Cythera

By Samuel Rippey

Death and Art...

War and Love...

Welcome to Cythera.

Guy Io never suspected his life of ease would end. His gifts as a painter brought him fame and luxury and pleasure. The city of Cythera, a Rococo paradise devoted to art, was laid at his feet.

Then the long-men came.

Creatures of regal beauty, their appearance was celebrated by all. But their elegance masked a malevolence that could plunge the city into darkness...

After escaping a horrific assault, Guy is scarred in both body and mind. As his beloved country falls, he and the other frightened survivors face a stark choice:

Resurrect the forgotten art of war—

—or die.

CYTHERA, the first book of the Cytheran Trilogy, is a fast-paced novella set in a hallucinatory world of of delight and despair, beauty and brutality, elegance and evil.

Look for Book Two of the trilogy, THE SWAN'S ARMY, in spring 2014.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Rippey
• Release date: Aug 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301179374

Book preview

Cythera

By Samuel Rippey

Copyright 2013 Samuel Rippey

Smashwords Edition

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Part One

I

The long-men were beautiful. Although their bodies were black, my memory plays caprices and I envision them as white—the color of a drop of water on a sheet of paper. The blue sky became their backdrop, their support, as they loomed like clouds. I remember their legs as a dark wine-purple. Beautiful, like the holiest horrors of Hell.

Of them I shall tell what I can. I cannot say that Mnemosyne, guarantor of good Memory, shall present me with noble pictures. I am an artist and a liar, but there is Truth within me: I will not overpaint any ugliness with falsehood. Besides, Truth instructs, and Truth instructed me that Art demands sacrifice from life. For each beautiful painting there is a lake of spilled blood; for every sentimental verse there are a thousand burning bodies. I tender no apology for these facts: There it is, as our King was fond of saying.

Already I ramble. I am seventy-six today and still lecture to ghosts on Art, Craft, and Truth as the artist could only conceive them. When I was twenty-five I would often lecture on Beauty or Splendor, even during the war.

But I must focus. So, to focus: here is my recollection. You shall take it or leave it as you please.

It began, as many tragedies do, with a woman.

II

Missy insisted on a beach picnic. When I agreed to her plans she grinned a thousand grins.

Wonderful sunny day, she said. Wonderful sunny day. And long-men, love!

Long-men?

Yes. I’ve not seen one since they arrived.

She stormed to my kitchen and opened the pantry. She made such a clatter as to render concentration impossible; I abandoned my sketchbook and charcoal and sat listening to her looting. Soon she had made a picnic basket, stuffed with coarse bread and cheese and blueberries. She also packed a bottle of green wine, which I told her to leave at the house.

Why? she whined. Do you have to work today? Afraid, dear, of a little wine?

No.

The more reason to drink it! Oh, Guy. Wonderful, wonderful. She thrust the basket and bottle at me. Shall I call a public car?

No.

Her expression fell. Then what, spendthrift? Walking?

Bicycles.

Bikes? But it’s kilos away!

You’ll be fine.

My legs will ache.

The ride will do you well.

No, it shall not!

And so the argument went. In the end she agreed to ride, although not without pouting that would shame a five-year-old.

Outside, I strapped the picnic basket to the luggage rack of my bicycle. Missy tied her long brown skirts in knots above her knees. She swung her thick leg over the bike, displaying a white calf and a yellow shoe.

It is a race! she said, and winked. Before I could stop her, she rode through my side-yard, tires carving grooves in my lush grass. I followed her, carrying my bicycle.

She waited for me in front of the house, grinning, balancing her feet on the pedals.

Do go easy on my lawn, I said.

She did not answer, but leaned forward and began to pedal. Are you coming? she called.

I mounted my bicycle. Although I had not ridden for some time, my legs responded well; after initial creaks and pops my joints and muscles cooperated. Soon I was riding next to her.

This was a good idea anyway, she said. Do you feel the blood singing in your veins? Do you hear the birds calling your name?

We rode past copses of elm and oak. The sky was blue and cloudless and it was springtime, but I heard no birds.

There are no birds, said I.

Use your imagination! She looked over her shoulder for longer than was safe, considering her reckless speed.

We swept past three more bicyclists on the way to the beach, as well as a bright green public car. Missy hummed to herself, an endless program of annoying popular songs. I took to riding behind her, as she swerved over the road like a drunk and I had no wish for a collision.

We arrived at the beach as the sun reached its zenith.

Oh, Guy. Wonderful, wonderful. Gladness, gladness! She coasted to a stop near a fallen oak. She swung her legs from the bicycle and leaned it against the tree. Her face glowed red from exertion.

I stopped my bicycle and eased myself from the saddle. The ride had done worse for me than it had for her; I panted and tried to calm my heart and fretted over the dark sweat stains on my coat. Wishing for a glass of water, I unstrapped the picnic basket.

Gladness indeed, I said.

To the beach! To Poseidon! She darted ahead of me and scurried up the nearest dune, kicking fountains of sand behind her heels. Come, come! Bring the picnic! The dryads and sea-gods await.

I stood still for a few moments as she crested the dune. Weariness fell upon me. It was unrelated to the bike ride; more a product of exasperating days spent in Missy’s company.

We had been together for three months, after meeting at Mr. Ciccone’s Friday Evening salon. She had been drunk on grape and grapefruit liqueur, and suggested after a minimum conversation that we have sexual intercourse. Our first assignation came ten minutes afterward, among the daffodils in Lady Ciccone’s greenhouse. It was the first session of many, and it followed that we spent more fully-clothed daylight hours in each other’s company. I found that she amused me little outside of the bedroom: she was dim, opinionated, and bereft of creative thought—a peasant, to wit.

But I was twenty-five, unmarried and unengaged. She was an amusement, a distraction from the heaviness of life. Like other amusements, she was ephemeral, replaceable. I felt no prick of conscience when I considered trading her for another companion.

Guy! she shouted. Come! The salt air!

As I trudged up the slope, the sand scraping my shoes, I reflected glumly that this outing was not the wisest use of my time. I thought of the commission I had worked on that morning: a portrait of Aphrodite. The piece was due to the Temple within two weeks, and I needed every spare second to complete it. Priestesses were sensitive about any perceived slight, and tardiness with a sacred work was an insult; however, I was confident that the work’s exemplary virtues would justify any delay. I had based the figure of Aphrodite on Missy, a convenient and willing model. The usual liberties with dull reality had been taken. Missy was round as a piglet, but as a Goddess she stood slim and lithe; in the picture she wore plaited golden hair rather than Missy's natural mud-brown locks.

I felt myself wanting to escape her. I could pedal back home in twenty minutes. I would arrive exhausted at my studio, but I could still work. I imagined Missy wandering the beach for a handful of dazed minutes before she realized I was missing, then shouting half-drunkenly, calling me, cursing me. The thought was amusing.

Missy shuffled across the beach, holding her long skirt above the ankles. She ran at the green water like a puppy,