Daphne Entombed
This work is a reinterpretation of the myth of Daphne and Apollo, with a focus on gender politics. The story opens after the end of the original myth, with Daphne remaining conscious and aware with the tree she has become. Daphne’s status as tree from which everyone takes their laurels is examined through the lens of sexual violence, particularly that against corpses as she is immobilized in her wooden form while the victors come to claim their prizes. Her inner monologue speaks to aspects of the universal feminine experience, and asks important questions about the obligations of women to each other, of humans to one another, and about the rights and dignities we owe to the dead and to the living.
Content warning: The following contains themes of misogyny and sexual violence, including the sexual violation of deceased persons. please read with caution and compassion for yourself in light of the disturbing themes.
For the first time in my life, the once vibrant forest is silent. The echoes of creatures resonate betwixt tree trunks, but in my limited, liminal space, within the woodeness of myself, there is no song. A dull, numbing silence resounds like a hole in the gut rather than the sharp, ringing quiet when prey stills during the hunt.
This numbness takes time to adjust, I never rightly appreciated the beauty of birdsong until it was taken from me. Heavy laden limbs and weighted extremities keep me in place, my salvation and my tomb. I rest upon a downy bed of leaves, paralysed for my sins. Which sins, I do not know.
Here I remain, supposedly saved, and yet they return. A quadrennial they have made it now. My spirit shudders in horror but the body does not obey. Phantom aches sprout at the remembrance. This year the torment will be extended, more so than ever before.
Four events, four victors, four wreaths.
Wreaths ripped from my very skin.
The journey as the crow flies forty five minutes, but in their revelry it becomes six hours. (1) I see the cloud of dust through the trees and I know they approach. And so I wait, and remember, and prepare. And I begin to recite my prayers.
Oh gracious and merciful goddesses of Olympus, hear my prayer and spare me this torment. I have been wronged by one of your own, yet I am also one of your own, as woman, and invoke the natural law of sisterhood.
Athena,
Gray eyed and born for battle, I seek salvation from you. An injustice has been done me and I beg you to right it. I would accept Medusa’s fate if only to move again and to own what is mine. Grant me vindication. Deliver to the river Laertes the tormentor of his daughter. I ask not for the honoring of Hammurabi’s laws, though I live in my father’s house as a dweller of the forests, but only for what you and winged Nike deem punitive. (2) I do not expect you to scar him with razor blades like I’m a Spartan wife, to mar a god for a mere mortal. (3) But power should not exempt him from accountability, just as your generals must behave wisely to keep your favor. Make him stand trial for his actions. Help me, I ask humbly. When I receive no answer, I become more desperate.
Artemis,
Golden haired, protector of maidens, daughter of Leto sister of Asteria, who knows my suffering well; I seek salvation from you. If only I had crossed your graces and not your brother’s, sweet goddess. Had only I offended your pride instead of his gaze, I would have been torn limb by limb by the beasts I love as the hunter Acteon was. An enviable fate. Leave me to the beasts and bears, I’d rather that the feasts were theirs. (4) Wolves are kinder than any man I’ve ever known. It would be a comfort to be so devoured. Beasts devour violently, but with only fang and claw and for only flesh and blood: men devour differently, with weapons of war and wandering hands, for flesh and blood, spirit and soul. I ask to be no Teumessian fox, I have long since learned not to aspire to freedom, as unrealistic dreams beget only pain. (5) Can I not reasonably beg to be torn apart all at once? Ensure no two parts remain in one whole, so that no man comes upon me in my undress and steals my dignity once again. Once in your retinue, I believed myself one of those Delos women protected from perverted Olympians. Help me, I ask humbly. When I receive no answer, I become more desperate.
Aphrodite,
Born of Ouranos and the sea, sister in sex and element, my sanctuary be once again. Goddess of love, I seek salvation from you. Look upon me in my suffering and tell the world that this is not love. Consider Apollo and his wayward desires, the state in which he leaves me, the recurring crime on an annual date and consider this not a strike from your son Eros’ arrows. Denounce this as an act of love and let your lover Ares claim it in truth as it is, of violence. Whittle down my twigs for a writing utensil and inscribe laws of love upon a tablet, upon which forcing a woman’s flight is not listed as a symptom of desire. Protect my laurels from the victors and condemn them their gluttonous theft of my dignity. Give me closure on my crime. While I entertain you, let me also ask a burning question: If men love women so deeply with so much passion, why do they hurt us so deeply and with so much passion? Why can love never be soft and gentle, caring and considerate? Why did the beauty you gave me enshrine me in a living tomb? Help me, I ask humbly. When I receive no answer, I become more desperate.
Hera,
Most majestic queen of heaven, protector of women, I seek salvation from you. To preserve the honor of your family name, grant me peace of mind. Your beauty is dishonored by such wandering hands that should so often prompt flight. The golden apple of discord hath fallen not far. A bastard son should not invoke prima nocta on the virtue of your crown. I ask not for justice, for comfort, for closure, but only for peace of mind. Let me be the last of my sisters to suffer. Even now I feel my seeds drift into the wind, where they will germinate into my daughters. Let this wooden corpse be the only temple desecrated. Spare not me but my progeny from the wrath of men. Help me, I ask humbly. When I receive no answer, I become more desperate.
Hestia,
Goddess of hearth, I seek no salvation from you. I have sought justice, comfort, closure, and peace of mind. None have come to fruition. I come to offer you myself. It is hardly mine anymore, stolen so, but I would prefer you receive the fruits of my labor than the victors who approach. Take my limbs for logs and extremities for kindling. Burn me on the hearth of a happy home. If I cannot protect my daughters from my fate, let me warm them while they grow. Perhaps this will prepare them to be stolen. In their moments of terror, they may yet remember the warmth which I gave them. In these memories, perhaps they will find reassurance in the cycle of suffering: woman has always experienced this and yet woman has endured. Cremate me and deliver me to safety. (6) But let me stay my tongue now, lest I speak too much and spoil my progeny, like Mother Izanami. (7) Bear without question, impart no wisdom, shelter without guidance; they ask this of me. I grow weary of being used, the hollowness threatens to overwhelm.
Persephone,
Goddess of spring, giver of rebirth and renewal, O queen of the Underworld, I seek no salvation from you. In the name of good sisterhood, deliver me not to Tartarus for the crime of refusing a god’s advances. Asphodel alone seems fitting for my fate. I have sought justice, comfort, closure, and peace of mind. None have come to fruition. I have nothing left to offer of myself. My body is wooden. My soul is weary. I ask humbly to be judged fairly, if such a thing is possible. I hope no longer for kindness in this world or the next.
I see them approach. Four golden haired youths in their prime. Once again, they return seeking glory at my expense. I strengthen my resolve. I say no prayers for no one is listening. O the cruelty of strangers and of men. The refrain is bitter resignation, until his face comes into view.
O melancholy fate and the passage of time, no stranger comes to harm me now. It is little Habrocomes, son of Euripides, who played in these woods as a child. Once while racing down forest paths he fell into my father’s river. I begged my father to help him and once safe on shore, he asked me to play with him. A sweet child, innocent of all the evils of the world, now comes to partake in them.
Is there truly no justice anymore, anywhere? A man who owes me a debt comes to borrow more?
No. I have asked for so little and yet the little I have continues to be stolen. The gods are selfish and vulgar perhaps, but there was meant to be order in this world. How can we have fallen so far? His face comes closer and clearer. He is smiling in celebration. What monster of a man has been born from an empathetic little boy?
With this last injustice, I resign myself to oblivion. I have given all I had, forgiven all I can bear, and witnessed more than I care to dwell on. Even death did not protect me from the evils of mankind. To exist, even wooden, in a woman’s body is a dangerous and selfless endeavor. I choose to discard this form. May Hestia set alight my remains for those who will come after me, to keep them comforted as they grapple with their fate as I have. Let my Jauhar pyre also stand as a beacon. (8) Let the world watch as everything that once was mine is devoured by fire. I have nothing of my own. I never did. Let the world reckon with the naked truth of the collective ownership of me and watch the evidence turn to ash. When the ash falls, let the wolves devour their share. I would expect nothing less and could never hope for anything more. I am finished with the world of men. I seek no salvation, no justice, no comfort, no closure, and no peace of mind. In such a place, why hope?
Perhaps the next life will be fairer. Perhaps the powers-that-be there will hear my call. Perhaps the Chthonic gods are to be my salvation. I have so many questions and so few answers. All I know to be true is this: Olympus is unfeeling and I have no hope in them. I am nothing, have nothing, and matter not. I have no doubt they will continue in their coldness and many generations will bleed under their frigid gaze. The last hope I could possibly endeavor to have is that the next eon will bring in a new pantheon. One which does not discard its creation so. One which treats the life-bearers of mankind with the dignity afforded to the rest. My daughters will suffer for some time. For some long, arduous, continuous, undeterminable time. But one day, one day, perhaps. Justice, comfort, closure, peace of mind. Maybe one day these things will be so graciously gifted to men and women alike.
I have no hope for now or for soon. But if the next era is not to be kinder, let Atlas drop the heavens. Let the Titans rise from the deep and Tartarus be emptied of its demons. I am certain no worse monsters could reside within than those that dwell on the surface. If my daughters are always doomed to suffer as I have, I will cross the Phlegethon myself to see the human world razed. There is something equalising about universal destruction, tempting indeed to bridge the gap and put us all under the boot of the giants of old. But I am talking nonsense now and violence is not in my nature. But it is in theirs, I am reminded as the victors approach.
My time to depart has long passed and yet I linger. Why? I have no hope, I say, and I feel the bitter despair. But something about the face of Habrocomes bids me stay. I am resentful and pained and yet I don’t believe he is lost beyond possibility. If I could only spark his memory of me, maybe…No, I will do no such thing. I do not have to inspire remembrance. I am no one’s daughter, sister, mother, or mentor. I am woman. Personhood alone, which they all knew I once had, should be enough to stay their hand. It is not. I have given every last atom of my being to the world and owe no more instruction to it. If Habrocomes is to find the forest path he once walked with me, he must find it alone. I will take no disguise, offer no wisdom, plead for no mercy. His growth is his burden alone. It is time to lay my burdens to rest.
However, some eerie divine whisper bids me wait. Not stay, wait. Call me a hopeful fool. I wait. The wrenching of the wreaths passes as it always has: slowly, excruciatingly, discouraging me from my former fondness for humans. Habrocomes approaches. He works quickly so the experience is briefer but the sting is more pronounced at his hands. He is congratulated for his quarry and the party prepares to depart. He spares me a last glance and I condemn my foolish nature for choosing to remain earthbound for this event when I could have departed for my journey by now. My journey. The prospect of lingering between planes for a century is not tempting, only preferable to this. As the party prepares to depart, he slips in between my branches and lays his hand upon this wooden corpse. He is caressing my limbs in a way that prepares me for the worst. I took this form to escape such wandering hands, are men Laelapsian dogs all? (9) He has found what he searches for. A knotted hole in my trunk, small and gaping. A mouthpiece if I ever had one. He surges for it. I brace myself. Please leave, I beg him, there is nothing more to take. A weight settles within me, I feel the deposit as he departs. An obol. (10) Something none of my sisters among the trees or even my own father deigned to give me. One hundred years of torment, of wandering aimlessly along the banks of the Styx, the suffering I braced to endure, gone in an instant. In one act of kindness, from a long, lost friend.
Sweet and precious child, wear my laurels with pride. If any man ever earned them, it was you. Victor of the tournament and savior of your sex in my eyes.
We both travel that day: him to Delphi and me to the Underworld. Our paths will likely never cross again, but we wish each other well on our respective journeys. I prepare my appeal to Rhadamanthys with a smile on my face. Perhaps the next age could be kinder after all…
Footnotes
(1) This is a reference to the controversy around Marilyn Monroe's death. Her body's transportation to the morgue should have taken 45 minutes, but was unaccounted for for 6 hours. Speculations have arisen surrounding sexual misconduct by the morticians and those tasked with embalming her.
(2) “The Code of Hammurabi dictated that if a man forces sex upon another man’s wife or if a man forces sex upon a virgin woman that “is living in her father’s house,” then “that man should be put to death”" Gold, Sally, and Martha Wyatt. “The Rape System: Old Roles and New Times.” Catholic University Law Review, vol. 2, no. 4, 1978, pp. 695–727, http://scholarship.law.edu/lawreview/vol27/iss4.
(3) Also alluding to the fate of Constanza Bonarelli, a mistress of Bernini whose sculpture Apollo and Daphne is on display in the Borghese.
(4) This is a line from an unreleased song by Paris Paloma that she shared on TikTok titled “last woman on Earth” will be released on Spotify in August 2024.
(5) In myth, the Teumessian fox had been sent by the gods to pursue children of the city of Thebes as a punishment for some crime. The regent of Thebes, Creon, assigned the hero Amphitryon the task of besting the beast. The Teumessian fox had a magical ability to evade capture, thus, perpetual freedom no matter who may pursue.
(6) Another line from an unreleased song by Paris Paloma that she shared on TikTok titled “last woman on Earth” will be released on Spotify in August 2024.
(7) In Shinto mythology as recorded in the Kojiki, Izanami speaks before her husband Izanagi which causes their child (Hiruko or later known as Ebisu) to be born deformed.
(8) Jauhar, also known as Jowhar or Juhar, was the practice of mass self-immolation that some Rajput women (from central and Northern India) practiced to spare themselves and their children from rape following defeat in wartime.
(9) The hero Amphitryon uses the magical dog Laelaps, who was destined to catch everything it chased, to go after the Teumessian fox. Thus, the dog is destined to capture and the fox destined to evade. The two are locked in an endless cycle of hunting. Zeus eventually turns both to stone and casts them into the sky, their constellations being Canis Major (Laelaps) and Canis Minor (Teumessian Fox).
(10) An obol is the coin that was placed upon the tongue of a deceased person, believed to be for the soul of the departed to pay Charon, ferryman of the River Styx, to take the soul of the deceased from the shores of the Styx to the Underworld itself. The obol is an example of a viaticum (from Latin via meaning “way, road”), an important element of Last Rites as provision for the journey ahead. People without the means or connections to be buried with the coin would have to wander the banks of the Styx. See more details in Death-ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity by Ian Morris (Cambridge University Press, 1992).
