Once upon a time, in what is now Jaén, Andalucía, there was a king. And a war. Such stories usually begin this way, don’t they? Two swords clashing; the leaders of two opposite sides, the last ones standing. Around them, nothing but corpses. The sky darkened by the amount of crows flying towards the battlefield, attracted by the smell of blood, even if they yet couldn’t see it. Hungry, impatient to claim the soft tissues, to rip eyeballs from their sockets. While both kings fought and fought and fought to the death.
Moors against Christians. The year 1212. Moroccan and Arabian forces crossing the Strait of Gibraltar and ending the reign of the Visigoths. The creation of Al-Andalus, a place that would become a center of production and cultural interaction. A home for bright minds, with even brighter futures. But not all agreed – some others, of fairer skin and lighter eyes, consider the land as theirs. Could someone really claim that a piece of soil belonged to them? It seemed to be the case.
And as such, wars were fought and won and lost and treaties were sent and none of them accepted by any of the sides. ‘We won’t retreat,’ had the Moor king said. And as such, he had gone to war, in shining chainmail and armor, arm raised, holding a sword. Him and his horse disappearing into the horizon were the last things his most adored treasure, his daughter, had seen before being hidden underground, locked inside a secret room only her father knew about, with enough provisions and oil lamps so that she could survive until he was back. He hadn’t told anyone about it, hoping he could keep her safe. His last, and most fatal mistake.
Because he never returned. The Christians were victorious; her father’s heart had been punctured by a spear. She hadn’t been there to see it, but had she been, she would have watched as the king was standing there, in his white steed one second and then… not anymore. Strides behind it, he laid now, with the blade deep inside of his chest and a red stain that grew bigger and bigger and bigger. Eyes open, misted, that watched no more.
But Cassiopeia hadn’t been there. And as such, she trusted in her father’s prompt return. Prayed for it, even when madness started to get a grip on her mind, even when she had run out of oil for the lamps and of things to eat. Soon, she knew the truth she had refused to accept: no one would be coming for her.
Winter and hunger, worse enemies than entitled men. A battle she couldn’t really win. Desperation and insanity. Cassiopeia thought she would die – but she didn’t. Feverish, she couldn’t feel her frozen legs any longer, but when she touched them with numbed fingers, she found scales. Like that of a reptile.
It wasn’t long until despair became anger. And thirst for vengeance.
No longer could the big stone that acted as the door to the secret room keep her in. No longer was she scared of venturing out. No longer did she care about anything other than blood and killing and separating heads from bodies and sticking her sharp teeth on warm bodies be it woman, or man. The last vestiges of humanity she had left, she used them to sing. On dark nights, walking around, with her serpent tail acting as legs, the top half of her body covered only by red curls that reached her hips.
Whoever listens to me sing
Won’t see the light of day
Or the night of San Juan…
It was precisely the night of the 23rd of June that she found out something that would change her immortal life forever.
She woke up, ready to kill and rip and murder, as hungry as ever, to realize she didn’t crave blood. Instead, bread and potatoes and spiced meats like her mother used to cook filled her mind. Shaking her head to dispel those thoughts, she stood up from the humid floor of the castle dungeon she had made her home, only to find she still had legs.
A pair of white, sickly-looking things, filled with bruises but not with scales.
Each step felt like a thousand knifes stabbing the soles of her feet, and yet, she danced and sang and cried of happiness and did so some more when she found an old dress that had belonged to a maid once and put it on and went to the nearest town and was served mead, and bread with meat and potatoes and danced to the tunes of the local tavern’s bard, until he asked her if she wanted to spend the night with him, and she did, kissing him until her lips were sore and stroking his skin, his hair, until her hands were tired.
However, by morning, a blinding pain.
And she didn’t have to lift the sheets to know, she was half serpent again.
Because the bard’s meat had been ripped from his bones, his blood sucked and the tender hands that had caressed her body were not anymore attached to his.
Cassiopeia ran away. And hid. And started eating only lonesome travelers that deviated from the road, or those that wanted to see the legend of the Tragantía, as the locals had started to call her. She cured her bloodthirst with those that invaded her privacy, furious with their behavior, feeling rage travelling through her body instead of blood, plasma, and other fluids.
And still, every San Juan’s night, she went out. She bathed, carded her curls, wore a dress. She was still a celebrated beauty; slanted brown eyes, full lips, a round face. Too thin, from the famine before her transformation, but nothing a blouse and a skirt couldn’t mask.
Every year, she wandered the world. Stood wide eyed in front of new things – a television, you say this is called? Are there little people inside? – and heard people’s stories, mostly in bars she entered, pretending to be a foreigner, justifying that way the way in which she spoke Spanish; using strange words, that were out of fashion. But Cassiopeia still managed to make herself understood and to learn, so that hopefully, the next year, she wouldn’t draw as much attention to herself.
It was 2020 when she met him.
A man, another traveler. Perhaps looking for something else in that small town, but finding her. And she knew; finding him was one of the reason why she had been alive for over 800 years, why she hadn’t wished to die any of them. A scholar, maybe, asking questions about eternal life, immortality, a deity he called Sleep. Local legends.
‘I can tell you all about them,’ Cassiopeia said out loud, with a smile, drawing shapes on the wooden table using a finger as a pencil.
‘I would be thankful…’ He seemed to be looking for a way to call her.
‘Cass.’ Her smile grew wider.
Hearing her name come out of his mouth was like a dream come true. Telling him all about the Tragantía, the beast who many used to scare their children when they misbehaved in Cazorla, didn’t. And that’s why she confessed, after their lips had met in a dark alley, remembering the fate of that bard and not wanting this to happen to him. To Alexander.
She told him everything. How she had been left to die. How consumed by hunger and thirst she had gone crazy. How she had cried, waited for her father to return, but he hadn’t, he hadn’t and her prayers had been directed towards a deaf God who hadn’t replied to them, and…
Others would have questioned her words. Would have screamed in horror. But not him. Instead, he placed an unruly curl behind her ear, and looked at her straight in the eyes.
‘You’re the most beautiful monster I have ever seen, then.’
Was he joking?
They had gone their separate ways, after the light of the morning had started to illuminate the small hotel room they had rented for the night. With a promise. One that she hadn’t thought he would fulfill.
‘See you next year.’
However, there he was in 2021. And 2022. And 2023. Waiting for her, spending hours simply talking, holding her hand, kissing the top of her head, her cheeks, her lips, her shoulder… as if he had truly missed her.
As if he loved her, as much as she loved him.
@j-ofspades
