Jupiter’s Wife

Jupiter’s Wife

1. Gallancy

It was all a delusion, she knows now. The charm, the mask he wears is melting down, the golden one. How it shines through the cosmos: The Earth, the seas and the Underworld! She still remembers the gleefulness on her face, the day he visited her father for her hand in marriage. It is as vivid in her memory as from a painted glass; clearer even, than these dead ones her window to the world is ornamented with, probably to compensate for her colourless life, his only gift to her.


He, and his charm, they knocked her father’s gates. The guards knew by a single look that he was someone significant and so, without a moment of doubt, they opened the castle gates. The fortification was flooded in by soldiers in golden armours, on well fed and trained horses. She knew the promise kept. “How could he not! He’s mine and I, his...” she whispered to herself before getting lost in her thoughts, the castles she was building, alas, of glass. The winter winds were hitting her in face as her pitch-black silk waved along. And she too lost in him, to be affected by the sharpness the breeze possessed, as he neared the palace, called The Gallancy. And so was she, named after The Gallant Widow of Athens, a warrior born of eve, her great-great-great-grandmother, her family of the blood of the ancients. And there she was, innocent, and as delicate and sensitive as a dandelion. She couldn’t hurt as much an ant. Not that she was weak; in fact, she was stern in her beliefs much more than any courageous woman of her time could be. She started shivering soon as she was brought back to her senses by a bird gliding to her window. “Gella...Gella honey?” her mother, the queen of Placenta, called the princess, “You’re obliged to greet the king of Roma, who’s just arrived concerned with an unspecified matter of personal importance which must be given immediate attention.” said the queen, walking into Gella’s room. “Yes mother, I must.” her heart giggled. While she walked down the gigantic halls, the carefully and meticulously embroidered veils, the extravagantly carved walls and the aesthetic, material sculptures, all that her heart pounded for, all that her mind thought of, was not the haste her race possessed, but recursion of the moments Princess Galancy had spent with the King Jupiter of Roma, which rejuvenated the memories that had lost their green: the owls he had sent; the ravens she had replied with; the deer hunts and the horse rides in thick abandoned forests that they had shared; the boastings Jovy made; the laughs Gella diffused the unfounded claims into; his juvenile aggression; and her trying to bring a smile on his face. She couldn’t wait another step of the staircase to see him and wanted to eye him that very moment. Her god’s face disgusts her now, with the same intensity of repugnance her chest has carried since the day Jovy declared himself as one. Only if she had seen better then, she might have not been a prisoner of his love, a mere object of his affection now.


She feels her heart sinking, a sudden drop. The nostalgia brings her back to her senses. And maybe a familiar and distinctive noise at the door too. The gloom, the helplessness, they show on her face as her despondency curtains her lips and cheeks. She waits for the door to open. But the anxiety has already numbed her head. She feels herself sleeping behind her hollow, open eyes and starts dreaming. Behind the golden door, on the silver plate, the Turkish delight that she’s served, that slips her throat, isn't ever very . . . delightful. And the first opportunity that she finds, she'd run away. She'd choose the ruins of Eden instead. She'll leave her god's castle. She'd rather run naked against the chilling currents, shameless. Her feet would be scarred by the cuts the sharp green blades drew, and the pain would still be what she’d choose over the warm, binding arms of her god that hold her in place. She'd choose, yes, she shall, to whether eat that fruit, apparently forbidden of her. She'll admire her mother, the earth, with her eyes, once again, and not just the artist's impression of hers, hanging on the wall painted grey, dull, and dead. She'll befriend the serpents and the beasts and the aves and she'll not be an image of her god, because she truly belongs among only them, she is them indeed, for the eternity. And that is her paradise, her dream.


Once again, she’s awaken not by the noise but because of a piece of flesh rubbing against the inner walls of her stomach. The door hasn’t even opened still, possibly only a cat. She stares at the moons chalked on the wall beside the gate. It’s a full moon today, she remembers and with that, holds her swollen belly with one hand, and helps herself stand with the other. She walks to the wall slowly and draws the eighth moon. She gestures her hand, in reassurance, over her belly and promises them both that she’ll bring the imprisonment to an end and they will see the sunlight together.