“We of the Immortals have seen many things in the centuries which are dead and gone. Nothing escapes us.”
Jason’s limbs began trembling uncontrollably. “Wh-Who . . . are y-you?”
Two black scorpions emerged, framing her eyebrows. She leaned forward, spitting viciously, “My name is the same as that of my mother, Huma D’Este. That is the name I use for ordinary mortals who have not the wit to unravel it. You are too stupid to realise, but if you changed the letters of Huma D’Este around, you would know that I am called The Medusa! Look upon me, my Jason. I am nightmare come to life, my gaze is sent from the dark regions of Hades to turn living men into stone. Gaze on me and attain eternity, my Jason!”
The eyes of The Medusa became twin pools of evil. Winds like the searing heat from a furnace blasted the chamber, scorching the entrance curtain to ashes, behind which the wall was sealed tight as a tomb. Screams of lost souls ripped through Jason’s eardrums. With the terrifying vision of The Medusa robbing him of his sanity, he turned and ran. Round, round and round the exitless room he sped, spurred on by her brain-splitting laughter. Trapped like a moth in a cage with a hawk.
Then he froze! There was no more Jason; the hunter had been well hunted. All that remained was a cold, beautiful statue of Jason, caught in the act of running, every detail captured in lifeless white marble.
It had been many years since Carlene and Mal Blake were teenage sweethearts at school. They had remained together, happily married now for fifty years. Their three children had children of their own, who called Carlene and Mal “Nanna” and “Grandad.” The family got together to present the old couple with a wonderful golden anniversary gift, the vacation of a lifetime. One month’s cruise of the Greek islands. Blue sky, warm sun and an even bluer sea, with every luxury that the SS Hellenica could provide for American tourists.
Two weeks into the cruise, it was a glorious afternoon on one of the old Mediterranean islands. Passengers clicked cameras and zoomed in through video lenses on lined peasant faces, olive trees, whitewashed houses and a small village square with sunlight bouncing off the hosed-down cobblestones. After a fine alfresco meal, complete with glasses of the local wine and a bouzouki music serenade, they boarded a bus, which took them up into the mountains to explore an ancient villa and its grounds. It was a walled edifice comprised of timelessly beautiful gardens and an imposing house, which had once been a fortress in the fifteenth century. The guidebook reliably informed tourists that the building contained an art collection.
Age had been kind to Carlene Blake; she was still a slim and lively little lady—unlike Mal, who was grey haired, overweight and had breathing trouble. Added to that, he also suffered from angina. Carlene helped her husband to keep up with the party as they walked around the estate, though she could see he was clearly in need of a rest when they entered the house. They found a bench in a shaded entrance porch and sat down, leaving the others to follow the guide inside. Mal immediately went into his noontide nap. Carlene brushed his wispy grey hair back, removed his sunglasses and tipped a straw trilby over his eyes. She left him, with his big stomach gently rising and falling, and went off after the party inside the house.
She could hear them off somewhere in a side room full of Greek Orthodox artworks and religious icons. They moved on upstairs, their chatter receding in the distance. The hushed atmosphere was pleasantly serene. Carlene lingered on in the cool stone-floored main hallway. On one wall, there were glass cases with tiny bronzes of Minoan bull dancers, which did not interest her greatly. However, farther down there was a magnificent collection of twelve marble statues representing the manhood of classical Greek mythology. Mal still had the guidebook in his pocket, so she wandered along, trying to identify each one with little success. The names carved on the base of the plinths were a complete mystery to her. However, she did identify Hercules, or Heracles, as he was known in this part of the world. Hercules was easy, they had small figurines of him on sale in the ship gift shop. It was the last statue that arrested her attention—a very handsome boy in a running pose. He had a wrapping about his waist, which Carlene was thankful for. These Greeks, some of their statues did not even have a fig leaf for cover!
Against all the house rules, she ducked under the ornate tasselled rope separating the public from the exhibits. The handsome running boy interested her. Standing precariously on the base plinth, she reached up and touched the intricately wrought face. It reminded her of somebody. Glancing up at the heavy-lidded eyes, Carlene experienced a sudden flash of recall. Mal would think her foolish when she told him, but the features were a perfect likeness of the boy from their school days, Jason Hunter.
They had seldom mentioned him over the years. Jason, the good-looking one. He had vanished one summer night, all those decades ago. Nothing was ever heard of, or found again, despite the statewide coverage, the police searches, publicity posters and rewards offered by his anguished parents. Jason Hunter had just disappeared from the face of the earth, leaving no trace behind.
On tiptoe, Carlene peered closely at the statue’s features, cudgelling her mind to remember how Jason had really looked. Oh, dear, it was all in another time, another place, all those years back. Sounds of the ship’s party returning to the main hall caused her to skip nimbly down and under the guard rope.
Carlene waited until the group passed before tailing on at the rear. As they left the hall, she took a last look back at the running boy. No, he had a more noble and classical form than Jason. All she really recalled was his face, fixed in that lopsided sarcastic smile of his. Jason had used it on herself, and Mal, many times when they were young. Jason Hunter had not been a very nice young man anyhow. She and Mal had never really liked him.
Before she woke Mal, Carlene tipped the Greek guide with a few drachmas. He had a nice smile.
“I see you look at the statue of Jason, he is pretty, yes?”
She nodded politely. “Oh, they’re all exquisite statues.”
The man pointed back at Jason, confiding to Carlene, “One time an Australian lady, she bend down and look up the cloth he wears around his waist, yes. Her friends ask her what she see. Hahaha, she say, ‘I see nothing, only a label that says ‘Fruit of the Loom.’ Haha, good, yes?”
Miggy Mags and the Malabar Sailor
TYRANTS ARE ALL SHAPES AND SIZES,
their unfortunate victims also,
though when one realises,
’tis a heartening thing to know—
gallant heroes will still appear,
to give aid in the hour of need.
This tale, from my hometown, you may like
to hear,
of a very odd champion, indeed!
Miguela McGrail went barefoot in the summer and wore clogs in the winter. She was never sure of her age, whether it was eleventeen or twelveteen. Atty Lok, the Siamese cook, was largely responsible for this, always making jokes about figures and words. He would tell her she was born in fourteen fifty-eight instead of eighteen fifty-four. Miguela, or Miggy Mags, as she was known around the wharves and quays of Liverpool’s dockland, knew that Atty was just pulling her leg. She would make a funny face at him, and the little man would grin back at her, from ear to ear.
Athanasius Tang Lok was one of the few real friends Miggy had in the world, so she was constantly harassing him with questions. “Alright then, what was the day an’ month of me birth?”