Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1)
Read Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1) Online
Authors: Shawn Mackey
Table of Contents
Entry 1
As I dip my pen into a bottle of fresh ink, I am not surprised to feel tears well up in my eyes and a fiery tremor pulse in my chest. How did one communicate their private thoughts before the existence of the written word? Perhaps there was no need. I suppose secrets lose a bit of luster when they find expression. The same goes for all knowledge, down to the most mundane. My uncle’s stories no longer rivet and engage, but rather occupy time and alleviate the pains of drudgery. After extensive readings on botany, from the archaic to modern, the tale of Demeter and Persephone is as enchanting as one of my mother’s two-bit romance novels. The old biddy would devastate the laws of nature to spite a foul mood, whether brought upon by a stubbed toe or her daughter eloping with an unsavory cad. The tale contains enough wish fulfillment to occupy another loveless night.
I love my mother! Truly and dearly, she is the crux of my soul. Without her, I would surely crumble and disperse like a dusty wind. I write cruel things because I am not permitted to say cruel things. For all of my love, there is a certain level of disgust. It is ugly and needs to be purged. As my pen fills this page, I find relief from this ugliness. For every cruelty, I can list one hundred compliments. I’m not in the mood for praises at the moment, and would rather delve into more naughtiness to cleanse the ugliness. My hands are already callused and torn from long days of ripping weeds and chopping wood; I will not let my soul harden from harboring ill will.
It is best to start with my trade with Walter. He brings us supplies every two weeks in exchange for goods and accepts gifts in exchange for the occasional favor. These gifts primarily consist of honey and jugs of my uncle’s homemade beer for Walter’s tobacco and all sorts of exotic treats, especially coffee and chocolate.
Days ago, I had mustered the courage to approach the hirsute seaman and request ink and paper. I offered a jar of honey that I had pilfered from the mayor’s private supply. He merely nodded his head and accepted the goods, and I had left wondering if I had been swindled. When he returned at the usual hour two weeks later, I carried a clod of dirt in my pocket and had every intention of tossing it in his eyes if he had taken me for a fool. His thick hands could tear my neck from my shoulders, but my feet are far swifter than the burly pig’s.
While he finished carrying crates off his small ship, I crept up to make sure no one would witness our exchange. Walter spotted me with ease and made his way to the cabin. Assuming he meant to avoid me, I stood defiantly with my arms crossed until he finally came out with a package under his armpit. It was wrapped neatly in brown paper and in the form of a book. He flashed his splintery yellowed teeth in a genial smile (which had no business on such a roguish countenance), reached into his front pocket, and procured a tiny black bottle. I stuffed the ink into my blouse pocket and clutched the book close. Rosy-cheeked and on the verge of tears of embarrassment, I nodded and fled in haste. He reminded me that he was always up for more honey.
Only a select few are permitted to speak to Walter, let alone see him. The goods are doled out to the townspeople according to their contributions and requests. I would certainly be flogged, perhaps publicly, for the trade. Before handing over the honey, I had made Walter swear an oath of discretion. I doubt he will break it. He must have a basic understanding of our ways. I experienced a definite anxiety in placing my trust in a stranger, but more so, I felt an immense feeling of joy. Is this how friendships are born? Perhaps he will tell me stories of his travels next time. The wrapping of my diary carried the aroma of salty sea water. I had enjoyed its scent before tossing it in the fireplace.
Letters to outsiders are forbidden, but I am sure personal writing is simply disdained. What use are records? Anything important can be transmitted orally, and anything done in private is done in secret, with an unspoken implication of conspiracy. I suppose it can be seen as eccentric behavior to these rustics. They came here to live by their own labor. They gain purification through hard work. What use is confiding to oneself in secret when plenty of neighbors share the same view? I do believe it was forbidden early on, and after being scoffed, has no need to be enforced. I dare not ask, to rouse suspicion. A little secrecy is one of life’s savory spices.
My trade with Walter is one of the more recent trespasses. It is not the first time I stole from the mayor. Mostly tiny things, edible—like honey and sweet breads. I suppose this is as good a time as any to confess my biggest theft. Well, it was less of a theft and more of a spiteful destruction of precious property. I refuse to harbor resentment. If this means committing the occasional criminal act to prevent a blot on my soul, then so be it.
The mayor is far from wicked. His tone always carries a trace of condescension, but this stems more from a shepherd and his flock than petty egoism. I have no doubt the shepherd truly loves his sheep and shares equally in their pains and joys. To prevent the sheep from foolishly wandering into a wolf’s den, though, he must make them aware of their stupidity by cruel means, whether harsh words or stern thrashings.
What if the sheep wandered into greater pastures, but lacked the words to notify the shepherd? Should he take his beatings in the hopes of enlightening his master? Should he abandon greater pastures and become content with his master’s mediocrity? Should he leave the flock and risk baiting the hungry wolves?
My dear friend Aiden did not ask himself these questions, and instead, chose instinct and brash action. On our small island, a few places remain uncharted. Perhaps it is in case of a population boom. The island is very tiny, but we are not cramped. My friends say the outskirts are haunted, and judging by the mayor’s brutish reaction to Aiden’s venture past the farmland, he likely believes the same.
According to Aiden, bushels of berries cover a section of the outskirts. He even returned to town with a basket of the delicious fruit. I was the only one who had the luxury of tasting one. The mayor, typically a gentle soul, punched Aiden in the mouth. The food was confiscated, and my friend lost a tooth for his efforts. The gap in his gums looks ugly and oafish. His smile is now reciprocated by mockery instead of its former cheer.
A few days after, Mother and I were invited to lunch by the mayor’s wife. As they chatted over tea, my eyes were fixed on a photograph. It was framed over the fireplace, a portrait of the mayor and a young boy with sandy hair and blue eyes. Gwen, his wife, pointed out that it was their son, Benjamin. He died a year before my family arrived at the island. I hoped she would elaborate to sate my curiosity; it did not seem polite to pry. Gwen merely glanced at the picture and sipped her tea. An idea crossed my mind, and I had to ask if it had to do with the western section of the island. Her eyes went wide for a split second, and she nodded ever so slightly. After a long silence, she mumbled something about an animal.
Mother cleared her throat and asked for more tea. The subject dropped, and my curiosity piqued. Most of the potential predator population had been killed off long before my arrival. Those remaining were more likely to get lost and starve to death in the wilderness or devoured by a wolf or bear. While most of the island was populated, just about anything could be in the undisturbed portion.
I usually approach my uncle for these sorts of questions. My parents would suspect a desire to follow Aiden’s example. I had no doubt my uncle would, as well, but at least I would receive a satisfactory answer. He is one of the mayor’s closest friends, even prior to our stay on the island.
Not to place special emphasis on the mayor in his heart. My uncle is friends with everyone. He is that kind of man. Unlike most of us, my uncle occupied a fairly influential position in the government, so he felt the need to fake his death. I dare not elaborate on the extraordinary measures and the uncanny cadaver. The grief was real enough.
I remember the day Father told me had died. At first, I was too heartbroken to consider his lack of emotion over his brother’s passing. On our way to the island, revealed the truth about my uncle. Despite my happiness to discover he was alive, I became indignant for a moment. He went on to explain that going to the island was much like forfeiting your former life. The prospect of changing my name and identity removed any second thoughts.
My uncle taught me all about Benjamin, or Benji, as my uncle called him. He was a young man, far removed from the boy in the photograph. His blonde hair lopped at the scalp, and a perpetually furrowed brow lent his soft eyes the glare of a hawk. Swift and concise as any bird of prey, he made an excellent hunter. His arrow never missed a mark. Benji tried to teach my uncle the basics of archery, but he was far too impatient. He either shot too soon or too frantically at the precise moment. After hitting a deer square in the ass, my uncle retired from his short stint and rediscovered happiness in nailing wood.
Benji saw no need for firearms. As long as his aim remained true, no animal could withstand an arrow to the throat. Its death throes were the zest of the hunt, a few seconds to savor a cup of bloodshed, a bitter brew too frothy for most digestions. His heart beat with their abating breath. The gradual dim in their fiery glare looked all too human, he once told my uncle.
In those moments, he was solemn to the point of an eerie reverence. Though he spent more time in the woods than the rest, he feared it far more than any of them. My uncle described it as a war with something inexplicable. He noticed it toward the end of Benji’s life and was sure that Benji also understood it. In hindsight, it was as though he were privy to his grisly fate and had spent that moment on avenging it.
When Benji failed to return before dark, my uncle, the mayor, and four others formed a small search party. Despite their haste, they treated the incident lightly, expecting an impeding injury at worst. He sometimes traveled past dark in search of different prey, but never failed to notify his father.
They split into three groups. My uncle and his friend Earl searched for about two hours until they met up with the other two groups. He remembered calling out the mayor’s name, Arthur, and getting angry that he did not reply. The sound of sobbing quickly dissolved his frustration. They joined the other four and huddled around the blanketed corpse of Benji.
They gradually calmed and discussed the plans for burial. While the others were distracted, my uncle lowered his torch and peered under the blanket to see his friend’s face one last time. There was none to see. All that remained were buzzing flies swarming around a bony, pink pulp. He rose to his feet and clutched his gurgling belly, suppressing his vomit with a gag. According to the first at the scene, the rest of him had been picked clean, with only boots to identify the deceased.
A pack of starving wolves was to blame. My uncle thinks it was a very large bear, though he has never seen one on the island. Entrance into the woods had been prohibited from then on, despite the pleas to avenge Benji’s death. Wolves have been sighted since then, but they always flee before the witnesses can arm themselves. The mayor promised to cull the population if another death occurred. Since his son’s had been the only death in the two years since the town’s founding, no one had the courage to protest.
