Orual, Queen of Glome, I am Mira goddess of the rivers and goddess that clothes the earth in beauty to delight the senses of men. I am of old. It is I that bejewel the fields each morning with drops of dew, I that paint the clouds pink, red, orange, and purple in the mornings and evenings, I that bring bursts of color and beauty to the earth’s vegetation in the form of flowers, I that charm the birds each morning so they will sing their song. It is I that run with the rivers, looking and shivering with delight over all the beauty with which I have clothed the earth. I have heard your complaint. Indeed, I have known you since you were a small child have witnessed your plight.
You do not view your case rightly, for you are in the middle of it all. You say that the gods have stolen Psyche away from you. Orual, you stole her away from the rest of the world the moment you laid eyes on the child. You made Psyche your goddess, though you did not truly care for her at all but only cared for the ways in which you benefitted from the girl. I pity you, child, for your ugly face because of which you became filled with avarice for the love and affection of others. By your greed you exhausted Psyche and her happiness, convincing yourself that it was for her sake that you brought such misery upon her. Orual, it was I that enchanted the waters by Psyche’s palace when you drank so that, if only for a moment, you might see her dwelling and come to believe her tale. Yet, in your selfishness and self-concern, you refused to heed it but remained obstinate. Do you see the error of your ways, child? Do you yet see how you wronged and misused your sister?
The myth told you by the temple priest in Essur is not as far from the truth as you think. Though your sister Redival did not join you on your visit to Psyche, you did see the palace, though for a moment, and you were indeed jealous. If not jealous for the husband and the dwelling that Psyche enjoyed, you were nearly mad with jealousy for her the entirety of her love and affection and even for possession of her. Orual, these things were not even yours to be jealous for. Her love and affection, a gift, were things that you took to be your right and even fashioned into a weapon and used against her. You have done very ill. The myth now told of Psyche serves the purpose of warning mortals against the sins of jealousy and discontent, sins you committed in plenty. Orual, your continual greed for love, affection, and importance was never satiated even toward the end of your life. Upon “losing,” as you call it, Psyche, you then sucked the very life out of both the Fox and Bardia and even after this you were still not satisfied.
Your plight was great, but by your foolish selfishness it was you that brought it on your own head. For this reason it is hard to pity you, Queen of Glome. You sentence is thus: a life in the underworld in which you are continually weak and faint from loss of blood; blood that flows from the wound in your arm that you dealt yourself in order to manipulate your sister. This wound will never heal but will bleed endlessly and you will never regain your strength nor will you receive such a mercy that you cease to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment