Chapter Four

“Come, Hermaphroditus. My sister wants you to be back before noon. The sun is high enough already.” Hesperia called.

My aunts did not expect to keep me for as long as they did, thus pouring little imagination into naming me. Though oftentimes some divinities who had seen some of the world, could guess my parent’s names before learning mine. Their eyes shone as they listed my parent’s features on my face. I did not revel in these exchanges. They were merely hollow figures to me. I took no joy in honoring them. I filled a ceramic bowl with water from the spring, rinsed my face and braided my hair back. Oenone sat on the riverbank, her chin resting on her knee, the other leg submerged in the water, humming softly. I could faintly make out the glitter of gathering fish beneath. A few blackbirds too had landed on a nearby branch to listen to her. My chest swelled with love. I felt deep gratitude to have grown up in a place like this. Yet as secluded as our hills felt, I knew I was not wholly out of sight. I had eavesdropped on my aunts a handful of times. I knew my father visited her nymph sisters often. Laughing with them, playing, drawing them onto his lap. How he liked to name the children he was most proud of, making lists of his strapping sons and beautiful daughters. My name wouldn’t cross his lips then. Later, when he’d drained his cup a few times, he’d come to me. Slight Hermaphroditus. Displaced Hermaphroditus. Frail Hermaphroditus. My slender frame, my delicate fingers. How my hair spilled across my shoulders when I ran through a field. How I spent my days tending a garden rather than relishing the hunt. How he couldn’t bear to see his blood in a dress, when there were no breasts to speak of. It was an odd mix of feelings that came up then. I did not care for his opinion, of someone whose virtues included spite and vanity. Yet from time to time, I felt his words finding their way in. When I tried to mimic the water strider’s graceful glide across the pond, or when I joined the chaffinch in song. The flowers my aunts had braided into my hair seemed ridiculous, my crossed legs an embarrassment. Soft and vulnerable. Tender and fragile.

“Here I am,” I said, trying to sound eager. Oenone’s hum ended as she looked up. She smiled. “Don’t worry, I did not forget about breakfast. Let’s go.”