by Elizabeth Scott Tervo
I. Aphrodite in the Forest
The rock was cold but not wet or mossy, which was good since I could not afford to damage my robe this time. Never mind why I was there, sitting on a huge rock overlooking the trail. I was sitting there and thinking and I was angry.
The gray afternoon light filtered through the empty tree branches and noise from the trail came up to me. It wasn’t a child scuffling through the brown and red leaves for fun. This person had more on his mind than leaves. He was stamping along, as if to shed a powerful emotion back into the ground, as if trying to neutralize lightning.
I did not want to look down at him. I was looking over to my right. Stage right, I thought. Center stage, enter a stranger. I didn’t care who it was. He would pass by and I would go back to my thoughts. Go away, stranger.
But my mind could not stop its habit of analyzing a person’s appearance, movements, et cetera, and what they reveal about character. The scent of tobacco preceded him, and the way the young man’s hand curled around his cigarette told me that he was Russian. And he had that pale face with the unhealthy bluish look that some of them have.
I kept my eyes to the right and focused my entire attention on wishing him gone. I was conscious of every separate bone in my body as I held my pose and he crashed along.
He stopped suddenly below me and stared up. “Ah… ah…” he breathed.
I swiveled my eyes around. His eyes widened.
I turned and adjusted my sitting pose to face him. “Da, Affradeeta,” I said.
He jumped back and threw his cigarette down.
Gross, I thought. I’ll have to find that and stamp it out later. What does he want to do, start a forest fire?
Then I realized that this young man was a forest fire. Not for me, but for someone.
“Nu, nu, no pomogi-” he stammered.
My Russian skills were not going to carry us very far. “English,” I said. “I prefer English today.”
We looked at each other. Me, in my red and orange satin gown, with the shawl that went from one forearm to the other, leaving my shoulders bare, and my hair done in artistic tendrils.
Neither of us knew what this meeting meant or what was going to happen. We were in that strange zone between real life and fiction where anything can happen. In a strange way it is the most real of all.
“Well, what?” I asked.
“Mother. There is a girl.”
Why was he calling me Mother? I was not much older than him… he must have me confused with Mother Earth. I frowned. I did not want to be Mother Earth. It was fun to be Aphrodite, but Mother Earth wasn’t attractive. So moist, you know, and without personality.
“There is a girl?” I repeated.
His face took on an extraordinary mixture of derision and pity.
“There is a girl. Yes.”
I grasped the situation and summed it up for both of us:
“And there is also a second girl.”
His face shifted into an expression of combined happiness, misery, and pity. A very mobile face. He wrinkled up his nose, not with contempt, I realized, but because he was trying not to cry.
“Yes.”
“And you are trampling my forest because you want the situation to go away.”
“Yes.”
We were silent.
“So, Mother, what to do?”
Stupid, I thought. “Go to the first girl and tell her honestly that you do not love her anymore. Make her a nice present and pay for a month’s rent on a new place for her.”
His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he spoke. With his cigarette gone he did not seem to know what to do with his mouth or his hands.
“All right.” Now all his emotions fled from his face except for one. Hope. “And then?”
Our eyes connected again and the grey wood around us flickered. Only our conversation was real. It was fire and smoke. He would do what I said.
I reached deep into my inner pocket and pulled out Anita’s veil. It was bridal white, crusted with seed pearls and some kind of expensive motes that were really just rhinestones, and it was wadded up into a triangle, like one of those American flags that they give war-widows over the grave.
“Take this.”
I tossed it to him in a great arc. It came loose and the long blinding white gauze rippled through the gray air. He caught the headpiece and the rest of it settled on him like a cloud of doves. He smiled and looked up at me.
“Thank you.”
He began to gather up the voluminous material, winding it around his elbow.
“Take that to the second girl and tell her to wear it on the day she marries a better man than you. Tell her you don’t love her anymore. It was a beautiful dream, nothing more. Pushkin, Я вас любил and all that.”
He stopped and looked up at me.
“Finish up.”
“But—”
“I usually demand a sacrifice. Do you want me to demand a sacrifice?”
“What kind of sacrifice…”
“I’m not demanding anything this time because I like the two girls. I don’t like you.”
He held the white bundle in front of him and looked down at it. He would have that to remember me by. Later, he would know this wasn’t a dream.
I slipped down behind the rock. There was a crevice where I would not be seen. It would not be a good hiding place for long, of course, because if he looked around at all he would certainly find me.
I heard him gasp. I smiled. Great exit.
He was crushing the leaves again as he walked away back down the trail.
I hoped that the red and orange satin had not snagged anywhere on the rough rock, because Costumes would kill me—again.
I stood there.
It was getting cold.
I should really be getting back. They’d still be going strong, just skipping the scenes I was in. I had an unfortunate reputation for storming off, but since I had an equal reputation for coming back and putting in some solid work, it would be all right.
I could hardly remember why I ran off in the first place. Oh yes… I wanted to appear first through the scrim… the shock to the audience as I became visible!… but the director said I’d dominate the scene just fine without that… perhaps he was right.
I picked some lace off the rough edge of the rock where it had stuck and adjusted the shawl. I picked up my headpiece and looked down at myself. I have always thought Titania’s colors should be purple, or maybe green, not red and orange. Flame colors are best for Aphrodite. But whatever. Sometimes you have to let the director have his way.
I peered out from behind the rock and walked carefully around it, as silently as I could over the leaves. I found the cigarette and squashed it out with my character shoe.
He was still walking away, only about a hundred yards on. Amid the grey trunks his black outfit was easy to spot. He was the only moving thing in the whole scene. But he was going so slow. And I needed to hurry. What to do?
I had the headdress still in my hand and I put it on. It left my face bare, but the long feathers in every shade of red stuck out in all directions. I shut my eyes and recalled the scream that had been so serviceable in the melee scene from Romeo and Juliet. Several of us ended up running through the house up to the stage. I began to run down the trail.
“AAAAAAAAAAH!” I screamed like a harpy, like an avenging angel, like Aphrodite herself as I sped toward him. Those who disrespect Love will take the consequences.
He looked back at me for an instant and took off like an Olympic sprinter. He ran and ran, like a mountain goat, like a jackknife, like a Russian dancer, and the whole length of the veil came loose again and streamed out after him.
My shoes were not really suited for running, but I watched the trail carefully for tree roots and did not trip as I gave voice again and again.
As we ran, we stirred up a storm of autumn leaves from the forest floor. It was a magnificent chase. Not that I actually meant to catch up with him. But he was faster anyway, and fear did not let him slow down or drop the veil.
Soon the trail forked. He went one way and I went the other back down to town.
I don’t know what became of him. I never saw him again.
And Anita never asked me what I did with her veil. She didn’t want to know. She just wanted it gone.
I asked Costumes to switch me to a purple or green outfit, but there was a lot of talk about ‘actor’s demands’ and ‘director’s instructions’ and in the end they didn’t do it.
II. My Lady Aphrodite
I was not scuffling though autumn leaves like a child having fun. I had things on my mind. My feet stamped the ground over and over, trying to shed powerful emotions back into the ground, like trying to neutralize lightning.
Cigarette smoke clouded around me, and the sound of my boots on the carcasses of leaves spread though the afternoon light filtering through the empty tree branches. Giant gray rocks hunched scattered throughout the forest where a glacier must have left them long ago.
I stopped short, because on the high rock in front of me, where the trail yielded around it, sat a woman, or something that looked like a woman. It was larger than a woman. She or it was sitting up, stock-still, tensed like a cat about to spring, facing off to my left. She was not looking at me. Her flame-red and orange gown sprawled over the rock and the golden tendrils of her hair floated around her and sprawled on her bare shoulders.
I put out my shaking hand and touched the rock. It was, shockingly, cold. The heat of that beauty had not warmed it at all.
I did not know that such things persisted in this world. I stared up at her or it.
“Ah… ah…” I breathed or tried to say. She swiveled her eyes around.
My own eyes widened and my hair stood on end. I couldn’t move.
She suddenly turned and adjusted her sitting pose to face me. I backed up a pace. She opened her mouth like a mechanical statue.
“Да, Афрадита,” she said. Her voice seemed to make the earth vibrate.
I threw my cigarette down. She frowned.
This was her, the mother of Love herself, perhaps the only person that could help me.
“Ну, ну, помоги—” I stammered. Do you use the formal or informal for a goddess? She did not let me decide.
“I prefer English today.”
Very well. I can switch to English, mostly.
We looked at each other. I did not know what this meeting meant or what was going to happen. We were in that strange zone between real life and fiction where anything goes. In a strange way this was the most real thing that had ever happened to me.
I didn’t know how long it was before she spoke. “Well, what?”
How to address her. I could not force myself to say her name. What should I call her? She was something ancient, chthonic, everlasting as the earth. Mother Earth.
“Mother,” I said. “There is a girl.”
I hoped she did not mind this way of addressing her.
She frowned, then let it go. “There is a girl?”
With a mixture of derision and pity, I answered. “Yes, there is a girl.”
Aphrodite grasped the situation and summed it up for both of us. “And there is also a second girl.”
I felt my face turn pale and my skin crawl. How did she know of my combined happiness, misery, and pity? I felt tears coming and I wrinkled up my nose, forcing myself to be a man.
“Yes. That’s the whole fairy tale.”
“And you are trampling my forest because you want the situation to go away.”
I did. I don’t know what cure I thought I’d find in the forest. I had seen a few good mushrooms, but this was no time for gathering them.
“Yes.”
She looked away. She had no interest in me. I wanted to tug at the hem of her dress like a tiny, begging child, but I did not dare.
“Mother, what… what to do?”
She turned those tawny eyes on me again. “Go to the first girl and tell her honestly that you do not love her anymore. Make her a nice present and pay for a month’s rent on a new place for her.”
My mouth opened and then closed a couple of times. Could I afford that? I would have to.
“All right.”
Now my heart was filling, inflating, with hope. And love. Would she give us her blessing? Or whatever the old gods gave?
Our eyes connected again and the grey forest flickered. Our conversation was fire and smoke. It was the only real thing in the world. I was at her mercy. I would do whatever she said.
From somewhere on her person she pulled out something bridely white, crusted with pearls and little jewels. It was folded up into a triangle, like one of those American flags that they give war-widows over the grave.
“Take this,” she said, and tossed it to me in a great arc. As it came loose the long blinding white gauze rippled through the air. I caught the headpiece and the rest of it settled on me like a cloud of doves. I smiled up at her, up at heaven.
“Thank you.”
I began to gather up the voluminous material, winding it safely around my elbow, but she spoke again.
“Take that to the second girl and tell her to wear it on the day she marries a better man than you. Tell her you don’t love her anymore. It was a beautiful dream, nothing more. Pushkin, Я вас любил and all that.” I stopped winding. “Finish up.”
I finished winding it and looked up at her again.
“But-”
She towered over me.
“I usually demand a sacrifice. Do you want me to demand a sacrifice?”
My heart quailed.
“What kind of sacrifice…”
“I’m not demanding anything this time because I like the two girls. I don’t like you.”
I held the white bundle in front of me and looked down at it. I would lose everything, both of them.
I looked up. The goddess was gone, instantly, and without a sound. I gasped.
It wasn’t a dream. I still had the veil in my arms. I was lost in contemplation of the incredible whiteness and almost without my consent my feet took me away again, back down the trail.
I heard a little rustle behind me, but I did not look back, in case there was something worse there. I made myself step slowly and calmly. I would not trample her forest anymore.
The gray tree trunks masked some other reality that only occasionally speaks to men, never before and never after to me. The closest I can explain to how I felt is how you feel after the banya and good beating—lighter than air.
I was the only moving thing in the forest. I was a black tree instead of grey, walking along slowly instead of standing still, as I thought about what I had to do. Could I avoid these tasks? Could I throw this white cloth away and pretend this never happened?
A harpy’s scream rang out, and swift running footsteps launched themselves at me. It was here. Aphrodite was speeding toward me. And now she had the head of a bird.
The awful bird-woman flew toward me, and I took off like an Olympic sprinter. I ran and ran, like a mountain goat, like a jackknife, like a Russian dancer, frantic to get away as she gave voice again and again.
A storm of autumn leaves stirred up from the forest floor and whirled around us. I hung onto the bridal headpiece but the whole length of the veil came loose and streamed out after me. I knew if I dropped it or slowed down for a moment, I was a dead man.
I came to a fork in the trail. I went one way and she vanished again.
I went home and did what she told me. There’s no use telling you the storm of tears, recriminations, and even violence that I faced, but I did everything she said and I did it nobly.
When I was alone, life was very quiet. It would be a long time until I dared with any girl again.
But I became nervous. Aphrodite might suddenly appear again at any moment: at my shoulder, or behind me, or in any tree, or sitting on the bureau in my room.
I took to walking around the town, smoking. I preferred to be out in public. One day I passed the theater and I saw the billboard for Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s a little late in the year for that, I thought, isn’t it? As I examined the poster, I saw the fairy queen. Titania.
It was her.
Red and orange and feathers seemed to me a strange choice for Titania. She should be in green, or purple maybe, but flame colors are for Aphrodite. And my lady would always be victorious. She would never love a donkey, even under an enchantment.
I couldn’t afford to buy a ticket. In a way I was relieved, because I would never have to see her gazing blankly out into the footlights. I would never have to choose whether to dare to scream out something over the startled rows.
But I did wait in the shadows outside the stage door late that night.
I saw her come out with the crowd of theater people, all laughing and talking. Her golden hair was gone, it was all short, but her fierce eyes were the same. She was tall, larger than life, and even as a human woman, she terrified me.
She dropped behind the others and spoke to her friend. Her voice was the same, low and vibrating.
“Anita, do you want to know what I did with the veil?”
“No, I don’t want to know. I just want it gone. Is it gone?”
“It’s gone.”
Now they were out of earshot and rejoined the others in the crowd.
The veil was gone. My two girls were gone. My two goddesses were gone. And I was the donkey.
Elizabeth Scott Tervo, a native of Boston, has lived in Bellingham since 2010 when her husband was transferred to St. Sophia Greek Orthodox Church. Her memoir The Sun Does Not Shine Without You, set at the end of the Soviet period, is forthcoming in the republic of Georgia. She has delivered hundreds of babies as a nurse-midwife. Her poetry has been accepted at St. Katherine’s Review, Basilian Journal, and Whatcom Writes! and a short story at the New Haven Review. She also writes novels and is co-coordinator of the Doxacon Seattle writers group for Christianity and Speculative Literature.