Circe’s Lament

CW: Dark Themes and Mythic Violence

They say I did it. But how could I have? After all, I have been in this room the whole time.

Until moments ago, the door was locked from the outside. Now it hangs crooked behind the man who forced it open. The windows are narrow, letting in afternoon sunlight and a limited view of the courtyard, but nothing else. If I wish to see the sea, I must walk outside and down the path. Through the narrow openings come the smell of brine, the smoke from the courtyard fire, and the hiss of fat dripping over the hot stones beneath the roasting spit. My nymphs are murmuring among themselves as they work.

The room itself is very nice and spacious. Mosaics cover the floor and various cloths drape across the chairs. I wove them myself. An unfinished project sits on the loom in the corner. Nearby, a large bowl of broth is already half empty. Smaller bowls are drying on shelves, and various herbs hang from the rafters. A signet ring rests on the table by the nearest window, its crest catching the glimmering light. A folded scrap of paper is beneath it. I have yet to decide what to do with either. A lion growls in its sleep near the dying hearth, three wolves adjust their stances beside me, and twenty-two pigs stink up the far right side of the room.

The man in front of me has been staring ever since he entered without welcome. He has dark hair that has been made lighter with salt and time. Blood drips steadily from a cut on his cheek, and he wipes it away before placing his hand back on the hilt of his sword. In certain lights, some might even consider this type of man handsome. Unfortunately, the sun is currently hitting him just right. Naturally, he has also placed himself between me and the only exit. His eyes search my home quickly.

He is expecting a body, of course. Do not all good mysteries begin with one?

“I know what you did,” he says.

“Do you?” I lean back into my chair. “Excellent. Then this interrogation is unnecessary.”

“Interrogation?”

“How else would you describe this?”

“Where are my men?”

“Did they not arrive with you?” I ask. “That seems careless.”

“They entered this palace and never returned.”

I look around the room. “How mysterious…” One of the pigs huddles deeper into the corner.

“You were the last person to see them alive.”

“Was I?”

“Murderer!” he declares, as though he has finally reached both his verdict and the true reason for his arrival.

“Me? Little old me?” I gasp, widen my eyes like a doe, and press my hand to my heart. I know how this story is meant to look—a woman alone, an armed man, and a locked room. Women have been arriving on my shores for centuries carrying different versions of it. Husband. Father. King. The names all change, but the stories remain the same. When faced with a locked room and a mystery, somehow the woman inside is always blamed for what happened behind the door—no matter how impossible. How tiresome. I pout.

“Of course,” I say eventually. “Blame the helpless woman trapped all alone in a locked room. Typical.”

The man scoffs. “You are not helpless.”

“It is not very courteous to accuse.”

His grip tightens on the hilt until one of the wolves growls low and curls back its lip, baring its canines. He takes a slow step back, removes the sword from the scabbard, and places it against the wall. He then takes a long, deep breath.

“Twenty-two men disappeared after entering your home,” he says.

“How do you know this?”

“I do.”

“I see. Perhaps you should have warned them not to wander.”

“They were under my orders.”

“And they still ignored you?” I shake my head. “Not very good leadership, Captain.”

The pig closest to me snorts. “Do not be rude.” I point at it admonishingly.

The man’s eyes flick from the pig to me and back again. “You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with my men’s disappearance?”

“I expect very little of men.”

“So you deny harming them?”

“I deny murdering them.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Perhaps you should ask better questions. Athena knows so far you haven’t.”

His jaw tightens. I seem to have struck a nerve.

“I would never kill a man,” I continue. “The gods would strike me down.”

“Your father and grandfather are among them. I highly doubt that.”

“You only further my claim.”

“You are a goddess.”

“That is very forward of you to say, but thank you. I have found my appearance to be striking to most men.”

My cheeks warm, though I am certain it is only from the heat coming from the courtyard fire and spit. I know he notices from the way his eyes are still lingering on my face. Irritating.

“That is not what I meant—”

“To think the gods would strike one of their own!”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I? I find that men rarely understand what they mean. How should I—a woman—be expected to?”

“What have you done to my men?” he asks.

“Men were fashioned in the gods’ image. Would it not be foolish to kill one merely because he is mortal rather than immortal?” My hand strokes the nearest wolf’s back. “Animals, on the other hand…”

“And those are separate?”

“Of course.”

The pig nearest me snorts again before nudging my chair hard with its head.

“Precisely,” I respond to it.

The man raises an eyebrow and eyes the pig a second time. “Do you always converse with livestock?”

“When the alternative is less intelligent.” I scratch one of the other wolves behind its ears until it gives a contented howl. “Where is the other one?”

“What other one?”

“The man who remained outside. He did not accept my hospitality.” I shake my head. “Quite rude, you know.”

“Eurylochus?”

“He has a name?”

“Of course he does—”

“I suppose even shades had identities once,” I muse.

“He is not dead,” the man argues.

“Then his lack of manners is even more inexcusable,” I counter.

“He left to warn me.”

“Warn you?” I gasp. “About what?” I gesture around the room. “What dangers are around us that I need to heed?”

His gaze moves carefully from the lion to the wolves, and at last, to the pigs.

“Ah,” I say. “Yes. That.” The pig nearest to me then squeals indignantly and nudges my hand. I push it away. “Hypocritical? Hardly. Do not speak in that manner. You had eaten half your bowl before I came back.”

The man goes still, his attention focusing on the pig that squealed. But this time he takes a step closer and kneels to get a good look. Around its neck is a red cloth I forgot to remove, and a scar outlines one of its eyes. It’s almost impossible to miss. I wait. Three. Two. One…

“Polites?” the man asks.

The pig lifts both ears and clops its hooves in excitement. The others begin squealing in what I can only describe as jubilation and race in circles across the mosaics.

“Hush,” I tell them. “It took him long enough to recognize you. I would hardly celebrate.”

“What did you do?” The man stands back up and turns to look at me directly.

“At last. A better question.”

“You will turn them back.”

“Turn?”

“Change. Change them back. Now.”

“That wasn’t a question,” I say, almost disappointed.

“Circe.”

He knows my name, but I did not give it to him. I rise from my chair. “Away with the pretense, I see. And you must be the great and clever Odysseus.”

One of the other pigs squeals. “Do not be rude,” I tell it. “Can you not see we are having a conversation?”

“These are men,” Odysseus says.

“They were men,” I correct him.

“Change them back,” he repeats. Then, through teeth gritted so tightly I can hear them creak, he adds, “Please.”

“Thank you.” I immediately walk towards the table beneath the window, where a prepared bowl waits. All it needs is the final ingredient and an incantation. The pigs rush at my feet, squealing and shoving each other aside for a taste.

I chide them. “Patience. Patience. You were greedy enough as men. Becoming swine has clearly taught you nothing. If it weren’t for your captain, I would consider keeping you this way.”

I drop the final herb into the bowl and begin stirring.

“So you finally admit it,” Odysseus declares. “You did do this.”

“Very well. If it means so much to you, yes. I confess.” I continue stirring, making sure every last fragment of the herb is broken apart and dissolved. “I transformed your men.”

“But you didn’t kill them.”

“I have told you that since the beginning of this conversation.”

“You also said you were helpless.”

“Facts may be more or less true in certain lights. I would think the man who devised the wooden horse would know this. Are you a sacker of cities or the conqueror of Troy’s great citadel?”

His voice becomes sharper, and I hear him retrieve the sword. I ignore it. “How do you know about the horse?”

“Do not all men know the tale by now? Your deeds have been sung on every shore and carried in every mouth.”

“Troy is many a mile from this island.”

“Stories travel farther than ships, and much faster.” I glance towards the empty bowls drying on the shelves. “And men really like to talk when they are hungry. Even more so when they wish to impress.”

“Who are these men? Who told you?”

“All kinds from all over. A soldier who claimed he was the first to breach the walls. A merchant who swore the horse was twice the size of my palace and that he had sold the very wood used to build it. A sailor who said you were as tall and broad as Agamemnon, and with hair as golden as Heracles or Paris.”

“I do not have golden hair.”

“Clearly.” I glance in his direction. “But I think I do not mind this version.”

“What else have you heard?”

“Enough. I know that heroes rarely appear as they do in the songs. But perhaps you have proven me wrong.”

“I have heard that witches are foul creatures. Perhaps we are both wrong,” he says.

I finally lift the bowl and murmur the proper words, turning the liquid bright blue. I then throw it over the pigs and watch as they slowly elongate back into twenty-two crouching naked men. Hooves split and turn into hands and feet, snouts draw back into mouths, and tails curl inwards and then vanish altogether. For a moment it looks like they wish to threaten me with violence, but then another of my wolves bares its teeth. Odysseus turns to face me once more.

“Then you are innocent.”

“Of your men. Yes,” I say.

He narrows his eyes and wipes his brow as another wave of heat blows in through the windows from the roasting spit. He suddenly reaches for the signet ring on the table as a metallic glint catches his eye. It has the crest of a king on one side.

“This isn’t one of my men’s.”

“No. It belonged to another guest.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”

“He left without it?”

“He changed his mind so quickly.”

Odysseus next picks up the scrap of paper that had been under the ring. The lines are still clear as day: Deliver the witch. Her island and magic will be yours.

“I trusted him,” I say.

He had arrived weaving a story about being hunted by a greater power, claiming vehemently my island was his only sanctuary. He had said that he feared for his life after denying a great king his wish. For all my power, I had fallen for it. I had heard that story many times over—just never from a man.

“You believed him?” Odysseus asks.

“For about an hour.”

“What happened when you discovered the truth?”

“When I discovered his betrayal?” I look towards the courtyard, where the spit slowly continues to revolve. Odysseus moves closer to the narrow window and angles his head for a better look out of it. The boar’s skin is now crackling and bubbling above the fire. One of my nymphs rotates the handle slowly while another brushes more herbs and oils across its back. It will be ready soon.

One of Odysseus’s men retches onto my mosaics.

“You said you would never kill a man. You said that you hadn’t,” Odysseus says.

“I did not. I would not.”

“You said you had been in this room the entire time.”

“I have.”

His gaze moves to the broken door before returning to the courtyard. I can see him beginning to figure it out—why the door was locked, and why there was never a body to find.

“He locked you inside.”

“He believed it would keep me here while he went to summon his king.”

“He must have arrived after my men had already entered—”

“And accepted my gracious hospitality. Correct. They were far less troublesome by then.”

“Your nymphs killed him.”

“They prepared him.”

Odysseus shifts his attention to the large, half-empty bowl of broth.

“The broth.”

“Yes. He was very hungry.”

“It was poisoned.”

“The broth was perfectly safe when he ate it.”

He turns to me slowly. “When he was a man.”

I smile. The tales did not do his intelligence justice.

“You transformed him from here.”

I shrug. “The spell was already inside him once he ate. All it needed was the words. He should have realized distance would not matter.”

Fat strikes the hot stones again, and Odysseus’s attention returns once more to the boar rotating upon the spit.

He is cleverer than most. Perhaps I will let him stay a little while longer.

“Animals,” I remind him, “are entirely separate.”