Chapter 10: The Fourth Chamber

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite.

It is night and the white marble of the temple gleams in the light of a full moon. I have the feeling that I have returned here after a long journey and, simultaneously, the feeling that I have never left. There is something eternal about this place as though it has always been here, untouched by time. I feel there is something eternal about me too. The knowledge that I, Charley, am a woman from the twenty-first century suddenly seems unimportant, incidental.

I walk up the temple steps, the marble cool on my bare feet, and enter through the pillars. In the inner courtyard standing between two iron braziers is the Priestess. She wears once again her white robe and her long dark hair falls about her shoulders. I walk up to her.

'How are you?' she says.

'Scarred,' I replied. 'But at peace with my scars.'

'Do you want to continue?'

She gestured towards the fourth tapestry, the one which stood at the centre. It was the first tapestry I had seen, the one behind which the Priestess had appeared and disappeared on my very first visit here. It depicted Perseus holding up the head of Medusa.

'What's behind it?' I said.

'Aphrodite.'

I stared at her. My heart beat faster and I realised I was excited. A meeting with the goddess Herself? My excitement must have shown on my face because the Priestess looked away. I don't know why, but she seemed disappointed.

'You have passed through the first three chambers,' she said. 'And there are three chambers to go. It is customary for an audience to take place between a woman and the goddess at this stage.'

She walked over and stood by the Perseus tapestry with the air of 'come on, let's get this over with.' She didn't need to ask twice—I was across the courtyard in a flash. The Priestess pushed the tapestry aside and I entered the fourth chamber.

As soon as I was inside, I knew I was in the presence of magic. Instead of a chamber I stood in a garden, surrounded by a circle of narrow columns that seemed to grow up through the shiny green leaves of laurel bushes. Above my head, white clouds swept across a blue sky and the sun winked through the branches of orange and lemon trees. The air was full of the smells of orange blossom, jasmine, lavender and the tang of lemon and I could hear birdsong and the occasional squawk of a parakeet. In the centre of the garden stood a circular fountain and in the centre of the fountain washing herself in plumes of sparkling water was a goddess.

She was like a statue come to life, twice as tall as a human woman with skin of alabaster white which seemed to shine under the water. She filled a clay amphora with water and poured it over her breasts. She must know I'm here, I thought. I felt uncomfortable—partly through the display and partly through half-remembered tales of people struck blind when stumbling upon the sight of a goddess bathing. Didn't Aphrodite turn Medusa into a Gorgon with snakes for hair for such a crime?

'Medusa's sin was pride,' said a woman's voice. 'Not voyeurism.'

The voice seemed to come from within my mind, but the woman in the water was looking right at me with bright blue eyes. Standing tall in the centre of the fountain, she held out both arms like a woman being measured for a dress and the water fell and swirled, fell and swirled, creating a robe of shimmering fabric that hung from her curved and voluptuous body. Her hair plaited itself into a long ponytail that hung down her back and Aphrodite stepped down from the pedestal of the fountain, the water tamed, and stood before me. She was now exactly my height and her skin had taken on a pinkish hue, but still—I felt diminished and small in her presence.

'Hello Charley,' she said in a voice as rich as melted chocolate. She smiled. I could hardly breathe.

'You're beautiful,' I said.

'I know.'

Aphrodite touched my face with her hands. She leaned forwards and kissed me full on the lips, her tongue in my mouth. I had never wanted to kiss another woman before, but this was the most wonderful thing I had ever felt and I found myself hungrily kissing her back. I felt her fingertips pressing into my scalp and then her tongue twisted and grew, pushing past my own tongue and down into my throat. I tried to pull away, tried to scream, but she held me fast and I felt my mouth and throat filling up. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move and my hands flailed around trying to grab onto something.

Suddenly, I was thrown to the ground. On my hands and knees, I coughed and retched, taking in ragged breaths between sobs. My eyes were streaming with tears and I realised I was weeping.

I don't know how long I spent crying. I was expecting the Priestess to appear and tell me I'd screwed up again, but she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Aphrodite. I was still in the garden, but where the fountain had been there lay a path. It led away from the garden and into what looked like a grove of orange trees. I didn't like the idea of following the path, but I couldn't see any other way out, so I got to my feet and made my way along it.

Entering the grove of orange trees was like walking into a cathedral with branches forming the pillars and arches and the leaves turning the light green the way light through a stained glass window changes colour. Pink and white blossoms whirled around my head and I could hear the wind hissing about my ears. There were also shadows beyond the trees and I made sure to keep to the path—this was not a place where I wanted to get lost.

The path led to what looked like a dead end. The trees converged, creating a dense wall of roots and branches that coiled and intertwined. Yet as I approached, I heard the creak of wood and the branches twisted and cracked until they formed an opening large enough for me go through. The opening seemed like a world of light compared to the shade of the orange trees and I shaded my eyes as I stepped through. The wind seemed to hiss in protest and the moment I was on the other side, the branches coiled shut behind me.

I stood in a space that reminded me of the centre of a maze, an area of grass surrounded by twisted, impassable trees. There were statues of men dotted around, life-sized figures that stood upon the grass rather than upon a plinth. In the centre stood a man and a woman talking. The man wore a white tunic and had his back turned, but I recognised the woman despite her white robe. She saw me, smiled and raised her ungloved hand in a sort of silent salute—Hi there. The man turned to see what she was looking at.

It was John.

He saw me, his eyes and mouth opened in a weird way and he turned grey—his hair, his skin, even the tunic he wore. His eyes blanked out into stony greyness and within a few seconds I was looking at another statue. There was a hiss in my ear and I suddenly realised that it had not been the wind.

'No!'

My hands went to my head. As soon as I touched my hair I felt it coil and twist under my fingers. I cried out as my skin was nipped and when I looked at my hands, they were bleeding from several small bites. I stared at the woman who had taken the form of John's wife.

'What have you done?' I screamed.

'Me?' said the woman.

'Don't pretend you're not Aphrodite!'

'I'm not denying it,' said the woman as she walked up to me. 'But I didn't do any of this. You did.'

She indicated the statues. I looked around and realised that these were not anonymous figures from Greek legend—they were people I had known. Well, men I had known. No, wait. There was one female, a girl of around fifteen with short hair and shapely legs: Rachel Scott. I looked at the stone face and felt cold inside as I remembered.

Rachel Scott was in the same year of school, but in a different class. My only real contact with her was during sports when classes would compete against each other. She was a keen hockey player who liked to win, but if I beat her in a tackle, she had none of the bitchiness typical of most girls I knew. Rachel seemed to appreciate a good opponent and even off the playing fields I would receive a smile and a nod if ever I made eye contact with her. But she'd never talk to me, always keeping her distance.

Then one day, during a game, I took a shot and missed. I swung my hockey stick in a gesture of frustration and heard a cry as it hit someone. I turned and saw Rachel bent over with blood running out of her nose. I was mortified, dropping my stick and running to her, apologies pouring out of me. I walked with her off the field to the medical room where the nurse cleaned her up and gave her an ice pack to keep down the swelling. Rachel and I figured there was no point going back to the playing field, so we went to the changing rooms. I still felt guilty and as she unlaced her boots, I sat next to her and offered yet another apology.

'There's no need,' she said. 'It was an accident.'

'I just wish I could make it better,' I said.

Rachel looked at me. If I had paid attention to the look in her eyes things might have gone differently, but all I saw was the livid bruise across her nose and cheek that I had caused. I took her face in my hands with the intention of having a closer look. Rachel let out a sigh which, years later, I recognised as it came out of me when a man I had longed for finally touched me. I looked at her and smiled and she had leant forwards and kissed me.

Charley stopped writing. She was already crying as she forced herself to write, but the sobs now coming up were making that impossible and she couldn't fight the grief any longer. As the scene replayed in her mind, she bent double in the chair and wept.

The girl with short hair had kissed the girl with long hair. The girl with long hair had leapt back and screamed. Actually screamed. She stared down at the girl with short hair, then grabbed her bag and her clothes and had run out of the changing rooms. The girl with short hair was left alone, sitting on a bench with a bashed up face.

After a time, Charley stopped crying. She went to the bathroom and washed her face before getting back to her writing.

I stand before the statue of Rachel Scott. The eyes are blank—statue eyes—and I can't tell if they reproach me or not. I hear a slight hiss in my ear.

'She survived,' said a voice. 'But the mark you made on her is still visible.'

Aphrodite had changed form yet again. This time she was a tall, somewhat stern-looking woman with long blond hair arranged elegantly on her head. Despite her white robe, she put me in mind of a female lawyer.

'Why do you keep changing?' I said.

'I don't,' said the goddess. 'I am Love—eternal and changeless. But your perception of Love changes and so my form must change to match it.'

'You mean, you change to suit me?'

'Just the outward appearance, darling. If you choose to deal with me on a regular basis, you will find I am quite implacable.'

'I've noticed.'

Aphrodite laughed. It was a harsh, unpleasant sound that echoed off the statues and carried across the twisted trees.

'You stupid little girl,' she said. 'You haven't even begun. You've not reached thirty and just look at the wreckage you've already accumulated!' She waved an arm at the statues. 'Do you seriously hold me responsible for any of this? Did I make you scream in a fifteen year old girl's face for the crime of falling in love with you? Did I make you have sex with a young man for the sole purpose of scotching rumours that you were a lesbian? And when he busted you on it, did I make you spread stories about him having used you? I am Love and I keep changing form, my dear, because you have no fucking clue who I am!'

I looked around at the statues. Apart from Rachel Scott, they were all men, some of them young—boys, really. In my mind, each one of them was rated as emotionally crippled in one area or another—the guy who made me unhappy because he had no sense of humour was stood next to the guy who made me unhappy because he never took anything seriously—but seeing them all together, I became aware of what they all shared. There was a fragile beauty, a sense of uncertainty, of humanity, so unlike the heroic poses of statues as I was used to seeing them.

'They're not statues,' said Aphrodite, reading my thoughts. 'They're human beings who have been turned to stone. By you.'

I gasped. There was another woman made of stone, with long hair and the robe of a priestess.

'Why is she here?' I asked.

'Why not?'

'Because she's not real!'

Aphrodite seemed to catch her breath. She folded her arms and looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

'My, my,' she said. 'You do know how to wield the knife, don't you?'

'But I never met her before I came here.'

'I think you'd better go before I lose my temper.'

'Wait!'

Aphrodite clapped her hands together and everything went black. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I realised I was standing on a hill at night looking up at the temple of Aphrodite. As I stood and watched, the orange glow that came from within went out and there was only darkness beyond the white pillars.

My audience with the goddess was over.