The Archivist

A short horror story about a deadly artifact.

Photo by Giammarco Boscaro on Unsplash

                        I’ll be the sinews of a teller, shrouded in story
                                  To bring back what I helped destroy
                                                                I give to you,
                                                       A story for a life

---

Breathing mindfully, in with the good, out with the bad, I made my way through the throng of patrons in the viewing gallery. I was aware of being watched. My badge and uniform were not subtle and the Archivists’ work was often seen as arcane and mysterious. Our work put us in front of the artifacts, kept us buried in libraries, dusty attics, and dank storerooms. Or, most often, we were bent over our laptops. Like the carrion flower’s rare bloom, my presence warranted gawking. But tonight was unusual for another reason, the artifact on display was believed to be one of the last, and as such, very dangerous. Very desperate. For the first time in my career, or possibly in the entire history of Archivists, I had been ordered to interview an artifact in public in order to hasten the hour of her destruction. The Curator had chained her to an antique chaise draped in deep chocolate velvet. It was striking choice, the artifact’s grave-pale skin floated against the dark upholstery, her proud face tilted up like a carnivorous water lily.

“Dr. Marangoz, a moment, for an old woman?” Someone grabbed my elbow and I turned to find a woman in her seventies draped in lavender wool crepe. Her hazel eyes darted from mine to the artifact and back again.

“Of course, what can I do for you?”

“I love your work. You always make the artifacts seem so… alive. As though they’d never been destroyed at all. That piece you did on Anansi, I read it to my grandson and he loved it so much he convinced me to buy him a pet tarantula. Can you believe it?”

“Thank you for your kindness. But my pamphlets are meant to instill caution. The artifacts are quite dangerous. This is why we must destroy them.” I waved my hand around the room to indicate the two dozen guards the Empire had insisted were present. The old woman’s gold and green eyes flashed.

“You have to say that out here, but this old woman knows the truth.” She smiled and pressed my hand, and was gone, lost into the crowd.

I had fans. I’d been reprimanded for that several times over my career. Archivists were academics, not storytellers, they told me. I was supposed to make them fear the artifacts, remind them of the destructive power the ancient beings wielded, not make people love them. But then, when millions of people bought my pamphlets the Empire pocketed the money and patted me on the back. Right or wrong, I did love the stories. I guess I loved the artifacts, too, they were alive in a way that the Empire wasn’t. They were emotional and irrational, beautiful and monstrous. Part of me hated destroying them, so I made them live in my pamphlets.

I moved through a crowd standing near an ornate jade burial mask on a pedestal near the artifact’s chaise.

“Doctor, it looks so smug,” a young man in a floral cravat whispered as I moved by. His sidelong glance at the artifact amused me. In the flesh, artifacts were like portals, jumping into one would be dangerous, but the promise of adventure is hard to resist.

“They always look like that,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. It was true, even those I’d expected to snivel when they were destroyed, like Pan, bore their executions with dignity. Sometime in the beginning of my career, after Persephone maybe, I began to ask them, as the executioner raised his obsidian blade, what they had to be so haughty about. Only Coyote ever answered, and he’d said, a sly rictus twisting his muzzle, that it was secret.

“Well it gives me the creeps,” the young man said. “It’s nothing like Mazu, one of my favorite pamphlets of yours, but the way. I was a child when Mazu was captured so I missed seeing her alive. The way you described it though, it sounded so beautiful, so kind. Sometimes I dream she’s returned and I get a chance to see her. That’s deplorable, I know.” He paused again, “I wonder if you’ll convince me to like this artifact too.” His companions nodded gravely and wished me luck. I thanked them and mounted the platform where the artifact was displayed. She’d been listening and turned her face to me. The obsidian chains dampening her power clinked like seashells in a child’s hand as she smiled, pale lips revealing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth. Green eyes veined bright orange with the first fire caught mine, and heat flickered through my mind. I saw a flash of pink, plump flesh. The sound of a wailing infant echoed through the marble halls. Then a stillness fell, like brittle bones cracking. The room began to darken- I broke the artifact’s gaze and dropped my hand to my belly. It was as close as I could get to touching you. Your roundness, your potential, were a comforting reassurance.

I’d always been sensitive to their power. Not even my obsidian jewelry protected me entirely from the stronger ones. I’d learned a few tricks to help me fight their enticements, but it had been almost a year since the last artifact was captured. I was weak, and I knew it. I had asked for more time to prepare, but was denied. She was to be destroyed by midnight, just an hour away. Gathering my strength with an old meditation exercise, I turned back to the artifact to inspect her appearance. Instead of legs her lower half curled into twin, serpent-like tails in olive green with shimmering reddish gold stripes. They twined around the chaise, their jet black tips flicking at the air. I thought of a cat, waiting for the right moment to strike. The artifact’s scales, I noted, were not the smooth, broad scales of a snake, instead they were small and V shaped and appeared to be ridged. Rather like a shark’s skin. I wondered if they felt the same, but the thought of touching her made me shudder. I steeled myself and let my gaze travel back up to her face. She raised a dark eyebrow and smiled.

“Your name, artifact, what is it?” I brought out my notebook and busied myself with filling out the interview form.

“Mother,” she said, her voice rippled through me like a hot current and I again dropped a hand to my belly. See, I have always needed you more than you need me.

“Your name.” I worked to keep my voice steady.

“Lamia.” She smiled, rolling the name out of her throat like a wave.

“Tell me where you came from. Who are your progenitors?” She was silent. I looked up from my paperwork. Her serpent tails writhed along the floor, wrapping and unwrapping themselves around the legs of the chaise.

“I am empty,” was all she said, her eyes slipping up and down my body. Her slender arms spread wide, palms up.

“You mean you’ve forgotten your origins?”

“I am not who I was then.”

“Many artifacts go through changes, some due to actions of their own, others are cursed by fellow gods and goddesses. Is this what you mean?” I watched her eyes flash gunmetal gray and dissolve back to green. I noted on the interview form that she never blinked. Her steady gaze felt like an interrogation of its own.

“When you killed Hera, did she beg for her life?” Lamia’s hands dropped to her sides, a sneer curling her upper lip.

“Artifacts never beg. Did Hera cause your current form? I’ve spoken with many artifacts she maimed.”

“Maimed?” Lamia laughed, “You’re too polite. Hera caused me the ultimate tragedy, but I am the one who used it to turn into this. Into something powerful. I’m a queen now.”

“A queen for now, you mean. And what tragedy?” I watched the first fire curl around the dark green edges of her eyes and creep inward, like blood spreading through water.

“You’ll know soon enough.” She smiled again, I noted on my interview form that her teeth, tiny, numerous, and sharp, seemed well suited to a carnivorous diet. I should have picked up on the threat, but I was too focused on keeping her intrusions at bay. I suspect that was her plan.

“Fine, we’ll start at the beginning. What led to Hera’s punishment?” I had my pen poised to write down her answer although I could have guessed she’d slept with Zeus, it was a common enough story. I’d interviewed him, he hadn’t seemed worth all the horror he caused. Lamia was silent. I looked up to see her staring at me.

“Do you feel our connection?”

“I am trained to resist you.” I looked back down to my paperwork, suddenly aware of the crowd around me.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Perhaps I should leave you for a few minutes. Let the guards remind you why you’re here.”

“You are never leaving me.” Her voice was sweet and menacing, a bee coated in its own honey. The fire in her eyes wrapped around my body and I could feel it begin to seep into me. I inhaled deeply and pictured exhaling ice through my skin, pushing out the fire.

“I’ll go and speak with your captor. I expect you to be more cooperative when I return.” I turned my back to her and nodded to the nearest guard. He returned my nod and pulled an obsidian tipped scourge from his belt. My heart raced as I pushed through the crowd and maybe I knew, even then, what would happen next. On the air I heard her screams. But within me…

Release me.

The whispered words rose through my body like smoke. I half turned, not sure I’d even heard them, but I felt her eyes on me, burning the first fire into my body. A sheen of sweat rose on my forehead as the room grew hot. I hurried away from her ancient gaze, anxious to find the Archeologist.

The adjoining gallery was adorned with the belongings of some of the artifacts we’d already destroyed, Atropos’ scissors, brilliant and bright feathers from Quetzalcoatl, and Thor’s hammer were my favorites. I hadn’t interviewed Thor, but I’d always wished I had. His hammer whispered sagas when the museum was empty, those were tales the Empire would never allow me to write. I knew them though, every bloody feud was inscribed on my heart. Above me, suspended from the gallery’s ceiling, Hugin and Munin flew, forever lifeless in taxidermy. Never again would they croak their secrets to Father Odin.

Near a display case with Pan’s pipe a small crowd gathered around a man in a tuxedo, an Honored Imperial Archeologist medal was pinned to his lapel. He sat on the arm of a velvet sofa and sipped scotch, his black mustache bristled like a broom across the rim of the glass. Seeing me, he winked. I nodded curtly, some archeologists were such cads. He was in the middle of his own saga when I joined the group.

“It was so terrified of us, huddled there like a frightened rabbit on those useless snake-legs. What kind of backward body design is that, I ask you?” The archeologist guffawed and the small crowd around him tittered and nodded. “When we got close it snapped at us, like a crocodile. Would’ve lost a finger if it wasn’t for my apprentice. She grabbed the artifact by the tail and yanked. Those teeth closed on nothing but thin air. SNAP!” He slapped his leg with his free hand and smirked when the crowd jumped, “but I’ve captured worse.” He actually had, he’d captured the Ordog. I had been forced to destroy the uniform I had interviewed that horned soul-stealer in, nothing I tried would wash the smell of sulfur out of it. I stepped up to him and brought out my notebook.

“How do you think she made it to the access tunnel? Did you find where she’d been hiding?” If she’d been hiding, I needed the details of her lair in order create an accurate and vivid account of Lamia. He shook his head. The Empire liked to emphasize the squalor resisting artifacts lived in.

“We searched the tunnels under the city for hours. Mobilized everyone from the Guard to the Retired Professors Artifact Research Guild. Came up with nothing. Not so much as tracks.” He leaned in, the scotch on his breath turned my stomach, “if you ask me, she was dropped there. She’s got some kind of purpose.”

“Dropped there? By who? How could that be? She’s the last.” A woman in a long silver gown said, her hands clutching a beaded purse. The Archeologist ignored her and addressed me.

“It talking?”

“Her name is Lamia. She’s being difficult, but I think I’m getting a picture of her past. She seems to have suffered horribly before she became what she is now. I can only imagine what it took to make such a monster.”

“You Archivists are all too emotional,” he said, tossing back the rest of his scotch. “I’d be sticking obsidian slivers under her fingernails and demanding information about what she’s doing here now, not busy kissing her ass. You give them too much respect by telling their stories.”

“Can’t you hear her screams?” I shot back. “She’s being dealt with.” I wrote the details of her capture and the Archeologist’s concerns about Lamia’s supposed purpose on the back of my interview form as I spoke. Archeologists and Archivists were always at odds.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.” The Archeologist’s tone dropped and he stood up straighter.

“What intentions could she possibly have?” I leaned in closer.

“It looked like was planted for us to capture, I guarantee-“

A commotion in the main hall drowned out the rest of his argument. At first all I heard was the pitched fear of confused voices and the head guard booming orders above them. Then a chant rose above the clamor. Surging through the throng of people, the words found me, assaulted me, their rifled rhythm breaking through my uniform, through my shield. I didn’t understand the meaning, but the voice was warlike and strong and brought stinging heat with every syllable. I felt my heartbeat march to the chant’s charging rhythm. Like a rising storm, panicked voices began to scream for help. Around me, people were clasping their hands over their ears, their faces contorted in pain.

Release me.

I felt the whisper like a lover’s breath against my neck. It was so soft I forgot to fight it. The crowd’s chaos swirled around me as Lamia’s call ripped me in pieces. My body, its ripeness and vulnerability, burned and fell to ash. My being was crushed, thickened with the molten flow of her will, waiting to be molded into her servant. The chant stirred and built me up again. I heard immortal multitudes call her name. Some were voices I knew, voices whose last words I had recorded for the Empire’s archive. The first fire lifted me and the warmth of my blood sang. I felt you kick against your confinement. Were you scared? Were you happy? Neither of us can answer that. Smoke rose within me.

Release me.

Feed me.

The museum fell away and my eyes saw only the Archeologist. I staggered forward and plunged my pen deep into his throat. He swung the scotch glass at me in a weak arc. The first fire strengthened me. Lamia guided me. I pried the glass from his hand and let his warm blood run through my fingers as it filled the empty vessel. Fear pooled in his eyes. His body went limp as his soul acquiesced to the wrath of the true gods. I wonder if it comforted him, knowing he was right. I wonder if it comforts you, knowing that I did it for the stories. I did it to bring them back. I did it because I wanted them to make new stories.

I let his body fall and clutched my prize to my chest as I plowed through people still frozen with shock. I ran to Lamia. I felt fingers gripping and slipping off my uniform and pulling at my hair. I charged forward, pulled by the strength in Lamia’s voice. I pushed over the pedestal with the jade mask, tripping the head guard running for me. He sprawled on the ground as his head smacked the marble floor. I grabbed his keys and leapt onto the platform. I unlocked the obsidian cuffs, staggering as Lamia’s full power washed over me. The screaming around us quieted as she caressed my face and laughed, the sound crackled through the museum like forests burning. With a flick of her wrist she brought the crowd to their knees. I knelt before her, too, offering up the Archeologist’s blood. She suckled my fingers, heat from her long, slick tongue curling through my body as she licked them clean. Then she tipped the glass back and drank deeply. We rose together from the chaise, her stature tall and lithe and shimmering in the soft light. I felt one of her snake legs coil around my ankle. At her glance, the Empire’s elite, my fans, bowed their heads.

“Are you ready, my children?” She said, her voice as smooth as a loon’s cry.

“We are ready, Mother,” they answered. I had prepared them. Without realizing it, I had brought them to this moment.

Lamia gazed into my eyes, her claws curled around my swollen womb. You were so still in there.

I will tell a story for a life. And after I’ve told them all, after all the artifacts have returned, Lamia promises, I’ll get you back.