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You are thirteen years old and you believe in monsters and gods. You think that you’ve found one. A monster that is, like the ones in the stories your mother’s told you at night.
She’s told you about minotaurs and labyrinths, gorgons and snakes, cyclopses and witches who turn men into pigs. She’s told you about the heroes too, but they’re always men and they always bore you. It’s the monsters that intrigue you. It’s why you’re curious, not fearful, the day you find your own.
You find it underneath the docks at low tide. You were playing with Fjord, his scrawny orphan’s body the perfect match to your wiry, toothy frame. You’re both young, children playing at swords, and the sound of your bare feet slapping the wood of the dock blends with the noises you make as you try to hit each other with sticks.
You’re not good at the sword game. Fjord is much better. Fjord is better at swords and at swimming and at getting adults to like him. You’re better at punching and climbing and getting into trouble. Still, you became best friends the moment you bumped into him in an alley, sending both of you flying and slipping in mud.
There is always mud in the streets of your little coastal town. It’s why your mother doesn’t come down from the fields anymore. Now your father makes enough money to keep her feet clean.
So, you became best friends with Fjord and you see him almost daily. The day you find the monster, it’s because Fjord sends you flying off the docks. You swung hard with your stick but Fjord stepped out of the way. Without something to transfer all that energy into you wind up falling forward, past Fjord, and right over the edge of the dock.
You land in a heap on hard sand. You just barely miss jagged rocks. You briefly consider cursing up at Fjord, or maybe at Poseidon for taking the sea away for half the day. The water would’ve felt a bit better than hitting the sand. At least that’s what you tell yourself as you brush yourself off, miraculously unscathed.
You hear it then: a soft, sniffling noise. You turn back towards the docks and almost jump when you see it. Some thing is hiding under there. Something with wings; monstrous black wings that look menacing and diseased. You notice a fetid stench in the air and fight the urge to cover your nose.
The thing is curled up beneath a roof of wooden beams, huddled with its knees pulled tight to its chest. It looks remarkably human. You realize then that the noise you heard was it crying. It sounds like a girl, not a monster at all. But your eyes are drawn back to the wings, dripping with something black and foul. It takes you a moment to realize that Fjord is calling your name.
“Beau? Beau! Are you alright?”
You pull your eyes away from the gruesome sight, the crying something, and look up to where Fjord is leaning over the edge of the dock. You fell about 10 feet to the ground. His eyebrows are creased in worry.
“I’m good,” you call up to him before adding, uncertainly, “there’s... something down here.”
“Something? What something?” Fjord’s frown deepens.
You wave at him impatiently. “Come check it out if you want. I’m gonna get a closer look.”
“Beau? Beau, wait!” His head disappears over the side of the dock. A moment later you hear the sound of bare feet hitting the wood, running towards shore.
You snort. Figures he’d take the long way around.
Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the creature. Its - her? - sniffles have stopped. You jump in surprise when you see that it’s staring at you now. Its face is hidden behind matted black hair and the arm that it’s hooked around its knees, but the eyes are unmistakable. One purple, one green-blue like the sea.
You take a cautious step forward. It flinches.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you murmur. Your voice is softer than usual. It surprises you a little - no one’s ever called you the compassionate type.
The monster, whatever it is, flinches again. Its wings shudder as though trying to break free of a bond, but they seem weak and unable to move much at all. You frown.
“Are you hurt? Are your-“ you point hesitantly at the wings. “-Are they hurt?”
The wings, almost as though they have a mind of their own, tremble and fold as if trying to hide. They move stiffly, and it’s then that you realize something is indeed wrong, even if the monster hasn’t told you so yet.
“It’s tar.”
You say the words under your breath, more to yourself than the creature, but when you meet its eyes you see it give you a timid sort of nod.
“How did you-?” you start, then cut yourself off. The question might be too complicated. It seems to understand you, but you don’t know if it can speak. You try something else. “Can I come closer?”
Another nod. You inch your way nearer. With every step, you realize that this creature is more human than monster. It has a child’s body with knobby knees, matted hair, and big, frightened eyes. It’s wearing little more than a dirty rag, but it’s a semblance of clothing. You think it - she? - might even be close to your age.
If it weren’t for the wings, you’d think it - she - was a runaway orphan.
“I’m Beau.” You start to stick out your hand in greeting but stop when the motion seems to scare her. Her. “Do you have a name?”
She curls her toes - human toes - into the sand and grips her knees tighter. Then she nods. “Yasha.”
“Yasha?” It’s foreign on your tongue. “Yashaaa-“
You test it out on your teeth, dragging it out like a note, and are rewarded with the slightest of smiles. Yasha lifts her chin enough for you to see the quirk of her mouth, the hint of a grin. It spreads warmth through your chest. You flash a smile of your own.
“What’re you doing under here, Yasha?”
You don’t mention the wings on purpose - it seemed to make her jumpy before - so you settle on something simpler. You hope it wasn’t too forward.
She opens her mouth to speak but clamps it shut at the sound of footsteps. In fact, you think she might try to scramble further beneath the dock.
You glance over and see that it’s just Fjord coming closer.
“It’s okay, he’s with me.”
Yasha’s eyes flit about nervously like a trapped animal searching for an escape. Without thinking, you lean forward and place a hand on her arm gently. She flinches but doesn’t pull away. Then she relaxes.
“I promise we’re not gonna hurt you,” you offer. You aren’t sure if she’s listening. She’s watching Fjord approach with wide, fearful eyes.
When Fjord sees the wings, he stops dead in his tracks.
“That’s- that’s-“ He points at Yasha with his stick. You think it’s incredibly rude of him. Then he hisses, “That’s a harpy!”
You swing your head from Fjord to Yasha. You frown. She doesn’t look like any harpy you’ve ever heard of. Your mother says the Argonauts killed them when Jason led them to sea, and that they described them all as hideous, murderous beasts. She says the stories say harpies have bodies like women but wings and talons like birds. You can’t help it - your eyes look down at Yasha’s feet buried in the sand.
“Are you a harpy?”
Yasha doesn’t answer, but she does stick her out tongue at you. A human tongue. That settles it for you right then and there. No monster you’ve ever heard of could be so much like a little kid.
“Well,” you continue, giving her a smile, “we can’t ignore that you kind of have giant wings. But we won’t call you a harpy. You’re just... different.”
Behind you, Fjord makes a choking noise. You wave a hand dismissively at him behind your back.
“How did you get tar all over your wings? Is that why you’re under here? Where did you come from?”
You didn’t mean to ask so many questions, but it’s like a dam has broken and you just can’t hold back. You’ve always been curious by nature, as much as the confines of your small town would let you. But this is different and new and exciting. A monster - no, not that - but something, and you found her.
You want to know everything there is to know.
Unfortunately, knowledge is not often laid freely at your feet, and Fjord serves to remind you that there is something more pressing at hand.
“Beau, look, this is very fascinating but-,” he shuffles his feet awkwardly, “-the tide’s going to come in soon and... well, what do we do with it?”
“Her,” you tell him with gritted teeth. You wish he’d use some of the manners that he always shows off around adults.
“Fine. Her.” He points his stick at Yasha’s wings. “She can’t move because of the tar.”
It’s not lost on you that he doesn’t say ‘fly’. The idea must seem too preposterous to voice aloud.
You run your eyes over Yasha’s wings, paying closer attention this time. Between globs of black ooze, you think you can make out white feathers.
“Is that why you’re under here? Because your wings aren’t working?”
Yasha nods. You reach a hand forward tentatively and, at her worried look, you ask, “Can I touch them?”
She nods again. You stretch forward until your fingers brush against the sticky substance that coats them. Definitely tar, and it explains the smell. You have to fight not to wince. Fjord is right - Yasha can’t go anywhere, but the tide will be coming in.
“We need oil,” you announce firmly.
Yasha looks up at you with wide eyes. You think she might be older than you, but the fear written plainly across her face makes her seem young and small. Behind you, Fjord squawks.
“Oil?! Do you know how much oil we’d need to- to clean those things off? There’s no way we can-“
You stand up abruptly. The move startles Yasha, which you regret, but it also silences Fjord. You turn around and give him your best intimidating glare.
“We are not leaving her here without help.”
You rack your mind for a solution, you know there is one just beyond your grasp. It hits you like a tonne of Roman bricks. You snap your fingers.
“Oil. Duh. We’ll take it from the storehouse.”
Fjord’s jaw drops. “You want to steal from your father?”
You shrug. “He‘s got a bunch, he’s not going to notice if a few jars go missing. Besides-,” you turn and throw another smile at Yasha, “-it’s for a good cause.”
Despite Fjord’s protestations, he does join you for the heist. The storehouse isn’t far from the docks and pilfering a few jars is actually easier than it sounds. Your father is a successful merchant, but he’s no match for his own daughter. In less than an hour, you and Fjord are jogging back to the docks with jars tucked under your arms and a roll of cloth strapped to your back.
You each carry two jars, both filled to the brim with olive oil that was otherwise bound for Crete. Each jar is almost the length of your arm but they are narrow like vases, which makes them easy to carry. That being said, you hadn’t accounted for the weight. You and Fjord have already taken several breaks on the way, sweating and panting from the effort of your little errand.
When you return to the dock, you’re both surprised and relieved to see Yasha still hiding there. Part of you had been starting to think that you’d imagined the whole thing. Of course, Fjord saw her too, so you wouldn't be alone in your delusion. How comforting.
She is there though. Huddled up and watching the advancing tide. It’s still a ways off the coast but certainly closer than before. You huff with exhaustion and drop the jars at her side.
“We got it,” you tell her, beaming triumphantly.
Yasha turns and looks up at you. She’s brushed the matted hair back from her face. She definitely can’t be a monster when she looks at you like that: hope and trepidation rolled into one.
“Will you help me?”
It’s the first thing she’s said other than her own name. Her voice is soft; delicate like a songbird’s.
“Of course,” you tell her, the smile still on your face. “Of course we’ll help you.”
You turn and gesture for Fjord to come closer, and then you sit down in the sand and make good on your word.
Lathering oil on a strange girl’s wings is not how you’d imagined spending your afternoon, but you find you don’t mind. Fjord is a consistent noise in the background, gagging and grunting as he rubs oil onto tar-coated feathers. You’re grateful for his humdrum since conversation between you and Yasha doesn’t flow with any strength.
Since she doesn’t seem the chatty type, you focus on your labor instead. Beneath the tar, Yasha’s wings are as white as a dove’s. They are soft, strong, and each is nearly the size of you. Upon closer inspection, you see that they sprout right from her back. No mechanical contraption - they are true flesh and bone. The rag that Yasha’s wearing was cut and resown to form around the protrusions. It’s utterly fascinating, enrapturing, but you force yourself to focus on your job.
Covering the wings entirely in oil is no quick task. Still, eventually the two of you manage to do it. Yasha can’t help much with the way the wings are stiff with tar at her back, but she does direct you every now and again.
Once the wings are completely covered, Yasha gives you a shrug. “What now?”
You scratch at your chin and try not to grimace. “Now we peel.”
“What?!”
Yasha scurries away from you as much as she can manage. The wings move easier now that the oil has softened the tar, but she’s still a long shot from flying away.
“Do you know how much that’ll hurt?” she demands.
You wince. “It’s the only way to- look, you need to fly outta here, don’t you!”
You two stare at each other for a moment until her shoulders slump in defeat.
“Okay, but be careful.”
“We will be,” you promise.
After a brief nod to Fjord, you two get back to work.
By the time you’re finished, the sun is past halfway to the horizon. The water is lapping ever closer to shore. Yasha is exhausted and grouchy, and you don’t really blame her. She’s had her wings poked and pulled at, and more than one feather accidentally plucked.
Finally, you and Fjord manage to peel away enough tar to make flying manageable. Your hands are coated in oil and you think it’ll probably take days for it to wear off. But hey, at least you’ll have soft skin.
There is a thick pile of soft tar laying discarded on the beach. It looks like the sea creature that washed ashore last summer, all ooze and slime and ambiguous shape. Yasha gives a haughty sniff at the sight of it before climbing to her feet. She groans at the aches in her legs from sitting for so long, but soon enough she’s brushing herself off and rustling her wings.
“Here-“ you reach for the cloth you’d nearly forgotten at your back, “-to wipe them off a bit.”
Yasha nods and takes the cloth from you. She’s apparently done with having others tend to her wings. She folds them across her body as much as she can, enveloping herself in them while still leaving her arms free. She begins wiping them down. When she’s done she drops the cloth to the ground. Her wings are marginally drier. You grin.
“Think you’ll be able to fly now?”
Instead of answering, she gives her wings a few experimental flaps. They make a soft swooshing noise as they move through the air. You’re mesmerized immediately.
“Enough to get away from here,” she says simply.
You don’t take it personally. You knew she couldn’t stay.
“Can you boost me up?”
The question is so not what you expected that you just end up looking at her in pure confusion. Then you see she’s pointing up at the dock.
“Oh, sure!”
You and Fjord lift Yasha until she can pull herself up onto the wood. Then she looks over the side at you and gives you a grin.
“It’s easier to start from something to jump off of.”
Then she tilts her head and her grin shifts to a warm, sincere smile. “Thank you, Beau.”
After a moment she adds, “and Fjord,” and gives him a sly grin. “Even if you didn’t want to.”
It’s as though cleaning her wings has completely uplifted her spirits.
Fjord gives a nervous chuckle. “I came around, didn’t I?”
“Take care, Yasha,” you say, giving her a smile of your own.
She nods and then she’s disappearing over the lip of the dock. You hear rustling, bare feet hitting wood, and you shift your gaze to the end of the dock in anticipation. A moment later, Yasha leaps off the dock above you, white wings stretched wide in the early evening air.
She rises and rises until she’s like a bird among clouds. You grin the entire time even if you feel a strange sadness growing inside.
Beside you, Fjord stays speechless until Yasha is lost to the horizon. Then he leans to you and says, “She was a beautiful harpy.”
You punch him in the arm. It’s what you’re good at, after all.
You are twenty-three years old and you believe in monsters and gods. Well, monsters at least because you’ve seen them with your own eyes. You are staring into the gaping maw of a monster right now, wondering if today is the day you are going to die.
The ship you’re on is rolling wildly on the water. Jagged cliffs lay port-side, Charybdis to starboard. That swirling, angry whirlpool is rumored to suck vessels down to the bottom of the sea. Even looking into its abyss feels like staring into death.
As though that weren’t enough, Scylla has already made off with three of the crew, including the captain. She descended upon the ship when you tried to flee the maelstrom, serpents’ heads appearing from crags in the cliffs, snatching at the sailors before you could turn the ship away.
You had seen three rows of sharp teeth lining the mouths that came snarling. You shudder to think about the captain’s last moments alive.
The deck of the ship is utter chaos. Sailors scream and wail and some even dive overboard. It’s a useless effort - the ship has drifted too close to Charybdis for swimmers to escape. They will be sucked into the vortex as surely as the ship will be.
The ship that you are still standing on.
Is this what you get for running away at nineteen? For joining up with Fjord on his mission to sail the seas? In the past four years, you’ve seen more than you would’ve in a lifetime back home. If you’re about to die, well, at least there’s some comfort in that. A short life, but a full one.
Fjord is nearby bellowing orders to any who might listen, but the truth is there are precious few crew left on board. Not to mention Fjord doesn’t have much authority. You and he were just simple sailors. Still, you suppose it’s heroic that he’s trying. Maybe some of the men will take comfort in hearing a voice of command before they die.
The ship lurches, cresting the edge of the whirlpool. If waves were teeth then Charybdis would have the mouth of a kraken. The deck of the ship is pitching sideways. You watch as a man loses his grip and is lost to the sea.
A roar, barely heard over the deafening crash of waves, pierces the sky. It is Scylla, but you have no idea what she’s announcing. Maybe she’s lamenting that Charybdis has taken her prey. What a waste of meat you’ll all be, drifting lifeless beneath the waves.
Scylla roars again. It is rage-filled and furious. You wish you could still see her, but the horizon has shifted up about 30° and is shifting higher the further you sink into the abyss. The ship swirls around the wide mouth of the maelstrom, picking up speed. Soon your entire world will be the blue of the ocean, not the sky.
It sinks in then: you really are going to die. You decide to find Fjord. When you turn and see him a ways down the deck, you try to cross the distance but slip in the muck. The deck is more water than wood at this point.
You are still on your knees, trying to get steady, when something thumps onto the deck in front of you. A pair of human feet. You look up.
There is a mighty figure standing above you, blotting out what remains of the sky. It is tall, very tall, and broad in the shoulders. And behind those shoulders are a pair of massive, outstretched, white wings.
You squint. It’s hard to see with salt water in your eyes. The next thing you know, you’re being lifted up by your armpits.
“Can you stand?”
The voice is feminine but deep. Strong. Enchanting. The figure wears a simple tied robe that you assume lays open in the back. How else to let those wings come out freely?
And now that you’re looking up at her, you see a face that tugs at your memory. Something about the color of those eyes? But the hair is all wrong, white where you think it should be black. You shouldn’t dwell on it in the chaos but you can’t help but ask,
“Who are you?”
You don’t get an answer. Instead, strong arms encircle your waist, and the next thing you know your feet are lifting off the ground. Your head is pressed against the figure’s chest and you hear the beating of something, not a heartbeat, but rather a rhythmic pulsing in the air.
You crane your neck. You look down, and the deck of the ship is retreating beneath you. You are flying - flying! - and then you remember.
“Fjord- my friend- he’s still down there!”
“Don’t worry, he’s taken care of,” the woman - you’re certain it’s a woman, you’re flush to her breast, after all - tells you in a comforting voice.
Still, you struggle a bit in an effort to look back down at the ship. Her arms hold you tighter.
“Please don’t do that, Beau, or else I might drop you.”
You turn back to look at her, and suddenly you know.
“Yasha?”
It feels good to say her name. Like a veil has been lifted, one you hadn’t even realized you wore. She smiles at you and, by the gods, when did she become so beautiful? The last you saw of her she was a scrawny, dirty child.
So were you, though. You wonder if you look beautiful to her now. You try to move to tidy up your hair but your arms are pinned to your sides. You tell yourself that you've just survived death at the hands of the two most fearsome creatures of the sea - can Yasha blame if you look more than a little disheveled?
Whether due to your earlier fidgeting or some other reason, Yasha slows for a moment.
“I’m going to carry you in my arms now. It’ll be easier.”
Up until now, you have been awkwardly clinging to her front. You nod and do your best to help her as she shuffles your position. Once you’re settled, sitting across her arms with your arms around her neck, you say,
“Yasha, I have about a million questions to ask you but-"
You look down again. You have to fight not to gape when you see how far you’ve traveled already. She is carrying you away from Charybdis and the howls of Scylla. The sea lies far beneath you, the caps of waves little more than white squiggles against a landscape of blue. You can’t help but gulp before looking back to her.
“-what did you mean Fjord is taken care of?”
Yasha smiles at you before nodding with her chin over your shoulder. You have to crane your neck to look in the direction she is indicating, but when you do manage to see it your jaw drops in surprise.
A short distance away from you, Fjord is perched awkwardly on the back of a white, winged horse. He’s gripping its mane with knuckles as white as its hide, looking like he might be sick.
“What is that?”
You’ve never heard of any animal that compares to what you’re looking at.
“Pegasus,” Yasha offers. “He was born when Perseus slew Medusa. He has traveled with me recently, but one day he’ll be the companion of a legendary hero-,” Yasha shoots you a grin, “-or so Hermes told me.”
“Hermes?!”
The messenger of the gods. Yasha nods, and now that you know Fjord is safe, you can’t help but start asking some questions.
“How did you know where to find us? Was that Hermes too? How many gods do you know?”
“It was Poseidon, actually.”
It's apparently the only answer you're getting. She’s quiet for a moment before adding, “I have always wished to be able to repay you for helping me that day at the dock. Although I have to admit, I never guessed it would happen quite like this.”
“It’s a long story,” you offer by way of an explanation.
“I’d like to hear it someday.”
The words settle warm and pleasant in your chest. They offer the promise of some kind of permanence beyond this temporary embrace.
You blush at the sudden thought of you and Yasha embracing. What an absurd thing to think about at this precise moment. You force the thought away.
“Yasha, what are you? Are you a Gorgon like Medusa?”
Yasha shakes her head. “Do I have snakes for hair?"
You frown. You suppose she has a point, but the wings... “A sister to Icarus, then?”
She laughs. “You know my wings are not made of wax, Beau.”
“But you’re not a harpy either, I’ve known that since that day on the beach.”
Ten years ago. What fortunes have favored to bring you together again? You feel Yasha’s shrug more than you see it.
“Maybe I am just something new.”
That gives you pause. In this land of gods and monsters, there are always new horrors waiting to be birthed. And new heroes too.
“Something new,” you murmur. Your curiosity is stirring.
It's quiet for a few moments. You feel Yasha’s fingers flex against your skin. In the distance, Fjord begins shrieking. You whip your head but Yasha’s sudden laughter eases any worries. Fjord's shrieking is borne from excitement, not fear. He appears to be getting a hang of the whole flying thing, his arms outstretched while his knees do the work of keeping him seated.
Yasha angles towards the coast then, and Pegasus follows suit.
“Where are you taking us?” you ask, already lamenting the end of this peculiar voyage.
“To the nearest town, it’s not far.”
“And then where will you go? Back to the gods?”
Yasha snorts softly. “I am not so much at their beck and call as they’d like.”
“Well, wherever you do go, I’d like to go with you.”
You say the words without thinking, but you find that you mean them. Yasha looks at you, surprised.
“With me?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “If you’ll have me. After today, I don’t think I’ll be setting out to sea anytime soon, and without that, I haven’t got much in the way of things to be doing. I’d like to join you on all the adventures you’re having. I can handle myself, I just want-“
You cut yourself off at that. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t know about adventures but... I have been alone for some time. I think I’d like that very much, Beau.”
You smile at her and then - you can’t help it - you bury your face in the crook of her neck. You think she must flush from the contact because her skin is warm to your touch. Or maybe it’s you who is flushing at the way you nuzzle into her without thinking.
Around you, seabirds call as you approach landfall. Fjord is still laughing every once in a while. Yasha holds you close, strong arms curled around your body. Below you, sea becomes cliff becomes wide, open land.
For as long as you’ve lived, you’ve believed in monsters and gods. This land is full of them. Now you've found something else, for Yasha is neither. She is enchanting, intriguing, and entirely brand new. Curiosity beckons you with a call stronger than any siren’s song. Curiosity, and the seed of something deeper that's begun taking root in your heart.