Page 104 of The Tenth Muse

“Good. You are awake,” a low, feminine voice says from behind me. They are seated at a table, but their body is not normal. Or at least, not human.

They have large, dark feathered wings that are tucked behind them. The beast, or maybe person—I’m not sure what to call them—turns towards me. Their posture is regal but predatory.

The feeling, that innate push to travel east, to keep going until I find what I’ve been looking for, finally ceases. A pang of relief hits my chest, followed by confusion and fear.

“What are you?” I ask, unsure of what else to say as I sit up.

“A harpy. We are creatures of myth. Some say we are half-bird, others say we are related to the dinosaurs. Most of us are half-woman though,” she explains. “I am a woman, and you may refer to me as such.”

Got it. Man, this week couldn’t get much worse, could it? “Do you have a name?”

She cocks her head, as if observing me, before she squints, and I notice her eyes are like orbs of pure gold, glowing in the sunlight. “Amalthea. It means to soften or soothe.”

“That’s beautiful. My name is Dalal.” I don’t tell her it means fondness, because I do not feel very fond of anything lately.Emptiness has been filling the cavity of my chest for years. This innate sense of being alone, even when I’m with friends and family. It’s been haunting me, as if half my soul was somewhere else.

“That is also beautiful,” she notes. I continue studying her face. Amalthea’s nose is large and dominating. I want to run my finger down its bridge, enjoying the feel of the beak-like curve.

She’s wearing clothes. They are somewhat like the outfits seen in history books on ancient Greece, but there’s a modern twist to them. Her breasts are covered by a white, thin fabric that twists at the shoulders. Pants cover her lower half, but cut-off at the calves, revealing her feathered legs and taloned feet. Amalthea is strong and muscled but still so feminine. Her beauty is otherworldly.

“Is this your nest?” I ask, looking around at the small, almost-empty space.

She shakes her head, curls of red falling down her back.. “No, this is my workshop. My nest is much larger and has many more amenities.”

Part of me would like to see her nest, to learn more about this harpy and her people, but I need to get back to the plane and my mam. She’s probably worried sick about me.

“Well,” I say, the words struggling to form. “I should get going.”

“You should not. The rains will be coming down soon. We should go back to my nest for shelter until the storm clears,” she says definitively.

“I thought it rarely rained here?”

“Yes. During summers that is true, but rare does not mean impossible. Look at me,” Amalthea says, gesturing to her figure.

Behind her sits an antiquated sewing machine. It’s a dark, rusted metallic, attached to a foot pedal on the floor. If this is her workshop, she must be some sort of seamstress.

I wonder if she designs the clothes on paper before she makes them, or if she drapes them over the person or a mannequin. I could ask, but that would be delaying the inevitable.

I have to leave.

“I’m sorry. I really appreciate you caring for me, but I have to get back to my mam.”

“Mam?”

“The person who birthed me.”

She says something in Greek that sounds a lot like mother, and I nod. “Yes.”

“You sound like the American tourists, except when you say that word. Mam.”

I smile at her and stand from the small cot I’ve been sitting on. “Yes. My mam is from Scotland and my baba is from Kuwait, so sometimes I say words and it sounds like them and their accents.”

“You are lucky, then. To be so loved.”

Her response is peculiar, but I shake it off. Having parents does not always mean you are loved, but I am one of the lucky ones. “She’s waiting for me.”

“Are you tourists, then?”

“Not exactly. We were traveling to Kuwait, and our plane had to perform an emergency landing. We crashed here. I was looking for a first aid kit when I stumbled upon a boar and her children,” I explain. “We should’ve never ended up in Greece at all.”

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