A Muse in Peril

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A Muse in Peril

"We're it," said Thalia, relaxing in an overstuffed easy chair. "Everyone else is on assignment."

"I thought we were all supposed to be done in time for this retreat." Polly doffed her gloves, jacket, scarf, and boots, then slipped on a pair of Isotoners and joined Calliope on the love seat.

"We were," Clio growled in obvious disapproval of their colleagues' absence. It was clear she was in a bad mood, and knowing her temper none of the others dared comment on the annoying squeak caused by her agitated rocking.

"So, how was your first client?" Calliope asked Polly, trying to change the subject in her perpetual role as conciliator.

Polly's face lit up as she shared the excitement of her first assignment. Clio remained aloof, but the other two smiled at her infectious enthusiasm. They remembered their own first missions with fondness, and knew Polly would carry the memory with her forever.

Polly told of how she'd found her client only days after being invested as a Muse. He was sitting on a park bench, and she had struck up a conversation with him. When she learned he was a songwriter in search of inspiration, she knew he was the one that she, as Polyhymnia, was sent to help. She fairly glowed as she related the way his face had transformed as the ideas came flooding to him. They'd agreed to meet again the following week, and kept meeting each week for two months.

"When I told him I had to leave town," she concluded, "he called me his lucky charm and begged me to stay."

"I knew he'd hit on you," grumbled Clio. "The men always do."

"Oh, but it wasn't like that," said Polly. "He never once tried for anything more than friendship."

Clio just looked at her condescendingly and muttered, "You're so naive."

Polly looked at the other two and asked, "Are the men really like that?"

"Some are," replied Thalia, "but not all. You have to watch out for them, but if you're careful you can usually see the signs early enough."

"What do you do then?" asked Polly.

"Get out," said Thalia.

"As fast as you can," added Calliope.

Clio didn't say anything, but appeared to approve of this advice.

That was an aspect of being a Muse that Polly was not looking forward to experiencing. "What kind of clients do you all like best?"

Thalia answered first. "That's easy. Young women with no experience. They get so excited seeing their own ideas blossom. They're so full of life when they're young, and there's so much potential." She leaned back, reminiscing about some of the girls she'd helped in the past.

"That may be true," said Calliope, "but so often that potential isn't realized. If you start them too young, they're too easily distracted, and sometimes the motivation just isn't there to follow through." She paused for a moment, reflecting. "No, I like men better, a little older, with a bit of experience. Not too much mind you. Just enough so you know they've finished maturing and are ready to make a commitment to their work."

When Clio remained silent, Polly prompted her. "What about you, what sort of clients do you like best?"

Clio seemed a bit annoyed at being forced into answering, but then softened as she thought of the work she really did enjoy. "Late bloomers; that's who I like best. Doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman, but I prefer people who discover their creative side late in life. I know it doesn't leave as much productive time for them, but the depth of experience you have to work with is so much greater." Her rocking slowed and the trace of a smile could almost be seen at the corner of her mouth as she thought of some of the people she'd worked with.

"So you all mostly like people whose creativity is just starting to unfold?" Polly asked. There were nods all around. "I think it would be nice to work with an experienced person, to renew a faded spark of creativity and see the life return to their work."

Clio looked at her sharply. "That won't happen any time soon. You should know that new Muses are always assigned new artists, and there's a good reason for that."

Polly knew about that rule, but didn't know the reason. She was about to ask, but was pre-empted when Clio continued.

"Another thing you'll want to be careful of is exposing your abilities to your clients."

"Really?" asked Polly. "I know they wouldn't believe it, but what difference would it make? What could happen? A few thousand years ago the Greeks always knew who the Muses were."

"They might try to catch you!" snapped Clio.

Polly laughed aloud at this, then sobered quickly as she realized the others all wore deadly serious expressions.

"What do you mean? We can dematerialize at will. What could they do?"

Calliope spoke up. "You do know about gorgons' teeth, don't you?"

"Sure," Polly answered. "They could stop us from dematerializing. But there are no gorgons left. They were all killed off more than a thousand years ago."

"Yes," agreed Thalia, "but teeth can last a long time."

"Are you saying there are still gorgons' teeth around?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"You bet," said Calliope. "They're rare, but rare isn't the same as non-existent."

"Has anyone ever tried it?"

"Tried it?" asked Thalia rhetorically. "You bet. And succeeded."

"Really? Who was caught?"

"I was," said Clio.

Polly turned to her in amazement. Clio's stern face saddened a little as she began to relate what had happened.

"It started shortly after I became Clio. It was only my third assignment, so I didn't have much more experience than you do now. It was a long time ago, before the rule about matching novices with novices, and they assigned me to an experienced client. The idea was to make it easier on me, but that kind of backfired. That's why they made the rule, and you'll only get newbie artists until you learn the ropes."

"What happened?" Polly asked with rapt attention.

"I took on the role of a fellow writer, a common ruse we employ to get close to our clients and bring up topics related to writing and creativity. The client was a member of a critique group that met weekly, and it was easy enough to join. Right from the beginning there were signs of trouble, but I was young and naive.

Clio was the first to arrive at the critique group meeting. That night it was at Cindy's house. She was one of one of the younger members, and her toddler's toys were strewn around the living room. Thankfully her son was already in bed and it was unlikely they'd be disturbed. Frank arrived as Cindy hurriedly gathered the toys from the floor. Clio knew instantly that he was the one, before he even introduced himself.

"Hello, I'm Frank. You must be Clio." She agreed as they shook hands. "How long have you been writing?"

"Oh, not long, only a few months."

He glanced at the notebook she held protectively against her chest. "What have you got so far?"

Clio was careful to act reluctant as she handed over the carefully prepared 'beginner' incomplete manuscript. It contained some character sketches, a few plot notes, and a couple of first-draft scenes. All in all, it looked like it was written by someone with enough talent to pursue writing, but was not yet polished enough to look professional. Its sole purpose was to provide a reason for being there without leading to any expectations of imminently being published.

The rest of the group arrived while Frank was flipping through the pages of the notebook. Clio did her best to look nervous about somebody reading her work, and used the stock answers she had learned when he asked a few pointed questions about her characters' backgrounds and her use of dialogue. Some of her answers drew strange looks from him, but all in all she thought it was believable.

The meeting itself went rather well, she thought, though she was paying little attention. She spent most of the time concentrating on funnelling creative energy into Frank.

As the meeting wound to a close, Frank stood to leave. "This has been great," he said, "and I've just had a great idea for a new plot twist. Readers will never see it coming, but it fits so perfectly I'm amazed I didn't think of it before."

Clio was ecstatic. "That's great!" she said. "I can't wait to read it next week." She bid them all goodnight, but as the group dispersed she was unaware that Frank turned to watch her leave, a thoughtful look on his face.

A few months went by and at each meeting Frank inquired as to her progress. Her replies were always that it was slow but steady, as prescribed by the Muses' Standard Operating Procedures. When she asked him the same thing, he remarked on his own sudden bursts of creativity following each meeting. He finished the historical novelization he'd been working on when she joined the group, and was half way through the next. Though it had been eight years since he'd last been published, he was certain the quality of work he was producing now would earn him a contract.

Eventually Clio was faced with the imminent completion of her own manuscript. At one meeting Frank asked her, "So, Clio, last week you said you were putting the finishing touches on your first draft. Is it done?"

Clio had been worried about this. Completing a manuscript was out of the question. It violated one of the most important Muse Principles: Inspire, Don't Create. She was forced to fall back on another standard strategy.

"No," Clio replied. "Actually, I've got a great new idea, so I've decided to put that book on hold and start something new." She held up a brand new notebook as though it were a piece of evidence.

"But you're so close to finishing," Frank protested. "You can't quit now." The other members of the group agreed with him.

"I'm not quitting, just taking a break." She hoped she sounded sincere enough; she knew a lot of real writers did that all the time, though she couldn't really understand why. "Besides," she added, "even if I finished it, it's only the first draft. There's still a ton of work to do on it, and I don't want to lose this new idea I've got."

This appeared to satisfy them, but Frank gave her another one of his strange looks.

That evening, as the group was splitting up, Frank caught her arm. "Clio, would you consider meeting me for coffee tomorrow afternoon?"

She hesitated, wondering if he was coming on to her and knowing that was strictly forbidden.

Sensing her trepidation, he quickly added, "I don't want to inconvenience you. It's just that whenever I've been talking to you I always feel so energized, so full of ideas. It's like you inspire me." He cut himself off, as though afraid he'd said too much. Clio didn't notice though. She was too thrilled with the knowledge that her assignment was working out so perfectly. She agreed to meet him.

They began meeting two or three times each week, in addition to their regular writers' critique group. Clio's worries about a come-on proved to be unfounded. Their conversation ranged over a wide variety of subjects, sometimes relating to writing, sometimes not. It didn't seem to matter. Frank just wanted to spend time with her because it invigorated his writing.

One day, as they sat sipping cappuccino and watching the people going by, Frank broached a new topic.

"There's a writers' conference in San Francisco in two weeks."

"Yes, I heard about that. It sounds great. Are you going?"

"I'd like to. And I'd like you to go with me."

She turned to look at him so suddenly that she almost knocked over her cup. "I don't know..."

"It's nothing like that," Frank hurriedly clarified. "Separate hotel rooms and all that. It's just that I haven't been to a conference in over six years, and I'd like some company."

Clio considered the possibility and decided it would be a good idea. After all, Muses attended these conferences regularly anyway, dropping bits of inspiration here and there.

"Sure, I guess so. It sounds like fun."

The days flew by and before she knew it Clio was signing in at the conference registration desk. She and Frank spent two days browsing displays, attending seminars, and listening to prominent authors discuss a variety of topics. Frank also met with an editor or two, but Clio declined the opportunity, claiming she had nothing ready to present. She did, however, enjoy mingling with the crowds, and was buoyed by the excitement and creativity that boiled around her.

Everything went fine, except that Frank had been unable to get any sleep at all because he was up all night in his hotel room typing up a manuscript that he was sure would be accepted by a publisher.

The strange thing was that after the conference it was two weeks before she saw him again. He even missed the weekly meeting of the writers' group. Clio was a little concerned by the change in the pattern, especially since they'd been spending so much time together, but he claimed he wasn't feeling well, and she accepted that at face value.

The next meeting of the group was at Frank's house. Everything went as usual, though Frank was strangely quiet. As it came to an end and the others were leaving, he took her aside.

"Clio, would you care to stay for coffee? I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

She hesitated as the last of the other group members left, and wondered if he was going to hit on her after all. She looked at Frank, trying to read his body language. He was avoiding eye contact and was acting a little jittery. He seemed anxious about something, but apparently didn't want to elaborate until they were alone. She'd had her share of male attention before becoming a Muse, and was pretty sure he was going to propose moving their friendship into more intimate territory. This saddened her a little. The regulations were very specific about that. If he did try to become romantic with her, she'd have to terminate the assignment. Still, he hadn't done anything overt yet, and perhaps he just wanted to show her a manuscript he'd been working on. Writers could be like that.

Clio didn't actually answer Frank's question, but stayed inside and remained silent when he closed the door. They were alone.

"I'd like to show you something in my studio," he said, gesturing for her to precede him through a doorway. He lived alone in a small rancher and had converted one of the bedrooms into a den where he worked. As she looked around at his desk and the shelves stuffed with reference books, she noticed a neat line of half a dozen books he'd already had published.

Before she knew what was happening, he'd closed the door and grabbed her from behind.

"NO!" she screamed, then he clamped a hand firmly over her mouth. She could hardly breathe. She grabbed frantically at the edge of the desk as he forced her down, but only succeeded in knocking a stack of papers to the floor beside her. This had taken her totally by surprise. She'd been prepared for romantic interest and had been ready to turn him down as gently as possible, but the idea of rape had never entered her mind.

There was no way she was going to put up with this, and as a Muse she had the means to escape. She willed herself to dematerialize.

Nothing happened.

As she lay there face down on the floor, Frank straddled her, still holding one hand over her mouth. He reached to open a lower desk drawer and withdrew what appeared to be a dish towel, which he wadded into her mouth. Clio was so shocked by her inability to disappear that she couldn't think straight. With both his hands free now, Frank pulled a rope from the drawer, and proceeded to tie her hands behind her back. Then he looped it around her ankles and tied them together as well, forcing her to arch backwards. She was hog-tied.

Clio lay there crying as Frank stood up. She couldn't believe she'd been so stupid. She'd relied on the abilities bestowed on her when she became a Muse, and they'd failed her. What had happened? What would happen next? What did Frank want with her?

She twisted her neck awkwardly to look up at him. Contrary to her initial assumption, he did not appear to be about to rape her.

When Frank saw that she had begun to calm down, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a very small wooden box. It was ornately carved and looked to be of ancient origin. He crouched beside her and opened it. There inside, nestled on a square of padded deep blue silk, was a single tooth. It was dirty and discoloured with age, but she knew immediately what it must be. A gorgon's tooth.

"If you promise not to scream again, I'll take out the gag. Do you promise?"

What choice did she have? She nodded.

With the gag removed, she asked, "How did you know about me?"

"Sorry, no can say."

She wanted to strangle him for being so flippant, but she wasn't exactly in a position to do so.

"How did you know about the tooth? And where did you get it?"

"That doesn't matter," he replied. "What does matter is what you're going to do for me."

"I won't do anything for you!"

He ignored her. "You will provide me with top grade pure inspiration every time I sit down to write."

"I'll do no such thing!"

"In exchange," he continued calmly, "I won't force you to swallow this." He held up the box with the gorgon's tooth, brandishing it as though it were a deadly weapon. In her case, that's exactly what it was. Close proximity prevented her from dematerializing. Ingestion would be fatal.

"You can't do this to me."

"Don't be silly, Clio, of course I can."

She had no choice but to comply.

At first she did exactly what he wanted. She hoped that when he completed and published a best seller he would agree to let her go. That didn't happen. It only increased his desire to write. After three months as his captive, she saw that this would never end. There was no incentive that would convince him to let her go.

Then she thought of a way out. The idea repulsed her. Muses were supposed to be creative. It was strictly forbidden to do anything destructive, but her life was at stake.

She feigned resignation, and began inspiring him to write another great masterpiece. Two weeks later he was already more than half done. He was so absorbed in his writing that she realized this was her chance.

As the story approached its climax, she kept the inspiration going longer than usual. He was so caught up in it that he refused to quit. He kept going, non-stop, for three days straight. When he finally wrote the last words, he collapsed in exhaustion, his bloodied fingertips leaving red streaks on the desktop as he slumped forward.

Then, instead of easing off, Clio intensified the inspiration. As he slept, he began to dream. It was the only outlet his mind had for the creative images it was inundated with. Normally, dreams act as a sort of release valve for imagery, but his mind was as exhausted as his body, and the inspiration was so intense that his mind couldn't control the creative energy.

She took control.

With the dream sequence now fully under her guidance, she was able to directly manipulate what he experienced. His exhausted motor control functions proved easy to circumvent, giving her control of his unconscious body. In short, Frank became a puppet, doing as she instructed.

In moments, she was free of her bonds. She paused only long enough to smash the little wooden box, grinding the tooth inside into a grey powder. Leaving Frank unconscious on the floor with a trickle of blood oozing out of his flared nostrils, she left.

Polly was stunned. Thalia and Calliope sat there silently, their drinks forgotten and cold. Clio, who had stopped rocking as she told her tale, began moving gently back and forth once again. After a long silence, Polly spoke.

"What happened? To him, I mean." She couldn't bring herself to speak his name, though she had never even met him.

"He never fully recovered. He died three years ago in a psychiatric hospital."