Serpents

By Hannah Robinson

Sometimes I stand gazing into my mirror for hours, hoping (fearing?) I’ll fall victim to my own trick and end this pain.

It never works.

I’m now surrounded by mirrors. The sunlit courthouse glitters, every judge and juror holding one. They cannot look at me, so they use the mirrors to glimpse my reflection.

It’s just as well. I can’t look at them, either. Least of all him.

Poseidon.

He stands with the prosecution, his hulking shadow on the ground all too recognizable. But if I look at him, I’ll lose what little sanity I have left. I know this. It’s happened before.

“Defendant, rise.”

That’s me. Somehow, I force my legs to hold me up.

A slender shadow paces before me. A burning patch of sunlight strikes my face, rebounding off somebody’s mirror. A familiar hissing fills my ears.

“I thought we’d settled this already.” The prosecutor’s voice is dark, smooth. Like her shadow. “Why are you here, Medusa? Begging me to retract your punishment?” Athena laughs. A hard, cruel laugh.

I don’t know why I’m here. I received a summons, unsigned. This is the last place in the world I’d ever choose to return to.

No, not the last place. I’d rather be here than where the crime happened.

The hissing grows louder.

“Answer me, Medusa,” Athena snaps.

I’ve already forgotten the question.

A serpent’s cold, smooth body glides across my throat. I fear (hope?) it will strangle me, but it doesn’t. It never does. Somehow, I force my voice around it. “My lady—” She doesn’t deserve the title. “—I didn’t request this hearing. I was summoned. To an appeal.”

“You received your punishment five years ago. What good is an appeal? We all know your guilt.”

“Guilty,” whispers a serpent in my ear.

A voice in the back of my head protests, weakly. No. If they saw what he did to you, what he stole from you…

“Guilty,” hisses the serpent, louder.

I don’t have the strength to fight it.

“Would the plaintiff please rise for questioning?” Athena says.

Poseidon’s shadow shifts, lengthens. I cringe. As they go through the story again, I can barely hear around the hissing.

Poseidon tells his side. I seduced him (did I?), coerced him (I don’t remember this, but it might have been), slandered him (which I did not mean to do, if it happened at all). Athena asks him questions, questions that make me sound unhinged. Then she asks for my story. Again.

I told them five years ago. How I entered Athena’s temple innocent and stumbled out shattered. Everything I remembered, though when I testified, I shook so hard I could barely speak.

Why it was me on trial, not Poseidon, I couldn’t understand. Not then. Not until after Athena made me understand I was wrong, guilty.

Now, I don’t know what story to tell.

“Speak, Medusa!” The burning light dances across my face again. The serpents snarl.

Even if I were certain of my innocence, to whom could I appeal? Which god in this courthouse would uphold my cause? Zeus wouldn’t. He’d just as soon have committed Poseidon’s act himself. Aphrodite wouldn’t. She keeps silent about the gods’ crimes (as I should have, five years ago) because she cannot win.

I have no ally. No defense.

For five years it’s been this way. I’ve been an exile. Outcast. Monster. Some days, I don’t mind the loneliness. In a sense, it’s my protection. The number of people I have turned to stone, just by meeting their gaze… people I loved…

It’s far better to be in a place you cannot be seen than a place you must not be seen.

And I have not been seen since my curse.

“Speak!” Athena’s shouting now. “Have you any defense, Medusa?”

“No.” My voice is nearly drowned by the hissing.

“Guiltyyyy…”

A crash of thunder shakes the courthouse, and I jump. Zeus has lost his temper. I turn to him, trembling, to find him wide-eyed—also trembling. Staring at the door.

I follow his gaze.

At the double-doors of the courthouse stands a man I’ve never seen before. He’s taller than Zeus, wider than Poseidon, more beautiful than Athena. He glows. His eyes are furious. He must be a god.

“Get out of my courthouse,” he bellows, his voice like thunder.

I cower against the witness stand, serpents screaming in my ears.

Lightning shoots from this unknown god. Strikes Zeus. Zeus convulses, stumbles—flees. Athena follows. Poseidon leaps forward, ready to challenge the intruder, but a mighty wave of water sweeps through the courthouse doors and swallows him. The water retreats, taking Poseidon with it. The judge leaps out a window. The jury scatters. A mirror shatters on the stone floor.

And I am left alone, too terrified to move, in the presence of a mysterious god stronger than Zeus.

This is the end. I hope.

“Medusa, where are you?” This time his voice isn’t thunder. It’s rain.

I want to remain hidden, but my body disobeys. I stand.

He turns toward me.

Oh, don’t let him look at me, I plead inside. I’ll turn him to stone.

His gaze locks on mine.

And he smiles.

He sees me.

And he does not turn to stone!

“Why are you here, Medusa?” he asks. He says my name warmly, like a blessing.

“I—an appeal—” My voice fails. “Someone summoned me—I don’t know who.”

“I summoned you.”

“You?” I gape.

“How do you plead?”

I’m prepared to say guilty, but for once, the serpents are silent. As am I.

He nods as though I’ve spoken. “Innocent. Case dismissed.”

Is this true? I cannot question his authority. He routed Poseidon!

He takes my trembling hand. Leads me from the courthouse.

Athena waits outside, fuming, staring. Our eyes meet. Then she does something nobody’s done in five years: she turns and walks away.

So do we. This God and I.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Robinson is a YA fantasy author who loves spinning tales of royal intrigue, assassins, and, of course, dragons. She has won several writing awards through Florida Christian Writers Conference, including 2019 Writer of the Year. When she’s not writing, she enjoys exploring nature, making music, reading old books, and drinking lots of tea.

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