"Hey, mom, did my new coffee mug come in the mail?"
I was sitting at my parent's rickety kitchen table eating a large bowl of Cheetos, mindlessly scrolling through my one of my various social media feeds. It was December sixteenth, which marked a very important day for me. The first day of winter break after a long first semester at college. And, to celebrate, I had ordered a ivory colored coffee mug with the words "I Am The Unstoppable Force AND the Immovable Object" printed on the side in typewriter font. Probably a waste of the little money I had. It was a satisfying waste.
"Nope," my mother chirped, tossing a stack of envelopes onto the table as she walked in, "but there's a letter for you."
I set my phone down and snatched up the stack, flipping through the letters. I was due for a check from Young Non-Fiction Writers of the East Coast any day now. I considered it another achievement of mine they had paid for the publishing rights to my essay about the cultural differences between France and the United States. It was only two hundred dollars, but it helped justify the mug.
Sure enough, I found an piece of mail addressed;
Miss Wren Taylor
905 Malcolm Street
Hartesville, North Carolina 27007
It was, however, certainly not a check. The envelope was a near perfect square, quite large, and had no return address. On the back was a heavy purple seal in what looked like actual wax.
"What is it?" my mother asked, wiping the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses on the hem of her old cotton shirt. The frizz halo around her tawny corkscrew hair growing larger and larger over the pot of steaming pasta she was boiling.
"Dunno," I replied, breaking the seal carefully and sliding the contents out onto the scratched and stained table. My mother was food blogger and my younger sister was into woodworking. They were both bad at remembering cutting boards were a thing.
A several of heavy stationary fell out. I glimpsed what was either computer-printed cursive or someone with the meticulous handwriting of a third grade teacher.
Miss Taylor,
It is our honor to inform you that The All-Seeing Eye of Apollo, Her Grace Pythia, has cast your name before the Olympic Court as one of the Guardians of this world. Your heritage position will be granted December 23rd at the Winter Equinox by Her Grace Pythia in front of the full Court, televised for the viewing of the Otherworld, along with any other uncrowned Guardians. We understand taking on a responsibility of such universal and supernatural importance is daunting and possibly unexpected. Therefore, we are sending a representative for the Court to your current residence to explain, prepare, and accompany you to the Uneden (formerly Mount Olympus, formerly Asgard, formerly the Itrimis, etc etc). After arriving, you will remain and participate in festivities until the Equinox.
Enclosed are a list of instructions. All instructions are mandatory. We have informed your next of kin, of Guardian bloodline, of their responsibility as your new non-Court Guardian and how to assist you in this transition.
Also enclosed is a headpiece of dwarf-gold. It is to be worn until your official crowning. Consider it a gift of good-will.
The Olympic Court
Slipped between the pieces of parchment was a dark gold ring just large enough to slip over the poof of my frizzy black curls and circle my forehead like a 60's headband. It was thinner than a pencil and so light I couldn't feel it's physical weight. I laughed. Whatever this was, most likely a joke or theme party my friends (most likely Deirdre) had thrown together, it was going to be hilarious.
The smell of what my mom had previously informed me was Italian tomato-zucchini puree wafted from one of the old copper pots on the stove. Mom had what looked like a bit of it in her hair.
"What's that on your head?" she asked, barely looking up from was was presumably her laptop on the kitchen island, hidden behind oil bottles, spice shakers, and mason jars.
"Sort of tiara, I think —" I said, adjusting it's resting position on my mountain of hair.
Crash. She looked up, her jaw hanging slack in shock. Her hand was still hovering over the now-shattered small glass jar of minced garlic. It was oozing out all over the floor - but Mom just stared at my head like a particularly large rat had built a nest there.
She walked over to the table slowly, lifting her maxi skirt and stepping over the broken pieces of glass and splattered garlic. She straightened her face and sat down next to me, picking up my letter off the table.
She read it. And then she read it again. Both times, expressionless, other than her barely moving lips as her eyes seemed to glaze over the words. She read it a third time. Her hands began to tremble. She blinked repeatedly, as if it was a trick of the light. Then, slowly, she folded up the letter and set it down on the table in front of me - biting her lip. Her were also trembling.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "I'm sorry - I didn't think this would happen. I had no idea."
"Mom." I chuckled, "what are you going on about?"
"Wren - I think its time you know what happened to your Grandmother."
"I'm pretty sure," I said cautiously, since my mother didn't like to talk about her mother,
"Grandma Edie is still in Florida getting high with her husband and using money from her 'Texas Hold 'Em days'."
Mom smiled weakly.
"No," she took my hand, grasping it tightly. He hands were still damp from pasta water, her bracelets were scratching more camouflaged marks into the scratch-jungle table,
"I meant your dad's mom."
"Mom, first of all, I'm pretty sure this is another one of Deirdre's attempts at a costume party. Second, Grandma Annabelle is a few hours away probably sitting in her musty old living room playing the harp - as always."
Mom looked nervous, "Maybe I should call your dad, have him talk to you…"
"No," my voice lost all its casual tone, "we are not calling Dad under any circumstances. Maybe we should clean up that garlic —"
"The garlic can wait. Wren, this isn't a party or a joke. This - my God - this is happening. To me. To my child. This is…a real thing."
"Is it like an invite to one of Grandma Edie's sex festival things?"
"I wish."
Now I knew something bad was going on.
"I'll be right back," she continued, getting up and moving to our china cabinet. She rummaged through the bottom drawer for a minute before she came back with a small glossy black harmonica.
"Hey, its your old harmonica," I said, smiling. It had been a gift from Grandma Annabelle on Mom and Dad's wedding day. It was long, heavy, and had the words Love is Patient, Love is Kind embossed on the side is what I was told was real silver. I used to try to play at as a kid when my parents weren't looking. I could never manage to get it to make noise, though, I just got a bunch of spit in it.
Mom took a deep breathe and then blew into the harmonica softy and slowly, her lips hovering right over the metal but not quite touching it. It was a simple, precise note - low and somehow both smooth and reverberating. It conjured a picture in my mind of a campfire, with long grass blowing in the wind and starlight through overbearing oak trees that reached toward the heavens - their roots running deep into the earth. I found this soothing, despite the fact I'd never cared for camping or harmonica music.
I glimpsed something moving. It was our house plant sitting in the middle of the table. Slowly, the small flower buds unfolded and bloomed right before my eyes. Three, than four, than ten, until the entire little previously sickly bush-like plant was blossoming in a slow ripple as the leaves turned a stronger, more vibrant green and the its tendrils began to grow out of the pot and encircle it. It was like watching a biology video in fast-forward.
"What the holy hell," I spat. My mom stopped playing and the plant stopped moving. She set the harmonica down on the table. I picked it up like it was a beautiful spider that might bite me.
"It only works for me," she said, fidgeting with her hands, "your Grandma Annabelle gave it to me as a present while I was engaged to your father. I had been complaining about my herb gardens always dying. She gave me this - and then explained to me who she was and why it worked."
"Advanced music garden science," I sputtered, "or is it some voodoo stuff you got into?"
Mom's face was stern for a moment, "I'm a crunchy food hippie, Wren, not a heathen. No matter what anyone thinks."
"Then how do you explain this! I'm dreaming, I'm totally hallucinating. I must be tripping on something — "
"You better not be, young lady. You're no heathen, either, not in my house."
"Then what happened to my devotedly Protestant Christian mother who says witchcraft is from the devil? Because I can't find her and — "
"There is a difference," she said slowly, "between magic and witchcraft and magic."
"What even, mom, I mean —" I shook the harmonica at her.
"Wren, let me explain," she said, taking the instrument form me and collapsing into her chair. I nodded and bit my tongue.
"Your grandmother Annabelle is a Guardian. She looks after the music of the world. There are different…people…with these…powers. They have been worshipped as gods throughout the ages of earth. The Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, almost all primitive or polytheistic religions recognize them. It is their job to rule and protect earth, to guard it's resources, and create good things. They have their own realms and their own governments. The bleed, they can be killed, they make mistakes - large, earth shattering mistakes. They are not gods, not in my book, but its often how they refer to themselves. The Olympians are Court that governs them. When one Guardian dies often years can go before their position is filled. There's almost never a full court at once, its an endless cycle, and there's a universe of smaller guardians…flitting in and out. Working, dying, being replaced. The way she it explained it to me…I don't quite understand…the Universe picks a person, sometime a descendant of another Guardian or often a regular everyday person…as the next Guardian in that specific position. Some even say people are born for those very roles. Their duties are almost always tied to ambitions and passions woven into their souls. Your grandmother being a prime example."
"She plays the harp."
"Yes. The Egyptian music goddess was named Ihy. The Greeks was named Euterpe. They were often children or servants of a Court member - such as Hathor or Apollo. These people often refer to their Guardian positions by the name of their Greek forebearers. It's…weird."
"This whole thing is weird and a joke. Tell me its a joke, mom."
"No, but it's more interesting than a theme party."
"I happen to like Deirdre's theme parties."
"The last time it was Zoo themed and she made everyone come dressed as animals and greet each other with corresponding noises."
"And this is somehow more normal?"
"I don't know. I don't understand it."
"Are this roles always gender specific?"
"Yes, no wait no, no I don't think so. It never gets talked about. Your father never explained it to me. I don't think he really believed his own mother, thought she was crazy…"
"I'm starting to think your crazy."
Mom's eyes flashed. She gripped the harmonica tightly.
"Maybe I'll just have Grandma Annabelle…"
"No, it's fine, its fine. So you're telling me I've been discovered as a Guardian of the Galaxy. Great. I get to wear a Lord of the Rings tiara and possible screw up the world."
"Yep," Mom said, nervousness lacing around the single syllable, "you get to be Chris Pratt."
I had never been so terrified of being like Chris Pratt.
"If this is true…this is…amazing."
Mom looked down at the harmonica in her hands. The room was beginning to reek of garlic.
"It's going to destroy your whole life," she said, her voice wavering. The age lines feathering out around her eyes scrunched together as she presumable held back tears. We had the same hooded hazel-brown eyes. The same wobbly big lips, narrow, hollow-cheeked face, and large forehead.
"Is that what happened with Dad?" I asked, my voice elevating, "did he leave you because he had to go be the God of Jackasses or something?"
"No," my mom smiled weakly, "regrettably I fell victim to normal mortal jackassery. This is going to completely change everything. I…I don't know what to do."
The genuine fear in my mother's voice seemed to turn a lock in my mind, letting me believe everything she had been telling me up until this point. I was simultaneously very scared, very angry, and strongly, the smallest bit curious and excited.
"It's going to be okay, mom." I took her hand. She squeezed back.
"I know."
Hey, guys! Name's Em. I'm writing this whenever I need to take a break from writing my novel. Just trying to have fun while still exercising my writing muscle.
I can't wait to explore the rest of this world and introduce some whimsical characters. I'm a fan of twists-on-the-norm - so if you think this story might be exercising some tropes (absent dad, hippie mom, angsty young adult heroine) not only are you right but you're in for some fun when I show you what's a little bit different about this story, per say. I'm especially looking forward to showing you a certain goddess/guardian in the next few chapters. Already itching to write it. But I had to lay down a basic foundation first, so yay for the introductory chapter. Always the hardest to write. I'll be adding layers later, man, *Shrek voice* LAYERS.
I post shortish updates fast and regularly, and leave unusually long Author's notes (as I'm sure you've noticed - although the rest probably won't be nearly this long). Hmu with a review if something doesn't make sense. I have a very intuitive noodle-y spastic type thought process. So sometimes it's intentional plot suspense stuff and other times I honestly forget to include relevant information because it never makes it from my head to paper. It's my Achilles heel.
Oh, if anyone's wondering - I kind of picture Wren's appearance the same as Alex from LOST.
Love strong, guys xoxo