Euryanassa
Each wave pursues its forebear without pause. She suspects pausing is the great solecism of humankind. Nature cascades, improvises, loves the forward movement. Nature is an unstoppable guarantee of balance.
Her life, and all those other lives around her, lies in pauses, gains significance from intrigues, second thoughts, and guesswork.
What could she have said to her son? What word could have outlasted his eventual doubt? Had they been as simple as the sea, presence would have sufficed.
Broteas
Through the coils of alluring Artemis, he abandons himself to the hunt. The wooden limb that has flourished into the shape of his fingers does not deceive him. It has been prelude to the few feasts open to one born misshapen. But the gods have not consented for him to find a windless twilight. He has seen in the hind’s eye a memento of his vileness.
Thus he retreats to the mountains, far from the sight of emerald. And he toils. The weight of the stones further deforms his back; the sharpness bathes his arms and chest in red. That which rises before him seems to justify the humiliations, the shame of being brought forth.
As the flame rids him of his poor casing, he has a beatific vision—he becomes a goddess.
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