The Mask of Agamemnon and Other Stories

The Mask of Agamemnon

Halloween truly was the most magical time of the year. Fuck Christmas and the twinkling lights on Fifth Avenue. Halloween in The Village was uncontestedly superior. On one block, little pirates and princesses ran excitedly out of a bodega comparing candy hauls; on the next, an annoyed Daenerys Targaryen held back the hair of a sexy dragon puking into a trashcan. Agamemnon gave the Khaleesi a sympathetic smile, which widened to a grin after he passed the pair. The utter chaos of the 31st of October filled him with a giddy energy. Once a year, he was free to stride the streets of Manhattan in the manner he should: golden crown encircling his head, back tall, shoulders broad under his crisp tunic and lush cloak. Once a year, he wrapped his feet in leather sandals, hardly minding the brisk autumn air when he walked in his true form. Once a year, he shed the mask he wore in his everyday life, and walked the earth like the warrior he was. Of course, any passing stranger thought this was the costume, his long beard and broadsword swinging at his hip. Often a drunken frat boy dressed in a cheap imitation would cheer upon seeing Agamemnon, raising a hand for a fist bump. He usually acquiesced, their rowdy camaraderie reminding him of his youth and shipmates from long ago. Occasionally, he bumped into a snake-haired Gorgon, and the first few times that had happened he'd squeezed his eyes shut on instinct. This old superstition made him laugh now and a few eyes glanced over at the sound of his booming guffaws. He was utterly alone on this continent; his old fears had no place among the men of science of this century. And though the veil between his world and this one was thinnest tonight, the glaring streetlamps and brazen cars ensured his safety in his mind even more than the sword at his side.
Agamemnon turned left, onto Cornelia Street, then immediately right into a garden alley between too old stone houses. There were no street lamps here in the alley, or if there ever had been, Circe had long since snuffed them out, preferring the flickering light of candles over harsh fluorescence. As every year, he was overwhelmed by the scent of animal- rats and vermin were drawn to Circe's energy, only to be devoured by her serpents and cats. At casual glance they could pass as modern house cats, the docile kind Agamemnon's friends kept in their apartments and that he sniffed at with disdain. But Circe's cats were of the ancient variety, long incisors dripping down over fur patterns long evolved out of the species, and Agamemnon dodged out of the way of a purple-black hiss. In turn, the serpents' slithering movements in the tall grass of her back garden drew hawks and birds of prey; even now he saw three birds circling high above. If anything reminded him of his old life, it was this, the realm Circe had carved out for herself in the close alleys of The Village, and he had to repress a shiver as the memory of old omens rose in the back of his mind.
"Agamemenon," he heard a voice say, echoing in the darkness. He looked left and right trying to find where she was.
"You're early," Circe was in front of him, smiling at his small jump at her sudden appearance.
"Circe," he said, bowing his head. "Enchanting as always." Her hair hung lank around her face and the cheekbones looked ready to slice through her skin.
Circe's smile widened. "Come," she said, waving him further into the dark of her garden. The flowers were black and under the night sky Agamemnon couldn't tell if the color was naturally dark, or enchanted to Circe's treasured color. In the darkest corner of the garden was a fountain with a wide mouthed face out of which flowed an iridescent shadow. Agamemnon kept his distance. Legend said men didn't come back from the other side of that shadow and he had no desire to meet his brother or old enemies in that realm. Circe, without fear, reached her hand into the flow and filled a goblet with the shimmering shadows. She gestured it at him, expectant. Agamemnon nodded, nicked the palm of his hand and made a fist over the small clay jar he'd brought. Slowly, still half-trusting after all these years, Agamemnon and Circe exchanged the liquids. Circe pivoted quickly and began dripping Agamemnon's blood into the fountain, chanting the old tongue. Agamemnon eyed her over the rim of the goblet, chugging, the shadows thick in his throat. Circe quieted; Agamemnon wiped his mouth. She smiled at him, cheeks plump and flushed now, ritual complete.