out across the centimeters separating