In the Shadow of Lachesis

By Heather Eggleston

Lachesis is the last living Serpent mother. She struggles to raise her four young Seraphim, powerful creatures with the ability to shift between snake and human, in a world that simultaneously worships and fears them. These siblings, through shared devotion and tragedy, emerge as the pantheon of a reimagine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sphere LLC
• Release date: Dec 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986365640

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

BEFORE TIME…

My dear children. It is time you learn your origins, our mother cooed in her lullaby voice, which is so different than her prophecy voice. And far different than her striking voice.

"Our people are ancient. Earth birthed us sometime after the Stars, Sun, and Moon. She birthed the Green things on land and Ocean’s watery ones. And finally, long before humans, she gathered Ocean’s tears with the softest parts of Stone and blended them with her own Breath. And then we swam - hush now! Don’t argue! Yes we swam from Ocean to land. We swam onto dry Earth and still we swim. We are not cursed. We are liquid fire! Graceful with our sinuous, elegant forms. Powerful with our poison fangs and muscular bodies. We are wise with bellies that touch Earth’s naked self. We are closest to our Mother. That’s why they fear us. We hear Her voice from below. It echoes in our movements. We are her sacred serpents, her prophets, her children. And you, my babies, are my treasures. And our people, the people of the Snake, swim until our Mother, the Earth, swallows her tail once again."

CHAPTER TWO

BEFORE TIME…

Some day, my noisy children, when our Mother prepares to swallow her own tail again, a child of our people will be born.

Lachesis stopped abruptly and grabbed Cenchi’s face in her hands: Are you listening?

Cenchi tried to nod his head in reply while the other three laughed.

Satisfied, their mother continued her story: Good! She - I think it’s a she, but perhaps I’ll be surprised - is of the Stars.

How can she be of our people if she’s of the Stars? Elaps scowled, a frown distorting her pretty face.

Lachesis rolled her eyes: You argue about everything these days, princess.

But it doesn’t make sense, Momi!

Lachesis swatted the back of her oldest daughter’s obstinate head: Yes, she will be a descendent of the Snake. But she is really from the Stars.

But Momi- Elaps rolled her eyes.

Hush, Elaps! She can be both. This is not an either-or dilemma! Lachesis let out a dramatic hiss to silence the fidgety children.

Once they were appropriately wide eyed and quiet she continued: That’s better. When she’s born we’ll know it’s time to gather ourselves for change. Lachesis paused to allow the drama of her prophecy to sink into the skins of her progeny.

Crotalus frowned: "But what does that mean? What does the change bring? Do you even know?"

Lachesis kissed his curious head: "No, my darling Crota. I don’t know what the change brings. How can I? Am I our Mother, the Earth?"

Her four perfect children collectively shook their heads.

No. Do I eat my own tail and send myself into the Underworld?

Naja’s eyes grew wide and terrified at the thought, so Lachesis kissed her cool cheek and pulled her onto her lap for comfort.

No, Lachesis lowered her voice until it was suitably threatening. "But I may eat your tails if you keep up with your arguments!"

The children giggled and scattered like the four winds. Undeterred, Lachesis sent her prophecy into their minds: Listen! A child of the Stars will be born to the people of Snake. We’ll gather ourselves. I’ll Call and you’ll listen. She shook her head and said quietly to herself: And together we’ll follow Her voice into the next.

CHAPTER THREE

...ENDINGS.

Naja lurched. One small, pale hand gripped the wall. The other clasped her heart. She lurched again as the invisible leash attached to her chest pulled at her from an indeterminate distance. She steadied herself with Breath.

It'd been ages since she'd been Called. She breathed into Earth to retrieve the scent of the dark soil beneath the building’s concrete.

I’ll come, mother, she gasped. Please, just give me time.

She held herself still, the scent strong in her: one breath, two... the insistent pulling loosened, three.... Naja sighed. Her mother accepted her promise.

Naja didn't imagine Lachesis had suddenly grown patient in the time since her last Call, however many ages ago. How long before the Pull intensified again? She brushed back a dark curl, exhaled her escalating fear, and resolved to prepare for an unexpected family reunion.

Hey, Doc? Naja stood at her boss’s office door. A favor?

You? This is different, the rapidly balding yet still silver-haired Dr. Joe raised a brow at his young associate. Naja was among the more gifted therapists he'd known during his extensive career. Her uncanny ability to facilitate lasting healing in even the most recalcitrant cases made her a gem. He'd witnessed the suicidal release guns into her capable hands and the homicidal purr with relief as their anger, sorrow, or madness melted into her strange voice. Her skills bordered on miraculous, not that he believed in such, or admitted it anyway. Naja was diligent, resourceful, skilled, and, like himself, an unapologetic workaholic. Yet he knew very little about her aside from unimpeachable credentials and stellar ethics.

Right now the slight, dark haired woman appeared somewhat paler than usual with random curls escaping her braid. There was a nearly imperceptible breathlessness about her that only an eye trained as well as his would see. He frowned. Had he ever seen her this close to disheveled?

Naja offered a slight smile: Yes, sir. My mother Calls. Apparently I'm needed urgently. Since she’s selective with her melodrama these days, she offered an apologetic shrug, "I’d better heed her Call. I rescheduled the bulk of my appointments but there are a few patients I'd prefer not to leave rudderless. Could you or Lizzie cover emergencies? I'm almost certain I can be back in a week or sooner."

For Heaven's sake, Dr. Anguis! At least take a couple weeks. If your mother doesn't need you the whole time, take a holiday. Drink sugary cocktails with little umbrellas. Go to the theatre. Read a novel. Take up knitting. Just enjoy a bit of time for yourself, would you? If not for your own sake, then allow the rest of us to believe you to be as human as we are!

Naja's Breath caught before her face relaxed into a small smile. You are wonderful, Joe. I'll leave contact details and up to date patient files. Lizzie’s available for a review this afternoon. Mother lives off-the-grid, as they say these days. I'll do my best to check in but it may be hard to reach me at points, she frowned and stretched her small hands with an almost wistful look. Of course, I’ll do my best to limit such times.

Joe frowned and narrowed his perceptive eyes: Are you okay, Naja? I've been in this field long enough to know that sometimes people have reasons not to talk much about their pasts.

She sighed a soft, little laugh: Oh, I'm just fine, Doc. My mother’s a handful, that's all. And somewhat unpredictable. And loud. She batters my defenses, if I must be honest. But it's been a long time. I'll be well. There’s reason to expect my siblings also received Calls. Naja looked away for a moment. I understand you have plenty of experience with siblings?

Joe chuckled softly but before he could answer she said quickly: I'll have records in order, my schedule, and concerns for Lizzie. And thank you, Joe. I may just enjoy a sugary drink - scratch that - a bourbon, sooner rather than later.

As Naja departed Joe sat back in his chair, stretched long legs given more to charley horses and aches than long distance running these days. Odd for Naja to point out his siblings. She'd never alluded to any knowledge about his personal life, although he certainly didn't hide it. Of course, she'd never shared anything of her own. Was this her careful attempt to bond through implications of shared experience?

Joe had three younger siblings. One an alcoholic former model on her third marriage, one deceased at his own hand, and a brother who wouldn't speak to him for reasons unknown. Joe frowned. What did Naja go home to? He hoped bourbon would give her enough fortitude.

Crotalus Anguis tapped his foot. It was a subtle tap with a slight shake with a pause before it resumed its rhythm. Steady. Musical, almost. Hypnotic even.

Very few people knew Mr. Anguis well enough to count him anything more than an enigma. Powerful, certainly. Mysterious, clearly. His speech was reminiscent of an ancient instrument tuned to an exotic key. Obviously wealthy, but no one knows the source or limits of his fortune.

He’s handsome with long blue-black hair pulled into a knot at the nape. His features are delicately refined and of indeterminate origin. Those who’ve looked into his eyes know they are the exact color of the incandescent sheen of moonlight over Ocean. Perhaps a bold creature could count him a distance acquaintance; but certainly not friend.

If, however, Mr. Anguis allowed anyone close enough, they would know this steady tapping as a warning of some subtle sort. The tap, tap, shake… pause coils and uncoils along with his patience with the American seated across from him in this decadent and obnoxiously loud lounge.

When - and for Earth’s sake - why, did the world get so damned loud? he wondered yet again. Perhaps it was to drown out the inane nature of modern conversation. A frenetic enough atmosphere distracts from the dull drone of vacuous nonsense beneath the endless waves of crashing noise.

And had men always been so arrogant? No, not always. Of course, there was a time he wasn’t compelled to hide his essence beneath this veneer of arbitrary civility. There was a time he could show his venom to idiots such as this one seated across from him. This man was so self-absorbed as to be oblivious to the lush surroundings and the beautiful women deliberately poised like so much furniture. Crotalus instinctively imagined his sister posed like a decorated hat-rack and felt his Breath catch in anger.

The rhythm of tapping increased as he slowly and deliberately blinked. His insides clenched with threatened violence. As he opened his eyes the facade of humanity slipped and his eyes transformed into predatory slits. Crota allowed himself a slight smile. There was no need to strike after all. The American abruptly quieted his prattling monologue of accomplishments and assets of all transitory kinds. The American’s instincts for self-preservation were keen. Good enough.

"Ah, so you are capable of silencing yourself, Crota blinked again at the over-stuffed potential demagogue. I wondered how long it would take. A human lifetime is finite. Thankfully." Crota allowed a moment for the implied threat to appear as belated realization in the eyes of the man. How would this brat turned politician respond? Would the buffoon even grasp the danger? So much hinged on each Breath. The tectonic plates of power moved with agonizing slowness and yet carefully hewn destruction would happen in what seemed like just a moment.

The American’s alcohol reddened face grimaced as he lifted himself from a chair nearly as over-stuffed as himself with a huff and the beginnings of a tantrum.

Crota sighed: "Sit down. Please. There is a reason my associates called this meeting. Surely you were warned to behave? You’ve been groomed for the Senate of your delightfully optimistic country. Where you take it from there depends on your innate instinct for it. Ah now… Crota raised a hand to stop the man’s interruption: Don’t get too big for your britches. It’s not because you inspire. Rather you carry a seed of destruction. You sow hatred. Your arrogance can uproot that hard-earned freedom your people so prize. It’s a freedom with roots more shallow than most imagine."

The American frowned, his bushy eyebrows crinkled his face into an irate scowl: I’m not a tyrant.

Crota laughed for the first time in what today seemed like centuries. It was a rolling sound with just a hint of hiss: My boy, a tyrant is exactly what you are. And what we expect you to remain. We’ve watched you. You’re groomed to it. But, he leaned close and allowed his tongue to flicker in his slightly open mouth, "I am a far more practiced tyrant, which I advise you to remember in the haze of your upcoming rise. There are more things in heaven and Earth… another laugh. Never mind, the reference is likely lost. Don’t call us, Crota suddenly paused, his eyes narrowed as his violence clenched upon itself. He gasped slightly as he abruptly stood: We’ll call you."

He briskly motioned to a waiting attendant to clean the table and escort the newly appointed US Senator to his luxury suite overlooking the Hong Kong harbor.

Crota’s heart clenched as his pulse galloped.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why now? he struggled to maintain his usual glide as he lurched toward the elevator. This was not a time to show weakness.

Time to go home. On my way, mother.

El gazed from behind dark glasses that pretended to hide her sorrow. If the eyes are windows to the soul then these unconscionably expensive glasses are the shutters. They are dark shades pulled down to block the unnecessarily bright light of Sun-drenched children who dance their mating rituals on this So Cal beach. El sighed a sigh that held a thousand tragedies within it. Occasionally a boy or girl, just brazen enough, dared her solitude with a call to join their play. A flirtatious smile. A promise of drug fueled ecstasy. A bold gaze at her long, dazzling self stretched to its limits, that perfect arm curling around a crown of lazy ringlets. Occasionally one of these pretty children blinked her way and wondered if his perception was skewed by heat and beer. It seemed the stunning woman who lounged just out of touch glowed brighter than the sun-drenched shadows that fell around her. He’d look at her and find her dark shine more blinding in the summer mirage than Sun himself. Some dared whisper secrets about her - as if she couldn’t hear their words - thinking their murmurs safe beneath the crashing waves and volleyball courts. Have you heard she married so-and-so… inherited all his money… his children refuse to speak her name… cursed… so beautiful, so cursed. Smoke and fire.

Even with - perhaps especially with - children dancing around her, El mourned. Summer is her time of tears. She knew, come autumn, that she would drag herself from her decadent melancholy to paint again. She’d migrate north for summer as Earth’s own Green Ones dropped their leaves to blanket Her body. El would gather them to her breasts and celebrate her submersion. She’d dance her own mating rituals and fuck one or more of those beautiful children who so desired - and feared - her attention. El would find a suitable companion, one who would, come summer, facilitate her perpetual mourning. One who would break her heart as she broke his body. The young ones were tragic. She sought the beautiful ones so riddled with disease, addiction, tragedy - and lured them to their poetic ends. Many of the old ones were grateful for the joy she brought their final days. Others, the bitter ones, wished to steal her Light to turn away the darkness that inevitably fell on their faces. And she loved - truly loved - each in his turn. Yes, come winter she would find another. One who would die. El would be the name on his dying lips. My El, my Elaps, my eternal Widow.

Her body was famous for its statuesque drama and the exotic beauty that captured men who should know better. She cared only that it drew to her the sorrow to which she was addicted. Her mind was brilliant with its command of languages, philosophy, and drama. She once cared about such stimulation. Her arrogance was legendary. The children of her creativity, those figures she birthed with paint and dreams, danced on canvases in the homes of her brother’s wealthiest associates. She didn’t much care. Her fortune bought medicines and clean water for sickly children on the continent she once called home. She occasionally cared. People lauded her as a philanthropist and champion of poor children everywhere. She wished she cared.

Once she had a child of her own. He was a child of flesh and blood, not paint and canvas. Once she had a husband she’d loved from her mother’s womb. Once she cared.

Elaps sighed a sigh that held one tragedy within it. And as she inhaled, she choked on Breath. Her heart screamed. Her exquisite golden eyes rolled back in their perfect head, and she - lady of Sun and shadow - painted and painter - dreamer and dream, cried. She cried tears not of mourning, but of Home.

Mother Calls. I come.

Come to me, son. Come home to me, Called a familiar yet distant voice.

He wished to answer. Could he? He felt his body attempt it, yet he had no mouth with which to reply.

Where are you? he thought in a language without sound. How do I answer?

She caressed his empty head: Just follow my voice, son. I’ll lead you. It’s time to come home.

Although his forgotten body screamed in pain and terror as he moved limbs heavy from death; he answered.

CHAPTER FOUR

BEGINNINGS…

"What gave you the idea that we’re monsters?" Momi scowled at El’s dripping eyes and Cenchi’s clenched fists.

She shook her fiery curls: "They misunderstood us even when Earth was young and they sought our wisdom. Now they are so removed from Her heartbeat that they mistake us for fallen things, devils, monsters! They make sigils against my children! As if you couldn’t swallow them whole or crush their fragile bodies in your gentlest embrace. They seek to drive us deeper into hiding. They kill my sisters and usurp their voices."

She paused with a strangled gasp, gathering her losses to her heart with an angry sweep of her long fingers, or was that her tail? Even to her children she was a mystery of fire and Light.

Do you know why we are powerful? The four adolescents shook their heads, wide-eyed. Their mother’s red curls were flames that punctuated her words with a dancing halo.

"We know we are nothing but fragments. Holy, holy, holy, we sing because our wisdom, our power, all comes from our Mother. Our bodies wrap in endless cycles of Creation. Our skins shed and we are re-made. We are fiery serpents. Seraphim!"

Now she cries. Tears shake our magnificent mother’s body as it shifts from woman to Serpent to flame until all three forms are present in one.

Her voice wails now: Oh sweet Pythia, Tia, my sisters. They sought you once. Now you are dismembered and voiceless. And I, your tempest of a sister, raise my brood alone among those who will make them gods just to destroy them!

She grasped Cenchi’s hair and pulled him close to pet his head with rhythmic strokes: No one can defeat you but yourself. But of my children - she sobbed as Cenchris, crushed against our mother, rolled his eyes in a silent shrug and a prayer to us for escape.

This has happened before, always with our mother prophesying our brother’s doom.

Often she’ll call Elaps to her breast and mourn her thousand sorrows as she soaks El’s hair with tears.

Occasionally she’ll stare solemnly at Crotalus and Naja as she mutters about the great cycles, mysteries, and tangles. She’ll move around and between them as she waves her arms in the rhythm of a dance known only to her.

But not today.

The siblings nod to each other in solidarity. Crota, solicitous and hoping to avoid further theatrics, pours Momi a mug of strong beer potently laced with the special dreaming drought Naja kept for such occasions. "Shhhh, Momi, we are safe. The people love us. They honor Cenchris and Elaps. They indulge Naja and me. They’ve even named us in their language. It’s so few who make signs against us. We are safe. You are safe," Crota cooed his soothing magic as he disentangled Cenchi from their mother’s grasp.

He smiled soft reassurance at Naja. Mother in these moods terrified her. She’d struck at Crota once and then collapsed into her Serpent self for months, just to hide from the eyes of her children. Those same children whispered their fear that she may strike against herself in an attempt to join her slain sisters. Naja thought of her beautiful aunts murdered in their homes. They’d been trapped between forms looking like monsters; neither woman nor serpent. She thought of her mother’s wail each time she felt one of her sisters fade from her senses.

If they were angels, Seraphim, as her mother said, then why did people fear them?

The humans, even as they honored the people of the Snake, hid their eyes. Perhaps they thought her gaze was as poisonous as her strike. Naja suspected that while some eyes still honored their ancient blood, increasingly more were clouded by mistrust and fear.

And if they were angels, as their mother claimed, then how could they die? And why did humans seek to kill those, like her aunts, they once sought for wisdom and healing?

Their mother cried softly as Crota and Cenchi, strong as grown men now, lifted her to her rooms. Momi was so much smaller, almost like a child herself, when her flame dimmed. El sang softly and lit strong incense to keep Momi in a dreamless sleep where her losses wouldn’t haunt her. Naja, always the spoiled one, sighed with relief at her mother’s sudden quietude.

These medicines, she thought for the hundredth time, are useful.

More useful than magic, perhaps, although Crota’s seductions were strong. All her mother’s potent spells failed to quiet her pain. But a drug or two silenced it for a time at least. Naja suspected, however, that these deep, dreamless sleeps took a different kind of toll. How long before their mother woke again, larger and more fearsome than today? The vitality that was so easily snuffed with the drought returned with more violence and terror each time. Naja puzzled, distracted by the conundrum. Were the medicines healing or poisoning her mother? She knew too much medicine broke her mother’s spirit for seasons. Was there a perfect dosage that would stimulate her vitality without causing the horrible aggravations and restless violence that so often disturbed her peace? Perhaps Naja should turn her idle mind to just such practicalities, if only to secure her own peace in this volatile home.

A sighing Crota returned from their mother’s room: Cenchi and El are with her. She’s quiet now and wants her favorites near. His voice was smooth but was laced with a trace of bitterness only Naja could taste.

I’m happy to be forgotten when she gets like this. Naja allowed the tension to ease from her body. She’s exhausting. Cenchi should be more careful with what he tells her. Sometimes I think he means to twist her about.

Crota shrugged: Cenchi gets too angry himself. But Momi raised him to expect devotion from everyone. You know what happened? A few malcontents shouted obscenities at El. Called her a heartless monster and whore. Apparently they blame her for this season’s drought. I suspect Cenchi would’ve let it go at heartless monster but the whore part upset him. Too close to truth, perhaps? he raised a speculative eyebrow.

Naja shook her curls: El is entitled to the same freedoms as Cenchi. Sister-wife doesn’t mean slave. They created this problem. They never should have taken credit for the River’s rise and good harvests. It’s dangerous and wrong. Sometimes they’re short-sighted. Some years are less abundant and in those years people may suffer. Taking credit for good leads to blame for bad.

I don’t know, Naja, Crota laid his head on her shoulder and took Breath. She knew that her scent, so familiar and home, soothed and excited him in ways none of Momi’s drugs or magics ever could. Naja’s flares of temper, quiet next to their mother’s but no less forceful, often drew his passion to her. But tonight he was weary. Naja knew his care of their mother pulled on his skills in ways that left him unsettled, exhausted, and confused. Perhaps it was foolish. But they did teach the people to fish, plant, harvest. They’ve been wise in their judgements so far. The people know them to be good leaders, which is why they call them Kings.

Perhaps. But it’s arrogance to allow the people to honor them as gods over Earth’s goodness and the rising waters. It scares me, Crota. They love us now. But our aunts were honored once too, Naja curled herself deeply into his body to warm her fears against him. Crota was worn but these were her favorite times with him. His exhaustion softened the edges of his burdens and allowed her to slip inside like a welcome guest. She sensed the tangled emotions inside him and delicately uncurled them with her Breath.

I feel you, his voice smiled in her ear. I feel what you’re doing inside me.

Good, she continued her work, unwinding his tension. She soothed his sadness as the second, less favored son of a volatile mother. She freed the guilt he felt for speaking unfavorably about their brother, which locked his core and nearly choked his heart.

You are so devoted to him. Like a servant more than a brother.

He’s good. Momi raised him to lead, Crota replied. It’s my joy to follow and keep him safe.

When you say that I feel a knotting in your core, right here, Naja touched his navel with her open hand. I know you believe it to be true - as do I - but it hurts you somehow.

Don’t you feel hurt, El’s shadow? he stroked her thigh as she swam in his sadness. You’re so beautiful and kind yet too few sing hymns in your name. Sometimes it angers me.

Naja laughed: "El is like the Sun. She is brash, bold, and blinding. Her presence demands worship. I prefer the few who feel deeply enough to wish my more twilit presence. I don’t need a host of admirers when I have you. I’m the fortunate sister-wife, she kissed him then, her tongue flicked against his. And since no one expects too much from us we have time to practice our more moonlit arts. Her hand slid from his navel deeper on his body as she whispered, You’re tired. Let me heal you."

Crota sighed as his sister-wife gently kissed his navel just where she’d untangled his core moments ago. I know you’re weary, allow me…

But he could not remain passive beneath her hands. The predator in him flared as he devoured her tongue, her breasts, her softest places. She was inside him still, her Breath healing the tangles of fear, self-reproach, and anger as he entered her from the outside.

The two Serpents entangled as their limbs touched. They curled around each other; sinuous, fluid fire. Their tongues flicked rapidly, their senses overwhelmed by the taste of skin and scales and Breath. The warmed smoothness of skin melted into cool dry scales and back again. She cried softly as she flushed, but he covered her mouth, suddenly aware of their mother and siblings near.

"Ssssshhhhh, my Seraph! he hissed. This is ours. This they cannot have."

She swallowed her moan. Pleasure exploded between them as the first stars of Night opened their sparkling eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

BEGINNINGS…

You are beautiful, Cenchi