Creator
By M. A. Hills
Copyright ©2005 by M. A. Hills ... all rights reserved.
Part One: The Jewel
1
In the days of yore when the Christian God sent his only son to save the wretched human race, the Olympian spirits sent a saviour of their own. Unlike Jesus, the saintly pagan son was not without sin, nor error; nor would he ignore temptations, and desire. Ill-fated from the start—he would not become a humble carpenter either, but one who is skilled in warfare, thievery, and deceit. To be sure, if the gods had great ambitions for their Olympian saviour, it seems they were inclined to keep him in the dark. For he who would begin his life without a name, or an inkling of whence he came—the last descendant of a vanishing legacy—would someday be called to perform great miracles, whether he liked it or not. His providence was to become a creator; and now his story will be told.
Thus, during the month of Martius, in the year 1 AD, Virginia Marius became pregnant in a very extraordinary way. She had neither a boyfriend, nor any kind of sexual relationship. Her doctor swore he had never seen anything like it before, swore she was still a virgin. Her father swore it was the work of iniquity: of the mischievous spirits of the dead. Worse still, he would see to it that the child was cut from her belly—like they did to save the life of Caesar—and exterminated.
Virginia's father was not a sponsor of progressive medicine, an abortionist, nor did he enjoy the idea of dissecting his only daughter. He was a wealthy Governor from a respectable patrician dynasty, and since a brilliant military career had earned him the admiration of many influential officers, he was Caesar's most important ally. To be sure, he, Gaius Antonius Marius, could not afford to waste his time with a pregnant teenager, no more than he could afford his enemies the pleasure of damaging his respected name. If word got out that Virginia had involved herself in wanton behaviour, what then? In Roman society, there was nothing that could stop a malicious rumour. Soon they would be talking in the public baths; soon the forums across the Empire would be covered with slanderous graffiti. Moreover, they would sing vicious songs, and denounce the great name of Marius in the markets, in the theatres, in the Senate! By the mercy of Fortuna, his good fortune had abandoned him at last. He had no other choice now: he was forced to challenge the gods, forced to defy the evil beast growing inside of her. Nonetheless, even though perplexing, his daughter's condition did not surprise him. Virginia was wicked, disobedient, and blasphemous: that was why she was being punished. Gaius sustained that the gods had been angered by the sacrilegious gibbering of her wild imagination, and as retribution, they had sowed that amoral seed inside her womb. Then that thing would swell, and be born a vengeful agent of the underworld. It would strike down the shrew that bore it as sure as Jupiter poops lightening bolts! There seemed to be no other explanation. For already the sands of time warned of the embryo’s celestial genesis; in no less than a month the seed had gained the astonishing weight of a baby, and if he did not rush to remove it, that thing would gain its malicious nativity too, and his daughter; a ferryboat ride to Hades.
So he brought her to their summer estate on the island named Corsia, located ten Roman sea miles from the anchorage of Ostia. It was surrounded by high crags, and deserted of all untrustworthy eyes. It was a grand garden hideaway covering ten square miles, a realm of solitude and luxury. It was the perfect place to go about this unethical surgery in utter secrecy. Hence, everything went according to plan, that is, according to the plot of the gods.
2
Gaius fought back fear and nausea. The sight of blood made him ill, and he was concerned about his daughter's safety. The doctor’s slice seemed to be barmy, and the wound was like a mouth being born of her belly. Yet the physician had learned his anatomy well. It seems that he had gained his knowledge by picking up the cleaved bits and pieces of a conquering army. To be sure, he would not make a mistake, for he knew every muscle, artery, nerve, and bone in the human body. But until now, his subjects had always been dead. Never had he dissected a living specimen before, and one that carried yet another living thing inside of it. In short, he was terrified. The Governor could sense his apprehension too; saw the goose pimples on the back of his chubby neck, the cold sweat pearling off his crooked brow. But now they had reached the point of no return, and as his daughter dozed under the numbing sway of narcotics, Gaius had become indisposed.
So the chambers grew nippy. The flames of the lamps flickered from the tempest draught that whistled and made the mansion moan—outside a storm was gathering. His Excellency shivered, and folded his arms to comfort himself from the cold. As he looked to take refuge from this gory ordeal, which seemed to grow ever more horrifying still, something peculiar happened. In fact, it was so oddly divine that those who were destined to witness it would not forget it until their dying day, which was not surprising, for their dying day would be the very same day of witness.
It happened like this: blinding rays of blanched light shot out from Virginia's belly, flaring from that gaping incision like a flaming Roman candle. Then the blaze fell on the Governor's face, in his eyes—eyes of madness—down to a stone cold heart of darkness. Gaius became glued to the spot, held prisoner by the glowing gash of his daughter’s abdomen. Then he fell to his knees, his face gleaming, spellbound.
The surgeon fell away from daughter, from scalpels, from chambers. He ran; mad, blind, into the storm outside. Into the night of day he ran. Into the hungry jaws of the hurricane he ran, and there, before he could cry, or say a prayer, he was swallowed.
Meanwhile, from betwixt the great bows of bending trees, grey and menacing against the tempest heavens, Hydra, the many-headed mooncalf, was born of the wicked woods. It grew hideous and gathered force like the hurricane that beckoned it, and with mighty strides the Titan monster crossed the murky gardens toward the lonely island villa. It stood ill-omened and towering above the battered manor, and then it came down upon it to tear great cavities into the rooftop.
The violent gales blew open the portals to Virginia’s apartments, tossing papyrus and pillows, hither and thither. Then, as sudden as death itself, the wall gave way and crumbled. The horrors of Hydra penetrated her chamber; so many hideous heads and expressions of hatred, so many bloodthirsty jaws and razor sharp fangs hovering over her bed.
Gaius could not so much as call for help. He was still a prisoner of that strange light which glued him to his daughter, and any attempt to escape would have been futile. On the other hand, it was of no consequence: to die in her chambers or to die in the hurricane was neither here nor there.
And so it happened that, for the first time in history, a hideous Hydra of an ancient mythology was born to wreak havoc over the island of Corsia, and Gaius Marius, and his only daughter, Virginia the shrew, were never seen again. When the sun finally came out, and the waters settled down; when the winds withdrew, and the land dried out, the island had become a desolate rock. Gone was the stately villa, the atrium, peristylium, statues and altars; gone were the green woods, the parks, yellow fields, the sward upon the hills; gone were the mellow gardens, the sandy beaches, docks, boats, guest houses, stables, pavilions, and goats. Everything that lived, or gave colour to life, was gone. All that was left was a barren stretch of land amid a glassy sea and, as strange as it might seem, a baby, as content a child as a child has ever been.