Chapter 2

Emjay

Forty years ago

"Be careful whom you trust. Even those you love carry the evil in their hearts necessary to betray you." ~Emjay

"Momma! Momma!" I run screaming with excitement into our tent. The tattered flaps rustle in the cool evening breeze.

Inside, the dim light from a flickering oil lamp casts shadows on the canvas walls, illuminating the sparse furnishings—a few woven mats, a low wooden table, and a shelf lined with worn-out pots and pans.

"What are you going on about, child? Stop running. You know Poppa will tie you to the whipping post if he sees you running."

I freeze. My heart pounds as I catch my breath. The air smells of earth and smoke. "The Fates have blessed me." My heart overflows with joy, and I rub my hands together. Memories of whispered tales around the campfire from the older women, when the men weren't listening, flood my mind—stories of ancient gods and mystical gifts bestowed upon the chosen few. Could it be that I am one of them?

"Nonsense, child. The Fates abandoned us long ago." She reminds me of words we've been told our whole lives, words that echo in my mind, casting a darkness over my excitement. Her face, lined with worry and fatigue, reflects the hardships we've endured under Poppa's cruel hand.

"No, Momma. I mean it. I held Aphrodite's newborn daughter, and I heard it. I've sent out a call to my mate. I can still hear the ticking. He's on his way to find me. Bless the Fates. Praise Helios."

My heart swells with desire, imagining a future free from Poppa's tyranny—a life where I am cherished and loved.

Momma drops the dish she dried with a towel. It shatters on the floor. The sound echoes like thunder. She doesn't stop to clean it up. Anger like I've never seen behind her look makes my heart jump. What could make her so angry? Is it fear of Poppa's wrath or something deeper?

I'm used to Poppa's rage. He takes his fury out on all his girls, including Momma. We've all spent nights tied to his whipping pole outside after a good beating. Momma more than us.

She grabs me by the wrist without bothering to clean up the mess that will earn her Poppa's wrath. She drags me out the door. My feet stumble to keep up with her. The labyrinth exit looms ahead like a twisting serpent.

"Momma, you're hurting me."

"Shut up. Before I tie you to the pole and whip you myself." Her bitter tone is devoid of the usual warmth. We navigate the dark, winding corridors of the labyrinth, and my mind races with questions. What has driven her to this? What's the matter with Momma? I thought she'd be happy for me. Happy that the Fates chose me.

She takes me deep into the heart of the labyrinth, away from our homes.

Tears threaten to overtake me, but my fear of a whipping keeps them at bay.

I don't know where she's taking me. I didn't know I could fear something more intensely than the beatings.

A sour smell so vile that it triggers my gag reflexes, hits me as we turn the corner into a dark cave.

If not for the toxic odor or the sobs coming from the female somewhere in the darkness, I wouldn't have known we weren't alone.

I focus my heifer sight, trying to make out what manner of creature stands before me.

The woman, once young and beautiful, is now a ghost of her former self—skin and bones from years of imprisonment. Her orbs are hollow and haunted.

Momma tosses me to the ground. "Make it stop," she hisses at the female.

The woman's gaze flickers with pity and curiosity. Her skeletal frame trembles as she rises to her feet.

"Make what stop?" The words are a rasping whisper, filled with years of suffering and sorrow.

"Her mating call. Make it stop before her father kills us both."

My heart stops. She can't. Can she? Why would Poppa kill us? It's a gift from the Fates. My gift.

My tongue froze from the terror and shock of what Momma wants.

"What will you sacrifice to make this happen?"

Sacrifice? Is the woman a witch? None other than a witch requires a sacrifice. Why do we have a witch imprisoned in our labyrinth? Did she enter and lose her way, or did we bring her here?

"My fertility," Momma offers.

I gasp.

Poppa will beat her to death when he realizes she can no longer bear his children. The chance to give him a son would be lost.

The witch chants something in a language I've never heard. She doesn't have to announce her success. My screams reverberate off the walls when he's ripped from my soul.

The pain of having my arm torn off would be more bearable than the agony of my soul, which had already begun tying itself around my bull, being shredded into pieces.

Will he believe I died? He'll forget me. It will be as if I never existed to him.