What The Gods Allow

By J.S. Frankel

Medusa, the Gorgon, is free—temporarily. Penned up in Tartarus, the gods—Zeus and Hera—show her mercy. Medusa is given two weeks in which to track down their wayward daughter, Eris. Transformed into a beautiful young woman, Medusa is given only one warning: not to use her powers of transforming those to stone.

She agrees and adopts the name Meddy Gorgonne. In a stroke of chance, she finds lodgings with the Goldstein’s, Sam and Trudy, and tries to figure out how modern Portland works. Cars, showers, television—all are mysteries to her at first, although she adapts.

Meddy is somewhat naïve about life and especially about love, as she slowly falls for Sam, a teen who is suffering from Usher’s Syndrome, a disease that will blind and deafen him in time. What is more troubling to Meddy is that her powers of turning people to stone have returned, and she is at a loss as to why.

With the police slowly closing in and time running out on how to get Eris to return to Olympus, Meddy discovers that sometimes old is new, and that time-worn traditions can surmount modernity.

But will they be enough for her to stay with Sam, or will she be forced to return to Tartarus for eternity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Jul 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781487421373

Book preview

For Medusa, freedom and beauty are temporary, but love is eternal.

Medusa, the Gorgon, is free—temporarily. Penned up in Tartarus, the gods—Zeus and Hera—show her mercy. Medusa is given two weeks in which to track down their wayward daughter, Eris. Transformed into a beautiful young woman, Medusa is given only one warning: not to use her powers of transforming those to stone.

She agrees and adopts the name Meddy Gorgonne. In a stroke of chance, she finds lodgings with the Goldstein’s, Sam and Trudy, and tries to figure out how modern Portland works. Cars, showers, television—all are mysteries to her at first, although she adapts.

Meddy is somewhat naïve about life and especially about love, as she slowly falls for Sam, a teen who is suffering from Usher’s Syndrome, a disease that will blind and deafen him in time. What is more troubling to Meddy is that her powers of turning people to stone have returned, and she is at a loss as to why.

With the police slowly closing in and time running out on how to get Eris to return to Olympus, Meddy discovers that sometimes old is new, and that time-worn traditions can surmount modernity.

But will they be enough for her to stay with Sam, or will she be forced to return to Tartarus for eternity?

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

What the Gods Allow

Copyright © 2019 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-2137-3

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

Look for us online at:

www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

What the Gods Allow

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

No man may look upon the Gorgon and live.

Chapter One: Getting out

June seventh, somewhere in Tartarus, present day.

Four words, four precious words that she’d longed to hear for millennia untold. You are getting out.

Medusa raised her head off the cot and glanced around her jail cell. Roughly twelve-by-twelve feet, it was made of stone ten inches thick. The stone was impenetrable and ages old, so old in fact, that the only thing that marked the passage of time were the scars she’d clawed into the wall centuries ago.

The door was just as solidly constructed as the walls. A cast-iron job seven inches thick with only a tiny slit to allow some light to enter, it took a massive effort by the guards to open. In front of the door was a plate-sized triangle that she’d scratched into the stone a long time ago. It was for a game called Delta that she played when she was bored or had free time.

In Tartarus, nothing but free time called. It became a test of her ingenuity to stave off boredom. She’d used a couple of pebbles and a medallion she’d found as game pieces, and had gotten to a level nothing short of expert.

However, that ability hadn’t done her much good in this place. Tartarus was a place where justice was meted out by the gods. Any other skills went unnoticed.

Prepare yourself, the voice said.

The command came from Aeimnestus, one of her jailers, and he actually sounded happy. Happiness was an unknown commodity here. The other, Stavros, had never been as nice. Aeimnestus, at the very least, was civil. She asked, May I speak?

Yes.

Her voice came out rusty, as if it hadn’t been unused for a long time. Thinking about it, it was true. Speaking was forbidden here. It was only allowed when the jailers precipitated it, a rare occasion, indeed.

I am coming, she said, and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Her bare feet, horned and twisted, felt the roughness of the floor, as well as the cold.

However, the cold didn’t bother her. The calluses on her soles were more than an inch thick, tougher than leather, and almost as impenetrable as the iron door to her cell.

Medusa was more monster than woman. It took one to make one, she thought with no small amount of bitterness. Born in a small, unnamed village in northern Libya, the spawn of monsters, the brother and sister duo of Phorcys and Ceto, she was a Gorgon.

Her body, green and scaly, was no less hideous than her face, also scaly. Her eyes glowed a horrid red, and she had snakes for hair that constantly moved. At least, they had when she was alive. Now, they lay limp on her head.

Her body was that of a young maiden’s, barely past the age of seventeen, the age at which she’d died. Lithe and slender though she was, the fact that she had claws instead of hands, as well as horned feet, marked her as someone who could hardly be called human in any way, shape or form. Aeimnestus then asked, Do you need water?

Yes, please.

She observed her clothing and sighed. It was a chiton, a long, plain robe. Woven from either wool or linen, it was what most women of her era had worn. In her youth, she’d sometimes worn a himation, a kind of cloak, but only when it was cold. Otherwise, her chiton served as an all-purpose body wrap.

As for time, what did it matter? There were no timepieces here, no sundials or ways to tell how much time had elapsed. She had no knowledge what season it was, or even what hour it was.

In her day, the months of Libya, where she’d spent the first few years of her life, and later on, Greece, were hot and dry for the most part. Here, the cell was dank, and mold had formed on the walls. In an evil miracle, it had never spread, but it remained there as a sign of never-ending decay and rot.

She had no need to use the toilet, as her body—that is, her spirit—had ceased to function as a mortal’s would. Now, like all the other prisoners of Tartarus, she merely existed as a shadow in order to serve out her term.

The door opened with a creaking sound and a dull light flooded in. It made her blink, and she shielded her eyes until they adjusted. It had been a long time since she’d seen the actual sun. Even with its diminished power, this unholy light was still strong enough to make her wince.

I am here, Aeimnestus announced.

Dressed in the garb of a Hoplite soldier, he stood with a bucket in his right hand and a bundle of clothing in his left. This is for you to wash yourself, he added while depositing the bucket inside the cell.

He then handed over the clothing. It was a fresh chiton, a dull white, and he laid it next to the bucket. Please change. I will avert my eyes.

Quickly, she shed her rags and washed herself all over. While she may have been only a spirit, a shadow, in another macabre twist of magic or some power she couldn’t fathom, her sense of smell was unimpaired, and she stank.

Unlike the water from the river Styx, which smelled horrid, this water smelled fresh. As she began to wash, she sniffed the air. The smell of a billion crushed animal innards, the scent of death and decay, and the odor of ugliness and anger and hatred all combined to create a stink most foul. It permeated the air and the walls of her cells. Like the mold, it never left.

Hurry, Aeimnestus said with a note of urgency. Zeus does not like to be kept waiting.

I shall. She quickly used her old chiton as a sponge to wash herself all over. The fabric caught on her scales and tore, but it was old and ragged, anyway, and she was actually thrilled—the first time in a very long time—that something new had been given to her.

Once she’d finished, she carefully put the new chiton on, noting its softness and warmth. Tartarus never got cold, but neither was it warm. This would do nicely.

She remembered her medallion and slipped it into the folds of her new garment. I am ready, she said, and stepped outside, bowing her head.

Aeimnestus motioned straight ahead to the Styx. There, Charon, bony skeleton that he was, waited patiently in his boat. He crooked a finger at them, welcoming them aboard. Charon never spoke, but every gesture was worth a thousand words.

Once both of them were seated, he set off, pushing a long pole into the water and down with powerful strokes that propelled the boat forward in a rapid, steady manner. Medusa did not speak. Instead, she observed the black and stunted trees that lined the banks of the river on one side and the gray stone walls on the other.

The stink of charred flesh and excrement wormed its way into her nostrils. Every day it seemed as though a new and horrible smell overrode the others. If it wasn’t the odor of putrefying flesh, then it was one of fungus or blood or something else that she couldn’t define.

Charon continued to push the boat at a steady pace. His only job was to welcome the dead and transport them. Bony though he was, he had a certain grace and rhythm, and he never tired. He’d had centuries of practice with countless passengers.

Along the way, a few ghostly hands emerged from the water, and in a smooth motion, he smacked them away. Their moans of damnation followed the boat as it sailed past them, leaving them to their own misery.

This was only her second ride in his boat. The first was after she’d been sentenced. Her head had been lopped off by Perseus, and her spirit had immediately flown to Tartarus.

Once there, she’d been taken by two unnamed guards to see Zeus. Large, incredibly muscular, middle-aged but immortal, he was a most handsome man with a grayish-white beard. He wore a glowing gold chiton that did nothing to contain his bulk and sat on a large golden throne in a council room.

To his left was Hera, his wife. Zeus took the lead, curtly dismissing the guards. Hera sat on her golden throne, clad in her chiton of the same color, and offered a haughty glance. After the guards had closed the door behind them, silence fell. Medusa stood before them, head—now back on her shoulders—bowed.

Gorgon, Zeus began. You have been accused of crimes against humanity. How do you plead?

While Medusa wanted to talk about how she’d been set up, how she’d been forced to kill, deep down she knew that it would do no good. Guilty, she whispered.

As if it could be any other way, Hera responded in a withering tone. You have been so judged.

That was it. Die and then get sent to the bad place. Oh, wait, she was already there. Zeus snapped his fingers and Hades, the overlord of Tartarus, appeared.

Unlike Zeus, he wore a ragged black chiton. Thin and with skin so pale to the point of translucency, he’d bowed out of respect to the other gods, and spoke in a somewhat reedy, whiny voice. What is your command, Lord Zeus?

The god of all gods had pointed his finger at the door. Take this prisoner to her cell. She is to be incarcerated without a chance of parole for no less than three millennia. That is my judgment.

Three millennia? Lord Zeus, Medusa began. I—

You are talking out of turn, he cut in, whereupon he’d aimed his forefinger at her. A bolt of light erupted from the tip, and she felt his unearthly power blast her. When she woke up, she found herself outside the council room, lying on her back. Ahead of her, Charon waited to deliver her to her proper place.

With nowhere else to go—one could never escape Tartarus—she’d climbed into the boat. Charon pushed off, and they moved along the river at a steady pace. As they moved, she noticed a sign that hung on an angle on the trunk of a withered tree.

There shall be no talking between prisoners.

There shall be no talking to the guards unless they speak first.

There shall be no talking.

Simple enough rules to follow, really. Once she’d stepped off the boat and onto the banks of the river, a powerfully built soldier in his early thirties with a permanent two-day growth of beard strode over. My name is Aeimnestus. I am to be one of your jailers.

He’d reached into his pocket and brought out two coins, paying the ferryman as custom demanded.

Charon bowed and pushed off the bank with his pole. His job was to search for other damned souls to carry, and there always seemed to be someone new to shepherd along to their place in this hell.

Once his boat had disappeared down a tunnel, Aeimnestus had pointed to a row of cells that seemingly stretched to infinity.

Many of the worst kinds of prisoners are here. The primordial monsters of the deep, those of the air, and those who walked the land. Some names you may know, but many of these people were simply people and not gods or demi-gods. You will be in a cell, but you will never meet or talk to them. Nod your head if you understand.

Medusa did, and he grunted. Know the rules. Understand them and obey, and we will all get along.

Rule one was easy enough to comprehend. As Aeimnestus went on to explain, the walls of the cells were thick. Yelling was frowned on—see rule number three. If anyone did yell, then the guards had been instructed to enter said cell and strike the prisoner until they stopped.

We will beat you, he affirmed. You will heal, for your soul has been damned, and this is the place where eternal existence is the punishment.

After hearing that cheery bit of information, Medusa wondered how anyone could stay sane. She resolved to do so. There was still hope, and even in a hopeless place such as this, it would sustain her. That, she promised to herself.

As for talking to the guards, Aeimnestus had laid down the law immediately. If I choose to speak to you, then you may respond. Otherwise, you will say nothing. Is that understood?

She’d nodded.

Finally, see rule number three—again. No explanation needed.

He’d then escorted her to her cell somewhere in the middle of the row, opened the door, and before pushing her inside, counseled her to hold her temper. She’d never been very good at it, as the rage within her to strike out against mankind had always been present.

Now that she was dead, though, her ire had cooled considerably. Medusa, do I have your word that you will try to reflect upon your earlier misdeeds?

She mouthed, May I speak?

A faint smile crossed his face, but then just as quickly faded. You may.

Then the answer is yes.

Good, so perhaps we shall get along. If you obey the rules, if you repent, then the gods may offer mercy. It is my hope as well.

At the mention of the word mercy, Medusa flared. It was brief, though strong, but her expression was enough to make the guard take a step back. They did not show me any mercy when they created me and my sisters.

Once her explosion was over, she hung her head. I am sorry to speak so harshly. But it is the truth. The gods made me a monster. I was denied life as a human. I did what I did to survive. She paused, fighting back tears of rage. I had no choice in this.

Aeimnestus’ voice was soft. That is something I know not about. However, whoever made you into what you are was not of my doing. I only know my job. I am here for a reason, as you are. Once every two weeks, I will open the door. You will exit, bow your head, and then we may walk for twenty minutes.

That is a short time.

With an offhand shrug, he’d replied, There are many prisoners. They must be allowed some freedom, too. At any rate, once we have finished our walk, you will be taken back to your cell. Please remember the rules. If I speak to you, you may reply. If I do not speak, say nothing at all. Do you understand?

Yes.

Then enter, and I shall come by later on.

At first, the isolation had been awful. In order to keep some semblance of a routine, she’d slashed the wall each day to indicate the passage of time. She walked back and forth in her cell, stretched out her limbs and tried to sleep whenever she could.

That proved to be impossible. In spite of the cells’ supposed soundproof nature, sounds still drifted in through the small slit in the door. Sounds of the damned wailing from their cells. Sounds from the air, spirits, perhaps, that had found no earthly rest. Sounds from the Styx, souls trapped forever in a watery grave.

Listening to those wails and moans and entreaties had, at first, proved to be too much for Medusa to handle, and she’d spent countless hours trying to shut out the sounds, but couldn’t. She’d also prayed to Zeus, Hera, and all the other gods she’d heard of for guidance and forgiveness, but her prayers had never been answered.

Her initial thought, that being sent here for such a long time, wasn’t fair. In her brief lifetime, she’d had little to no experience with people. She had raged over her sentence. She had raged over the god’s insensitivity.

Yet, during the days and months and years that had passed, she had come to realize that by doing violent deeds, the fault had been hers all along. I am sorry, truly sorry, she repeated ad infinitum, but the gods continually turned a deaf ear to her pleas.

At the very least, Aeimnestus had been good to his word. In spite of his statement that he would come every fortnight, he’d actually turned up every single Thursday, as she judged it. Over time he’d opened up, telling her what to expect in her new unlife here, the various realms of Tartarus, and more.

Tartarus was not one infinitely long and wide jail cell. A realm unlike any other, it was marked by numerous caves that indented the shoreline of the rivers. Those rivers flowed unceasingly. The ground, rough, rocky, and full of thorns, was guaranteed to slow any escapees’ flight—if they could flee. They could not, for where could they go?

This realm also had only two major areas. The first was Elysium, a kind of paradise for mortals and gods alike who’d committed crimes and were sentenced to the lower depths. Later on, though, for one reason or another, they’d been shown mercy.

Area number two was the Asphodel Fields. A limbo area, allegedly cleaner and less foul-smelling, it was supposed to be the waiting area for those who had committed crimes, but not sufficient enough to warrant placing them alongside the truly evil.

The Styx, Lethe, the Cocytus, and the Phlegethon rivers flowed in a ceaseless movement and fed into the various parts of the eternal underground. However, Medusa had never seen any river save that of the Styx. It was the only place where...

What? Her mind returned to the present as a hand, bony and grasping, emerged from the water and grabbed her chiton. She gasped—couldn’t help it—and Aeimnestus deftly used his spear to dislodge the horrid fingers. The hand sank without a trace. Filthy criminal, he muttered.

Odd, in all this time down here, she’d never asked Aeimnestus why he’d been sent to this place. Now, she felt compelled to ask him something and touched