“The sooner we are done, the sooner her flesh is rended from her bones, the sooner she is made free,” Ligeia said, more gently now. “That is the gift we can give her now, do you not see? Let her fly on swift heels to Persephone, that she need not linger any longer upon this accursed rock.”
Aglaope swallowed her sobs then, realizing her mother’s kindness beneath the practicality of her deed and word—it was the last kindness she might do for Thelxiope, after all. Delivering her in all haste to her goddess in the hopes that she might not suffer any more.
“May you feast at the goddess’s own table,” she murmured to her grandmother’s shade, hanging like a chill breeze above them. “And may all your hunger be forgotten in the crossing.”
* * *
V
In the winter, there was no reason to sing. Aglaope rested, consumed by her grief, and eager for her dreams. For her wings and the taste of freedom she was not certain anymore that she would ever know in waking—for all her certainty seemed to have fled after Thelxiope’s death.
When the rains came—far less frequent and full than they needed to refill the cistern that kept them alive through the hot, dry summer—Ligeia had to prod and push her into the shelter of their shallow cave, grumbling all the while about wet furs and fleeces and how damp they would remain until summer came.
But what did Aglaope care about damp fleece when she spent her nights soaring among the stars, circling out from their bare island and haunting Circe’s palace, with all its feasting and merriment, instead. Aglaope would perch upon the roof, folding her wings carefully to her back, and watch, waiting always for some glimpse of Akheloios among his men, dreaming of how, with his aid, she might one day repay Circe for her pain.
For it was not only escape from her island she wanted of him now—no! Not just freedom or desire that inspired such longing in her breast. For Thelxiope’s murder, Aglaope wanted revenge. And it did not matter that Odysseus-Akheloios slept in her bed, ate at her side, smiled and laughed in her hall. She was certain once he knew what she had done to his bride, his daughter, he would not laugh and smile for long. The rage of the river god would fall upon her, strong and rushing, and she would be swept to her doom for such a bold offense.
Whether her dreams were true visions, sent by the gods, by Akheloios himself, that she might know he was kept from her against his will and be reassured of his coming, or the wild imaginings of a tired body and grief-stricken mind, a means by which she might be freed of her sorrow only, Aglaope did not worry or wonder. It was not her place to refuse the gift she was given, or to dwell upon the reason why. And in truth, she had not the strength for the argument with Ligeia it would surely inspire if she spoke of it at all.
Part of her did wonder, though, if her winged-dreams were not the wings upon which her grandmother’s grandmother had once flown. If the stories Thelxiope told had been spawned from such a simple thing, spun all the larger as they were passed from mother to daughter, until the wings were true feathered limbs, raising their half-starved bodies into the sky, beating the air and the water below and launching them into freedom from their island of misery and death.
How sweet a thought that must have been, trapped as they were. A nourishment for their spirits when they had nothing for their bodies. As it had nourished Aglaope herself, all these years. As the dreams themselves offered her nourishment and strength and hope, even now.
“Do not waste Thelxiope’s sacrifice,” her mother said, chiding her when once again she came only reluctantly out of the rain into their shallow cave. “You know she wanted you to live—to see all that she could not and sail away with Akheloios when he came, as she had not.”
“And what will you do,” Aglaope asked, “when I have gone?”
“I will greet the goddess gladly when it is my time to travel to the House of Death,” Ligeia said. “You need not worry yourself over me, if that is your concern.”
“You wish me to leave you behind so callously? Truly? After all the things you have said, all your scolding and moaning about my foolishness?”
“Listen to me, child.” Her mother grasped her by the wrist, squeezing tightly, and Aglaope startled at her intensity, unable to tear her gaze away once it was caught. “If I scolded and moaned and admonished you for your dreaming, for your hopes, it was only because I did not want you heartbroken. I did not want you to dream of something that you might never have, and suffer grief and disappointment. But if you think for one moment I would not wish better for you—that I would ever hold you back, if Akheloios came in a swift black ship to steal you away—if I had your faith, my love, I would never have spoken the smallest word of rebuke. And should Akheloios come, as you believe he will, and sail through our rocks as if they hold no threat at all, I would bundle you aboard his ship with all the food and water we had left, and watch you sail into the sun with a joyful heart. Do you understand?”
Aglaope swallowed, shocked still and wordless, but when her mother’s grasp upon her wrist tightened again, demanding her answer, she nodded.
“Promise me, then,” Ligeia said. “Promise me that you will take care. That you will keep your strength and stop this nonsense. Thelxiope has given us a gift, and we must make the most of what she has offered. We must live, and when the seas calm, you must sing, that Akheloios might have a hope of finding his way.”
“I swear it,” Aglaope said. “For Thelxiope.”
“For you, too,” Ligeia said. “For your own sake, above all else. Keep your faith, my love. Keep your dreams of a better life, and do not look back when it comes. Not for me.”
She ate more after that, and drank as much as she was able to catch in her cups when the rain fell, and she sang—not upon her spire to call for ships that could not cross the rough seas, but hymns and prayers to the gods, as she ought to have been all this time. For more rain and fresh water to fill the cistern, for the strength they would need to last the winter through on the little food they had. For Akheloios to come, and swiftly, upon his ship.
And while she had feared that with Thelxiope’s death, she would be more alone than ever, she found that Ligeia did not argue as she once had. That when she spoke of her dreams, of flying and Circe’s hall filled with Odysseus-Akheloios and his men, all eager and anxious for the seas to calm that they might set sail again, her mother listened instead of chiding.
“I pray you are right about this man,” Ligeia said. “If there is any of the Giant-Killer’s ichor in his blood, so distantly born as he is, surely that will help his cause.”
“You do not believe he is Akheloios himself?” Aglaope asked.