SHORT STORIES

              

      Apollo + Hyacinthus

Sunlight slips through the spearhead leaves of a great twisting olive tree. Its trunk knotted and fat with centuries of knowledge. The wind gently shakes a whispering song from the old branches and an olive falls. In the dappled grass below, two tangled forms lie, limbs intwined like the tendrils of grape vines. The golden light of the afternoon turns their bodies to brass, sweat glittering like morning dew. Their breaths combine, sweet with the figs they had shared earlier, hands and chins sticky from roaming kisses. The heat of the day had made their bodies melt together, to move would be to peal legs apart, so to stay stuck was better.
Apollo pressed his bowed lips to Hyacinthus's again for the hundredth time. The mortals mouth was bruised and puffy but his opened under the gods' and escaping moans showed this did not bother him. Apollo's back curved like a lyre to be closer still to this boy. His ancient heart swelled in his chest with love, like the breath before song.

The grass around their devoted bodies leaned in to to hear the whispers of passion. The breeze brushed against them like intruding hands, for in fact that is what it was. Zephyrus, god of the west wind watched from above at this saccharine scene. He was clenched and curled with jealousy, bristling betrayal burned and bleached him. Spiteful and spitting, he rushed, invisible, toward the eye of his obsession, dear Hyacinthus, pressing his blustering body against the youth's, aching at the absence of affection. But to hypnotised Hyacinthus, this gesture went unnoticed. His eyes were heavy-lidded with love, hands full of sun-bright Apollon.

When the sun's light was beginning to soak the land in pink and orange, the two lovers rolled apart, their bellies slick with fervent fluid and their cheeks flushed with blooming poppies. Hyacinthus slid his hand into the Gods and Apollo thought of how perfectly Prometheus had shaped them to fit together, made with and to love.

A stream sparkled and sang a bubbling song through a thick forest, catching the last rays of light between the long shadows of the trees. The lovers sank their feet into the cool, crystal waters before arms wrapped round each other and with open laughing mouths they crashed in together. Under the water, their bodies writhed in a wrestle. Silver bubbles blossomed and broke around them. They burst through the skin of the water and gasped. Apollo smiled at Hyacinths pink face, blushing from too long under the water.
To dry off in the dying light, the chased each other through the trees. Apollo ran slower to let his darling win, for what mortal could beat a god? In the rush of the game, the archer god spun from the sunlight a discus. Weaving it into creation and presenting it to Hyacinthus. The mortal clapped his hands in delight, enamoured by this small act of magic.

"Throw it, I bet you I can catch it" He said, lips wide in an unthinking smile.

Apollo obeyed and flung the discs far. In this moment, time seemed to stretch and expand. Apollos eyes flicked away from the mortal and onto the looming face of a watcher. Eyes as dark as storm clouds stared back. The rustling form of Zephyrus stood just beyond the tree-line. His hair waved as if underwater in the still clearing, his tunic gently floating around him. His lips pursed together and, in meditated insanity, a great gust galloped through the glade. Apollos eyes darted back to Hyacinthus and saw with lurching horror the discus' course change as fast as the hunted fawn. He saw the youths arm stretch up in vain to catch it and Apollo shut his eyes and heard the dull thud.

Face wet with tears and hands soaked in blood, the god held his mortal. The blow had cracked his temple like an eggshell, so fragile, his skin had broken and the blood had burst out, fountain like, it seemed to never stop. Even with all his power, all his medicine, Apollo knew his love was dead. Peat-pool eyes had slid out of focus and were unseeing. Apollos lips were stained red as he kissed his lover over and over, wailing, throat caught and thick with grief. The prints of his coloured lips covered Hyacinths cheeks and brow in a pattern of ruby flowers, unfurling buds and blossoming petals, opening like a fast spring.

Hyacinthus was cold now in the gods arms. The night had covered and slid away and now the cold blue light of the dawn seeped through. The blood had dried on Apollos lips and his hands lay pressed to Hyacinthus' breast. The pale form began to sink into the ground. The dewy grass, like glittering sweat, covered Hyacinthus. All that was left was the spilled blood and Apollos red hands. He leant down and pressed his lips to the earth and whispered words into the soil. As he drew away a shoot began to dance slowly upward, reaching and opening into a flower.
Its sweet scent like that of fig-laced kisses. Apollo watched as the flower formed and his tears dropped to join the sparkling dew.