ASTERIA BLACKWELL PRESENTS: STORIES FROM THE LOST LIBRARY OF ELYSIUM: Episode 4
Greetings and welcomes dear citizens of Elysium. You are listening to Elysium Public Radio. I am your host Asteria Blackwell, and this is Stories from The Lost Library.
Now, before we begin, we must start with a warning. Yes, I realize the irony, for in the golden days we would start with an honored prayer to the muses for a memorable tale, but in these modern times, warnings have replaced prayers, and our lawyers are insistent.
So, take this warning as our opening prayer: This library, these stories, this missive, this community is a safe and sacred space. Keep swords, daggers, poison, ignorance, and hate to yourself, for they have no place here. We are all seeking peace and softness.
There will be no tolerance for hateful words and comments, general rudeness, patriarchal and colonist attitudes, and those afflicted with the disorder of having their mouth be larger than their brains.
There is no guarantee every story will be a happy one. In fact, some will be awful - or the muses forbid - boring. But what you consider boring and awful may not be so to someone else. That is the nature of storytelling. Not every story is for you.
I am High Priestess of these hallowed halls; I am King of this space. My word is law, and the law is that all are welcome here - and I truly mean all - every gender, every race, every background, and inclination. If you cannot abide by my laws, then please go roll in the mud with the rest of the pigs somewhere else.
For the rest of us, welcome. You were meant to find your way here.
Welcome back everyone, it’s so good to meet you in this space once more.
I must say, the city of Elysium has seen a dramatic upturn in new faces recently. I believe some are that large gaggle of archaeologists who took a wrong turn in the tomb of an Early Dynasty Pharaoh, but others seem to have found their way here on their own.
Which is wonderful, we love showing off our great city. But most of us have been here so long we’ve forgotten just how confusing it can be when you first step foot in Elysium. For example, there is a pleasant young man named Greg who visited me at the front desk asking for books on how Elysium came to be the way it was, and he was hoping to sort it out because he’s been trying to give directions to the Uber Eats driver and his food keeps getting lost.
So, for Greg and the rest of our new neighbors (dead or undead), I thought I would take this opportunity to discuss our history and the importance of understanding ley lines.
Now, most people understand that humans and animals can become ghosts, that’s just a given of life. But not everyone realizes that cities, and even countries, can become ghosts too. I mean, take the great but doomed city of Troy for example. It was very well known by all accounts, and it even had a very well received book written about its downfall, too, and it had some very famous people living within its walls. Yet when it died by siege from the Greeks, Troy fell into the Underworld where it lives on as a ghostly shade, even as the archaeologists dug up its bones in the living world thousands of years later.
Of course, Atlantis is our most famous ghostly continent - lost after a massive earthquake. Other notable residents down here in the Underworld include Ed Dorado, Hamunaptra, Herculaneum, Pompeii, Detroit, and of course, half of Elysium - the dead half, at least.
Elysium is a very odd place; I think we can all agree on that. I mean, it’s not very common to have a town that exists half in the Underworld and half in the Living World. That Living World half tends to … wander. Some of you may stumble across Elysium floating off the Mediterranean costs, while others may see it parked off the western coast of Australian, and I’ve heard on good authority it was spotted outside of Buffalo, New York in 1987. But really, the key is that anywhere ley lines exist, you have a chance of stumbling upon Elysium.
Oh, I just realized that I forgot to tell you what ley lines are. Some of you into the woo-woo New Age-y stuff probably already know, but if you do not, I tend to think of them as rivers of energy that crisscross the globe. And where they intersect you typically find great monuments such as the Great Pyramids of Egypt.
Now you might think that having half of your town in the Underworld would something quite noticeable, but really, it’s not that bad. Yes, we have a distinct shift where the wind blows one way and then you might cross the street and it blows another. It’s typically cloudier on the Underworld side, but we do have spectacular night skies with plenty of opportunities to catch the aurora borealis. There are some zones that are kind of half and half, almost like a dead zone, where life exists but never really takes off too well, and those areas get used for things like cemeteries, industrial parks, mattress stores, and parking lots.
Due to these ley lines, all sorts of supernatural beings tend to find their way here, whether the living half of town likes it or not.
Yet, despite everything that has happened, Elysium holds itself in quite high regards for a number of things, such as upholding antiquated traditions, keeping the streets free of riff raff, and having the gosh-darned best apple festival within a thousand miles, despite what that dump in the Garden of Eden claims.
So, friends, that is the background of Elysium. We’re always at the crossroads. We ARE the crossroads. Many deals are struck here, and many gods and wandering souls wind up here, swept up in the eddies of the ley lines.
According to our young and hip University liaison Cassie, she states that all of the Uber Eats drivers are all members of the same fraternity and you must put a cheap six pack of beer on your porch or outside your door so they can hone in on your exact location. It seems boys who frequent fraternities have a sixth sense for finding the cheapest beer possible.
Dearest listeners, I want to thank those of you who came to the library or reached out to discuss rebuilding Charon’s broken raft. I’m afraid the consensus was it was too far beyond repair.
Charon and I remained at our impasse for a long while. The town council rejected the idea of funding and building a large ferry as a replacement, for it would have required a property tax hike in Elysium and The Gods know that would never pass. I mean, to be fair, the River Acheron and River Styx aren’t even in our tax district.
But - a hero has come to our rescue. Dave Riggle, from Dave’s RV and Boat Sales on South Lombard Street has saved the day. Dave brought forth the idea for Charon to upgrade to something with a motor called - oh, what was it again - a pontoon boat? Yes, that’s it, a pontoon boat.
I think this is quite a novel and practical idea, but it did take Dave quite a few days to convince Charon of the same, but really it just makes sense. That dedicated old ferry had given as much life as he could. But according to Dave, pontoon boats can haul more souls across the river at a much faster pace. It also has a built-in stereo system and a leather captain’s chair, which I understand Charon has really taken a liking too. It apparently also lends itself well to the sport of ‘water-skiing’ and for an extra gold coin, some brave souls are choosing to jet into the afterlife on a pair of Silver Streak skis.
Cassie and I spotted Charon sporting board shorts and sunglasses the other day, cruising up and down the sacred river behind the library with Dave, learning how to maneuver his new ride. It was quite the site. The pontoon is bright cherry, metallic red, and everyone in town can hear him blasting ‘Sweet Home Alabama.”
It seems he is pleased with this new upgrade, and even one such as Charon can change with the times, it seems.
The old ferry who had given his life for this job has received a proper burial. I located a quiet, cool grove in the open-air section of the library, and the old King can once again watch the stars swirl overhead. He is content, at last.
Fenrir, the great wolf of the North, came into the Ambrosia Cafe the other day and he is looking much happier and healthier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He had a great appetite and ate six dog biscuits while we shared coffee. It seems that his father Loki, did not show up, but there was an elderly aunt who came by, brushed out all the mats from his fur, and cooked him breakfast. She stayed a few weeks, cleaning up his home and planting flowers. He said she always shows up when he’s in a bad place, and I’m glad he has that person in his life. I just wish his father would have bothered to come see him, that’s all.
But Fenrir is doing well and thanks everyone for their calls and cards of support. He apologizes once again for eating the sun.
The organizers of the upcoming City Dionysia have announced that all submissions for the playwriting festival must be received by the end of the month, or before the end of the full moon if you aren’t using a human calendar.
They have also announced they’re waiving the fee for any women submitting to the women’s portion of the competition, in a gesture of solidarity. And remember, no one will be fed to the lion’s this time if you lose!
I must say, I don’t quite understand how waiving a fee shows solidarity. If they wanted to accomplish that they’d let the women enter the full festival without separation. But what do I know, I’m just a woman, apparently. And as for the lion’s, that’s nice, but doesn’t do old Actius Polaris any good, since he was last year’s main course.
Cassie and I are happy to proofread anyone’s submission. We’ve already started seeing many prospective writers camping out in the library. Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe spend more time making out than writing, but it seems to be working for them.
We also had a strange middle-aged woman come in the other day, who pulled out what seemed to be handwritten copies of the Odyssey and the Iliad, and then a large pot of ink, and started writing. She wrote for twelve hours straight and had 4 of Phryne’s magical Stay Awake concoctions, and she wrote like a woman possessed. It was rather fascinating.
And now a word from our new sponsor, Dave Riggle, from Dave’s RV and Boat Sales on South Lombard Street.
Dave’s RV and Boat Sales can help you get into the adventure of your dreams. Whether you need a workhorse of a boat like our great friend Charon, or whether you just want a little traveling caravan, I’ve got you covered. We know every bit of water and land between here and the Sargasso Sea, and we have ways to help you see all of it. So come on down today.
I’ve got new and used boats, pontoons, jet skis, fishing boats, biremes, clipper ships, galleons, dhows, knarrs, paddle boats, paddle steamers, and cruisers - just to name a few.
Thank you, Dave, and thank you again for all you’ve done to help our friend Charon. Big Midge’s Oracles are brought to you by Dave’s RV and Boat Sales. Remember, if you wish to submit a question to Big Midge, email her at oracle@asteriablackwell.com
Oracle #1
Dear Big Midge: Where are the male oracles? And for that matter, what ever happened to Apollo, the god who used to whisper prophecies to the Pythia at Delphi? No offense, but your oracles could really use some work. Maybe you should reach out to him and see if he might help you out. Sincerely, Just Saying.
Dear Just Saying: Of course not all oracles are women. Not all oracles are even human, if you looked at the world around you for more than a second. Do you really think the seashells on the beach just hold echoes of ocean waves? No, they’re oracles of their own kind, spilling secrets of the lost souls in the depths, secrets of the deep seas, and the old gods who still rule below the waves.
And as for Apollo, he was an opportunist, a god using a natural gift to further along his hobby of raping those he took a liking to. He is not welcome here.
For the record, the voice that whispers to me will not be mansplained to, so it will never speak to men. Most of you are utterly exhausting, and frankly, I avoid speaking to you as well.
Oracle #2
Dear Big Midge: If a man who became a werewolf on the full moon were to go into outer space, would he be a werewolf 24 hours a day because the moon would always be full? Or is it just still a once-a-month thing? Sincerely, Werewolf Astronaut Quandaries
Dear Werewolf Astronaut Quandaries:
You would be a werewolf full time, so if you are space bound and also sensitive to the full moon, please plan accordingly.
Oracle #3
Note: This querent asked for their question not to be published, so we are only putting out the answer.
Dear Anonymous: I know why you came here. Yes, you were searching for the means to tell a story, a siren call that will not let you rest, but what if I told you must be careful with the one that holds you?
I understand how intriguing it sounds now, with this story of oracles and magic, but you must be careful - as careful as witches are on a full moon - for an oracle story may change your life. An oracle, once spoken, worms into you and takes hold, and grows into something much larger. You must say a prayer to the Muses for your safe journey through those pages. You must sing loudly for the sake of your own soul, for anything less will swallow you whole.
Thank you for the oracles, Big Midge. Great advice as always.
And now for the weather, which Dave Riggle informs me is not so great for boating at the moment. We have a heavy bank of fog coming in on the heels of the blood red moon. The fog will cover everything in an endless mist. It has just woken from a long winter hibernation, so this fog is a hungry one, ravenous, really, the reports are saying.
The fog has been reported to be feasting on memories, so if you have things you’d like to forget, maybe now is the time for a little midnight walkabout. Or, if you have things you’d like to keep, then close your windows and keep your head covered.
The fog is expected to depart in a few days, and after, rainbows and auroras are expected to return to our skies.
Thank you, Dave, for sponsoring today’s weather.
I have an update to one of the community support groups that I was asked to share with everyone.
The newest support group, for those whose life has been wrecked by a Greek God, was overwhelmed with attendance. There was a line out of the door at the community center, and the organizers did not realize there were so many of you in need of help.
So, for this week’s meeting, it will now be held at the University’s Conference Center. There will be multiple rooms set up so that everyone can have a good conversation, and I believe some therapists and witches will be on hand to help everyone process.
I’m really glad to hear of this, as the need has been great for eons.
Also - the organizers of the Olympics and the City Dionysia Festival have announced that the Amphitheater is now closed so that rehearsals and preparations can start for the festivals, and the Main Square is about to close as well so that vendors can come in and get ready for the start of this wonderful event.
Tickets are going fast, so please be sure to get yours soon.
All right dear friends, it’s time for a tale, if you will.
A few weeks ago, when we were experiencing an influx of souls fleeing the endless laundry of the Catholic Church, a woman came in and offered help with supplies, funds, living quarters, pretty much anything anyone would need who was trying to start a new life.
Her name is Agnes, and in addition to offering safe haven for rebellious nuns, Agnes has lent her time and expertise to the library, and I am most grateful. She’s fixed the air conditioner in the front entryway and solved that incessant squeak coming from that top hinge on the main doors. Right now, she’s outside building something, I’m not quite sure what, but I hear a lot of saws and hammering. I expect it will be nothing less than extraordinary.
Friends, Agnes and I have become quite good friends over the past few weeks. She keeps to herself most of the time, so I expect that not many of you have crossed paths with her. Please, for a moment, close your eyes and humor me. Now, picture a woman built solid like a house, wearing a worn black leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees no matter the weather. She has black nails to go along with her black jacket, short spiky hair with a white streak down the side, and of course, the heavy leather boots that she so fondly calls her ‘shitkickers.’
Agnes is nothing if not blunt, and some of you with thinner skin may find her abrasive. But nothing she says is untrue. Agnes shared her story with me after a wonderful night involving a lot of wine and mead, and with the stream of fleeing nuns still finding their way to us, I knew right away that there were many souls who likely need to hear her story.
So, with her permission, here is Agnes’ story.
I was raised in a Catholic Church. Literally. When I was a couple of years old someone left me on the front steps of Our Lady of Eternal Sorrows in Bumfuck, Indiana. Didn’t really have any Social Service offices around at that time, so everyone just kind of shrugged, left me in the care of the nuns, and then proceeded to forget about me. My birth certificate actually says my name is Sister Agnes, cause the idiot who typed the thing got distracted by his lunch and missed it, and of course, there’s no way to correct it without endless paperwork I don’t have and can’t access.
Which is ironic, actually. The nuns named me after Saint Agnes, who was a teenage girl who said no to marrying a man, and so her father and the suitors killed her by dragging her naked through the streets, trying to burn her at the stake, and then just lopping her head off. Of course, as all things go with the Church, they felt bad about it after she was dead so they made her a Saint, as if that would cleanse their sins of how they had treated her without having to feel too bad about it. “Oh, she’s with God now.” Well bullshit, she wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for your ego and dick. Christ.
That’s the whole fucking problem with the Church. Everyone is so damned focused on what happens after you die that no one takes the time to become a decent human being while they’re alive.
I grew up surrounded by women like this, watching them day in and day out be the most hateful beings I have ever encountered. They took pleasure in whacking me with rulers when I couldn’t remember multiplication tables, or when I accidentally broke a glass washing dishes, or for anything really. I watched them spend all their time saying all these flowery bullshit prayers, and then turn to me and say the harshest shit, like, “You’re a sinner, you’re going to hell, you need to pray for your soul, you’re going to burn in purgatory for an eternity,” you know, all that warm fuzzy feeling crap.
I didn’t know anything different, not until they had to send me to the local school for an education. I didn’t know there was a world outside of those walls, so I believed them when they told me I was a piece of shit human being. I tried to do all the steps they wanted, like get baptized, take communion, spill all your sins out and all that jazz. But like any multi-level marketing scheme there are a lot of promises but minimal results for the effort. There was a lot of, ‘Oh, well, you haven’t prayed enough. You haven’t taken orders to be a nun. You haven’t confessed enough.”
There was always some bullshit of needing to be more and do more. So I worked harder, thinking if I kept doing what they asked I’d finally be cleansed, or whatever they were wanting, and the gaping hole in my chest would heal up if I just did everything right, or did it hard enough, or erased everything of who I was, then that happiness would kick in.
Spoiler alert - it never kicked in.
They told me to pray to the saints who were then supposed to pray on my behalf to God for some boon or help in some area. But none of the saints ever really spoke to me. They were all too far removed, too dead, too dusty to make any difference in my life.
I never found any kind of God in that church. I found a lot of hate though, even though everyone kept telling me it was a place of joy and peace. I found death there, with corpses hanging from crosses and everyone drinking his blood like a vampire while telling me it would bring me life and forgiveness. It just tasted like stale crackers and grape juice.
You know, I’ve never met a true vampire in real life that I’m aware of, but I sure as shit know the Church is one - it’s a two-thousand-year-old vampire bleeding the world dry and leaving nothing but destruction in its path. All of this, “Let us feed on your sins, let us feed on your fear, your anger and hatred. Let us suck the life out of you while giving you our blood in return so that you become one of us; you are beholden to us.” I fucking hated that place.
Every week priests would come in to take our confessions, because apparently women weren’t approved to handle shit like that. They’d line us up and tell us, “Don’t leave anything out, we want every scrap, every tiny bite, it won’t count unless you tell us everything. Those fucks always creeped me out.
Father Peter was usually the one in the confessional, and he was the hungriest, fattest asshole I’ve ever met in my life, both for food and sins. He told anyone willing or unwilling to listen this was his favorite part of his job, to “help wash away the sins of the faithful.”
I always wondered who he confessed to, or if he bothered to at all? He certainly never tried to hide his sins - Father Peter was notorious for his wandering hands on young nuns and his weekly poker nights with the sheriff.
For years I stepped into that confessional over and over and let Father Peter pin me open like a bug on a specimen board so he could use his so-called connection to the almighty to peer inside. He and his fat fingers moved organs around, dug into intestines, searched for every hint of a secret, a sin, searching for the things he could use to make you hate yourself. “Oh, but don’t worry, my dear child, I shall wash you clean,” he would say, while asking for more.
Well, I never felt clean after leaving that confessional. I felt worse. That damned room always reeked of unwashed robes and Father Peter’s greasy hands. I could not get out of that place fast enough, and I always had to get outside to work with my hands, usually in the garden, or if it was too cold, down to the laundry room so the boiling water and steam could wash away Father Peter’s “cleansing.”
Father Peter never bothered to cleanse his sins, I’m certain of that. Every damn day I had sit in those pews and stare at that bleeding crucifix hanging over the altar and wonder when God would ever show up for himself to ask forgiveness of all his sins? When would he be brave enough to confess to all of the blood spilled and lives destroyed in the name of this religion, a religion that was never satisfied with what you offered, a religion that always wants more and more and more?
Who could ever wash the sins of an absent God?
Well, luckily, I never have to worry about that, because one day while I was washing everyone’s dirty underwear, I died, and was saved by none other than Saint David Bowie.
Yeah, I know how it sounds. Trust me. I like to call it The Immaculate Reception because I was elbow-deep in a washing machine trying to fix it, when my contraband radio fell off the shelf and into the water with me. Fried the ever-loving shit out of me.
I got knocked to the floor, ended up with this damned white streak in my hair now. I was certain I was dead because when I opened my eyes, David Fucking Bowie was standing at my feet smoking a cigarette and looking at me.
“Oh Agnes, you poor thing. What the fuck are you still doing here?”
Well, frankly, that was a damned good question.
“You can leave, you know. Just get up and walk out and never come back. You can become someone else.” Of course, as he said this his outfit rotated through Ziggy Stardust to Aladdin Sane and the Thin White Duke, and I kind of got the point. “You can go make your own saints, make your own religion. You don’t need salvation; you need to live your life. There are more like you than you’ll ever know. In fact, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”
He stepped aside and there was a one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was wearing, of all things, jeans and a t-shirt and Converse sneakers and a wide, sharp smile. “Agnes,” Saint David Bowie said, “this is Lilith, or as she likes to call herself, Our Lady of Done With Your Eternal Bullshit.”
I’ll tell you now, none of the saints never spoke to me much before then, but this, my friends, is a saint I can really get behind.
Lilith reached out her hand, and you bet your ass I took it. I walked right out of that fucking vampire’s nest in dripping wet robes and into the sunlight with her, and I don’t regret a damned second of it. I like to think of it as a Do-It-Yourself Ex-Communication. Best decision I’ve ever made.
My heart breaks for all of those like Saint Agnes who have been killed, or cast out, or demonized all in the name of the Church. Lilith has helped me see that we can create a new world, find new saints to follow and new Gods worthy of worship.
Your mileage may vary, but since I left that damned vampire, I’ve never been told to hate anyone, or dig around for sins, or to give money to fund wars and opulence that was not deserved.
If there is anyone out there who wants to leave and hears this, reach out however you can. I’ll offer up a route for your own Do-It-Yourself Excommunication. I won’t ask for a penny, I’m not interested in your sins, and I’ll never promise you eternal salvation. Your life will be yours again, and you can live it as you wish without need of permission or forgiveness from anyone.
Thank you so much Agnes, for allowing us to share your story. I am thrilled you were able to escape and create a life you love living. And as I have mentioned in the past, if you get a message to me or come by the library, I will help you in any way I can. You can email me at asteria@asteriablackwell.com.
That’s our show for now. Join us next time when we’ll have more on the upcoming City Dionysia festival! I can’t wait to see the productions this year. Remember you can also send in your questions for Big Midge at oracle@asteriablackwell.com.
This has been a production of Elysium Public Radio. My name is Asteria Blackwell, and this is Stories from the Lost Library.
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