As soon as my husband – my ex-husband, that is – vanished into the trees, I felt my knees buckle. A jolt of pain as I all but collapsed to the ground. I felt like I’d just run the New York City Marathon.
Hell, I felt like each and every friggin’ person jogging in that damned marathon had just run over me.
I felt drained. I felt weak. I felt…relieved.
I stared at the bright ivory coin of the moon as it rose over the treetops, lost and entranced by it until I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. I looked up at Dora’s kind face. She helped me to my feet.
“Well, now,” she said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”
She nodded, and a twinkle of mischief danced in her eyes.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” She guided me back over to one of the tables outside her cabin. We sat down next to each other on one of the padded wooden benches.
Dora tsked as she looked at my torn jeans, the scrapes on my hands and knees.
“I’ll have to put something on those scrapes for you,” she said. “We don’t want them getting infected.”
“Sure, perhaps you have some other wonder herb to heal scrapes and cuts?”
She gave me a wry look. “Actually, I was thinking of bandages and peroxide.”
“I appreciate it,” I said, and then, seeing no other way to bring the subject up, I decided to blurt it out. “Dora, I need to know something. You’re the…mother of the Four Horsemen?”
“Only in the metaphorical sense.” Dora looked off into the distance. And then a lot further than that. “I was a foolish young girl, a long, long time ago.”
I thought of Circe and the Sphinx then. How they referred to Dora as ‘one of the oldest’ among them.
“Do you mind if I ask how long ago?”
“Back when the only structures the Egyptians built were out of straw and mud,” she said softly. “Back when men were just learning how to put down their history, by pressing the tips of reeds into little clay tablets.”
I stared at her. Like I said, she still looked young.
“I was a maid at the most sacred temple in the land,” she continued, “at a place which would someday be known as the Oracle of Delphi. I was given charge of an alabaster chest that the Oracle said contained four great evil spirits. But like I said, I was young, foolish. I was curious. Too curious. And late one night, when the temple guards and priestesses had gone to the spring festival to drink the sacred wines of the Peloponnese, I opened the chest.”
I sat up as my mind finally made the connections.
“Dora…Pahnn,” I said slowly. Just like with Tomasara’s parchment, I flipped the portions of her name around in my mind. I let out a breath in wonder. “Pandora? That was your legend, the one where you opened the box?”
“Indeed. And ever since that ancient time, I’ve had to live close to where the brothers choose to settle. To keep an eye on them. To make sure they don’t run any more wild than they do.”
This was all too much for me. “I…I guess that I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you’ll stay for some more tea with me,” Dora replied simply. “It’s been a long, long while since I’ve had company I can really talk with.”
I blinked. “I’d love to.”
Unbelievable. As if in a daze, I joined Pandora, the Honest-to-God real life Pandora of Greek myth, for tea at her cabin.
I grinned at the thought, and it was the first real smile I’d had on my face in what felt like forever.
…and let’s have one more take of the final scene.
Pan to a shot of Cassandra Van Deene. Miss Cassandra Van Deene, that is. Medium-length shot, then dolly in for her close-up.
She closes her eyes for a moment, inhaling the night air, as if she is smelling that most elusive of scents: freedom.
Keep on the close-up as her eyes open.
Let the audience watch as Cassandra gazes off into the distance, her face aglow for the first time with excitement.
At what the future may hold for her, now that evil has been banished from her life.
Now that she is her own woman once again.
Yes, I know this all sounds corny, therapy buddy.
We’ve all seen endings like this at the movies.
That doesn’t make it a bad ending, though.
Not in the least.
Fade to black.
Michael Angel's worlds of fantasy and science fiction range from the unicorn-ruled realm of the Morning Land to the gritty 'Fringe Space' of the western Galactic Frontier. He's the author of the bestselling Centaur of the Crime, where C.S. Lewis meets CSI. His many books populate shelves in languages from Russian to Portuguese.
He currently resides in Southern California. Alas, despite keeping a keen eye out for griffins, centaurs, or galactic marshals, none have yet put in an appearance on Hollywood Boulevard.
Find out more about his latest works at:
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Very Truly Yours,
Michael Angel
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