Glaukopis

By Morgan J. Manns

Pushing Gran’s wheelchair across the threshold into the city’s largest art museum, I was immediately struck by the grandeur of the place. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. I wasn’t sure whether Gran’s apartment or this museum held more fascinating paintings, books, and artifacts.

For today’s weekly excursion, the care home assistant had dressed Gran in bright shades of blue. I smiled to see her in such finery, complete with her favorite owl broach fastened securely to her blouse. Gran’s face bore the gentle etchings of time, however, and her once bright eyes were distant and unfocused, lost within the depths of her mind.

The two of us traversed the museum together for over an hour, my spirit dwindling with each passing exhibit. I tried to converse, explaining each painting and sculpture, but her expression remained unchanged. She muttered not a single word.

Gran hadn’t spoken to anyone since the robbery three years ago. The doctors told us the tragic event triggered a stroke that led to the onset of dementia. A hollow ache reverberated through my entire being. How could something so ordinary take away my extraordinary grandmother?

Tears welled in my eyes as I relived that fateful Sunday afternoon when I had found Gran sitting in her kitchen, lost for words, her apartment in shambles. Simply put, she had been robbed of her most prized possessions. Chief among them, her mind.

As I wheeled Gran through the museum, I was reminded of her lost treasures. One particularly captivating book stolen from Gran’s collection was a leather-bound text chronicling the history of Athena—one of the twelve Olympian gods. When Gran had read to me stories from the beautifully illustrated book, she did so with fond familiarity.

Another item stolen was a gilded vase inscribed with ancient text. Hidden on the back of the curious antique was a grotesque and menacing image with bulging eyes, sharp teeth, and writhing serpents for hair—a legendary gorgon. Gran once said the vase was a gift from a friend, a ward against evil. It used to give me shivers just looking at it.

Thinking about the unsolved robbery, I wheeled Gran up to a large portrait of a gorgon painted in realistic detail. Most pictures, including the one on the back of Gran’s stolen vase, depicted the snake-haired woman as petrifying. This one, however, offered an interesting contrast.

In “Euryale—Medusa’s Sister,” the artist chose to paint the creature with a thoughtful face and gentle hands caressing the snakes draping around her. She was hauntingly beautiful.

As I admired the painting, a strained voice shattered my thoughts.

“That’s… not… what she… looks like.”

Gran was actually looking at the painting.

Bewildered, I crouched in front of her and gently asked, “What did you say, Gran?”

Steering her gaze away from the painting, she looked directly at me. Gran repeated herself more surely this time, her eyes clearing. “That is not what… Medusa’s sister… looks like.” Each word was an effort.

Was this one of the fantastical stories she used to be so fond of telling? I decided to go along with it. “Okay, Gran. What does Medusa’s sister look like?”

At first, Gran didn’t say anything, and I worried her mind had clouded again. But then she said, “She looks like… my neighbor. She’s… old, has… long white hair, no snakes, and…” Gran swallowed. “She likes playing cards… with her other sister.”

Her eyes were the clearest I had seen them since the robbery. Gran was back, and I was determined to keep her here. I eagerly asked, “Has she asked to play cards with you?”

Her voice quivered with effort, “Yes… She invited me over… and that’s when I saw…” Gran put her hand to her forehead and rubbed her temple. “I’m sorry, dear… I’m tired. Let’s go.”

The fog overtook her eyes quickly, and I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I brushed it away and gave her a small smile. “Sure, Gran.”

With one last glance up at the gorgon portrait, I steered her away. Gran didn’t speak again.

During our journey back to the care home, I tried to ask Gran more questions, but she maintained her silence. A new thought sparked: perhaps a visit to another museum would rekindle her spirit once more. Hope flared within me.

I wheeled Gran down the beige hallway with newfound vigor. Reaching her apartment, I started to take her inside. Lost in thought, already planning next week’s excursion, I paused, hearing a noise behind me. Turning, I saw a door opening from across the hall. An elderly woman emerged. She was rummaging through her purse, her snakeskin boot holding the door ajar.

Long white hair curled around her angular face, each ringlet perfectly separated from the rest. Her pale skin was generously adorned with a constellation of scaly age spots. Dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, and bloodred lipstick adorned her lips.

She looked up, holding a set of keys. Her mouth curled up into a menacing grin as she said to my grandmother, “Hello, Neighbor, lovely to see you today.”

She didn’t bother to wait for a response and hastily locked her door, slipping her keys back into her purse. With a demure wave of her hand, she turned and walked down the hall, each ringlet bouncing with a life of its own.

Before she had closed her door, I’d glimpsed the inside of her room. On the table rested a particular golden vase I hadn’t seen in years. The horrifying face turned outward.

Gran shakily held up one accusing finger and pointed it toward her neighbor as she walked away.

An unshakeable dread settled upon me. Was Gran’s vase in the possession of the very creature it was meant to shield against? Every inch of my being quivered. I tightened my grip on the wheelchair. Legendary creature or not, for Gran, I had to get that vase back.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Morgan J. Manns resides beneath the endless skies of the Canadian prairies. Living in a quirky, five-level split home overflowing with books and nestled on a twenty-acre plot of land, she’s surrounded by writing inspiration at every turn. With a deep passion for the outdoors, she embarks on explorations of the world’s beauty alongside her husband and two young children. Specializing in speculative fiction and mysterious themes, Morgan weaves captivating tales during the tranquil hours after her household settles into slumber.

---

More Stories | Instagram