CIRCE

‘Sweet son,’ I said, ‘you are right, this world is a wild and terrible place, and worth shouting at. But you are safe now, and all of us need to sleep. Will you let us have a little peace?’

He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that: we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.

The cat pressed her cheek upon her folded paws and kept her eyes upon the floor. So perhaps she knew what I did not.

I had said I would do anything for him, and now I would prove it and hold up the sky.

This was how mortals found fame, I thought. Through practice and diligence, tending their skills like gardens until they glowed beneath the sun.

“I did turn his men to pigs.” He did not smile. He was like an arrow shooting to the end of its arc.

I thought: I cannot bear this world a moment longer. Then, child, make another.

When he talked, he was lawyer and bard and crossroads charlatan at once, arguing his case, entertaining, pulling back the veil to show you the secrets of the world.

The slit of his mouth opened in silent laughter. What could you have that I want?