Pandora's box, part 13

Aurora and Sylph hurried into the cottage, abandoning their gardening tasks, soaked to the skin by the unexpected deluge of rain and hail thrown from a blackened sky. Lightening zipped across the sky, tearing down to scorch trees in the woods ahead of them whilst thunder beat out a threatening rhythm, growing ever louder and nearer.

“What’s happening, Mother?”

“I don’t know.” Sylph’s face was stony and sombre as she busied herself with stoking the fire. This was no ordinary autumnal storm. She greatly feared a magical influence or worse, the ire of the Gods above, all circling around her precious daughter.

“Where do you think the boys are?” Aurora asked. “Where will they find shelter?”

Sylph turned and smiled at her daughter. “You are a good soul, always so concerned for others. Don’t worry about the waifs and strays. They’re tough and they’ll find a place to shelter from the weather, I’m sure of it.” She shivered as a sudden chill f fingered her spine.

“Mother, are you alright?” Aurora darted towards her; her face pinched with worry.

“Don’t worry about me, Aurora” Sylph said. An ache crept into her chest and she sneezed three times, gripping her heart as it clenched tight.

“Mother!” Aurora’s face ran towards her.

Sylph made a mammoth effort to pull herself into an upright position, to assume her normal assurance. “Go and get out of those sodden clothes, Aurora. You’ll catch your death, soaked like that.”

Aurora hesitated, moving away reluctantly, halting in the doorway to beg her mother to follow her own sensible advice.

Sylph tried to speak, gripping her tightened throat with increasing panic. She felt the air drain from her lungs, and she sank to the floor, barely breathing.

Aurora flew back across the room, knelt and gathered her dying mother in her arms.

*** 

Epimetheus lay in a heap, his bruised and broken body tender with pain. Blinking, he stared up at the grey clouds billowing just above him, trying to orientate himself. He tried to rise, his breath short and ragged. He collapsed back onto stone slabs and stared up at the turret above him.

A tower.

A castle tower, perhaps.

He blinked in confusion, vaguely remembering being ripped from the ground and transported by the whirling wind high into the air, before the world turned black and silent.

“Where am I?” he croaked.

A voice answered, though he was so confused by now that he could not understand whether it was his own voice, his tangled thoughts or Pandora’s intense whisper rattling through his exhausted brain.

“You are in a prison of your own making, Epimetheus, and you will never escape. Never!”

Epimetheus struggled up onto his knees, wincing with pain. “Am I dead?” he asked.

Pandora cackled, malicious and cruel as she stared at her husband from a wooden doorway at the top of a spiral staircase behind him. “No, oh dear one. I couldn’t let you go so easily. You are not dead, but you will wish you were before much longer. Farewell, Epimetheus.”

She turned, black hair whipping his face with spite, and disappeared through the doorway, leaving behind only the scent of bitter herbs. He heard the key in the lock, and her steps retreating down the long staircase.

Her voice travelled over hill and dale, up mountain and down valley, up to the stone tower and into his tortured ears. “Burn that staircase!” she screamed. “He will never ever climb down to see her again.”

The fire raged through the night, as Epimetheus lay sprawled on the turret’s stones, his eyes wide with despair. Flames crackled behind the thick door, and the smell of burning wood filled his nostrils, yet he remained safe and untouched. Untouched, yet hopelessly trapped.

I will remain here until my death, Epimetheus thought.

“Gods! Take me now!” he cried. “There is nothing left for me.”

Lightning tore through the clouds and thunder rumbled angrily.

Images of his brother, Prometheus, chained to the mountainside swept across his mind.

“Ah, brother, how I wish I had rescued you,” he sighed. “Or sought revenge for your ill-treatment, as I once vowed.”

A dark shape began to descend, heading straight for his face. Epimetheus shielded his eyes yet could not resist gazing as a jet-black crow dived down from the clouds above, landing with a small thud on the turret wall. It regarded Epimetheus with iridescent eyes, its long beak poised as if ready to stab his flesh.

Another crow joined the first, its feathers blue-black and ragged, its claws clenching the turret wall as a gust of wind tore across the sky. The two birds eyed each other, tapped hooked beaks together and a small scarlet berry was released, falling to the stones below, landing beside Epimetheus’s dry lips.

Epimetheus reached for the berry, his hand trembling. Food or poison? Either way, he felt compelled to take it, push it into his mouth and swallow.

Somewhere in the world, Hope whispered her name.

The first crow let out a rough cawing sound, flapped enormous inky wings and ascended into the grey clouds above.

Epimetheus stared up, watching the one bird seem to break into two, then multiply, scatter into a million birds, soaring, flying, and finally diving down to the turret wall to join its fellows.

A murder of crows stood cawing and crying greetings, a raucous cacophony which rattled the foundations of the tower. Their glassy eyes winking. Then, as if obeying some distant command, a multitude of berries rained down on Epimetheus, covering him. He lay in a blood-red shroud of the tiny fruits, his limbs resembling laden branches.

Greedily, he pushed more of the berries into his mouth, this time taking his time to chew, taking delight in the soft, sweetness exploding in the roof of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he gasped.