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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

Stand up straight, my father would say. But I saw what happened if I did that. When I ordered drinks in a cafe, in a bar, men stared directly at my chest, as though ordering from me. At a certain point, I lost weight – tits on a stick, boys in my class laughed – and every time I left the house men called to me; they followed me home. I watched them in every shop, every street, every library. Grown men, old men, holding their wives’ hands, staring at me, running their eyes up and down, taking me in.

One night I left a club alone after a fight with a friend, staggered to find my own taxi. In the morning I woke up aching inside. No wallet, no phone. Nothing left but bruises, a sourness that seemed to have become my whole body. A blackout. The darkness was full of holes, I discovered, tiny memories that seeped out, one by one. A sharp smell, a turn of a head. Fingers at my hips, against my throat. My fault.

~

For a long time, I used to lie in bed and pray to the harpy to get the ones who hurt me, to punish them, scratch their faces, their hands.

I imagined their surprise when they saw her: a shadow growing, taking shape in the air.

~

39

39

It started to seem that I had been cycling forever, my body drenched in itself, my limbs molten with exertion, still pushing me on. I was on a long, ugly road now, lined with exiled supermarkets, car garages, strings of grey-­edged houses ringed by the traffic. At its end, I knew, was a tiny, crouched chapel built for lepers a thousand years ago. I wondered if it would be open, if I could lie down on the pews, be blessed by something that might feel like God. There would be silence, the strange, continuous hum of my mind, the odd harmony that I knew underlay everything, if you listened carefully enough.

But I was afraid, still, of things worse than me: ghosts and killers, beer-­breathed men in the dark. Even now, I thought someone would want me, or want to kill me; this seemed to be the same thing. I cycled straight past the chapel, looping back towards the scented, still world of the university town at night, patched with grassland, bridges, the ancient buildings that were meant to be beautiful.

I reached the river again: the world was beginning to blur, to merge into an undifferentiated mass, a prehistory whirl of plants, birds, the occasional, dizzying burst of sky. The water lurched beside me, leathery black, welcoming. I followed its bends, a thick ribbon that pulled me with it, on and on, until it veered away and I rejoined the endless flood of cars, hearing radios, phone calls home, talk of dinner and back soon.