The Gorgon Bride Read online

  the gorgon bride

  Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  A Tiny Fox Press Book

  © 2018 Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by U.S.A. copyright law. For information address: Tiny Fox Press, North Port, FL.

  This is a work of fiction: Names, places, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design art by Simon Eckert.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: TBD

  Print ISBN: 978-1-946501-09-7

  Tiny Fox Press and the book fox logo are all registered trademarks of Tiny Fox Press LLC

  Tiny Fox Press LLC

  North Port, FL

  For my wonderful wife who loves me despite my snakes

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  The Gorgon Bride

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  At 9:03 a.m., on a cold Tuesday morning, Alex would get his fifteen minutes of fame. In truth, his share would be closer to one minute; the orca would garner the other fourteen.

  Alex’s neighborhood of exquisite prairie homes and Jaguar drivers was a whale-free zone. It always had been, and everyone expected it always would be. Thus, when Alex sat down at his Steinway grand piano to practice Chopin’s first ballade at 8:30, he considered the day to be routine. But when his doorbell rang a minute before nine, things changed.

  Alex muttered a few curses and took to his feet. He opened the front door and felt a twinge to burn the heretic who had interrupted his worship service. Chopin, as far as Alex was concerned, was a god.

  At the foot of his doorstep jogged a man of impeccable physique who had his index and middle fingers pressed into his neck. Before Alex could raise a hand to shield his eyes from an unusually bright sun, the man thrust a fancy looking clipboard into his chest. “Delivery for Alexander Weiss,” the man said. “Sign here.”

  Alex hesitated. He took the board and examined the man. He wore a nondescript white uniform, sneakers, and ball cap that screamed athletic commercial. “Who exactly are you with?” Alex asked.

  “With?” A puzzled look crossed the deliveryman’s face, as if the question had never been posed to him before.

  “Yes, with. Who do you work for?” Alex looked at the man’s running shoes. The emblem on the sides looked vaguely familiar. “Nike?”

  “Gods, no.” The man rolled his eyes. “I hate doing jobs for Nike. Always going on about triumphing over adversity. Thankfully, Olympus doesn’t have me at Nike’s beck and call.”

  “Olympus, huh? Startup company?”

  The man grinned. It was mischievous and the type of grin a child might give after thieving a cookie or two. “No, we’ve been around for a while.”

  “Funny, never heard of you.”

  “We’re from overseas. Closed shop for a bit.” The deliveryman peered around Alex. “Say, you’ve got a lot of nice stuff inside.”

  Alex glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Really nice.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “Nicest on the block, by far. Care to part with any of it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  The smile on the man’s face grew. “Your neighbor said the same thing about her cookies. But I must say they are delicious. You should help yourself to some.”

  “Mrs. Nemur gave you a homemade cookie?”

  “Well, gave is such a strong word,” he said with a wink.

  “I don’t think I want to ask.” Alex looked at the form in his hand. There was a single line on it with his name written underneath. No date. No company logo. No tracking number. Only a line and his name. “Sorry. This is too odd for my likes. Let me see this supposed letter.”

  “It’s right here,” the man answered, producing a small, bound scroll from behind his back. “But if you want to read it, I must insist that you sign for it first.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “The owner of Athens, Greece.”

  Alex arched an eyebrow. A personal letter from the mayor of Athens could only mean one thing: a request for an appearance. He quickly signed the form, handed it back to the messenger, and took the scroll. It read:

  Athena Parthenos, patron of Athens, to Alexander Weiss, the esteemed protector of the arts and pursuer of scholarly wisdom. I have written to inform you that due to recent events, it would behoove you to have in your possession the standard fare of one obol. An American silver dollar should also suffice.

  Sorry about the whale.

  Alex looked up, thoroughly perplexed. He tried to place the name, Athena Parthenos, but failed to recall ever meeting such person. He became further confused when he realized that the messenger was gone and his Rolex was missing from his wrist. When Alex stepped onto his lawn for a better view of the street, a full-grown orca landed on his head.

  * * *

  I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Alex said, scratching his neatly trimmed beard. “Run that by me again?”

  “Most certainly, kind sir,” the man replied. He wore a red tunic and conical hat and stood upon a small skiff. He kept his right hand stretched out and leaned on a pole with his left. “If you wish to cross the Acheron, it will be one obol,” he said, slowly enunciating every syllable. “Otherwise, you’ll have to join the others alongside the bank.”

  The man’s words seeped into Alex’s mind. He looked about and noted that the shore stretched for a hundred yards to each side before being engulfed by a thick fog. Shadowy forms of people dotted the landscape. Some skipped stones. Others meandered. None interacted with one another.

  Alex turned back to the man. “And you are?”

  “Kharon,” the man replied. A smile flashed across his disfigured face. “Ferryman of the unseen.”

  “Are you telling me I’m dead?”

  “No. I’m telling you it’ll be one obol if you wish to cross.”

  Alex shook his head. “I can’t be dead. This is nonsense.”

  “The dead are those who have gone on.” Kharon said, motioning with his pole toward the waters. “You’r
e not dead, yet.”

  “So you’re telling me I’m alive?”

  Kharon sighed. “Look, this is simple. You can’t be squashed by a six-ton aquatic mammal and expect to live.”

  “So what the hell am I, then?”

  “Alexander Weiss, I presume,” Kharon said, shrugging. “Though I never asked your name, you do match the description given to me.”

  “I must be dreaming.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I’ll wake up soon or something.” Alex tried pinching himself.

  “You won’t.”

  “Yes,” Alex told himself. “I’ll wait a moment and this will all be over.”

  Kharon shrugged. “You’ll be here awhile.”

  * * *

  High above the waters of the Acheron, past the layers of clouds that separated the heavens and the earth, stood Olympus, dwelling place of the gods. Thick clouds and vapors obscured the city’s platinum gates from mortal eyes, and the guardians posted outside granted access only to the divine. Zeus had insisted on keeping the community exclusive to keep property values high.

  Inside the walls, dwellers and visitors were treated to a menagerie of delights. The finest of architecture, complete with marble colonnades and intricate friezes, shaped each building. Aromas of feasts and sounds of the lyre filled halls inlaid with ivory and gold. Tapestries and sculptures so life-like that no mortal could ever dream of reproducing them adorned rooms that were as countless as the stars.

  Yet, despite these ceaseless pleasures, one god felt discontent with the current state of affairs. Ares, God of War, sat naked on a small balcony, scowling. His army was scattered. His enemy approached. All he had at his disposal were a few footmen, one hero, and a king.

  “The knight should be strong,” Ares said, breaking the long silence and folding his enormous arms over an equally muscular chest. “He is weak, and he should not be. Heroes are worth more than a mere. . .a mere. . .what did you say his worth was?”

  “About three pawns,” Athena replied before taking a sip of nectar from a silver goblet. She sat opposite him with her legs crossed and was dressed in white robes. In her lap rested an open biography about the United States Marine Corps general and legend, Chesty Puller.

  “Three pawns! I would have gladly traded legions of men for the likes of Hector or Achilles! Either of them would cleave your pathetic army with a single hand.”

  “The knight is as strong as the bishop.”

  “He’s as weak as the priest!”

  Athena, enjoying her brother’s frustration, drew back the corners of her mouth before returning to her reading. “Did you know Chesty Puller killed a thousand and a half Japanese warriors and only lost seventy of his own?”

  For the first time in days, the God of War looked up from the marble chessboard. “Did he? Now that is a man that knows how to win a battle. Not like this pathetic king I must protect—a king that can only move one little square at a time. Would Odysseus have been so frail? My forces are not what they should be.”

  “We started with the same pieces. It was a fair contest. One that you suggested, I might add.”

  “I said I longed for combat,” he replied. “Not some coward’s game that you picked out. Where is the bloodbath you promised? What glory is gained here? I should be out in the fields of battle!”

  “Might want to catch up on current events before you do,” Athena said. “Humans have been busy the past couple thousand years.”

  “Let me guess, you want me to read a few things.”

  Athena nodded. “Yes. They’re called books, and they’re quite informative.”

  “Bah,” Ares said, shooing at her with a meaty hand. “They still kill each other when they go to war, yes?”

  “Very efficiently.”

  “Good. That’s all I need to know.” Ares looked at the board and snorted. “What a pitiful field. No ability to flank or use the high ground. What general fights his opponent on equal footing?”

  “Are you going to move or not? I’d like to have this done while we’re still young.” Athena put her book down and straightened. Though she had picked the game and had looked forward to it, her brother’s complaints were taking a toll. “And don’t think you can get out of our wager. Loser is the winner’s servant for a day.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he snapped. “You’ll be sharpening my sword and spear soon enough.”

  “Athena!” bellowed a deep voice from below. “Where is she hiding?”

  Ares looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Sounds like Poseidon found out about the whale.”

  “Do you think he’s mad?” she asked, her question born from idle curiosity, not worry or fear.

  “No more so than when you cursed Medusa.”

  A flying trident impaled the column next to the goddess’s head, and Athena gave it a brief glance before returning to her book. She’d seen the weapon coming and knew it would miss her by at least two inches, if not three. “Do you feel better, Uncle?” she said as Poseidon stormed onto the balcony, his white hair and beard blowing as if caught in the fury of a raging sea.

  “I shall have you fed to Cerberus, torn limb from limb,” he said, stopping but two feet from her.

  Athena brushed her now wind-tossed hair back over her shoulder and straightened her robes. “Really, Uncle,” she said. “There’s no need for all the theatrics.”

  “Don’t you dare brush me off. You will respect your elders,” The Lord of the Sea said, knitting his weathered brow. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “Are you referring to Stheno? I’ll have you know she said I was fat, so I turned her into a whale,” she said, not concerned by her uncle’s wrath. With Zeus, ruler of Olympus, as her father, she knew most threats against her would never be enforced. Dad would see to that. “Look, I know you’re upset, but you have to admit, she looks much better than she did before.”

  “You said the same thing about her sister,” Poseidon replied. He clenched the shaft of his trident and yanked the weapon free.

  “Oh, come now,” Athena said with a dismissing wave of her hand. “Everyone agreed that Medusa needed her head chopped off. What I did to Stheno isn’t nearly the same thing.”

  “Then you can explain that to her father,” Poseidon replied. “He’s blaming me for this mess.”

  “The Old Man overreacts to everything.”

  “You’ve humiliated his family yet again, young lady. He has every right to be upset.”

  Athena smiled as she ran a quick mental calculation of how hard a whale should hit the ground. “I’d think he’d be proud. After all, she made quite the impression when she landed.”

  Poseidon’s face hardened, and his blue eyes shot her a glare that would have dropped a Titan. “Your puns do not amuse me.”

  Athena sat back and kept her smile. “You’d find this much more entertaining if you saw the look on her face when I launched her into the air. So what happened to her after she hit the ground that got The Old Man so riled up? She’s immortal. It’s not like I killed her.”

  “The humans put her into an amusement park where she jumps through hoops for snacks of halibut. People are coming from across the world to see her perform.”

  “Well, I think that’s probably better than letting her turn people into stone, don’t you?”

  Poseidon stepped forward and towered over her. “Do not test me, young lady,” he growled. “Fix this.”

  Athena looked at the game board and then back to her uncle, who hadn’t changed his expression. A chill ran up her spine, one that she hadn’t experienced in an eon. Something told her that her uncle wasn’t worried about what Zeus would say or do in her defense. “I suppose I could see what can be done to calm The Old Man down,” she said, capitulating only as much as she felt was needed to placate Poseidon. “But you ought to tell him to teach his daughters some manners.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” he replied. He level
ed his trident at her and said, “Tell him yourself.”

  “It’s your move,” Ares interjected. His face beamed, and he leaned back in his chair. “Come. Let us do battle.”

  “Fine,” Athena said, still looking at her uncle. “I’ll tell him myself.” She then glanced at the game board before picking up her queen and moving it three spaces. “Checkmate.”

  * * *

  Alex, blazing a new path through the ever-thick fog, learned that whichever way he went, he always returned to Kharon and his skiff. Even following the shoreline in either direction yielded the same result. Alex, having reached the ferryman for the seventh time, dubbed himself crazy.

  “What the hell kind of sick dream is this?” Alex said, squaring off with Kharon.

  “This is no dream. This is the start of the Underworld,” Kharon replied. He extended his right hand yet again. “One obol, if you please.”

  “God,” he yelled, throwing up his arms. “Don’t you say anything else? Is it that hard to come up with some decent conversation?”

  “The weather here never changes, and I’m not paid to chat.”

  “You get paid to annoy people?”

  Kharon pointed to the waters. “No, I get paid to ferry. We’ve been over this before. If you aren’t going to pay, you’re going to have to step aside and join the others.”

  “Maybe I’ll stand here,” Alex said, refusing to be dismissed. “I’m sick of walking around in circles. Maybe I’ll even commandeer your boat. What do you think about that?”

  “I think you’d be a fool to try,” Kharon said. “You’re no hero. You’re simply a man on his way to the afterlife.”

  Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not dead.”

  “Yet,” tacked on Kharon.

  “I’m not even not alive!” Alex made sure his double negative worked as he intended before continuing. “You’re simply some made-up piece of my psyche insistent on keeping me stuck in this dream.”