Memory Amid The Ruins
This piece doesn’t feature characters from Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, but it’s set in the same world. A snippet from the life of a semi-forgotten deity scraping by on the modern-day island of Crete. The PDF version features an illustration by myself, visible own its own at this link.
This story was originally a submission to FurAffinity's Thursday Prompt writing group.
[b]Memory Amid The Ruins[/b]
By: DankeDonuts
https://dankedonuts.sofurry.com/
A red-on-black snake slithered its way around a quartet of reconstructed storage jars. Partly antiquated clay, dark and scared. Partly filler sculpted to match the missing sections, pale and smooth. Two of these great jugs were detailed in serpentine reliefs. All of them were lined up against a partial wall of cemented stone, brought low by looters and the relentless march of grass.
Tongue darting, the creature tasted history in the air as it moved across an open floor of dirt and pebble. Until it reached the shade of a metal-beamed sunroof. Where it was taken up to into a slim, olive-skinned hand. Gingerly, lovingly, and loosely enough that the serpent was free to wind its way around the flesh of a bare arm.
With her free hand, the dark-haired woman reached a finger under the snake’s head. Tipped its head toward her lips. The kiss was affectionate, protective. After delivering it, she scanned the grounds for the snake’s mate. With a smile and a light laugh, she reasoned the female of the pair must be off laying another clutch of eggs. An occurrence which tends to happen frequently when one is the familiar of a fertility goddess.
A goddess in hiking boots. On pilgrimage to her own holy ground.
Stepping out of the early morning shadow, the woman mentally cataloged the changes time had wrought to her city. As she had done many a time before. Where there had once been people, there were now rope fences and wooden walkways. Where had been high walls, there were now scattered segments and open sky. This oasis of broken antiquity was bordered by trees and sweeping hills, which themselves were pockmarked with fields and old paths. A precious barrier against modernity. Just beyond them lay an apocalypse of steel and glass, rationality and pop culture. The Twenty-first Century embedding itself all the way to the edges of Crete.
The slim woman’s sojourn took her toward a two-story section of wall sentried by two white columns. One squared, the other rounded. Between them, a pair of partial frescoes, replicas, bearing the images of four water bearers. Here, she let the weight of memory pour over her.
For a few moments, in her eyes, the place was what it had been. Knossos, great and beautiful. She stood in the center of a busy courtyard. Surrounded by buildings of many stories, painted bright orange. Adorned with countless scarlet columns and thin windows. Stylized bullhorns lined many a roof. There was music in the air; a serenade of lute, flute, and sistrum. And there were people. So many people! The goddess walked among her faithful, dressed in their style. Listening to them talk and laugh and bargain. Giving them her blessings.
For a singular instant, amid the ruins, she was what she had once been. Proud and vital. Dressed in a red-sleeved bodice, its front wide open. Her many-layered skirt, a mix of black and tan squares, kissed the ground. Soft slippers barely making a sound as she stepped. A red-on-black hat, gilded in bronze circlets, kept her long hair somewhat in check. A cool Mediterranean breeze sent those locks flowing, ruffled her skirts, and circled her bare nipples in goosebumps. The chill brought her sight back to the here and now, and she was once more that which time had made of her.
A woman a red leather vest and short-sleeved shirt, striped brown pants and hiking boots. Brown eyes looking for something worthwhile to do with the day. An opportunity presented itself at the same time it always did.
Her city’s border was breached by the first tourists of the day. Americans, most likely. Their shirts were loud enough. The mother and father of the party were talking at each other, not with. Their children walked with eyes focused not on the sights around them, but those within the rectangular altar in each of their hands. Ceding their time and attention to media. An oracle which was happy to send a few scraps down Olympus' way, but was less generous with the faith of Minos. Chances were they knew nothing of the civilization modern folk called Minoan, save a matronly statuette holding up two snakes to the beloved sky. If even that much.
Time to change that.
She stepped forward to meet them. There was no longer a snake draped over her arm. Rather, a red-on-black armband about her wrist. With a wave and a smile, she attracted the adults’ attention. They instructed their children to look up and join them in offering polite hellos.
As she had done many a time before, the woman would introduce herself as Ariande. With a regal voice that could command even the attention of two impatient youth. She would bid them a vague welcome to her homeland, and offer to show them about the world they had come to visit. With special emphasis given to the many frescoes, and the stories to be found among them. Who the Prince of The Lilies was. Why the bull-leapers were so admired. How there came to be griffons in the throne room. She would bring far more life to the tales than could be found on than the museum-quality signs set beside each one.
The Americans would be fascinated in spite of many distractions they had brought, buzzing for their attention. And they would come away grateful, thinking they had met a particularly studious tour guide. After a fashion, that would be the truth of their encounter. Of a brief time spent with someone who wished only for others to remember some tales from a time long passed. Not only of herself, but the people who had loved her.