Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

The deer turned its head then, and cried again, a noise almost like a human voice. Its eyes rolled wildly from one to the other of them, looking for escape, but the circle was too tight.

As the hounds closed round it, the deer fell to its knees, for all the world as though begging them to spare it. But the dogs brought it down at last, tearing at its flanks until it could cry no more. There really was nothing to save, by the time the dogs were done; the men were distracted, calling for my brother, who never came, not even to see the kill.

But then, I know he never really liked hunting. He was just pretending, so as not to shame our house.

They have tried setting the dogs to follow his scent. But the dogs will only go so far into the grove of pine and cypress before they become confused and frightened and lose the trail. They keep returning to the place they slew the deer. Silly creatures.

Chiron has searched the stars. My brother is not there among them.

Artemis has come to me at last.

She came in all her beauty, bathed in moonlight so clear it looked like water — or was it water so bright it was like the moon? I saw her body clearly through it, curved and strong like a bow.

“Follow me now,” she said, “if you will.”

I rose from my couch and followed her on the moon’s path, which led from my chamber window to the meadow beyond my grandfather’s house. Where her feet trod, night flowers bloomed, and small animals, the mice and voles and even rabbits — for she carried no bow but the moon’s curve on her brow — looked up to adore her.

At the edge of the wood, the goddess paused.

“Here, I am the only light. Will you follow?”

I nodded.

The woods were dark, but she was the moon, and I moved fearless by the light of her body between the trees. I heard the sound of rushing water, then. A fountain, gushing naturally from the rock, formed a sweet pool where ferns grew among the stones.

Artemis stood at the edge of the pool. The water reflected her brightness now so strongly that I could hardly see. One foot was in the water, the other on a rock. She turned her back to me, and smiled over her shoulder as she undid one sandal, and then the other. The curve of her back, drawn like a bow, the hair pulled up from the nape of her neck.

“Look your fill, virgin daughter of the House of Cadmus. To such as you, nothing is forbidden.”

I felt the hungry ache I had known for so long grow in me a hundred hundredfold. The more I gazed on her, the more it grew, until my legs shook so I could hardly stand. The silver water stood between us.

The goddess held out her hand. “Will you cross the water and come to me?”

I would have crossed fire for her. I set one foot on the edge of the pool.

“But remember,” she said, “there is a price to be paid by mortals who look upon the goddess in her nakedness. Will you remember that?”

I nodded. She dipped one white hand in the water. Moon-struck drops flew through the air into my face.

My whole body shivered. I felt my skin shudder on my bones, as if trying to shake them off. I felt strange, and light, and my balance left me. I pitched forward but caught myself on the edge of a stone.

And then I saw my own face in the pool.

I screamed, and heard a deer’s cry tear the night air. Saw the black mouth and black tongue of a doe parting to give that cry again.

The goddess leapt on my back. Her thighs straddled my flanks like fire, and her weight on my spine was a terrible glory. I fled through the night woods, more terrified than I have ever been, and more completely consumed by a happiness I hope I never feel again.

It might have been hours, or it might have been years. I remember nothing of where I’ve been. Until she guided me back to the pool, urging me on until I submerged my panting, sweating, hairy body in its icy silver waters, and came to, gasping and trembling and choking to the surface of the water, in my own form again.

“You shiver, daughter of Cadmus.”

I tried to hide my nakedness with my hands, my hair. I was so ashamed. Ashamed of what I’d been; ashamed of what I was.

The goddess took my face in her hands and kissed me. I felt the deer’s power coursing through my veins, the deer’s joy in its own wildness running in my own body. But my hands were my hands, my voice my voice as I moaned my pleasure. It might have been heartbeats, it might have been years. My aching turned to sweet pain, and then only to sweetness. And so, finally, I knew what it was to have my strange hunger satisfied.

The goddess cradled my head in her hands. “In the full heat of the day, when I rested with my maidens, and bathed in the cool water, your brother came to me here.” Her lips spoke against my lips. “And so he saw what is forbidden men to see. And paid the price. Do you remember the price, Child of Cadmus? Do you understand what I say?”

I understood. Woe to the House of Cadmus, the terrible transformation. I tasted my own tears on both our lips.

“Do you understand, then, that his own dogs savaged him while his friends looked on and cheered?”

Woe to the House of Cadmus, the terror and the blood. I felt my own groan twist against her body.

“But before the power of human speech left him, he cried out your name. And before his hands became hooves, he held them out, begging me to pity him. And so I came to find you, and to tell you of your brother’s fate.”

Her arms were around me then, holding what was left of me together while I shivered into little pieces.

“You should have come to me,” the goddess said. “You should never have sent a man to do your work for you.”

I heard a high mewing keen like the lost birds that fly in from the sea.

“Do you still wish to be my votary? To serve me all your days?”

She had given me everything I thought I ever wanted, and taken from me what I held most dear. The gods love our house, and we must love them.

“Speak,” she said. “You still have the power of human speech.”

My voice was hoarse. “I do.”

“And?”

“I will be your servant always.”

“Will you come with me into the woods? I will make you forget all human sorrow, and your name will be a whisper on the wind.”

I yearned for her. “And my brother’s name?”

“The same.”

“I must go home. They are waiting for him. I must speak of my brother’s fate, that all may mourn him, and know what price is paid for your terrible glory.”

“Go, then, Child of Cadmus. I accept your service. And serve me still.”

Her kiss on my brow burned like silver horns, the twin crests of the moon.

I felt no different when I returned to Cadmus’s house. But the suitors were all sent quietly away, with gifts. I serve the goddess now, as she has promised. I sing songs in her honor, and keep the fires lit at my brother’s shrine. I hunt what I can: the flies that buzz around sleeping babies’ eyes on hot days; the sun that robs the color of our wool; the mice that steal the grain. I speak for the goddess, and no one contradicts me.

There seem to be two ELLEN KUSHNERs: the public radio personality who hosts the national series PRI’s Sound & Spirit , in which she explores the music and myth, traditions and beliefs that make up the human experience around the world and through the ages; and the author who wrote the “mannerpunk” novels Swordspoint and The Privilege of the Sword , and the mythic novel Thomas the Rhymer , among others. Some people are shocked to discover they both inhabit the same body, taking along with them the Ellen who performs live shows, lectures, teaches writing, and loves riding trains. Ellen Kushner grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, and now lives in New York City. She has two younger brothers and is married to Delia Sherman.