NICK SCULLY
It was noon. The sun was making its daily journey across the sky and since there were no clouds to block his view, the earth was exceptionally hot. Medusa briefly considered leaving her garden to walk down to the coast, but thought better of it. Her sisters, Stheno and Euryale, were out terrorizing the mortals of some village and wouldn’t be happy if they came back to find the garden empty. Well, empty of the living, that is.
Their giant garden was filled with all sorts of flora: primroses, violets, lilies of the valley, orchids, and royal mallows, among many others. Medusa wasn’t as fond of the flowers as she once was. Now she liked to care for the fruits and vegetables scattered throughout the expansive circular garden. They had artichokes, sugar beets, onion, lemon trees, and fig trees; the list could go on and on. She started cooking for her sisters since there wasn’t much else to do in the garden and she needed to stay entertained somehow.
They also had a vast collection of another nature—all throughout their land were statues of all types. There were many soldiers, most with swords raised, never to hit their target. And there were women, with their hands stifling screams that had died ages ago. Children, too—their faces were the hardest to look at—with twisted expressions, usually somewhere between curiosity and fear. There were even animals: dogs, goats, birds, and so on. There was a pair of lovers who had thought a bed of red and yellow chamomile flowers was very romantic, an elderly man who had come chasing after his grandson (who was now a statue in the small vineyard), and many single men who thought they could withstand the gaze of the infamously terrible and beautiful Medusa. Their gray shapes were like holes in the natural tapestry of color that was the garden.
Medusa sighed and walked past the peonies and azaleas to the edge of the garden, where she could sit under a cypress tree and look out at the sea. A man there had once been on all fours, picking some of her flowers—he made a surprisingly comfortable bench. The sweet smell of saffron mingled with the stinging scent of saltwater. Her snakes began to hiss, but she just stroked them lovingly and whispered sweet nothings to them. The sea, though it was calm today, brought back bitter memories.
Poseidon, she thought with venom. It seemed like an eternity ago that he had snatched her away. Medusa and her sisters had once been beautiful, immortal women, prized for their lithe bodies and golden hair that ran down to their waists. Medusa, the youngest, was the most sought after, with her almond-shaped green eyes, her long curled hair, and her coy yet seductive smile. The three were priestesses in Athena’s temple, but Medusa caught the eye of Poseidon. Curse the gods, she thought, taking and doing whatever they please.
Poseidon came to her one evening when she was walking along the beach. He recited beautiful poetry he claimed to have written while thinking of her, but Medusa knew he was up to no good. When she ran from him, he easily overtook her, grabbed her around the waist, and carried her back to Athena’s temple. He ripped her gown and forced himself upon her right in from of the altar. The memory of the cool marble against her naked back sent shivers up her spine. When it was finally over, Athena herself came down from Olympus in a fury. She punished Medusa—not Poseidon—for the desecration of her temple by turning her hair to snakes and making her mortal. Athena also punished her sisters, making their hair coarse like rope, their tongues like those of serpents, and giving them talons on their fingers, fangs in their mouths, and wings on their backs.
Looking back on it all, Medusa realized that Poseidon only used her to get back at Athena; all they ever did was fight with one another. Curse the gods, she thought again. Why must they constantly use others for their own ends?
Medusa shook the thoughts from her head—much to the irritation of her snakes—and stood up. She needed to make dinner for her sisters. She walked through the strawberry trees along the sea-side boundary of the garden, plucking a berry as she went. Chewing the fruit, she tried to decide what to make. A salad sounded good; she would need to gather olives, cucumbers, eggplant, of course some lettuce, and—What was that?
There was movement in the apple orchard. Medusa slinked closer to hide behind a bush nearby. Peering through the branches, she saw him: bronze-colored, broad-shouldered, with a mane of pale yellow hair and the rough hands of a fieldworker. By the gods, he was a dead ringer for Adonis himself. Medusa gasped aloud at the sight of him.
He froze, his arm extended to pick a plump and juicy apple. “Who’s there?” he bellowed, not even the faintest hint of a quiver in his voice. This was new to Medusa.
She cleared her throat. “D-Don’t you know who lives here?”
He turned, searching for the source of her voice. “No,” he said, “but I’m assuming dryads or some form of wood nymphs.”
“Not quite…” Medusa shrank back from her gap in the branches, half-wishing she were a wood nymph so she could meld into the foliage.
The man took a step toward her. “Well, who then? Demeter? I thought she lived on Olympus.”
“Wrong again,” she whispered, the man getting even closer to her hiding place.
“I know a beautiful voice such as that cannot belong to a mere mortal like myself.” He was five feet from her now. “Could you be—”
“Stop!” He was at the bush. “Don’t come any closer.”
“But why? I must know whom that enchanting voice belongs to,” he said, pulling aside one of the branches.
“No, please don’t,” she said, crouching lower.
“Don’t you want me to?”
“Of course, but—I’m cursed.”
“I don’t care.” As he removed the last branch, Medusa turned to flee, but he grabbed her by the wrist. She heard him inhale. “Your—your hair—”
“You see?” She sighed. “I told you.”
A pause. “Let me see your face.”
“You can’t—”
“I’m not afraid.” He let go of her.
Her snakes started twisting around each other. “Fine.” She slowly turned, but it was no different than the countless times before: the heightened brows, the open mouth, the interrupted intake of breath. Each time she hoped it would be different, that someone would move for gods’ sake, but it never was. The handsome man was now just another member of her permanent and unwanted collection.
Wiping away the rising water in her eyes, Medusa turned and walked away. Was it too much to ask for someone to talk with for a while? Someone to share things with? Someone to love?
No, she knew it could never be. All thanks to him. He took away any chance at happiness, any chance for a normal life. She was breathing heavily now, and her snakes took notice. “What I wouldn’t give…” she muttered. They shrank back, coiling close to her scalp.
Medusa was shaking. She threw her head back and shrieked to the heavens. She fell to her knees and beat her fists into the dirt. If only she could get—
Vengeance.
That was it. Revenge was what she craved. And she knew the perfect person to help her.
Medusa sprang up and ran to the center of the garden. There, she climbed to the top of a stone giant and stretched her arms to the sky. At the top of her lungs, she proclaimed, “O Nemesis, o goddess of vengeance, she who rights the wrongs of man, she the winged balancer of life, hear my plea! Take pity on me and come to my aid, I beseech you!”
The sky darkened and from the clouds a figure descended on ivory wings. The grass bent away from the place she landed. Medusa crawled down the giant formerly known as Damysos and approached the goddess to stand under her shadow. Nemesis simply stared down at her, waiting to her what she had to say.
“Nemesis,” Medusa began, “half-sister of my father, Phorcys, and bringer of retribution; I need your assistance.”
“Yes?”
“Please—” she hesitated, “What can I do to punish Poseidon? I need to make him feel the pain I feel every day. He cannot be allowed to get away with his actions. I’m begging you.”
Nemesis’ face softened. She shrank down to Medusa’s height. “Walk with me.”
She put her arm around Medusa’s shoulders and led her through a field of valerian and dittany. “Now I know what has happened to you is a tragedy, but I don’t know if—”
“Stop,” Medusa said, shrugging her off and turning to face the goddess. “We both know there are things you can do.”
“But he is an Olympian,” Nemesis explained, “even if he does not reside there. I may have great power, but I am not more powerful than he.”
A flock of birds flew past, and as she turned to look, Medusa saw a large stone fall from their midst. She walked over and saw that it wasn’t a stone, but a bird that had the misfortune of glancing her way. She took it in her hands and presented it to Nemesis, saying, “See? Can you truly see what he has done to me?”
Nemesis tilted her head to the side. “But it was not Poseidon who placed this curse upon you.”
Medusa threw down the stone bird in disgust. “Fine! Then I want revenge on Poseidon and Athena and all of Olympus if that’s what it’ll take to satisfy the blinding rage that bubbles inside me each and every day!”
“Ah.” Nemesis turned, examining the pomegranate trees in the distance. “If that is truly what you wish…”
“It is.” Medusa stood tall, holding her chin aloft. “I’m sure of it.”
The goddess sighed. “Very well.” She turned back, staring deep into Medusa’s eyes. “You must follow my instructions precisely.”
~ ~ ~
Medusa was sitting on a rock at the edge of the sea holding the end of a large net. Nemesis had told her that she needed the blood of a sea tortoise in order to exact her revenge on Poseidon. She would have to use it as part of a sacrifice to Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea. If she could summon him, she would be able to convince him to conspire with the other minor gods of the sea against Poseidon.
There was a tug at the net. Medusa quickly pulled it in, but by the time she untangled the tortoise from the net, it had been turned to stone.
“Great,” she said, tossing it behind her onto a growing pile of stone tortoises. She threw the net, lined with honeysuckle, back into the water and resumed her waiting. Sea tortoises were sacred to Hermes, but Medusa was not concerned with that. If she could convince the minor sea gods to rise up and reclaim the seas from Poseidon, the other minor gods would follow suit. Soon, all the Olympians would be thrown from their place of tyranny.
Medusa had already gathered the other items she needed in a basin: dried seagrass, crushed nettles, and a water flower of Hyacinthus, Apollo’s former lover. Nemesis had said that this mixture would be irresistible to Proteus; Medusa would be able to use it to lure him and to keep him without worrying about his habit of changing shape whenever anyone tried to hold him in one place.
There was another pull at the net. Medusa drew it in slowly this time, so as to not entangle the tortoise. Luckily, the tortoise was facing away from her, trying to get back to the sea. She grabbed it by its sides and held it over the bowl; it never saw the face of the one who plunged a knife deep into its throat, killing it. Medusa let its blood flow over her mixture before discarding it with its stone brethren.
She stirred the contents of the basin one final time and stood on the shore. Holding it at chest height, Medusa poured a small portion of her concoction into the sea. Her snakes hissed and wrestled each other in order to view the sea to her left.
There, a large hippocampus was swimming (galloping?) rapidly towards her. Within a matter of seconds, the half-horse, half-fish was in the shallows, lapping up the scattered remains of Nemesis’ recipe. Upon finishing and searching the water for more, Medusa exclaimed, “I know you are Proteus, Old Man of the Sea and father of Thetis. Do you know me?”
The hippocampus shifted into a pig, saying, “You are the youngest daughter of Phorcys and Ceto, Medusa the Cursed. How did you learn of this potion?”
“I will ask the questions,” Medusa replied, cradling the basin closer. “And if you want more, you will answer them.”
“Oh yes?” Proteus changed into a serpent. “And what is it you wish to know, Your Snakiness?”
Medusa kicked at him, shouting, “Do not mock me, Proteus, or I will contaminate your drink!” She pulled an orange from her girdle and held it above the bowl, ready to squeeze out its insides.
“Fine,” he said, transforming into a sitting fox with a wide grin, “ask away.”
“Why do you obey Poseidon?”
The fox inclined its head. “He is the master of the sea.”
“Yes,” Medusa continued, “but you were around long before the rise of Zeus and his siblings. Why did you allow your domain to be controlled by another, when you alone can remember its very creation?” The fox then became a leopard, the end of its tail slightly twitching. “Had I been in your position, I would never allow some newcomer to usurp me.”
The leopard growled. “You were not there, you cannot understand such things…”
A smile began to creep over Medusa’s lips. “My parents used to speak of you when I was young. They believed you held the power to repossess the sea, but were too afraid of those who dwell on Olympus.”
Proteus became a rhinoceros, his horn pointed at Medusa’ chest. “You would do well to hold your tongue, insolent one.”
Medusa tightened her grip on the orange. “Would I? It wouldn’t change what you already know: I’m right. Were you to join with my parents, Nerus and all his daughters, and Glaucus, you could easily overthrow Poseidon. He may have great power, but it pales in comparison to your combined power.”
He shifted into a vulture, folding his wings behind him, but he did not reply.
“I’m sure you could even get Amphitrite on your side; Poseidon’s many affairs cannot please the queen of the sea.”
Proteus averted his gaze, focusing on the sea.
Medusa’s snakes shivered as a full grin spread across her face. “You know all this to be true, Old Man. My question to you is this: why have you not acted upon this knowledge before? Why would you limit yourself to be viewed as a lesser god when you know that the sea is rightfully your domain? Why not forcefully reclaim what is yours?”
Finally, Proteus took his true form as a hulking, white-bearded old man, his lower half a fish. He regarded Medusa, standing tall as the winds began to surge off the sea, causing her snakes to slither about briskly. “I do not know what led you to this,” he remarked, “but I thank you.”
“Yes you do,” Medusa scoffed, tossing the contents of the basin into the air, “but you are welcome.”
Proteus turned into a large hawk just in time to catch the delectable mixture in his beak, then turned and flew back out over the sea. Medusa saw him dive towards the water, changing into a shark just before impact. Medusa smiled and began to walk back to the center of the garden.
~ ~ ~
A week later, Medusa was gathering pomegranates, not far from the shore. The sea had raged for three days now; the waves were twenty feet high, storms constantly whipped the water with sheets of rain, and in all her life, she could not remember the water being so murky. While she picked the fruit and placed it in her basket, Medusa hummed a lullaby to her snakes that her mother used to sing to her when she was young.
She knew the destruction of the gods was only a matter of time now. Poseidon would have little to no help from the other Olympians. Medusa had a plan to get revenge on Athena, involving a young weaver from a town nearby, but she didn’t feel the need to enact it since her demise would be served hand-in-hand with the other gods. Athena would never aid Poseidon in anything, and she would influence Artemis’ decision. Apollo would stand by his twin, and thusly Hermes would support Apollo. Dionysus would never side with Apollo, but he also would believe that Poseidon’s troubles did not affect him. Accordingly, Demeter, Hades, and Zeus would stay out of it, sticking to their respective domains rather than intrude on the sea. Hera would influence her sons, Ares and Hephaestus—and subsequently, their joint lover Aphrodite—and while Medusa could not discern where exactly Hera would stand, she never knew her to be a fan of Poseidon’s. The only remaining great god was Hestia, and luckily, she was famous for staying out of the entangled and unending affairs of the Olympian deities. Even if some of the gods decided to aid Poseidon, this would distract them from their own realms, allowing other minor gods to rise up and overthrow Olympus and all who call it home. Everything was going to work out perfectly.
It was with these happy thoughts that Medusa decided to make a feast for her sisters. They would be returning from their week-long journey of terror shortly, and Medusa wanted to do something extravagant for them.
Instead of heading directly to the center of the garden, Medusa decided to take a detour through a field of tulips. Their mixed pastels of orange and pink and yellow and red brought her joy as they hadn’t for months. Medusa took a moment to bend over and inhale their wonderful perfume. Her snakes even appreciated the aroma.
Medusa sighed and was about to continue on her way when something flashed in the corner of her eye. \ But there was no movement in the garden or in the sky, save a lone bird in the distance, so she shrugged, heaved her basket up to rest on her hip, and started off.
She reached the grapes when it happened again. This time her snakes coiled closed to her head, hissing. Medusa froze and looked back to the sky to find the bird; except now she could see it wasn’t a bird—it was a man with winged feet coming closer to the garden. Was Hermes coming to punish her further?
No, she was sure that Hermes didn’t carry a large, mirrored shield—the source of the light, no doubt—but it was clear that this strange man was wearing the winged sandals of Hermes. Medusa cocked her head to the side and watched as the man continued to fly closer.
His head was bent downward, looking at… the shield? A large silver sword was hanging off his left hip. Medusa’s eyes widened with realization. She dropped the pomegranates and her stomach joined them in the dirt. The gods hadn’t interfered themselves, but they had sent someone to stop her from meddling in their affairs ever again.
“Damn the gods…”