The Face that Turned a Thousand Ships
by Jennifer Moore
Content Warning: Implied Sexual Assault
I was the new Leda. That’s what Father said, even as I lay there like a mauled broken thing, my handmaidens still combing swan feathers from my hair. He smiled at me, as if it was a badge of honor. As if we wanted another Helen bringing war and destruction in her wake. He said the birth of my child would be a cause for celebration. He lied. He cast his knuckle bones and bowed down low to the gods for guidance but none of it was true.
I thought the delivery pains would kill me, those red hot flames coursing through my over-ripe belly, rippling up my shudder-weakened spine. I prayed for death to end the agony of my contractions. The full force of Zeus himself—the wild beating wings pinning me down, the tearing bloodrush deep inside—was as nothing to those long, screaming hours of labor, squeezing out that grotesque egg before a clucking chorus of handmaidens. And all the while my puffed-up father strutted cockerel-like outside my chamber, deaf to my cries, awaiting news of his grandchild.
My prayers went unanswered. Death didn’t come for me after all. Perhaps it would have been better for everyone if he had. But somehow morning arrived, and with it the final splitting gush of release. It was over. I lay back on the bloodied sheets, hollowed out and exhausted, while they hurried the egg away to the temple for safe-keeping—after Leda they knew what to expect. High Priestesses watched over my unhatched child while the world waited. The Oracle spoke of a son with the power of Hermes and my father wept tears of pride.
They stitched me together again and left me to my fevered dreams. Father was busy planning his celebrations, decking out his entire fleet of ships with flags of triumph, ready for the first crack in his grandson’s shell. Ready for Zeus’ son to burst into the world.
I wasn’t there when it hatched. I didn’t hear the cries of disgust rippling through the city like a pestilence. I didn’t understand why my handmaidens were weeping. At least not until they brought it to me—that sticky, half-feathered bundle they called my child, with its bald gray head and too-weak neck. Yellow eyes glared out above a twisted beak-mouth.
“Take it,” roared my father, red-faced with anger and disgust. “Take it and go. You have brought shame on us all.”
“No,” I wept, recoiling as the creature stretched its blood-clotted wings. The power of Hermes. “This isn’t my child.” Those weren’t my eyes, blazing back at me with such hatred and anger. And they certainly weren’t the eyes of a god. “There’s been a mistake. Remember Leda.”
“You’re no Leda,” my father spat. “And you’re no daughter of mine.”
Out across the empty water his ships lowered their flags, turning back towards the shore.
Jennifer Moore (she/her) was the first ever UK winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Competition and is a previous winner of the Hart Crane Memorial Poetry Contest. Her psychological thrillers are published by HQ Digital, Harper Collins, and her numerous children’s books (writing as Jenny Moore) are published by Maverick Arts Publishing and New Frontier Publishing. A full list of her publications and prizes can be found at www.jennifermoore.wordpress.com.