Short Story: Some Velvet Morning

Short Story: Some Velvet Morning

Phaedra stood at her gate, watching the surf, listening to the wind.

When the emerging sun found purchase on the eastern most tip of the mountain range, and the hot wind that followed in the sun's path, blew faster than the Oriole could fly, the strange sounding voices would seek her out. Speak her name.

Phaedra.

A man and a woman, in turn, singing; haunting Phaedra at her gate.

'What does it mean?' Phaedra said, 'are their words... a prophecy?'

Theseus did not answer his wife. In fact, he turned away from her.

Is Phaedra cursed? he thought to himself as he climbed the path that would return him to the cliff top; I hear only the spasmodic wind hustling the gulls off the Aegean, the last gasp of a wave as it dies on the sand.

Theseus sagged. So many troubles beset him.

There was the harvest of course; it had failed once again that year, and the prospect of a worsening famine worried him greatly. So did Phaedra. But of even greater concern, his illegitimate son, Hippolytus.

Only a few days previously, Hippolytus, had met his step-mother for the first time, subsequently told Theseus he never wished to set eyes on her again.

Why does my son spurn my beautiful new wife, Phaedra, Theseus thought to himself, have I not enough woes as it is?

One day Phaedra might bear him legitimate heirs. Perhaps that was why Hippolytus rejected her? And yet, Theseus did not know this to be true. His son had refused to speak of the matter beyond his vow never to meet his step-mother again.

And now this, Theseus said to himself; Phaedra hearing 'voices' at her gate.

Another thought assailed him; were all these seemingly unconnected events somehow bound together?

Theseus wondered, yes, he could not stop himself do that, and yet, he loathed conjecture, felt strangely resigned to accept mystery.

I simply do not know, he thought to himself.

**

The dying wind, experienced as little more than a child's breath on a mother's cheek, suddenly regained it's momentum.

Phaedra clung steadfastly to her gate, hearing once again the same unfathomable words. The man; Some velvet morning when I'm straight. The woman; Daffodils and dragonflies. Flowers growing on the hill.

I'm going to open up your gate; the man again.

Who was the man who called out her name in a rich smoky timbre, the woman with the exotic voice who sang about flowers growing on a hill?

Why had they chosen to haunt her so?

Was there perhaps a threat inherent in the man's intention 'to open up her gate'?

Or, Phaedra now thought to herself, has it something to do with my feelings for Hippolytus?

**

The next morning, as had become her custom, Phaedra waited by her gate. Below her, a rocky shelf that gave way to a stony path leading to the shore, where jostling white horses riding the crest of the surf were dashed on the pebbles, only to reappear, rather forlornly Phaedra thought, on the next less urgent wave.

When yet again the voices spoke to Phaedra and the sun bore heavily upon her unfettered breast, regally adorned in the finest weave of a near transparent silk, she allowed an image of her step-son, Hippolytus, to enter her being.

In her mind's eye he lay naked in the terraced grove just beyond the gate. Always sleeping the sleep of the Gods.

A hefty erection jutting forth from his athletic loins.

I will not be denied, Phaedra said to herself, I will have Hippolytus.

A plan formed in her mind. Some velvet morning when I'm straight whispered over rocks and through trees. An Oriole took flight. Immersed in hedonistic visions of immoral lust, Phaedra thrilled at her base daydream.

Nothing, it seemed, not even the fear of discovery, would get in the way of Phaedra realising her lurid fantasy.

**

That night, one of Phaedra's many maids, Leda, a coquettish sort blessed with lush raven-black tresses that curled at the hip, who was unquestionably the most voluptuous virgin at Phaedra's command, did her bidding; lured Theseus' son, Hippolytus, to the gate, and there, whilst prefacing a veritable cornucopia of upcoming erotic delights, simultaneously plied him with wine laced with a powerful sleeping draught.

When a few hours later an orange tinged sun straddled the vast blue space between the mountains and the heavens, Phaedra slipped away from her husband's bed, found Hippolytus sleeping close by the gate.

The servant girl has done her job well, she said to herself, now it is my turn.

After placing daffodils arranged in a crudely fashioned garland around the crown of Hippolytus head, Phaedra hurried away, concealing herself behind a ridge less than twenty paces distant. Once there, she began reciting a litany of mystical incantations, a combination of which eventually bore fruit.

'Behold!' she cried out, 'Gaia!'

Stood close by Hippolytus Gaia sang; Daffodils and dragonflies, at which, hardy looking vines thrust up out of the rocky soil around her feet. When she put out a hand the vines raced away from her toward an ancient olive tree. At the curl of a finger, they twice rounded the tree trunk, turned tail abruptly, and headed back towards her and the still sleeping Hippolytus.

Hippolytus woke when the first sinuous vine brushed against his thigh.

Gaia smiled down at him.

'Some velvet morning when I'm straight,' Hippolytus said to Gaia, though he had no idea why he had uttered those words, what they meant, or any understanding of what was happening to him, why Gaia had appeared, why indeed, he was lying there, naked, at Phaedra's gate.

Neither did Hippolytus comprehend why a dozen or more unearthly looking vines were coiling themselves around his indolent body, still stricken by the heady potion.

He tried to suppress a moan when a ligature formed by the unnatural material twisting around his torso suddenly tightened around his neck.

Other vines still, drew blood from his flailing wrists, easily pinioning him at the ankles.

Finally, Hippolytus gave up the struggle. He did not have the strength. He was imprisoned.

Gaia sang: Flowers are the things we knew, Secrets are the things we grew, Learn from us very much, Look at us but do not touch, Gaia is my name.

A new breed of unearthly vegetation, just as strong as Hippolytus' bindings, but broader in the leaf, and somehow less harrowing in appearance, sprang forth from the earth and rapidly encircled his torpid manhood.

The paralysing effects of the potion the servant girl had administered, all of a sudden, vanished.

Hippolytus no longer felt fear. He felt aroused.

The garland Phaedra had fashioned out of daffodils, slipped down onto his forehead and came to rest upon his eyes.

Gaia sang the same refrain thrice more.

The velvety caress of the serpent-like vine wrought an unyielding firmness from Hippolytus already erect appendage.

Through a semi-translucent blindfold Hippolytus discerned the outline of what he assumed to be the Mother of All, the Goddess Gaia, bearing down upon him.

If I do not survive this unearthly encounter, he thought to himself, at least I die knowing that my seed, above all others, was chosen by Gaia, that I will be the one to revitalise Mother Earth. To restore the harvest to its bountiful best.

It was Phaedra, of course, and not Gaia, who knelt over Hippolytus manhood.

**

Heat followed shadow.

Gaia's heat, Hippolytus thought, thrilled by the prospect.

He is ready, Phaedra said to herself, tearing her gown asunder, and so am I. And spoke his name.

Hippolytus called for his father, but a vine waylaid the name 'Theseus' in his throat, choked it off.

Gaia departed, her true mission there, perhaps, forever unclear to her, now at an end.

**

Down the centuries sages have argued of course, as to what exactly took place at Phaedra's gate.

Was perhaps the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, once spurned by Hippolytus, responsible?

Had, as some believed, Aphrodite cast a spell on Phaedra, subsequently enlisted Gaia's help in assisting Phaedra's wanton desires, and innocently, Gaia had obliged, unwittingly bringing about the ensuing tragedy?

No one would ever be sure of the truth. Not even Phaedra.

What is certain; at length, Phaedra duly sated her debauched hunger and the demons of guilt swiftly closed in on poor Hippolytus when she was done with him.

Calamity, undoubtedly, was close at hand.

**

When Phaedra was spent she freed her step-son from his ties and at once, Hippolytus sought out his father, urgently confessing to the unconscionable coupling with his step-mother. He was rapidly followed by Phaedra, who swore to her husband that Hippolytus fantastic story was a preposterous lie.

No, the truth was, she said, his bastard son had followed her there, raped her.

**

Theseus stood at Phaedra's gate. His tears fell to the stony ground in an unrelenting procession. For three days he kept to his penance, weeping silently, ignoring the pleas of servants that he return home. And as Theseus wept, the thin barren soil at his feet slowly became sodden. And on the morning of the third day, the earth miraculously bore a multitude of daffodils, thousands upon thousands of them, so many that Theseus became but a small figure amidst a vast vulgar wave of pale yellow and darker burnt ochre, flower and stems alike hustled by a chivvying wind that swept along dragonfly, carried with it, fleeting sounds.

Voices.

At last, Theseus heard what Phaedra had spoken of...

Some velvet morning when I'm straight, I'm going to open up your gate, And maybe tell you 'bout Phaedra, And how she gave me life, And how she made it in, Some velvet morning when I'm straight.

Hippolytus, was dead. Theseus had murdered him. But before Theseus could even bury his beloved child, Phaedra had confessed her wrongdoing to him, duly walked through her gate, down the rocky path onto the sand and into the oncoming surf, where she beckoned the sea bulls to come forth and drag her off into the silent blue depths.

To her death.