Cupid (12 page)

As Favonius put the sisters on the mountaintop, they did not know he had heard every word. He wanted to warn Psyche but knew she would not believe that her sisters, her blood kin, would be so deceitful and treacherous. Thomasina and Calla, however, deserved to be punished for their evil. Favonius would find the way to do that.

Once Psyche was alone, her resolve vanished. How could she be contemplating killing her husband? He had been nothing but kind to her. She had riches; she lived in a
palace of unsurpassed beauty. Her husband loved her with more passion than any other man could have.

Yet, he came to her only at night, leaving her alone and lonely during the daylight hours. Of what use were the beautiful gowns if no one saw her in them? Of what use were the brilliant jewels if no one saw them on her? Of what use were the beautiful palace gardens if she walked them, day after day, by herself? Of what use was her life if there was no one with whom she could share the day as well as the night?

Everything would be perfect if only she could see her husband's face. But he said he would go away if she ever did. How ugly and hideous could he be? Would all the love she had for him vanish when she saw his face? Psyche did not think she was that superficial.

She sat on the edge of her bed, the lamp and the knife on the floor at her feet. But what if he were everything her sisters had said he was? There was only one way to know for sure. She would look at him. He said he would leave her forever, but if he loved her as much as he said he did, how could he bear to leave her? She didn't think he would.

The time had come. For too long she had permitted him to dictate the terms of their relationship. Who did he think he was that he, and he alone, decided when she could see him?

Having made her decision, Psyche put the lamp under the bed and the knife beneath her pillow. She undressed, got into bed, and waited in the darkness.

Not much time passed before the double doors to the balcony opened. Psyche heard her husband's footsteps as he crossed the room. Her body tensed as he got into bed and took her in his arms. She felt his lips on her cheek and then her mouth, and they were as warm and sweet as they had been all the other nights.

Those are the lips of a human,
she told herself, her body starting to relax. She took him in her arms and her fingers caressed his chest, waist, hips, and legs. Gently she touched his face, her fingers outlining his eyes, nose, and mouth.

This is no serpent in the guise of a man,
she reassured herself, and flung her arms tightly around his neck, drawing him into the full beauty of her nakedness. On all other nights, he had made love to her. But on this one, excited to know that her husband was no monster and excited that she was, at long last, going to see his face, it was she who made love to him.

Cupid was startled by this new intensity of passion, startled but pleased. She had never given to him of herself so wholly. Her passion inflamed his. Then his inflamed hers, and their shared passion expanded until they felt like it enveloped the world. Finally, like stars bursting into myriad trails of light, they erupted in tears of gratitude for the other and for the passion.

They lay next to each other, exhausted but happy. Psyche wanted him to see the smile on her face and the wonder in her eyes. And she wanted to see those emotions on his face. The vocabularies of joy and awe were not written in words but in the eyes. One look into his eyes would tell her more about how much he loved her than all the words of love in the dictionaries of every language.

She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She waited until his breathing was regular. She reached out gently and touched his face with her fingertips. He did not move.

Slowly, quietly, she slipped from beneath the bedcovers and knelt down. She found the lamp and lit it. Then she took the knife in her other hand—just in case.

The lamp trembled in her hand as she stood up. She held it high enough so that its light shone on the face of her husband.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. She could not believe who she was gazing on. Could it be? Could it be that her husband was the god Cupid? It had to be. No mortal man could be so beautiful. His thick, curly hair was the color of sunlight. His face was strong, but a gentleness was on his lips. From his shoulders, wings arched upward like soft desire. The rest of his body was as smooth and beautiful as desire fulfilled.

Even the lamp knew on whom it was shining, and its flame began dancing back and forth with joy. The knife knew, also, and, turned its edge away from Cupid, then twisted out of Psyche's hand and fell to the floor, next to Cupid's bow and quiver of arrows.

Psyche saw her husband's sacred weapons. She stooped down to look at the arrows more closely. She pulled one out and touched the golden tip with a thumb. But she pressed too hard and pierced the skin.

Her love for her husband was already great, but now that she knew who he was, now that the potion from the arrow mixed with her blood, her love for him knew no bounds.

The lamp wanted to show its passion for the god, wanted to touch that beautiful body, and it spurted a drop of oil onto Cupid's shoulder.

The god awoke with a cry and sat up. He looked up to see Psyche gazing at him with ardent passion. Quickly he got out of bed, ran across the room to the balcony, and spread his wings.

"Please! Don't go!" Psyche shouted, running after him. As Cupid rose into the air, Psyche jumped and grabbed his right ankle. Cupid beat his wings furiously as he struggled to rise higher. He shook his leg, trying to dislodge Psyche. Finally, as he flew low over the meadow, her grasp weakened and she fell to the ground, crying.

Cupid alighted in a tree to catch his breath. He looked down on her. "Oh, Psyche. I disobeyed my mother, Venus, for you. She wanted me to have you fall in love with someone utterly unworthy of you. But I fell in love with you instead. I know now how foolish I was to have done so, to have disobeyed my mother. You would not believe your feelings of love for me. Instead, you listened to your evil sisters and let them convince you that I was a monster, when you knew in your heart that I was not. I warned you about them, but you would not listen. Now, I will do as I told you."

He flew away into the night.

Now, I'm going to have to put the story on pause because I know you have a question, and I know what the question is. Because Cupid had wings growing out of his shoulders, and Psyche had been hugging him every night, why hadn't she felt his wings? Why did she find out he had wings only after she looked at him in the light from the lamp?

I had that same question, and I asked the story about it. The story scratched its head and looked very confused. A story hates to be wrong, but it finally had to admit that it did not know why Psyche had never felt Cupid's wings. The only reason I could come up with was that Psyche's arms were short and they could only reach around Cupid's neck. The story liked that and gave me a high five. However, if that explanation doesn't work for you—well, you should come up with another one and put it in the story. Stories don't like to admit when they need help, but I know from experience that when you give it to them, they are very grateful. I have saved a whole lot of stories from oblivion.

Now, let's find out how Psyche is doing.

Psyche lay in the grass where she had fallen, sobbing. She did not understand why Cupid had left her. Neither did she understand what she had done wrong. Yes, he had told her not to look at his face, but why was that so
important? Did he expect her to love him and never know what he looked like, never to gaze into his eyes? Not only was that unfair, it was not realistic. Even the blind longed to see the faces of loved ones. How much more intense the longing of one who was sighted and yet forbidden to see?

But who was she to question a god? Especially the god of love. She had disobeyed a god's command, but she had not known he was a god when he commanded her not to look on him. If he had told her he was a god, of course she would have obeyed. But he had not. He had kept her in ignorance of his true identity. Did he not understand that what is forbidden to mortals is what they will crave the most?

But none of that mattered now. Cupid had left her. Now there was an emptiness inside her as great as her love for him. How was she supposed to continue living when her reason for living had left her?

She returned to the palace to look for her sisters. They had said they would help her kill her monstrous husband. Psyche looked in all the rooms but her sisters were not there. But in one of the rooms, she noticed that practically all the jewelry was missing.

How foolish she had been to believe them. Her husband had warned her about them, but she had refused to believe him. She had also ignored all she knew about Thomasina and Calla and how they had always been jealous of her, how they had never cared for anyone except themselves.

Betrayed by her sisters and abandoned by Cupid, Psyche could not bear to remain in the palace another moment. Not only was there no life for her at the palace, there was no life for her anywhere now.

Sun had begun his day and, eager as always to see Psyche, he had just risen above the mountains surrounding the valley when she walked across the meadow and into the woods. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped, and tears poured down her face.

Sun watched as she emerged from the woods and continued toward the river, whose currents were so dangerous even fish were afraid to swim in it. Realizing what Psyche was intent on doing, Sun shouted, "Psyche! Psyche!" But he was too far away. She could not hear him.

Unable to do anything to stop her, Sun did not want to watch. Vowing never again to let his emotions get involved in the affairs of humans, he closed his eyes.

When Psyche reached the river, she did not hesitate. She leaped into the furious, roiling waters. However, the river owed its existence to the god she despaired of ever seeing again. But the river knew him better under his other names, Eros and Phanes. From him light had first emanated; it was he who had set the universe in motion and created the sun, moon, sky, and earth. Such was the power of love that it banished primeval chaos. The waters, beasts, winds, trees, and birds remembered Eros and how he chose to enter the affairs of humans in the guise of Cupid, son of Venus, and
they would never harm the one he had chosen as his beloved. Nor would they allow her to harm herself. So the river drew itself up into a wave, lifting Psyche and placing her gently back on the land.

Psyche lay on the ground, sobbing. If she could not kill herself, what she was supposed to do? Was it possible for someone to cry for her entire life? Were there that many tears in her body? She knew there were.

The sound of crying attracted the attention of Pan, the god of sheep and goats, pastures and woodlands. He liked to dance in nature while playing on pipes of reeds, which are called—what else?—panpipes, of course. Pan loved women, but with the legs and feet of a goat and with horns growing from his head, he was quite ugly. He was so ugly that people were frightened when they saw him and would go into a
panic.

More than all the gods, Pan knew what it was like to love and have that love rejected. Seeing Psyche lying in the grasses, sobbing, he knew that crying of such violence came only from love unfulfilled.

He went to her, knelt beside her, and said quietly, "Beautiful lady. I am old and I have loved much. Alas, to no avail. No one will have me because the sincerity and strength of my love is not enough to overcome my ugliness. You would think a lifetime of loving and not being loved in return would have made me bitter. But it has not. I believe that one day I will find the one who will love me as I love her.

"I know your heart is aching in grief, but the cure is not to kill yourself. You must find the one you love. Go. Do not sit here crying. Go. Your beloved will not be stubborn and foolish forever."

Psyche continued sobbing. When her sobbing eventually slowed, she realized Pan was right. Why should she be miserable for the rest of her life? Better to search everywhere for Cupid than feel sorry for herself. Though he lived on Olympus, he came to the world of mortals often to create as well as destroy love. Who could say that she would not see him on one of his visits?

In the distance she heard the sound of panpipes. Smiling, she arose and began walking away from the river.

Psyche had not gone very far before she felt a gentle wind. She smiled as Favonius picked her up.

"Are you taking me to Cupid?" she asked hopefully.

"No," Favonius responded. "I have some unfinished business with your sisters, and I need your help."

"I will be more than happy to help you," Psyche said firmly.

Favonius told her everything he had heard Thomasina and Calla say. Then he told her what he wanted her to do, and she agreed.

West Wind carried her into the kingdom adjacent to the one over which her parents ruled. There he set her down outside the dark doors of a small mansion.

When the door opened in response to Psyche's knock, there stood her sister Thomasina.

"Psyche?" Thomasina asked in disbelief.

"Oh, Sister!" Psyche exclaimed and threw herself into her sister's arms.

"I thought—" Thomasina stopped herself.

Psyche looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Thought what? That I was dead?"

"No, no." She laughed nervously. "I ... I ... well, I did not think you, my baby sister, would have the courage to kill a monster."

"Ah, Sister. My husband is no monster."

"Then who is he?"

"He is the god Cupid."

"Cupid!" Thomasina exclaimed. "Of course. Who else could live in a palace filled with such riches? Oh, Psyche! You silly girl! You should have figured that out immediately."

"Alas, dear sister. Not only did I not, but the god awoke and saw me standing over him with a knife. He glared at me and said, 'I divorce you. I will marry your oldest sister instead. She will know how to appreciate me.' And with those words, he flew away and out of my life. Oh, Sister! My heart is broken."