Circe

by Madeline Miller

Of all the mortals on the earth,

there are only a few the gods will ever hear of. Consider the practicalities. By the time we learn their names, they are dead. They must be meteors indeed to catch our attention. The merely good: you are dust to us.

“She does not send to you for love,” he said. The breeze blew, carrying the scent of linden flowers. At its back, the muddy stink of the pigs.

They never listened. The truth is, men make terrible pigs.

“I cannot accept that,” I said. “My son must live.” There is no must to the life of a mortal, except death.

I felt the currents move. The grains of sand whispered against each other. His wings were lifting. The darkness around us shimmered with clouds of his gilded blood. Beneath my feet were the bones of a thousand years. I thought: I cannot bear this world a moment longer. Then, child, make another. He glided off into the dark, trailing a ribbon of gold behind him.

Everything was united by the steady rise and fall of nature’s breath.