A Mother's Love

When I look in the mirror I see a broken woman. A woman with unforgiving scars that curve around her wrists and ankles, waist and neck; courtesy of an unforgiving life. A woman whose belly sags from the bearing of a child that now lays at her feet, stranded on the cold floor. I see that child’s eyes, swollen from crying, its face, beet red with screams, and its golden curls, mocking me in their likeness to the father whom I did not choose.

Every time I look at the child I can feel the ropes burning my skin as I struggle to get free, and I can feel hot hands on my waist and between my legs. In the child’s screams, I can hear the man’s callous voice telling me that our child would be greater than its father. “The Oracle prophesied it,” he had said. I wonder which oracle ruined me, if she even knew that her words could incite such grievous actions. I hope she knows now. I hope it pains her everyday.

The child gives up screaming when I walk away; out of the room, out of the house, along the river bank to the small dock where the ferryman would pull up his boat come morn. I sit on the dock and dip my toes into the reflected stars. The water is cold, but I’d rather be numb anyways. I take a deep breath of the night air and try to forget the child, but the child has followed me in the arms of my aunt, Styx. She sits next to me, cradling the babe. Her hair, like the black water, is almost smooth enough to reflect the stars.

“I know the pain this child brings you,” says Styx, “but do not allow the sins of the father dictate the life of your son. He does not deserve your hate, nor does he deserve to die,” she thrusts the child into my arms, “Now feed him.”

I lift the child’s face to my breast on instinct, and it latches on. It fits so perfectly in my arms, and its warm little body against mine makes me feel sick. My skin burns with guilt and hate as the child feeds.

Styx hovers at my side with one hand on the child’s back, as if she were afraid I would toss it into the river. I am suddenly aware of how close I am to the water and I scooch back onto the middle of the dock, remembering my mother telling me it would only take a mouthful of water to drown a baby. An mouthful and ten seconds. That’s all it would take. Ten seconds.

Styx stands and lights a torch at the edge of the dock before taking a seat beside me again. “Will you name it?” she asks, and I shake my head. “He is a strong young boy,” she continues, “He will bring much pride and glory to you.” I pull the child away from me and hand it back to Styx.

“Pride and Glory hasten the stroke of death,” I say, “A long life comes without either.” Styx has no response to that, but I don’t care. “I hope this child learns pride quickly and earns himself just retribution.” Styx slaps me across the face, and the child cries softly.

“If you plan to nurture this child as you nurture your hate, you should give him a swift end now before he knows your pain.” Her voice is raised, this is the first time I have seen Styx angry. Well, I am angry too; angry that she thinks so little of me, and angry that she’s right. I hate that child, I hate it’s father, and I hate myself for having borne it.

“You’re right!” I shouted at Styx, “I should have ended our wretched lives the day he was conceived! Only in that way could I have escaped this hatred.” I grab the torch to burn myself even as a sob escapes my body. Styx backs away, pressing the child tight to her chest. “Thetis,” she says quietly, “I meant only that you should give up the child to another. Someone far from your sight and mind.”

My babe cries, and I can’t breathe anymore, all I want is to soothe his tears. I want to cradle him and sing him to sleep. I want him to grow up and learn to play with the other little boys. I want him to marry a sweet girl and have sweet little children of his own. I want him to live a gloryless life, but I do not want to watch it.

I turn, putting the torch back into its holder and say to Styx, “The ferryman will be here soon. I will take the child to Athens and leave him in the square. Someone will surely take him, and I need never know who.”

Styx puts a hand on my shoulder and I lean into her, “I’ll take him,” she says, “You should rest, birthing is no easy task.” I reach and take my baby’s hand, “I want to take him,” I say, “Is it selfish to want a little of his time?”

Styx hands me my baby and says, “We’re all selfish every now and again, but giving him away is a very selfless thing to do. I will go get the money for the ferry and we will go together. Can I trust you to wait here?” I don’t answer, but she leaves anyways. Perhaps she thinks I no longer have the energy for hatred, but even as she leaves I can hear my mother’s words echoing in my mind. A mouthful of water and ten seconds. A mouthful of water. Ten seconds. A mouthful. Water. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

It isn’t until I hear Styx scream and I see the ferryman rowing frantically towards me that I realize I have dangled my baby by his heel into the river.

I pull him out and lay him on the dock. My baby coughs and spits out water. Every inch of me is trembling, and I think my child’s heart may stop if I do not keep holding tight to the one connection I have to him. The heel I had dangled him from is now our life line, I hold tight to it as he holds tight to life. The ferryman’s boat bumps lightly against the docks, and I pull my baby close to me for fear the ferryman will take him away. He walks to me slowly and places a finger under my child’s nose to check for breath.

“What is his name?”

“Achilles.” I decide. I had given it no thought before, but it echoed in my mind now like a prayer. The ferryman took us aboard with no more questioning, and as we crossed the dark river our future solidified in my mind.

When the vessel pulled to shore, the ferryman leaned close to Achilles and shook his little hand. “My name is Charon, Achilles. Remember it well, for I think we will meet again soon.”

Charon nods to me with a grim set to his face and I feel his pitch eyes follow me as I leave. I could turn back and raise my son to a long simple life, but I do not.

I take Achilles to his father, and I raise him to pride and glory.