Athena's Curse

Imagine a pile of ancient coins: their edges are irregular, the details warn down by time. Every coin holds a tiny image. A lion's head means it came from Lydia. The coins bearing turtles came from Aegina, those with wolves are from Argos, and the pegasus marks the output of Corinth.

Imagine their cold, hard touch. Do you reach out with reverence towards long-dead craftsmen? Or are you greedy, realising that these ancient pennies can now be sold for a fortune? Do you fully understand what you're touching?

At the bottom of the pile, you find one spectacular coin. It shines brighter than all of the others. Where many of the coins are chipped or deformed, this one is perfect. It's face shines with Athena's owl.

Do you take this coin, even though the owl's eyes appear to be judging you? Can you resist its lure, or is the glamor of its shining, perfect face so enchanting that you can ignore the owl's glare? Can you convince yourself that the owl isn't specifically judging you?

Let me tell you a story. It's the story of someone who saw such a coin and could not resist it's charm.

#

Jerry Sanford drove just as calm as you like. He was good at his job, after all, and he wasn't going to get pulled over for erratic driving while he still had a bloody knife hidden in his boot and the package tucked under the driver's seat. He'd changed vehicles twice since leaving the shop where he acquired the package and the knife acquired its blood, and there was still one more swap to go before he made the eight hour drive out to Colorado for the night. There was a motel room he'd reserved, and he had a credit card under a fake name in case he needed to change plans in case of an emergency.

Everything went especially smoothly.

Eight weeks before, he'd been told what item he was looking for. The meeting had happened in a fancy office, the sort of place where Jerry Sanford stood out like a broken tooth in a model's mouth. Everyone wearing suits and ties and all that bullshit, and all those bastards had to make room for Jerry. That was almost pay enough. Then the boss stated a figure, and Jerry found out just how desperate this bugger was for the coin. Most important of all, he didn't want anyone knowing that he was going to have it.

Why?

"I understand you're descrete," the boss man said. "That's what I'm paying for. Bring me the coin, ask no questions, and I will make you a moderately wealthy man, Mr. Sanford."

Said coin currently occupied the envelop underneath Jerry's seat. Said coin had been the property of a fairly shady antiques store until Jerry brought out his knife.

The drop off point was a ranch out in Colorado. Jerry would park it for the night, then he'd bring them their little owl coin in the morning.

That's when he first heard the flapping.

Jerry was stopped at a red light. He wasn't gonna run a red with this kind of merchandise on him, so he was waiting patiently, and then he looked up and saw a big owl sitting on the traffic signal, even though it was broad daylight.

The bird was studying him. That made him uneasy. He didn't like anyone staring at him for long. It was enough to make any man antsy, especially if that man had a bloody knife tucked into his boot. The owl's eyes said, I know you, and Jerry growled, "Stupid damned bird."

The light turned green, and he drove away. He put the bird out of his mind. He was a damned professional, and he had a job to do. But even with the owl banished from his thoughts, an unease settled on his guts that he couldn't shake.

#

Jerry got the key to his room under the name Bertrand Smith.

"Call me Bertie," he told the clerk, and he smiled his most winning smile. The clerk winced, and that made Jerry's smile more authentic.

He unlocked the door to his motel room then returned to the car, scooping up the coin's envelope and shoving it into his back pocket. Standing at the threshold of the motel room, he listened for anything out of the ordinary. He had a special sense for when he was being tailed, but nothing pinged on his radar. It was just the usual jangled nerves that came from carrying merchandise like this coin. Still, he was good at what he did. He'd moved weapons across the border without getting detected. He'd smuggled kilograms of pure coke across state lines without raising anyone's alarms. Those were big packages. They were bulky, and cops trained dogs to sniff 'em out. This little coin was a walk in the park in comparison.

Just as he was about to step into the motel room, an owl hooted somewhere out in the dark parking lot. He swallowed and searched for the bugger. If he caught the stupid bird he'd shut it up really quickly, but the night was protecting it.

Still, as he stood there, it repeated its call.

Hoot, hoot, hoot...

"Hate those damned birds," he said, retreating into the motel room.

It was small and cheap. One bed, cramped bathroom, an ancient TV mounted on the wall, and a small desk and chair shoved in the corner.

Only it wasn't empty.

Someone was sitting in his damned chair.

"Think you've got the wrong room," Jerry said.

They wore some dumbass garment that made Jerry want to knock their teeth in. It was probably one of those stupid things that people wore in those fashion shows that only a snob could enjoy. The garment was long and draping, almost a dress, but a hood covered the upper half of the bastard's face. Jerry couldn't even tell if he was looking at a man or a lady.

"Why don't you get out of here?" Jerry suggested.

"Come in, Mr. Sanford." Even their voice didn't give Jerry the clue he needed to guess their gender. They were holding back some cards, and Jerry never liked sneaks.

"Name's Smith," Jerry said. "Bertrand Smith, but you can call me Bertie."

The weirdo stood up, the sleeves of their garment swallowing their hands. All that showed was the lower half of their face. They had a small mouth, and for reasons Jerry couldn't explain, it looked beak-like to him.

"Your name is Jerome Sanford, and this morning you assaulted two people in order to steal an ancient coin that dates back to classical Athens."

Jerry felt stiff. He'd been driving all day, and it was well into the night now. He stretched, and he just so happened to reach to the spot in his back where his snub-nosed revolver was hidden. "You some kinda cop?"

"No," the figure said.

"You don't know shit about me, alright? So why don't you just get out of here?"

"You were named Jerome because your parents conceived you during a commercial break. They were watching Seinfeld, and they felt that they should honor Jerry Seinfeld's impact on your life somehow. Your father died ten years later. He was walking along train-tracks and he was flattened. Your mother saw it happen and never recovered. She died two years after that. Your aunt and uncle took you in, but you never liked them. You've killed two people, and you've hospitalised ten more. A combined prison sentence for all of the crimes you've committed would put you in prison for over a hundred years." The figure tilted their head to the side. "Must I go on?"

Jerry pulled the revolver free. "For the last time, I suggest you get outta here."

"I'm not here to hurt you, and you aren't able to hurt me."

"Wanna test that?"

"Your firearm is of no use here," the figure said, icy calm as ever. "I won't lay a hand on you, but I suggest you hand over the coin you stole. It is cursed."

"Cursed," Jerry laughed.

"Indeed. If you give it to me now, we can forget that we ever met. In a week, this encounter will be hazy. In two, you won't think of it at all. Three years from now, it will be as ephemeral as the most fleeting dream. If not, you will be cursed by the god who crafted that coin in the first place."

"And what about my money?"

The beak-like mouth smiled. "I can't help you there."

"Then why don't you get the hell out of here?" Jerry pointed the snub-nosed revolver at the bastard. "Get. I don't want to make this messy."

"As you wish," the figure said. They walked past Jerry with smooth, perfect strides. "You have asked for the curse, so you will receive it."

"Yeah? And what's that going to be?"

At the motel's threshold, the figure hesitated. "The symbol belongs to Athena. Athena is the goddess of wisdom."

They stepped out into the dark. Jerry followed them to make sure they were gone, but the shadows seemed to have swallowed the figure whole. Jerry looked both ways, searching for any sign of movement, but all he saw was the parking lot. No weirdos walking around in hooded dresses.

Then, on the night wind, he heard a faint call.

Hoot, hoot, hoot...

#

Jerome Sanford woke up from the worst nightmare of his life. His skin was slick with sweat, and he gasped for breath. He desperately searched the room around him for evidence that the nightmare was just that. There were the pictures of his family on the wall. The open closet door revealed the shapes of a half-dozen suits. But more reassuring than any of those things was the warm, firm presence of his wife's body in the bed next to him.

Jerome curled up against her, feeling her familiar curves meet him. They fit together so perfectly that Jerome truly believed that some divine craftsperson had made them for each other.

"Romey?" she moaned, dreamily.

Everything about her was perfect. Her sleepy breath stank, but that was the sort of detail that he couldn't just imagine. He ran a hand over her silky pyjamas, pulling her against him. There wasn't lust in his grip--at least, it wasn't the dominant driver. He just needed to feel her reality.

"Romey, what're you doing? I'm sleeping." She giggled, her hands finding him. She twisted, her body lithe and beautiful. She faced him in the dark. "Can't you sleep?"

"Bad dream," he whispered.

"Poor baby." She kissed him on the forehead, then on the nose, then the lips. "Go back to sleep."

"What if I don't want to?"

She giggled again. "Stop it. I need my beauty sleep."

"Obviously not."

"I'm serious!" she said. Then she grabbed big handfuls of their bedsheets, and cocooned herself in them. They both giggled as he tried to wrestle his way back under the sheets, but she had an iron grip. "Stop it. I'm sleeping!"

He lay still next to her. Her hair tickled his face, but he didn't mind. She was here, and she was real, and the nightmare was just that. Some part of his subconscious in overdrive. Images from it remained in his mind, too sharp to be dismissed. Jerry Sanford, hired muscle? Jerry Sanford, murderer?

He couldn't quite shake that nightmare. So he waited until his wife's breathing steadied, then he slipped out of his bed and down the hall. The images from the nightmare were too clear to be random. They had to mean something.

As much as he loved every inch of the home he'd made with his wife, the study remained the only place where he felt perfectly at ease with his thoughts. He'd write the nightmare down in graphic detail. Maybe it could be the start of a novel. He'd made a small fortune as a non-fiction writer, but he'd always nursed a private dream of branching out into the sort of thrillers that they sold at airport bookstores alongside gossip magazines. He turned on the study light, illuminating dozens of author copies of Unbroken: How Childhood Tragedy Prepared Me for Life. It had been translated into twelve languages, and contracts had been signed to translate it into twelve more. He'd also sold a follow-up non-fiction book, titled Real Listening, but the publisher wanted to change the title. They had him under contract for a third book, and they wanted him to write about the intersection between romance and trauma. How had he and his wife made such a strong union even though they'd both had such troubled childhoods?

He settled in at his desk and wrote down details about Jerry Sanford, hired killer. He'd have to change the name eventually, but there was a thrill to writing fiction. All of the details hovered in his mind. He knew Jerry Sanford well. He'd also lost his parents, and Jerome borrowed the details from his own childhood and found they fit perfectly. Only at some point their paths had diverted. Jerry had become a smuggler and a tough, and Jerome had worked his ass off to get through college. Jerry never had a relationship that lasted longer than one night, and Jerome fell in love with his wife at first site.

The details poured out of him, and he disappeared into the world of the fiction. It consumed his attention. He didn't notice as the sun rose, and he didn't notice as his wife's alarm went off in their bedroom.

The only noise to jar him out of the work was a bird's call.

It hooted, just beyond his study's window.

#

Jerry Sanford woke up in a seedy motel room.

Alone.

His cheeks were wet.

He wanted a fight. It was hours until dawn, and that damned owl was still hooting outside his window, so he grabbed his gun. A gunshot would draw attention, but it would be worth it to silence that stupid bird. But when he staggered onto the motel's veranda in his boxers, there were no birds there. He half hoped that a cop would see him, although he couldn't say why.

He packed up his stuff, throwing it into the trunk of the car. He grabbed the coin last.

The dream had felt so real. So perfect.

"Just a dream," he said, but he didn't believe it. "Just a damned dream."

But that woman's face remained in his mind's eye. He could feel her kissing his forehead, his nose, his mouth, he could hear her giggle, he could feel the warmth of her body. He could remember their wedding night.

"Just a dream!" he screamed, alone in his car.

He drove to the drop-off point, anticipating an ambush. There was no way those fools would just hand over the money, so they'd open fire on him as soon as he handed over the envelope. He forgot his revolver in his car, but he didn't go back for it. Instead, he thought about a teary-eyed teenager saying that he'd read Unbroken in juvie and it had turned his life around.

"Do it," he muttered under his breath as he saw the boss man waving him over. Sure, the bastard had a briefcase under his hand, but it won't really have the money. It's a trap. It has to be. Jerry walked forward with his eyes open, thinking Just do it. Draw your gun and do it. Do it!

He remembered the first time he held his wife's hand. He remembered the way her hair tickled across his cheek whenever she leaned into him during movies. She always fell asleep, and he always held her.

But she wasn't real, because it was just a dream.

Jerry shoved the envelope into the boss's hands. "Here you go."

"I hope you didn't run into any problems."

Jerry smiled, all teeth and malice. "No problems at all."

"Very well."

Just do it.

He remembered the press of his wife's lips, but he had no wife. He remembered everything. All of it. It was just a dream, but it wasn't gone. It was eating his brain from the inside out.

And the boss handed over the money. "It would be for the best if we never saw each other again."

"Right."

Jerry waited for bullets that never came.

The boss walked away with the coin.

Jerry wanted to scream at him to finish it already, but he didn't. So with a brief-case full of non-sequentially numbered bills, Jerry retreated to the car. He was haunted by the face of the wife he never met, the woman he never married, the career he never lived, the lives he never changed. He sat behind the wheel and stared, his mind spinning with the knowledge of Jerome Sanford, that other man who had everything Jerry never wanted and everything Jerry always needed.

Jerry Sanford was haunted by wisdom.

And in the distance, a lonely owl hooted.