Pandora's box, part 10

Within the palace grounds, trees creaked and groaned, wrapping their branches around each other to form an impenetrable barrier. Merchants and passers-by hurried away, whipped by brambles. Ivy tendrils crept into carriage wheels upturning them with vicious speed, whilst horses took fright, galloping away across the hills to safety, abandoning their masters.

In the palace, servants whispered to each other in dark corners, the stone walls echoing their fearful words. The wind whipped around the turrets, bitter and furious. Meanwhile, the reddened Sun fled, and the clouded skies turned black as ink. Only one light shone through the gloom, spinning across the sky, moving closer and closer to the palace.

Pandora peered out of the window, her wild eyes pinned on the bright speck. “He is coming!” she breathed.

The box clanged and clanked, shaking the table and rattling its chains. “Hurry!” it screamed. “Hurry!”

***

Aurora led Epimetheus deeper into the woods, on foot now, led by instinct rather than sight. The skies had drained of colour in the last hour, foggy gloom obscuring the view. It had become increasingly dangerous to ride with tree roots rearing up like cobras to pull them down to the ground. The weary horse’s head drooped low as Epimetheus felt his slow way over the uneven pathways.

Epimetheus was silent and exhausted, worn-out by emotion as much as worry and hunger. Aurora encouraged him to keep going, her own voice becoming lighter and more youthful as the thickets around them doubled and trebled before their eyes.

At last, they came to a clearing, where a small, stone cottage was illuminated by two glowing lanterns. Smoke rose from the chimney, and a delicious smell wafted down the path.

Aurora laughed with delight. “I don’t believe it! That’s my mother’s best onion soup by the smell of it. You wait until you taste it, Epimetheus.” She ran across the clearing, her feet barely brushing the ground.

Before she could even lift a hand to knock the door, it was flung open by a tall woman with flowing white hair. Her deep green eyes swept over Epimetheus, the horse and Aurora, blinding in their intensity.

“My dearest daughter!” she cried, opening her arms. “I knew you were on your way to me.”

Aurora fell into her embrace, all cares falling from her shoulders like discarded feathers. “Oh Mother, how I have wanted you.”

The woman closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of her daughter’s hair. She smiled softly. “And here I am, my sweet girl. Now come in. I felt you were coming back to me these last two days. I have your favourite soup bubbling on the fire, and your best chair to rest in.”

Aurora stepped forward eagerly and then turned back. “I almost forgot! Mother, this is Epimetheus. He… he…” She struggled to find the words.

“I am a friend,” Epimetheus replied. “Glad to help your daughter find her way to safety and out of harm’s way.”

“Epimetheus,” the woman pondered. “Yes, I know who you are. The queen’s handsome new husband, I believe.” Her lips pursed slightly. “Even hidden away out here, I get to hear the news.” Her eyes searched his face and Epimetheus quaked under the powerful sweep of her gaze, as if she was searching his very soul.

Then she smiled, as if he had excelled at some test. “Yes, you will do,” she said. “I am Sylph. Welcome to my home. Now, I suggest you see to the horse – you’ll find spare hay in the outhouse in the garden, and a trough of water. He can rest easy out there. Then, come back and join us all.”

Epimetheus nodded curtly, unused to taking orders. Am I destined to be directed by women all my life? he thought, bristling. Yet he obeyed her, leading the horse away.

“Join us all?” Aurora turned back to her mother, Epimetheus almost forgotten in her excitement. “Are others staying here, Mother?”

“Yes, I’ve seven youngsters staying here at the moment. They were lost in the woods, you see, wandering for days until they found me. Such sweet boys – they’ll do anything to help.”

Aurora shook her head, smiling ruefully. “You and your waifs and strays. I remember you taking in a whole family of foxes once, and a very horrid jackdaw. Then there was that old woman, the one who’d been living in a shoe.”

“Ah yes, the one with so many children, she didn’t know what to do.”

“They were certainly very lively!” Aurora said. “They spent most of their time chasing our chickens around the garden. Then there was that boy, running from his master, with that harp. He said his master was a giant, living up in the sky! His stories were so wild…he kept me enthralled for hours.”

“You remember all this?” Sylph smiled fondly. “I’m so glad. I was scared you would forget me and your home, up at the big palace.”

Her tone was light, yet the undercurrent of emotion rattled Aurora to the core. “I never forgot you, Mother,” she said, grasping her mother’s hands in her own.

Sylph leant forward and kissed Aurora on her forehead. “And I never, ever, forgot you.” She paused and then pulled Aurora into the cottage. “Come in and meet the brothers, Aurora.”

Aurora’s footsteps were light as she entered the cottage. It was just the same –cosy and comfortable, with colourful blankets thrown over simple wooden chairs and a blazing fire to warm your soul. Delicious smells filled her nostrils, and she smiled at the sight of the laden wooden table, piled high with bread, fruit and oatcakes. It was a slice of Heaven, and Aurora wondered how she had managed to survive all these years without it.

She turned round to express her joy, but stopped at the sight of her mother’s seven waifs and strays. Seven pairs of huge, serious eyes stared up at her from seven tiny faces which looked like they had lived in the world forever and a day. They each held their breath as if expecting her to be angry and unkind. Aurora’s heart clenched. She knew that feeling well. She smiled gently and knelt down to greet them.

Laughter soon filled the room, as bowls of warming soup filled hungry bellies.

Epimetheus hesitated in the doorway, captured by the picture of warmth and joy in the simple things in life before him. There was no wealth here, such as could be found in the palace, yet it held everything to make a heart sing.

Vague remembrances of his own childhood home shrouded his view – a cold abode full of anger, threats, neglect and a brother who fought to maintain his own principles, punished cruelly. Epimetheus gripped the doorframe, shame sweeping through his chest as he considered his own choices in life, based around a selfish desire for the easy life and all that it promised, whatever the cost to others.

Sylph touched him gently on the elbow, wise eyes drinking in his sorrow. “Regret is a cold feast, Epimetheus. What is done is done.”

His throat constricted. “You do not know what I have done,” he said, roughly.

“True, but I know what you didn’t do, even when ordered to.”

Epimetheus looked at her in alarm. “You know?”

“Yes, I know, and I thank you from my very soul that you did not harm my girl.” She paused, eyeing him gravely. “You care for her.”

“Yes.” The word shot from him.

Sylph sighed. “Yes, I believe you do, so you know what you must do.”

He breathed out slowly, eyes pinned to the floor. “I cannot stay here, with her.” It was a stated fact, not a question.

“No. You must return to the queen, as soon as possible. What did she demand?”

Epimetheus groaned at the memory. “Her heart.”

Sylph shrugged, unsurprised. “Like Mother, like daughter…well, hearts can be found elsewhere. There are some rabbits hanging up in the outhouse, drying for the winter. You will take one of their hearts and tell her it is Aurora’s.”

Epimetheus looked at Aurora, flushed and content in the midst of the seven brothers. “And she will be safe here, without me.”

Sylph patted his shoulder, gently. “Disappointment visits us all, my friend. It is the way of the world. Now come and eat with us. I promise my food will not disappoint you.”