She wanted to be able to avenge them, but she knew it was not in her nature to punish and destroy. She was the earth, she was meant to give life and sustain it. And yet. She thought again of the bodies of her sons – burned by thunderbolts, pierced by arrows – and she wanted to smash every tree on every mountain, to block every stream, to blight every crop.
But she knew this would only punish the mortals who loved her, and who had feared and revered her offspring. Would it do anything to injure the vicious gods who had done her such incalculable harm? It would not. Perhaps a temple or two would slide into the sea but they all had so many temples, so much greed.
And then here was the little scrap of wool, thrown from the goddess’s hand to the earth. His seed, visible to all. Her touch, visible to Gaia alone. She thought of Athene running away from the blacksmith, her face distorted with contempt. Gaia saw the shame in the goddess as she skulked in her temples, the fury as she surveyed the sea and thought of not one, but now two cruel insults from her uncle Poseidon. The helplessness as she realized that there was not yet any way she could punish him for his encouragement of Hephaestus. And in her memory, she also saw the glowing joy that had suffused the goddess as she peeled the skin from Gaia’s beautiful son.
She watched Hephaestus at his forge each day, wondering why Athene never came to collect her new weapons. She saw him pick them up, removing a speck of dust from the shield, checking again that the balance of the spear was perfect. She saw him try to distract himself by making, and she watched him fail.
And then Gaia – who could not destroy but only nurture – knew exactly what she would do to take her revenge.
Panopeia
Do you remember where you are? At the place where Ethiopia meets Oceanos: the furthest land and the furthest sea. Past the Graiai and the Gorgons, all of whom you know better now. These daughters of the sea are drawn to it and repelled by it at once. The blind Graiai say they fear for their safety on their grim grey island. And yet, no one forced them to take up residence there: they found it and made it their home. And Sthenno and Euryale wanted to stay on the coast, so their parents could reach them if they ever chose to （they have never chosen to）。 How much time must pass before you accept that no sea god is coming? Although, of course, Phorcys did make one brief visit to their little patch of the shore, when he gave them their strange mortal sister. Did they stay by the water in case he decided to bring another?
Medusa used to swim in the sea every day, and then she stopped. Some of the Nereids said it was Poseidon who drove her from the water, some say it was Athene. Cornered by one, cursed by the other. I think it was both. But even she stays by the sea, no matter what. Her sister reshaped the shoreline to please her, pushed Poseidon himself away. She doesn’t leave, but she hasn’t been out of the cave for a while. So she is still here, but you wouldn’t know it.
Now, where was I? Or rather, where were you? You’re at the furthest point you can sail to, where the ocean kisses the setting sun. It is beautiful and sad at once: it holds none of the promise that dawn brings, if you journey the opposite way. It is a place where things come to an end. Mortals don’t belong here: it makes them melancholy.
But perhaps you are stubborn. Or desperate. Perhaps you have some pressing reason that overwhelms the natural antipathy you feel at being in the wrong place.
And so instead of going back to where mortals belong, you’re following the narrow coils of the sea inland. It is not a journey you could make on foot: you would not survive the first part of it. It is a difficult and dangerous journey even by boat: every kind of peril would beset you. You really would be safer to take wing. And then you would arrive more swiftly at the place where the sea unfurls into one last large circle. There is an island in the middle of this final coil, and from the air you would not be able to tell which way the water flows. The island has never – at least not so far – been reached by any mortal creature. The narrow lick of sea guards it fiercely.
Even if you could find a way to be close enough to see it, you would not. Those sea coils shroud everything in a thick mist, no matter which wind is blowing or how hard Helios burns down. You would believe you had reached a miserable spot, this dismal lake where the sun never penetrates. You would wrap your cloak more tightly around your shoulders, and bow your head to walk into the wind. The relief you first felt – the land around it is arid and baked to a dark red – would soon disappear. You could not even slake your thirst because the only water you would find is briny and you would spit it out. You would hurry away from this place and vow never to return. You would follow the water back the way you had come.
And because you could not see the island, you would never be able to tell another soul that it was there. Its inhabitants remain uninterrupted by mortal men. Or at least they always had until now.
The Hesperides
No one was quite sure how many nymphs there were. Some said three, some believed four, and one enthusiast went as high as seven. But the disparities were easily explained: the Hesperides lived in an isolated spot, they did not travel and they never encouraged visitors. So most things that people repeated about them as certainty were not certain at all. Which was how Perseus had found himself at a loss for how to proceed, even with the Graiai’s advice drumming in his mind as he climbed to the top of their cliff. He had no idea if this was the right thing to do, or how his divine companions might find him again, or why they couldn’t just appear a little sooner, before he had scraped the skin from his hands clinging to the rock face and believing throughout the climb that he would fall into the crashing water, or smash onto the stone beneath him. But he could not stay where the Graiai could hear him, even if they could no longer see him or eat him. And clambering down towards the water seemed riskier – just – than climbing away from it.
When he finally reached the summit, his relief was immediately blown away by the gale which almost took him off his feet. He lay face down on the rock, holding on for his life. He had no idea how long he clung on, but it was more than enough time to believe he had been abandoned to this most desolate place for good.
‘What did they tell you?’ asked Hermes, when he and Athene arrived.
Perseus raised his head as far as he could without letting go of his rock.
‘Why are you lying down?’ Athene added. ‘Are you tired?’ She smiled at Hermes triumphantly, delighted to have learned something about mortals that she could share.
‘I am tired,’ Perseus said. ‘It was a long and difficult climb.’
‘Was it?’ asked Hermes.
‘Very. Also, Aeolus has set all the winds loose upon this rock, and I think if I stand up I will be blown into the ocean.’
‘You see?’ Athene was almost hopping with glee. ‘They talk about weather. They like it.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Perseus clarified, nervous as he was to contradict her. ‘I just don’t want to fall.’
‘I think I understand,’ said Hermes. ‘But you spoke to the Graiai? Before you lay down here?’
‘Yes, I spoke to the Graiai.’
‘And did you manage to learn anything from them?’ Hermes asked.
‘The Hesperides have what I need,’ Perseus replied.