“We are now entering the Mouseion, the Hall of the Muses,” announced the were-pen.
“How a-muse-ing,” I quipped. The floating were pen hovered right before my eyes, shaking, and I swear if looks could kill I would be dead, cremated, and scattered to the Lemurian winds already. “I’m sorry. I will try to be more respectful,” I said.
The were-pen seemed appeased and continued. “The Mouseion was a sanctuary of learning – it contained great libraries, laboratories, class rooms, lecture halls, art galleries, botanical gardens, music wings, and dormitories for those who wanted to learn all the Muses had to offer.”
“Like today’s junior colleges?” I goaded. The were-pen clicked its top in rapid succession, a staccato tattoo of ballpoint aggravation.
The were-pen glared. “Yes, but more like the greatest universities throughout history, and world class museums and conservatories. Masters level only.”
“No online correspondence courses?” I teased. The were-pen shook hard and I was afraid she’d ink all over herself. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll try to behave.”
I looked around and I was truly impressed – the terrazzo floors, the marble sculpture, the perfect acoustics, the subtle recessed lighting, everything but the little descriptive printed cards explaining each work of art, and who donated it. “This is marvelous.”
The were-pen nodded agreement. “But you are not here just to have a nice time, appreciating the talents of those far more gifted than you. I brought you here because it is time for you to pay homage to, to make sacrifice, to your Muse.”
“But I put a few dollars in the donation box when we came in,” I protested.
Now the were-pen clicked slowly, like a clock, “tic-toc, tic-toc”. I did not think that was a good sign. It reminded me of those loud little clocks attached to bombs in the movies. The were-pen told me, “This is not just a token offering you are supposed to make, to bribe the Muse into being your best buddy and grant you a favor or two. You are asking for the power to create something out of nothing. You are asking to be like God. This requires real, old fashioned, atonement-through-blood, ritual sacrifice. You don’t get something for nothing, you know.”
“I give the Muse my time, in studies, in practice. Isn’t that enough? It’s not like there are any turtledoves or scapegoats around here for me to buy and butcher on the alter,” I said.
“You say you want inspiration. You say you’d do anything, give your right arm, your first-born, your money, your life.”
“I meant that figuratively, not literally!” I said.
“Do not trifle with the Muses, human. They do not take insincerity lightly. Have you not heard of Faust, who sold his soul to the devil? Of the blues singer Robert Johnson who met the devil at the crossroads and traded his soul for talent? What price are you willing to pay?”
“I don’t know. What do I have that the Muse could want? What could I give?”
“I cannot tell you. You have to find out for yourself. Be still – pray – meditate - let the Muse speak to you – you will have your answer. I will give you some privacy for now, and return later.”
I knelt down in front of a carved stone table and asked the Muse what I should offer. I knew she would not want 21st century human toys, cars, laptops, iPods, and such – but what? “Oh dear Muse, I would give anything – what do you want?”
I waited. Silence. “Please, tell me. What can I bring you? What do you want?”
A silent voice very clearly informed me that what the Muse demanded was this: the still beating heart of a child.
That could not be right. “A child’s heart? How could you be so cruel? What would you do with it? Hold it in your hand and crush it?” I asked. “And why a child’s heart?”
“A child’s heart is pure. Like a poet, a child wants to sing, and play, and ask 100 questions. A child wants to be seen and loved and recognized for who they are. They want attention and praise. They cry, “‘Look at me! Look at me!’ Just like you. Isn’t that why you want to create art? For the same reasons?”
“Yes,” I confessed. ”But I cannot kill someone’s child.”
That same quiet way of knowing, not so much an inner voice as a conviction, told me, “Why do you assume the worse? Why do you think I mean great harm? Perhaps I want to hold that child’s beating heart, not to kill it, but to heal it. And perhaps that child belongs to you – because she is you, way down deep.”
“But can I trust you not to hurt this child?” I wondered.
“We divine ones have an old saying…’Expect the worst but hope for the best,’” the Muse said, with a slight smile.
“Ye gods and goddesses, would it hurt you so much to give us a guarantee now and then?” I sighed. “I will do my best, to use my talents as best I can, for the good. It’s all I can promise.”
“It’s all I ask.”
The were-pen wobbled back into sight. “Did the Muse answer your prayers?”
“Yes and no…”
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008
