The Island

The One Where You Agree To Something You Do Not Understand.

~~~

When they slaughter your brethren for food - because they were oh so hungry, you heard them moaning, and how could your master notice if only a few of his cattle were missing when he had all the lands to watch over? His watchful eye would falter, they reasoned, squinting from a chariot for hours on end and your vision will blur, unable to tell the difference between valley or village. It is this curse of the mortal assumption that brought these men to their knees in front of your guardian. He has dragged them from their shipwreck, their brown skin blistering from the intensity of his stare, from the scalding heat of the rope he has tangled them in.

This is to be an execution - the thought comes to your mind slow and heavy, and you chew your cud dispassionately as you watch these men begin to die in front of you. Helios has always had a cruel touch to the curve of his lips; a hardness to his radiant glory. He is cruel, merciless. He would have turned these men to ashes long ago if not for the whistle and smiling words of the god who you truly belong to.

Apollo has always had a flair for the dramatic, ever since he plucked at the strings of a lyre sitting by his crib, and he takes his time. A god has all of eternity, while a man has only a few - fragile fleeting moments clasped desperately in fingers borne of clay and dirt. And they will return to the land when he is done with them, you know this all too well. You may be divine, blessed blood running through your veins, but you are no stranger to death. 

Should the gods want a feast and deem the offerings of mortals inadequate, your brethren are bred to quench their desire. Indeed, gods do not need to eat. Their hunger only stems from a lascivious need to imitate that which they rule over. A show of opulence, to wet their lips and stain them golden with ichor and laugh as those who do not worship them lose a year's crops to famine, as the unfaithful are capsized 'neath the waves or come home with empty nets, torn and ragged from the razor-sharp fins of Nereus' kin.

The carnal shrieks of a man are released to the sky and you flick your ears, displeased. You like your peace and quiet. This brutal show of violence disturbs the serenity of your home. You chew some more, this does not concern you. What has the world of man ever done for you other than slaughter your brothers and sisters - those whom they know are beloved of the gods they tremble before - and tear sinew from muscle in a perverse show of carnal exploitation? You do not care for their worthless lives, and the smell of their burning flesh fills your lungs with something foul and wicked.

It takes moments, it takes years, but when the last man has been suitably tortured and killed for his crimes there is nothing to indicate that they had ever lay sobbing on your island, begging for forgiveness, except for the lingering miasma of dirty smoke, of something unholy. You are ever chewing your cud; time is of no importance to you, but the fact that the smell still lingers makes you stamp your hooves. Those of your kin who remain are wont to do the same. No beast, hooved or bipedal, could revel in the primal stink of death.

Helios is gone as soon as the last man has been turned to ash. He will return in the morning to guard these lands again from his gleaming chariot, but he must tear the sun across the sky as is his duty. You know it gives him great pleasure to be held back from regular schedule - to confound astronomers, send them to the gallows for their miscalculations, is one of his most favoured past times.

Indeed, no beast loves death as much as the gods.

Apollo calls his cattle to him with a short, sharp whistle through his teeth. He does not raise his fingers to his lips - to imitate a common shepherd boy on his own blessed island would be as to shirk his own divinity. As one, all the cows stop chewing and amble over to him, eyes wide and waiting.

He rubs his hands on each's forehead and murmurs low and melodic. For Apollo, to speak is to sing. You do not know whether it is by choice or by gift that he does not say a word without a lilt to his tone, a whimsical tune blustering through the air whenever he approaches. All you know is that you listen with an eager ear whenever he deigns to speak to you - when he opens his mouth, it is as if you are suddenly parched and must drink from the pools that form from his voice, so dripping with life.

He does not apologise - it is not his fault that your brethren were torn asunder, limb from limb, to feed those ashen piles sullying his island, so he does not claim it is so. He tells you that your loss has been avenged. One immortal mother silently weeps, head bowed in reverence to the god who paid retribution to her son's killer. He presses a hand to her forehead and tells her that he knows her son cannot be replaced, but that he will be ever blessed, that his spirit will be eternally protected in the field of Elysium where few men tred, and the few who do are kind and just. She gently hums her assent and his back straightens.

Apollo strides forward with shallow steps; the cattle part before him without fear. He runs his hands along your backs and the god and his herd slowly walk together towards the cliff's edge. He leads you, but makes sure you do not lag behind; he stays half a step ahead of the herd until he is but five paces away from mortal oblivion. He turns to face you and your kin.

It is by some god-ordained fate that you are the closest to him. You are by no means the most devout, there are kin of yours much older and wiser who know how to truly worship and respect your master within the bindings of your wide-ribbed body, but you are his and you live to serve. He extends a hand, calling you to him without the need for words, and when you trot to meet him none follow. A true god makes his will known without even a sound.

He holds the sides of your narrow skull, cheeks snug between his palms, and leans over you to whisper something in your ear. And you will know these words ’til the end of the earth and beyond it, for it is your curse and your deliverance, your blessing and a scourge on what you are to be and what you have been.

Those men stole from me, he says, breath tickling the tiny hairs on your ear. It flicks instinctively, but he does not comment. And he tells you, low and clear, what you are to do for him. He kneels back down before you, and in the way that mortals do, you nod.

He nods back and stands.

And in one swift movement, he grips you by the horns and hurls you off the cliff and into the ocean below.

He does not acknowledge your fear, the braying of your screams as the ocean swallows you, horned and wide-ribbed, completely and utterly whole.