‘But it can’t last. My sisters knew it. And you realised it, in the court of Polydectes. And now I know it too.’
And it’s true: there’s only so long you can wear the mask before the skin beneath it starts to curdle. Before you contort into a half-self. And you can’t go back. Time doesn’t work like that.
‘I’m not Merina,’ I said, and a lightness sang through me. I heard a howl of despair out in the middle of the ocean, and I knew it was Poseidon, furious that I would not be cowed. I felt as if my body were at one with the water again, as if Athena had transformed me into a dolphin. I closed my eyes and saw a starfish, its hand outstretched in a greeting of old welcome. But when I reached to grab it, my palm found only air.
‘I’m not Merina,’ I said again. ‘And I never have been.’
‘You’re not Merina?’ Perseus repeated, and I heard the edge of panic in his voice.
‘You kept your promise, Perseus,’ I said. ‘And now I must keep mine.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘I’m the girl you’re looking for,’ I said.
‘I knew that, the moment we first talked—’
‘No, Perseus. I’m what you’re looking for. I’m the Medusa.’
There was a silence. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Perseus, I’m Medusa. Your monster is me.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
There came a longer silence; the longest of my life. For the first time in four years, I’d spoken my real name out loud. For the first time ever, I’d told someone about what had happened to me – not just in Athena’s temple, but all of it – my life so far, with all its pains and beauties. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever done, and even then I knew I wasn’t finished, that my story had only just begun. My name was on the air, and I wasn’t afraid of it any more. Stheno was right: it did feel good.
The sky beyond the cave was a bright, clear blue, and I could hear the waves below us, the endless music of the sea – my sea, not the sea that Poseidon thought he owned. I felt the soles of my feet rooted on to the warm ground. I felt my snakes, light and calm. I waited for Perseus to speak. I longed for him to say something: it was his turn.
Minutes passed. I could hear him breathing heavily on the other side of the rock. Still he would not speak.
‘Perseus?’ I said. ‘Are you ever going to say something?’
‘You … I … you can’t be the Medusa,’ he whispered, and even that quietly I could hear the crack in his voice.
‘I’m Medusa,’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘How can you not believe me,’ I said, ‘when I’ve bound us in the truth? Can’t you taste it? Tell me you can taste it.’
‘Yes,’ said Perseus, his voice heavy, ‘I can taste it.’
‘So you believe me about Poseidon, and Athena?’
‘I do,’ he said, sounding hoarse and scared. How could he be scared, when we had held each other’s hands so tight? ‘But you can’t be her,’ he went on, feverish. ‘You can’t be her.’
‘I can be, and I am.’
‘My mother needs—’ he began.
‘Your mother is just like me,’ I said.
‘Don’t talk about my mother! My mother isn’t a monster,’ he cried, and once these words were out, his voice completely broke. I felt my belief in him slip like a fish through a poorly knotted net. I said nothing. I was not going to justify myself again. I pushed away the little nub of fear that was growing in my gut. I felt Echo and Artemis begin to stir in agitation. I hushed them, keeping my eye on the horizon, keeping the warmth in the soles of my feet – and then I heard Perseus running away from the entrance rock, his footsteps fading to a different quality of silence. I was alone, just my snakes and me.
What did I feel in that moment? Stheno had told me to test Perseus, but I hadn’t realised I’d been testing myself too. But while I was holding a bud of self-knowledge, it was beginning to look as if Perseus had failed. He was the one who was falling apart. He could not hold these realities together like I could – and I felt sorrow, and anger, and some odd element of relief: At least I know him now, I thought grimly. He came here for the promise of a severed head.
I wasn’t standing in the dark any more. Perseus had come, not in search of love or friendship, no young man’s island-hopping odyssey. Instead, a bloodstained destiny and a desire to protect his mother had put him to wandering the waters. And now he was running back to his boat, broken apart, confused.
Yet still I hoped. I didn’t want to lose him, even though he was losing himself. I imagined King Polydectes setting Perseus off towards the infinite horizon, assuming he’d never see his young enemy again. The perfect wedding gift, given by the king to himself! I pictured Perseus at Seriphos harbour, barely given a chance to say goodbye to his mother. And Dana?, embracing her son in silence, knowing that words would not be enough to protect her from the king’s advances. I saw that giant sword at her son’s side, shining from its hilt; Perseus, walking up the gangplank; Driana, empty-handed on the harbour, turning away in tears.
I was exhausted. Knowing I was alone, I walked around the entrance arch, towards the edge of the cliff, expecting to see Perseus unfurl his sails and pull up anchor, but I saw nothing but the water. Part of me wanted to go down to the shore and make him see me in my snakely glory. Another part of me didn’t. I didn’t want to chase someone who’d already fled. I had my snakes and I had my dignity, and I realised, for the first time, that I could not tell the difference.
The sun was setting: my sisters would be home soon. I spent the gathering dusk walking the tops of the cliffs, looking out to the fading horizon. To think that people in far-off lands should talk of my head as a trophy to be dragged home! It felt, dare I say it, almost familiar.
I didn’t know what Perseus was going to do next; that was the worst of it. And what would be worse – him setting sail and leaving me forever, or coming to face me, his sword aloft? Before now, a different version of me might have welcomed my own murder – an end, at least, to any more scrutiny and punishment, of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Death would be an escape. Perseus would get his mother back, and I would get peace. The gods might finally be satisfied.
But I didn’t want my death; I hadn’t come this far to die. Deep, deep in my heart, all I wanted was for Perseus to do what Stheno had said: to see me for who I was – not a myth, not a monster, but an eighteen-year-old girl who cooked a mean octopus stew and loved her dog. I wanted Perseus not to be scared to love me. I tried to banish Athena’s warning from my mind. If Perseus loved me, then I might learn to love myself too, and that was what Athena feared.
But Perseus didn’t come to my cave that night. Neither did he leave the island. I watched the promontory, long after our evening fire had sputtered out and Stheno, Euryale and Argentus were fast asleep. I held a vigil, my torch aloft, standing on the edge of the cliff. There was no movement below: I was a sentinel with nothing to guard.
The next morning, I slept in late, and woke refreshed. I’d slept strangely well: no dreams, just heavy oblivion, sheer exhaustion. When I opened my eyes, the sun outside the mouth of the cave was very high and my sisters were nowhere to be seen. They’d probably noticed how I’d been distracted in my own thoughts the night before, and wanted to let me be. I knew that Stheno had not mentioned Perseus to Euryale, because Euryale would have blown like a fury. My secret was safe for now, but something in my gut told me it would not be so for much longer.
I was right, of course. You should always listen to your gut.