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They made a movie about it — you're too young to remember, and it's not exactly a classic film for the ages, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. You've heard the story, though, because it's the movie version that people tell like it's the truth. I forget what the movie was called, maybe Love and Death? It was just your standard revenge flick, but with "Based On A True Story!" emblazoned across the screen. I still remember the slogan: "All he ever wanted was love. But when they killed Psyche, he went psycho."
"He" was Cupid, of course. "They" were a syndicate of death gods — Anubis, Baron Samedi, Kali. That's the story you always heard, right? But it's not true. The legion of supervillains out to kill love, that's only in the movie. In real life, nobody murdered Psyche. She was a mortal, after all, though her life was longer than most. She just caught a disease and died. Her lover Cupid did go crazy, just like in the movie, but it was a darker and more sorrowful thing than the square-jawed, smoldering, vengeful-justice thing depicted on screen and, later, in story.
Sure it was a long time ago. Almost nobody alive today was alive then, except the gods. But just because it's an old story doesn't mean it's a useless one. So listen:
Cupid did switch his bow, arrows, and quiver for a rifle, revolver, and pump-action shotgun; he did trade his robes for a trenchcoat; he did manage to grow a decent crop of stubble on his until-then-peach-fuzzed cheeks. And, yes, he did cut a swath through the Underworld, looking for the death god who'd been incautious enough to harvest sweet Psyche's soul. But at the end of his journey he didn't find a tomb full of leering villains taunting his dead lover's ghost, the way it is in the movie, the way you heard it. No, Cupid just found a quiet cottage in the hills of the Appalachian mountains, and there he encountered the more-than-a-man known as Mr. Grim, The Reaper, Old Grandfather Dry Bones. This was Death himself, one of the oldest death gods, draped in black sacking with a cowl to cover his skeletal form, holding a scythe with a blade that dripped venom. Death sat in his cottage, scythe across his knees, whittling on a piece of wood with a pearl-handled knife. "You took her," Cupid said, standing in Death's doorway.
"I've taken many," Death said, not looking up from his carving. His voice was not as sepulcheral as you might expect, though he didn't sound as if he spoke often.
"I loved her."
"Love. I don't care about love any more than the moon cares for terrestrial rains. Love matters less to me than the good opinion of the stars, or the hatred of a flea." Death flicked his knife, shaving away slivers of white wood.
"I am love, and I loved her," Cupid said, stepping into the room. "And if my love is dead, then what am I?"
Now Death looked up. Perhaps he was grinning. He was certainly showing his teeth, though he could scarcely do otherwise. "I guess you must be dead," Death said.
Cupid drew his revolver with the speed of a god, but Death threw the pearl-handled knife even faster, and it spun through the air to pierce Cupid's hand and knock the revolver away.
At which point Cupid lifted his other arm, drawing his shotgun from the depths of his coat. He aimed it point-blank at Death's head, and fired, one-handed.
I know. In the story you heard, Cupid pistol-whips Anubis, blinds Kali with shotgun shells full of blessed rock salt, and blows Baron Samedi's kneecaps off. Then he sends Psyche's soul to rest. But that didn't happen, of course, except in the movie.
You see, Cupid hadn't loaded the shotgun with rock salt, or birdshot, or even ground-up holy relics. He'd loaded it with love. Those shells became his new arrows, every pellet of shot as powerful as a single arrow had been, and he bombarded Death with all that love.
Cupid's work was done. Death would never take another soul. How could he? After Cupid's gunshot struck him, Death was transformed. After that he loved everything, every soul, every object, from cowherds to lawyers to trees to river rocks, apples to lizards to glass. He wanders still, I hear, eternally besotted, driven to rapture by the sight of a cloud skidding across the face of the moon, delighted by the bite of a flea, and pining away for the distant stars.
And what of Cupid? Well, you tell me. He killed himself with a death god's weapon, right? Baron Samedi's pistol, the Saturday night special? Or he slit his throat with Kali's knives, you've heard that one too? All so he could join his dead lover in the land below the living, all so Cupid and Psyche could eat dust together forever as shades of their living selves.
No. Didn't happen that way. Cupid loaded the shotgun shells with all his love, you see, even his own love for Psyche, because he couldn't bear the pain of missing her anymore. And after firing his weapon, Cupid stood there in Death's cottage, feeling empty. He had immortality ahead of him, and only coals and darkness in his heart, neither pain nor pleasure. So he took up Death's scythe, and hammered it into a sword. He traded his trenchcoat for a black robe covered in staring blue eyes. He goes by the name Samael, now, the all-seeing, the venom of god — the Angel of Death. You've seen him. He took your cousin Bertie last summer, when Bertie drowned in the river. Yes. That's right. He used to be Cupid, and now he's Samael. He was love, and he killed death with love, and now he's death.
Ah. Sorry. Drifted off for a minute. I just... thought you should know. Not about Cupid in particular, I mean. Just that things are complicated. Love, death, other things. They're not the way they look in the movies, or sound in the stories you hear. People change, get older, grow apart, die, lose things, lose sight of things. Everything. You see?
Thanks for coming to see me. Give my best to your dad.
Tim Pratt lives in Oakland, California, where he works as an assistant editor for Locus magazine. His stories have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and Strange Horizons. His story "Little Gods" was a finalist for the 2003 Nebula Award, and his first collection, Little Gods, was published last fall by Prime Books. Tim co-edits slipstream 'zine Flytrap with his fiancee, Heather Shaw. For more information about Tim, visit his web site.
About the Artist: Janet Chui originally hails from Singapore and now lives in Cary, North Carolina. She's painted fantasy and some science-fiction subjects since her teens, and has had artwork featured in Strange Horizons, the RPG Times, Challenging Destiny, and now, Ultraverse! Her art gallery is at http://www.deadfaeries.com.
Story © Tim Pratt; artwork © Janet Chui
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