‘No. We have what is ours and Poseidon has what is his.Even the sea god respects the balance.’ She says it loudly, as though she wishes those of the rivers who journey to the ocean today to hear and be shamed.
I think of the Nereid, betrothed to all the crushing violence of the seas and feel a surge of pity. ‘I wonder if she is scared?’ I say.
But my grandmother snorts. ‘That is naive of you, mylittle queen. Nereus may be a spinelessamphineurawho sold his family to the Olympians, but those nymphs are vengeful and tempestuous and loyal to no one.’
‘No one but Poseidon,’ I amend but my grandmother sniffs again.
‘Perhaps.’ She pulls me down towards her so that we exchange places, she sitting on the banks while I bob against her legs in the water. She plucks blue lilies from their pads and begins to weave them into my hair, intricately twisting and fluffing the dark cloud into an even fuller halo; it’s a style she knows my mother hates. ‘But they have their own agendas. They’re dangerous too, in their way.’
I consider this. Nymphs are lesser goddesses. Their power is limited, constrained by masters and fathers. Curiosity flares again. It is rare for my grandmother to speak so freely of those she so fears and detests.
‘Dangerous how?’
She shrugs. ‘Strange effects of mingled divinity. Some have repulsive sea creatures in their thrall. Others have sweet voices that they use to lure sailors into rocks for sport. And then there’s Poseidon’s guard worm, the Cetus, waiting to swallow anyone that so much as glances at her master in the wrong way.’
I shudder. ‘But the Cetus is a sea monster, not a Nereid.’
My grandmother shakes her head. ‘She is both.’
‘Both?’
‘The Cetus is not just a sea monster. Such a thing would be honest, directly understood. Sheappearsas a Nereid, one of almost ordinary countenance. She is not beautiful like Amphitrite or wily Thetis. But she can shift into something deadly and hideous, monstrous.’
My eyes are wide. I had known of the great sea serpent, been scared sleepless by stories of its snapping jaws and strong thrashing body, sinking sailors who angered its master, but I’d had no idea that it was alsoshe.
‘She can change her face?’ My tone is eager and frustrated, and my grandmother looks at me sternly.
‘Yes. And is seldom trusted as a result. Why, even her own sisters keep their distance. When Poseidon deposed Nereus as King of the Sea, Nereus swore an oath of fealty. It is the only reason he kept his life at all. As a result, the Cetus’ powers must be closely guarded. She is two faced – and so she is blood-bound never to lie to her master.’
‘It seems a small price to pay for all that freedom.’ I sigh, thinking of the limit of my limbs, the walls of eyes, the heavy gold necklaces and bangles that fetter me every evening. I imagine what it would mean to be dangerous.
But my grandmother smooths the frown from my face. ‘She is not free. She answers to the Sea.’
‘Iam not free. I answer to my father.’
‘Well, none of us are truly free. All our power is checked and balanced.’
‘I am mortal. I have no power.’
She scoffs. It is the closest to being irritated by me that she has ever sounded.
‘You are the princess of a kingdom and a descendant of gods. And you are beautiful.’
I glare at my reflection. I cannot say that my face wholly displeases me. Wide, angled eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. My skin is lambent, holding the light, but is darker than the earth that quilts the riverbed, darker even than my mother’s and she was considered the most beautiful woman in the world, until me. I raise an eyebrow at myself, at the undulating refracted imitation. A blurred abacus of features lined up and organized, a tally of suitors and their offerings, each grander than the last.I am not so expensive, I think, but I was made generously, and I am learning that men are creatures who crave.
Fish swim and bob at the surface; most that dwell in these waters are used to me by now, but there are many still who get caught out. I whisper them an apology as I reach and snatch. They flop in my basket. My mother will bemoan the state of me, the mud drying slowly on my skin, the flowers in my hair, but at least I have a peace offering.
‘Andromeda!’ I hear the call, note the tone, have thought her scolding into being.
‘Coming, Mama.’
I slip from the water, wishing I could stay and dry a while. My grandmother has peeled away and is dozing where she floats. I drop a kiss on her hairless head and she says, not opening her eyes, ‘If you want me to wash her away, I will. Not far. Just a half-day’s walk downstream.’
I laugh but decline.
Walking away from the river, I reach to pluck camomile flowers from where they grow in their clusters, thinking of sweet tea with honey, my mother’s favourite. She is standingjust beyond where the river meanders, where the ground becomes sandy. She is wearing red and gold, her favourite combination, drops of jasper blooming like blood at her neck and wrists, winking yellow bands caught by the sun and throwing off rays. They say stars burn brightest as they die, but my mother has always been the most radiant.
Behind her, our home is a sprawling mass of richly painted sandstone. High walls and a gated entryway sit at the base of a slope, cut with an avenue that draws a sharp line up to the palace, which overlooks our river. Columns coloured with lapis lazuli and madder are flanked by pink granite pillars. Alabaster statues depict the Potamoi – Nilus and his brothers, twisting, hungry river men. The Titan Oceanus, their father, guards our threshold. What I know of these behemoths I know mostly from my grandmother’s stories and a little from my father’s lessons. My father bothers with me rarely and mostly to impress our great lineage upon me, to ensure I do not forget that all I am has followed all of the greatness that has been, and all that I have, I owe to the greatness that must follow. I, myself, am not great.
