The third is that the best way to punish a mortal woman is through her child. Mortal women love their children. Even Cassiope – the most selfish of women – loves Andromeda.
The fourth is that the sea is home to more than fish, and Nereids.
The fifth is that some of them are hungry.
Medusa
Medusa waited until her sisters were both outside the cave before she loosened the bindings around her eyes. She didn’t want them to see what was there in case they could not conceal their reactions. Sthenno would try, if she saw a pair of ruined sockets. She would press her lips together behind her tusks and then she would say that Medusa looked very well, so far as she could see. Euryale would be unafraid and she would not experience the horror that Sthenno would work so hard to hide. Medusa knew them both. And she did not want them to see.
So she waited until Sthenno was making bread for her and Euryale was away with her sheep, and she untied the knot at the back of her head. The slender, muscular bodies of the snakes moved aside, hissing softly. She unwound the cloth slowly, trying to measure any shifts in the pain she felt. As the pressure eased, she found that she could blink behind the cloth. So her eyelids were still attached: she had wondered. She reached up to touch them through the remaining fabric: was it odd that the bindings were dry? Tears had always flown plentifully for Medusa, but no longer. She felt the last loops of cloth drop into her hands.
She blinked, then blinked again. Perhaps the eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness of the cave. She waited, but still there was only blackness. She wasn’t sure exactly how far inside the cave she was sitting. She could test her sight in the lighter part of it if she could only work out which way that was. She reached in front of her and tried to orient herself from the rock she could feel. It didn’t help her at all. This cave she knew so well – would have said she knew blindfolded – she no longer knew. She heard something scuttle past her and she turned her head, but she was too slow. Whatever it was had gone by, unseen. She could not have explained how she knew it was going into the cave rather than out of it, but she did. And so she moved slowly in the other direction, hoping the darkness would grow lighter.
But it did not. She began to doubt herself: perhaps she was further away from the light after all. But she knew she was not. She could feel the air growing warmer on her skin, she could smell the salt more strongly. She blinked again. Was that something? She could not be certain but the blackness was faintly tinged with red. She paused and allowed her eyes to grow used to the sensation. They still hurt. But the more she tried to see, the less she felt the pain.
There was red. And after she had waited for a long time, there was also gold, at the edges. Helios had not abandoned her after all: this was his light she could perceive. She moved her head slowly, hearing the snakes curl and uncurl around her. They wanted to be in the sun, she knew. This was the first time they had expressed any kind of desire to her, but the message was quite clear. The snakes longed for the warmth of the sun on their scales. They longed – and somehow now, she longed – to feel hot sand on their bellies. If she lay on her back on the shore, they would have that, and they wanted it, and she knew they did.
Gradually she saw more here: a brighter core and a darker circumference. When she moved her head the brightness did not move with her: it was not her eyes, but the image they saw that held the distinction. She was looking at the cave entrance then. Still she waited, and eventually the image developed further. Now she could see gold, and also a darker, cooler light. The sea.
She didn’t know how long she had been standing here, gazing at her world and seeing only its faintest outline. But she could wait for as long as she had to. The snakes were patient too. She thought perhaps she could see a difference between the light at the bottom of her eyes and the light higher up. To the right was the sun, the brightest golden disc. And to the left? She moved her head carefully again. There was an unmoving line and she knew she was looking at the horizon.
She heard her name being called by Sthenno. She opened her mouth to reply. But then, with no warning, the snakes became a hissing writhing mass of fear and anger. She had no idea what had frightened them and they gave her no chance to find out. They pulsed around her skull, frantic and desperate. What? she asked them. What do you want? What can I do? The snakes continued their seething fury. Medusa was not afraid of them, and at the same time she knew she must do what they urged. But what was it? She could not understand. She raised her hands to her temples and felt a sudden surge of energy. Yes, that is it, yes.
She was still holding the bindings in her hands. And just as she knew that her snakes wanted to lie on the sand, she knew this. They wanted her to cover her eyes again. She did not attempt to reason with them. She didn’t try to understand why they wanted her eyes to be closed, or how they were telling her that she must cover them up. There was no arguing with these snakes: they were a part of her now. She took the cloths in her hands and bound them lightly across her eyes. It wasn’t enough to placate the snakes entirely, but they did slow their squirming. She wound another layer of cloth across her face, and another.
By the time Sthenno reached her, she was completely in darkness again. But the sun shone on the snakes, and it shone on her.
Cornix
Kra kra! You’ll never guess what I just saw. Never, ever, not if I let you try all day. Go on, try. You see? I knew you wouldn’t get it. Do you want another go? You can have as many as you want, but it won’t help. This crow knows and you don’t.
Alright, I’ll tell you: Athene has a child. He isn’t exactly hers, obviously: she is a virgin goddess, just like you thought. But Gaia gave the child to her and said she must take responsibility for it. Because she – Gaia – didn’t want to raise another child, after losing all her beautiful giants in the war against the gods. That’s her word, beautiful, not mine. I didn’t think the giants were beautiful, to be honest. But that’s not something I would say to Gaia because there’s never any real need to say something hurtful unless you can’t help it, which sometimes I can’t but on this occasion I could.
The boy is the son of Hephaestus: you remember that time he tried to persuade Athene to marry him? And she said no and he grabbed her and held her until he ejaculated on her thigh? （Sorry – is that too much for you? Crows don’t always know what is appropriate.） She took a piece of wool and wiped herself clean, but she threw the wool onto the ground so Gaia took it. Gaia can make life out of nothing, so of course she could make a child out of that. And she did, and then gave it to Athene.
And Athene didn’t know what to do, at first. You can imagine it, can’t you? What does she know about raising a child? What does she even want to know about it? I thought she might give the boy to Hephaestus and tell him to deal with it. Because why shouldn’t she, really? But she didn’t, she did something else.
She’s very good at weaving, did you know that about her? She tells everyone, so you probably did. So she took the child to a river, and wove a basket out of willow branches. She hid the child inside: can you imagine that? Kept weaving until the basket was sealed shut. And then she took reeds from the water and used those to fill in every gap so that no one, not even a sharp-eyed crow, could have seen what was within. And then she gave the basket to the daughters of Cecrops: do you know about them?