by Mac Pomeroy
Son of a river god and a nymph, a babe was born with a beautiful face but a twisted body.
As his mother held the newborn in her arms, she admired the honeyed glow of his skin, his rose-pinched cheeks. The way his eyes reflected the mighty blue of his father’s domain, a ring of dark green surrounding his pupils. Not even a day old, yet already was the child blessed with a full head of dark brown curls, a serene expression on his tiny features. Liriope wanted to believe that she had created a champion, worthy of whatever challenge the world tried to place on his shoulders- but she couldn’t deny the reality of what the white sheets the infant was wrapped in were hiding. A small peek showed the boy’s fate- two legs, already crooked and deformed.
At this, his mother sat with him on the river bank where she gave birth and wondered what she was to do. Her baby was completely, utterly human; he could not come with her when she returned to the sea, and she could not stay on land much longer. The child’s father was not there, but instead a fellow nymph, gifted with small oracle abilities, assisted as a midwife. Liriope handed over her son, wanting to know the seer’s opinion. The other nymph looked down at the baby, studying his face for a moment before handing him back, a dark look in her eyes.
“What did you see? What must be done?” Liriope demanded.
“With beauty so apparent, his face will cause him great pain. You must leave the child to be raised by the mortals, but keep him from mirrors. The moment he sees his own face, shall bring forth his ruin,” thel seer replied, before getting up and returning to the water.
Liriope considered these words and the cruelty of humans, feeling bleak in needing to leave her son with them. She wondered if it may be more merciful to drown the child instead. But, if the seer saw any future at all, it was best she allowed it. She brought him to a nearby town and left him on the altar of a temple of his father, leaving note that all mirrors should be removed at once.
The boy was quickly found and given the name Narcissus. The priests and priestesses, hiereus and hiereia, took him in, allowing him to live in their own sanctuary. During the day, he’d sit in the field of wildflowers that surrounded the village, having been carried down by one of the stronger boys, a lad with upturned eyes and a small scar on his cheek. The air smelled sweetly of hyacinth, peony, and sage. He would tell stories while the girls braided flowers into his hair, sharing what he knew of his father, of the land and water, of the other gods. Often, he’d look up and find the audience silent, staring at him with sparkling eyes in what he thought was amazement towards the knowledge he was presenting. At night, he’d return to his father’s temple to study by candlelight, wanting to never run out of stories.
As he grew older, it became more clear that the attention he received was not simply for his wisdom. Even as the other children, now young adults, became too busy to play as they once did, frequent visits were made to the temple with a specific agenda to see Narcissus. Typically seated on a bench before the altar, rarely a time passed where he didn’t have a guest or two- leaning in, listening closely, giggling like drunken fools when they thought Narcissus may have looked at them in a special way. Small treats were left by eager visitors, always mistaken as offerings for the temple and later used in ceremonies.
Then the proposals started, and he could no longer turn a blind eye to the desire in others. Letters, pouring out their hearts over the beauty of his jaw or the way that his dark eyelashes made his stare even more intense. Hopeful suitors presenting him with food and jewels, or more sentimental offerings of song and dance. He was filled with a startle as it seemed like the village lined up for their chance to make him an offer, asking again for him to consider. It was a grievous affair for Narcissus. Not only did he feel betrayed, wondering how anyone missed his commitment to the temple, how they didn’t know of his plans to become a priest and serve his father; but, he also felt numb. The desire for romance or love beyond a friendly way had never developed for him. He noticed those who sought out his wisdom more often, like the girl with freckles scattering her cheeks resembling stars in the sky, but held preference towards none. He could offer none his heart, more than he could rip it out of his own chest and keep living.
A new pattern started of constant rejections, to where Narcissus no longer left his room unless needed. He no longer visited the temple until sundown, when he could once more study alone. This isolated him from further advances, but didn’t keep away the discussions he could hear outside of his window. Many took Narcissus’s rejections as a personal insult. Rumors spread, saying the young scholar believed he was too beautiful to accept the hand of anyone he deemed less, and no one had a chance of fitting his high standards.
At this, he shook his head. Why was it that the other hiereis could choose a life of worship without such scorn, but he? He held hope in his heart that this would come to pass, and he could go back to serving his father. He dreamed of becoming archiereus and being able to speak to his father, and ask him to use the river he held power over to benefit the village. Bring forth more fish to catch, and purer water to drink and water crops. To do that, he needed to have the peace to continue his practice.
Narcissus’s wish for quiet came true, and the proposals trickled to a stop. However, as did the affection from those outside of the temple. Instead of being a teacher for his peers, he felt like another decoration, another pillar holding up the stone ceilings. Important to his environment, but unnoticed by anyone who passes. When he tried to approach others to invite them to talk, he was met with cold shoulders and low mutters about how he should learn beauty isn’t everything. Even those he lived and worked with, who he considered to be as close as he had to family, grew more distant. The most infuriating part was that Narcissus had never seen his own face, much less felt fondness over it. The temple didn’t have a mirror, and he never sought one out. The only parts of himself he had seen was his body, and he couldn’t help but focus on the bowed and uneven gait of his legs.
If he had a beauty worth all this pain, he hoped he would never bear witness to it.
More time passed, and Narcissus was no longer the concern of town. Instead, the town was facing siege, with invaders from a nearby opposing kingdom blocking off the road. The leader approached the temple early on, and stated their wants to the archiereia- they demanded everyone to leave so they could take over the land. They were offering a few days of peace, before they attacked and claimed what they felt was theirs.
While no one else said it, Narcissus knew that the only reason they hadn’t managed to fully surround the village was because his father sent the enemy boats back down the river, allowing one last escape route. Some villagers took advantage and fled. Most, however, felt it was their duty to stand ground and fight, regardless of how hopeless the situation appeared. Narcissus agreed with this side, owing gratitude to the village that took him in and raised him from a boy. His loyalty, though, was quickly overlooked. People now saw Narcissus and started comparing him to stories of other sons of gods.
Hercules and his amazing strength could vanquish any foe single handedly.
Jason was only the grandson of Poseidon, yet he still set off to look for the golden fleece.
Achilles never backed down until his heel was struck.
Narcissus was none of them. There was no other way to say it- he was not a hero. While they were strong and muscular, he was soft and fragile. While they charged in battle, he couldn’t walk more than a few yards without needing a break. He didn’t receive any power in exchange for his heritage. The only strength he had was mental strength from all his time spent studying. He wasn’t a hero; he was merely a man, and not a great one. No one would write ballads in his memory. No one would know him beyond the stories told in the village, and those would die soon after he did. The town grew angry, knowing they had the son of a god, but he only cared for himself.
Within days, Narcissus suddenly found himself with his few belongings packed and placed on the back of his mule, being told to leave. The village didn’t want another mouth to feed during such difficult times, especially not one so thankless. It was kind enough of them to give him a bit of supplies, so he needed to leave before he was any more of a burden. Narcissus didn’t say a word as he mounted his mule and rode away.
Blessedly, while the roads were blocked, the forests remained free. Narcissus rode forward, making sure he could always see or hear the river. While he had never traveled beyond his home, he felt reassurance by remaining near his father. Betrayal stung his heart while he wondered what he was to do- he couldn’t ask either of his parents for help. He knew the next village over was days away, and the chances of him or his mule, who was a rather humble steed, making the ride was slim.
His wishes were no longer to better the village, but rather to survive the day. A pang of guilt shot through him at such a self-serving hope, but it was all he could do to not stop and weep in despair. Perhaps if he had been able to let people in, or fall in love, he would be in better fortune. Or maybe if he was less beautiful, more athletic, he wouldn’t need to worry about matters of the heart. Maybe he would have made enough of a difference to make him worth sheltering.
In his woes, Narcissus failed to pay attention to how deep into the forest he travelled, and soon he lost sight of the river. He had never been without it before- it felt like his pulse going flat. He wanted to turn around, find the river again, or maybe go back to his village and plead for his life. Instead, from the corner of his eye, past the thicket, he saw a shimmer in the distance, beaconing him forth. He climbed off of his mule, leading the creature forward by his reins as he hobbled towards the light, pushing branches and vines out of their way.
He came across an opening, where he found a pond. It was small, but looked deep, surrounded by rocks and closed yellow buds. The scene dripped with a sense of serenity that Narcissus hadn’t been allowed in so long, and it felt as though he could just rest here forever. Before he could take a seat on a stone, he looked across the pond, and sitting on a stone under a lemon tree, was a nymph. She had pale blue skin, and hair like long seaweed that hung damply over her body. She opened her eyes, the same clear gray as most water nymphs, looking like she was expecting him.
“Who are you?” He asked, words barely going past his lips.
“Who are you?” She repeated, in the same tone. She rose from her stone and began to walk towards him.
He cocked his head and paused, before answering, “My name is Narcissus. I’m the son of the river god Cephissus and the nymph Liriope. Who are you?”
Again, she repeated, “Who are you?” She walked even closer.
“I told you who I am,” he started to say, “but if you ask further, I’d say I’m a scholar and a loyal servant. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” She asked once more, approaching til she was mere feet away.
“I…” he tried to think of how to answer, “I am no one. I am a beautiful face and nothing more.”
He cast his eyes towards the ground, before feeling a wet hand place itself upon his shoulder. He looked up, startled to see the nymph inches away, staring at him with wide eyes, a mischievous smile on her face.
“More? I can make you more. More, more. Always more,” she said, half-singing. She turned on her heels and approached the pond.
Without being prompted, Narcissus followed. He kept his eyes on the nymph, but began to pour out his soul. He spoke his plea, his desire to become stronger. To be able to perform miracles, save his village from sure destruction. Deep down, he shuddered to think what may have happened while he was gone. Did the attack already start? What happened to his beloved temple? He wondered if his people, even if they cast him aside, were alive. He had only been gone for less than a day, but much can happen in mere moments. Less than a day ago, Narcissus had a home.
Listening to his story, the nymph finally spoke, “Hero? I can make you a hero. I just ask for one thing in return; your heart. Will you give me your heart, Hero?” She placed a hand on his chest and looked into his eyes, waiting for his response.
Narcissus had a long list of people he rejected, and normally he wouldn’t hesitate to add another one. That was before, though. When it seemed like he’d have the rest of his life to kneel at the altar. Now, he wasn’t even sure the temple remained. If it did, what good was a temple without the people to bring it to life? While he wouldn’t give his heart to any of them, he’d give his life for all of them.
“I will.”
The nymph led him to the water, and had him look down. For the first time, Narcissus saw his face. He saw his blue eyes, upturned like the boy who carried him to the field. He saw a scattering of freckles across his cheeks, reminiscent of the girl who sat at his feet twice a week, closing her eyes to focus on his words. He saw the straight nose, same as the hiereus that gave him his name. In every part of his face, he saw another staring back at him. In every part of his face, he found love.
Slowly, the image began to warp. His soft jaw became sharp, his slender body grew broad. His legs straightened out, muscles developing in the calf. He was thicker, taller. Resembling a god more than a man. Narcissus had only just met his face in the pond, but he felt a pain in his heart to see so much of him go away. It was needed, though. That face could save no one.
When the nymph, Echo, who had yet to announce her name, stepped forward, she scowled. While the man in the pond was truly a champion, where was she? His reflection stood alone, no one by his side. How could he give his heart, and yet she was not welcome in his ideal? She felt cheated, quickly realizing that Narcissus would only be hers in word alone. She wanted to ask him why. Was there someone else? Or, perhaps, seeing his expression as he gazed into the water, there could be no one. How could a mortal truly believe that he was above her affections? How could he use her like this?
In a short second, she called up grasses from the pond, wrapping them around Narcissus’s ankles before he had a chance to react. He tried to pull away, turning towards her, desperation in those beautiful eyes, plump lips in a panic, but she didn’t allow it to stop her. Just as quickly, she pulled the grass back, dragging him to the bottom with it. Echo watched silently as bubbles rose to the surface before sputtering to a stop.
Just as soon as the last bubble rose, she turned to walk away. Suddenly, she saw a change; the yellow flowers surrounding the pond began to bloom, exposing their orange centers. More began to follow, springing from the ground in a frenzy, blazing a trail through the forest and back to the village. Here, the flowers grew more aggressive, blooming in every available space, petals and stems tangling. Some grew to heights taller than trees, covering the village in yellow and orange.
Villagers looked about in disbelief, trapped in their places amongst the flowers. In the distance, they saw the camping invaders take notice. Voices yelling of fire boomed through the valley, and the enemies quickly retreated, not wishing to feel the heat. As soon as the last of them was far gone, the flowers began to retract, becoming much more bearable in size and quantity.
Only one building remained covered, and as villagers approached and took a knee, they knew the yellow flower had a new name.
Narcissus.
Mac Pomeroy is a Youngstown native; a recent graduate of YSU with a bachelor degree in English and a minor in creative writing. She lives with her cat, Nancy, and some very blue hair. After previously publishing with the Jambar, including winning numerous awards, this is Mac’s first published creative work.