Sing, Goddess.
I looked at the blank page in front of me.
Sing the rage.
My brain was a big empty box. Not even a hum of an idea.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, stretching back in my chair. Writer’s block — I couldn’t shake it. I needed to get out. Maybe if I took a walk, something would come to me.
Hopefully.
I threw on my jacket and took the keys off the hook. My footsteps sounded dull against the sidewalk, and I walked without thinking.
Murderous, doomed.
A collection of tents in every color loomed in front of me, and as I got closer I could hear the hawking of the market vendors and the clamoring din of the crowds of customers. I passed between the stalls and bodies, every kind of trinket and ware on display on either side of me.
The stalls passed by me like shadows.
I thought I heard the sound of singing, but the sound of it was lost in the crowded street.
“You. Stop.”
I don’t know how the voice of the old woman found my ears, but I stopped and turned to look at her. She grinned a toothless grin, her freckled skin folding and creasing like ribbons of water.
“Did you hear it? She’s close.”
“Who?” I asked, looking around. I stepped under the protection of the tent overhang.
The woman laughed. “Who else? The one you’ve been looking for.”
I looked at the inside of her tent. It was empty. She sat with her hands folded complacently behind the table, also empty. I looked at the swarm of people that rushed by the outside of the tent, seemingly unaware of its existence. “What are you, um, selling here?”
“Memories and secrets, my girl.”
Goosebumps crawled over my skin. “Secrets?”
Hurling down to the house of death many sturdy souls.
“Aye.” Her eyes pricked up, and we both heard the singing voice at the same time. “Yes, very close. Yes, you hear her, too. That’s good.”
I wondered if I were losing my mind.
“They were lovers, you know,” she said, conversationally, as she produced a tiny key from somewhere in her skirts.
“Who?”
She looked at me like I was being purposely dense. “It’s not about Helen, the vain little witch. It’s about rage, child. Rage at the murder of his lover.”
I wondered if there were something wrong with me, that maybe I was only hearing every other word. The singing grew louder, and I noticed that it was accompanied by an instrument.
“Aye, but think, now. Dido would have lived, had he not been sacrificed. And perhaps Circe would not have poisoned that spear. Ah, love is madness, is it not?” She pushed the key across the table. It looked very ordinary, worn and old. “Here is your first secret: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
I made a face. “That’s not a secret.”
The singing voice grew louder in the space around us, infusing itself like a whisper in the wind. The delicate rhythm of strings accompanied the voice.
“So you say,” the woman said. “The key both locks and unlocks. It holds fast, as long as you desire it.”
A feast for the dogs and birds.
I shivered. “What does the key go to?”
The woman’s eyes darted. “Your chance is coming. She is close, I can hear that little kithara. Offer her something for her favor — it is the way of the gods.” Her voice became more insistent.
“But what does the key go to?” I asked again, my tone matching the old woman’s.
Something was about to happen, I could feel it prickle along my skin like an oncoming storm.
The woman closed her eyes and grinned at me. “To you, of course. To that luscious center. That syrupy sweetness that only a lover should taste.”
I blinked at her and blushed.
She laughed. “That’s the trade. Offer, and she’ll stay. Equal and opposite — love and rage, need and satisfaction, locked and unlocked.”
My heart raced, as the singing voice was right behind me, crooning softly into my ear. It made me think of love and sex and darker things; I could feel my insides clench.
The will of Zeus was moving toward its end.
I felt a fingertip trace down my spine, and I gasped. I spun around and found myself lost in the most beautiful black eyes, glassy pools of endless ebony night. It was impossible not to stare into them, over the sculpted nose and smooth dark skin — she was a queen before me. She dragged her fingers down the line of my jaw and gripped my chin, forcing me to look at her. Her strength matched every other regal part of her. I shuddered, suddenly drowning in my own need.
The goddess turned her attention to the old woman, still sitting contentedly behind her table. “Hello, Mother.”
The old woman nodded. “Greetings, Erato. I heard you singing.”
“Indeed.” She turned back toward me. Just the weight of her look made me feel weak. “You called to me. What is your offer?”
I looked at the key still on the table. In truth, I was prepared to offer this goddess nearly anything, if only I could stay under that divine gaze.
Erato laughed, and it sounded like bells before a thunderstorm.
“I see.” She picked up the key. “Does she know, Mother? Or have you just spun her more of your riddles?”
The old woman humphed.
“Oh, a surprise, then.” The goddess took my hand and placed the key into it, folding my fingers over the metal. Her lips brushed up against my cheek as she leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Give me your desire, and I will give you your inspiration. Give me your lust, and I will help you fashion that which you cannot even dream yet. Let me have your sweet need, and I will help you create it in others.” She placed a tiny kiss on my earlobe, and a moan escaped my lips. “Offer it. Give me the key, for I am your Muse.”
Her hand trailed down my arm until our hands were touching. I opened my fingers, and the key fell against her palm.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
The goddess looked at me and smiled, then leaned her exquisite lips against my mouth. As our tongues explored each other, I could feel the heat grow between my legs.
She broke our kiss and took a step back. “That heat feels good, doesn’t it?” She showed me the key. “This key will keep the fire stoked, those the burning need may drive you mad. But, artists must suffer for their art, as they say.” And, like a magician’s trick, the key disappeared from her hand. “Go back to your blank pages. The words will come.”
She turned to exit the tent, then looked back over her shoulder at me. “Though you won’t.”
Begin, Muse.