The Unmanned

Circe was a sorceress and lived by herself but not quite alone on an island that belonged only to her - an island on which men were neither wanted nor particularly welcome. She had an unearthly beauty that could have warmed a man's heart if only she had a heart of her own. Different parts of the soul cluster about their home in the body. Love sprouts up in the middle of the chest. Desire burns at the base of the spine. And there's a kind of wisdom that comes to rest in the gut of a man. But a sorcerer's power springs from their intense hatred and its center in the body is a little region just behind the eyes. Sometimes their hatred is fed by hubris or envy or just by plain bile. But it must always be fed and like a strong lamp the hate shines out from their eyes. So sorcerers often have a way of looking at people indirectly that's given them a reputation for slyness and arrogance. Circe was even more skilled than most. She had an unsettling way of keeping her face to herself and it could drive a man mad just trying to catch a glimpse. But when she finally relented and you did, the chances were good you wouldn't be there to do it twice. Bones littered her island. Time bleached them white and yellowed them with age.

Circe had men she called lovers but they all came to a bad end, an end that arrived long before they died. They wandered about her island in the shape of what they had been but were no longer and that was the art of sorcery for which Circe was most well known. Dimly her former lovers remembered the past with hate and they lived together in a mockery of what might be called human company. They had a way of being together but alone and they reminded me of crows as they flocked from one end of the island to another. A boisterous disorder always accompanied them and they made loud noises to each other in a way that bordered on speech but wasn't. All their time was spent combing the beach and stealing from one another. Shiny bits of flotsam passed through their pockets like a currency. The island was picked clean. And on this rocky speck of land they grew hard and crooked. As time passed they came to resemble Circe herself. The older ones quarrelled themselves to an early death. They lived. They died. Circe was indifferent. They no longer had anything she wanted. For Circe was an avid collector who noticed nothing in this world but her own singular passion: all the parts of the soul that make a man manly. Manhood has a taste like cinnamon or nutmeg. It smells like hot steel and is powerful enough to make your hands shake and tremble. Most women have a passion for it but few could gather it up and bottle it as she could. What was left behind roamed her island unhappily, more than beasts but less than what they had been.

Like the others I arrived on her island through a stroke of misfortune. My ship came to a bad end passing through the reefs just offshore. The wind drove us and when I heard the moaning of our keel I knew it was far too late for heroic actions. I threw myself into the sea on half a prayer and a piece of wood. I remember a storm and the taste of salt on my lips but I woke the next morning on a sandy beach soaked to the bone. Sand seemed to fill every crevice of body and clothes. Timbers of the ship lined the shore. I remember the sun was hot and I longed to slake my thirst. A woman walked the shore and I could hear her singing a sad tune. Circe came and stood above me. She was dressed all in white and her feet were bare. One hand played with her long black hair and the other was hidden behind her body. I tried to stand but she lifted a foot and stepped on my back like a robin securing a worm. She kneeled on the beach and came closer to eye level with me. But between her face and mine was a sea of black curly hair. She lifted a glass of sweet fresh water to my lips and I was in heaven. I only had a single sip before she took it away. I tried to say the word "reefs" because I wanted to explain what had happened. My voice was hoarse and I barely recognized it.

Circe shushed me and from the tone she took I knew she had heard it all before. Yet she had never laid eyes on a ship like mine. I would have time to explain all that later. Circe brushed the sand from my face. With a wet cloth she wiped the caked salt from the corner of my lips as I stared at the ground. She put her arm under mine and lifted me up. Her grip was like a wire and I was amazed by her strength. Then without looking at me she told me to follow her home where I could wash and take a meal. Mumbling thanks I did so.

Circe lived in a decrepit stone house with a sunken earth floor. The door was small and narrow. Herbs hung so thickly from the rafters that I had to stoop over while moving about in her house. Straw was scattered on the floor to cover odd stains and a musty smell lingered in the air. It seemed somehow familiar like the aroma of unwashed sailors too long at sea or the atmosphere of an infirmary where the smells of medicine and sick men come together. But underneath it all was a gamey animal odor that raised goose bumps on my bare skin. At the far end of the house was a massive hearth and two doors stood on each of the neighboring walls. Although the day was a bright one her home had no windows and was dark except for the hearthlight. She showed me to my room.

This whole time Circe had said perhaps ten words to me. Her voice was low and harsh. It had a sharp edge that never seemed directly aimed at the people she spoke to. But it was disarming in its way. She used so few words that at times it seemed miraculous that she could make her meaning so clear. At times it seemed we were communicating in some fashion more pure than ordinary speech. Being spare of words is a common trait among island folk and perhaps she had been here so long that she had gotten uncommonly good at it. I enterred the room she had given me. It was lit by a sliver of light from the hearth and its simple furnishings included a bed, a chest, and a night stand with a wash basin on it. Circe had let me know that the chest held clothes that might fit me. I took a small cloth from the night stand to wash myself. Afterwards I opened the chest. It held all manner of clothes, many quite old. I wondered how many men had washed up on these shores. Some of the clothes were from places familiar to me but others were a puzzle. I took a clean set of underclothes, a linen shirt, and a loosely fitting pair of trousers. Above the night stand was a small mirror. A small attack of vanity made me look there.

Circe was standing in the door behind me and my eyes latched onto that pale alabaster face. My eyes caught her chin and moved up her face in slow motion. Her lips were curved tight and I couldn't tell if she smiled or frowned. Her nose was long and acquiline. Her nostrils flared and then I fell into her eyes. They were unnaturally wide like she was watching something in extreme horror. The white of her eyes was even paler than her skin. Her irises were black but a fire burned there that made them seem violet. Long after I looked away her eyes were burned like an afterimage into every sight that came before me.