The Secret of Vineta

The myth of Vineta is an important motif in The Lakes of the Moon anthology. For this anthology I concocted my own take on Vineta, disregarded anything that may have been told or written before. Here you can read the story as found in the analog horror miniseries, VHS. In the series, a Polish mother (played splendidly by Sarah Golding) recounts the legend to her daughter, Catherine (the magnificent Erika Sanderson of NoSleep Podcast fame), a skeptic and academic at UCLA. Set against the 1969 Apollo 11 launch to the Moon, Sarah tells the story so well, and Jakub Zeranski's haunting score highlights the story's weird, unsettling portions. You'd do yourself a great favor by listening to it. You won't regret it. 

Vineta.

It was a great city built on the edge of the sea, and surrounding it on all sides were these incredible walls made of moonstone and blue beryl – a thousand feet high! smooth as glass – ah, they were like mirrors in the sun. Artists and craftsmen from the highest orders studied there, under the city’s master architects. The wealth and majesty of Vineta surpassed all the wonders of the world. Merchants, traders, priests and kings came to marvel after its beauty, and it was known to all as the City of the Sun. 

In those days, there were Twin Moons in the sky: the Elder and the Younger, and when their moonlight shone on Vineta, her walls sang like choirs of angels. The people were a good people, then. They honoured the Twin Moons. They housed the poor. They fed the starving. They didn’t wage war. They let the trees grow into lush forests. They had peace with the merfolk who lived in the sea, exchanging gifts for songs and laughter.

In their contentment, as their generations came and went, they yearned to know the mysteries of the stars, the signs of the planets, the secrets of the gods –the Heights—things they should not have chased after, hidden things, things...things we are not meant to understand. But they were persistent, this headstrong people with wills like granite. Wherever they stretched out their hand there was neither man nor god to tell them “Stop! Enough!”

They sent their wild ships out to sea to hunt mermaids and mermen and their young. Their flesh became a sweet delicacy in Vineta. In fact, it was the custom to eat their flesh on the Feast of Chrysanthemums, the holiest of days. They had scooped up so many merfolk that there were no more left in the sea. As if this was not enough for this gluttonous people! As if they did not empty the sea! They emptied the sky too!

When the first cornerstone was set in Vineta, you could not look up without seeing chalkydri flying from east to west. And flocks of griffins with their golden feathers, you could not throw a stone in the air without hitting one.

But the people, this stupid, stupid people! They shot down every chalkydri for their feathers, their horns, and every griffin for their furs, their silver teeth. The sky was void of them. They became a memory. The people felled the trees and uprooted the grass. They drove the creatures of the wildwood away and hunted them until they were no more. They turned their plowshares into swords. They made spears from their fishing hooks. They exchanged their poets for captains of war, legions of armies marching from shore to shore. They forged armour and they forged battle axes, and they beat the drums of war. They destroyed cities and kingdoms, slaughtered peoples from every tribe. They took whatever they wanted. There wasn’t a kingdom from mountain to sea that did not fall under the tyranny of Vineta, that great city.

Ah, the people of Vineta, so greedy, so mired in their own filth. They got bloated, you see. Bloated in their heads, bloated in their hearts. They had no needs. Only wants.

One terrible day, there was born into the Royal House of Vineta a wicked seed, a rotten sapling of a boy who became a rotting oak of a man. A quick-tempered, insolent man, a disgraceful prince. When he was crowned with many crowns, he gave himself the title Król Królów. King of Kings. He demanded that to him every knee would bow and every tongue confess, from all Vineta to all the nations near and far, that he was a King whom emperors shall serve, and to him alone their allegiance would be pledged. He kept a great bronze chalkydri by his throne, one of the very last in Vineta, having five heads and five horns on each head. He inflicted so much torture on the beast that it had become a fearsome thing, roaring, twisted, full of hate. It bent to the Król’s will and did whatever he wished it to do. Anyone who dared approach his throne risked becoming devoured.

One night, the Król could not sleep, so he walked in the royal gardens under the Twin Moons, but he did not bow to them, when suddenly he was visited by a new god whose ways were not known to their ancestors. He was a god from beyond the heavens, far yet near, he said. A god white as bone, white as the face of the moon. He called himself the Sul, the Hidden Name, and he chose the Król of Vineta as his divine representative on earth. He rejected the gods of his ancestors, destroyed their altars, tore down their images. He commanded all Vineta to renounce the Heights—the old gods—to cease honouring the Twin Moons, and worship only the Sul. Anyone who resisted were brought to the bronze chalkydri and eaten alive. This arrogant, vile Król! He raised up a new altar to his god, a high altar made of stone. Around its sides were many horns taken from the slain chalkydri. And above the altar, made entirely of limpid crystal, was the Face of the Sul looked down.

On another night, a wintry night, long after instituting his new religion, the Król stood on his terrace to search the stars, using this crystal sphere held to his eye. Far into the distance, beyond Aldebaran, he saw a very strange thing: a bright star made of sapphire glass. How he lusted after that star. He swore by the Sul that he would take it and set it within his crown-of-many-crowns, becoming equal with the Sul himself! He called forth his princes in counsel, his captains in secret, his courtiers by night to determine how they would reach up and pull down the glassy sapphire from heaven’s orbit. But the princes, captains and courtiers could not answer him, and he became very angry. In his frantic need for the star, like a drowning man desperate for air, the Król threw himself before the altar and grabbed hold of its horns, demanding his god speak with him face to face.

The Sul did speak. In gentle whispers he told the Król what he must do. And so, obeying his god’s word, the Król commanded that three giant ovens be constructed near the palace of Vineta. These ovens were made in the image of the Sul, in his likeness and form, having a thousand eyes and a thousand limbs. He enacted a new law decreed by the Sul himself, and this was his law: Every year, on the first day of spring, all the firstborn sons and daughters of Vineta had to be thrown alive into the fiery ovens. He told the people that once he obtained this precious star, he would graciously bestow on every loyal subject a portion of its magical power. They would share in the great power of the Król and his god, the Sul! Every one from the wealthiest to poorest would wear a crown, he said, and be clothed in gold and scarlet, have the audience of kings and the thrones of kingdoms. But to their Król, their beloved Król, to him only would they bow, and no other.

Seduced by their Król, blinded by their incessant greed, the people happily obeyed. They dragged their sons and daughters in chains up to the roaring ovens, not having the slightest bit of remorse for what they were about to do. And lifting their eyes to heaven they cried, “In the Name of the Sul!” and cast their children into the fire. The black smoke of their holocausts blotted out the sun. With each child’s scream, the people of Vineta, their eyes wide with glee, foam dripping from their mouths, they blessed the Sul for his goodness and prayed for more riches, more prestige, more, more, more!

This people, this abominable people, the people of Vineta! So much hurt.

As all this took place, far outside the beryl walls of wicked Vineta, there were these small villages of poor farmers. Their land yielded no crops. The mountains yielded no rivers. The village folk were desperate for grain and milk. In one of these poor villages, a farmwife fell pregnant. Neither she nor her husband knew how they would feed an extra mouth. They already had five children, and they could barely keep them fed.

“Go out into the woods, have the child, and bury it there,” her husband said. “Do not speak to me of this thing in your womb.”

Frightened, alone, guilty, the poor farmwife went into the woods. She did not want to kill the child but she feared her husband’s violent temper, for he was as violent as the Król. As she went deeper into the woods, she looked up and saw a great light streak across the sky. It landed in the dusty field near their home. A large stone from the face of the Elder Moon, a stone as big as the old altars of Vineta, bright as the sun...and the sound it made shook the whole countryside. The moonstone called to the farmwife, beckoning her to come near. Its glow was cold as ice. The child in the farmwife’s womb leapt like a frog when her mother touched it. Right then and there the farmwife gave birth to a beautiful little girl. But there was something very different about this girl. She had wings, six marvelous wings bright as silver in the sun, starshine in her feathers.

The very next day, rivers flowed into the valleys. Water fell over the cliffs. Crops grew again. Word spread throughout the villages that the Winged Child had made the land prosperous. The wretched poor came to touch her shimmering feathers and prayed to their gods for blessings. The villagers made a laurel wreath of holly and hazel and placed it on the Winged Child’s head. Day and night she sat down on the great moonstone that fell from the sky while visitors from lands near and far made pilgrimage.

But there was one such person who did not seek her blessings. He was a poor shepherd boy who tended his lambs on the other side of the mountain. A boy of only eight years, about her age. When he came to see the Winged Child for himself, he asked for nothing. He didn’t even want to touch her wings. All he wanted was to sit with her. He brought her cakes and he brought her butter. Year after year he came with his gifts, only to sit and speak with her, and want nothing in return. And they sang this little song together.

In a land where dreams take flight,

Underneath the moon’s soft light,

There's a tale that’s ever told,

Of a journey, brave and bold

In the quiet of the night,

Hope shines like a candle bright,

With friends by your side, you'll see,

There's no telling what can be

Oh happy dream, it will never fade away,

In the heart it finds glory, 

In my heart it will stay,

Through visions we soar,

In dreams evermore

Through visions we soar,

In dreams evermore.

For many hours they would sing and tell each other stories long forgotten. When the sun turned red, he would gather his flock to go back home over the mountain. She gave him a token a feather plucked from her wings, glimmering. And he kept it near his breast always. The years passed. They grew older. The Winged Child became the Winged Maiden, and he was the Young Shepherd. She counted the days until he returned to her from over the mountain. Her dreams were filled with a hundred maybes and what-ifs, dreams of life with him in some faraway place.

One day, word of the Winged Maiden reached the Król of Vineta. At once he sent his chariots and he sent his horsemen, he sent his foot soldiers and he sent his wild dogs. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps she was the key to conquering this star made of sapphire glass. On the first break of dawn, before the Young Shepherd could see her again, the Król’s soldiers took her away, binding her wings in chains. The villagers were terrified but they could do nothing against the Król’s soldiers who were so cruel that they beat many of the good villagers to death. They burnt their houses and they burnt their grain fields.

The Winged Maiden was taken away.

The villages were destroyed. The Young Shepherd’s heart broke in two and he wet the ground with bitter tears. He went back beyond the mountain and built a shrine to the god of shepherds, though he knew nothing of his god's origins. But he was desperate. He gave his god lambs and goats on the altar, but still the god of shepherds gave no sign and spoke no word.

Enraged, needing someone to blame, the villagers went after the Young Shepherd, beat him, killed his lambs, and burned his own village to the ground. But still they were angry. As the Król did to them, they would do to the Young Shepherd. It was not enough that they beat him, no, it was not enough that they set his village afire or slaughtered his lambs. They brought him to an enchanter to be cursed with life as sure and as steady as the rising and shining of the sun. The enchanter obliged the angry villagers, and set the curse upon the Young Shepherd.

Then they imprisoned him in an armor made with spikes that pierced his body. They gouged out his eyes and seared an iron mask onto his face, and seared shoes to his feet and made him wear the yellow cloak of the unclean so that wherever he went he would be a walking curse in all the land.

But still, still, in spite of all they had done, they never found the token the Winged Maiden had given him. It was still safe in his tatters, near his breast...

Back in Vineta, the Wicked Król with his very own hands ripped the Maiden’s wings from her flesh and wrapped them around his naked self, dripping in her blood, her blood which he used to mingle with incense burnt on the high altar. With her blood he burnt a strange fire to his god the Sul. It was a fire not seen on this earth before or since. And when the smoke of it covered him, he saw with different eyes the glassy sapphire, and reached forth his hand to touch...but he could not grab hold.

Furious, he took his knife and cut out the Maiden’s heart...but her heart continued to beat, even in the grip of his hand. She did not die. No, she did not die. She looked into the eyes of the Wicked Król, and said, “How long will you offend the Heights?”

And, for the first time in his self-indulgent, malicious life, the Król was afraid.

He trampled the beating heart, which beat even after it left his hand, and he commanded his soldiers to put the Maiden in a tomb deep in his dungeon, where she cried the most dreadful cries from sunrise to sunset. Not a single moment passed when the Maiden did not cry. The Król again threw himself before the altar, and took hold of its horns with those terrible, bloodied hands, hands stained with the Maiden’s blood, hands stained with the blood of thousands, and he begged the Sul to meet him face to face.

But his god did not answer him. He cried and begged and moaned. He offered his slaves on the altar. He offered his concubines and he offered his wives. He offered his own children. But still his god did not answer him.

And he was sore afraid.

On the Feast of Chrysanthemums, when it is the duty of the Król to burn a chrysanthemum bush on the altar in the presence of all the people, a most marvelous thing happened. In the thick of the smoke above the altar, was the star made of sapphire glass burning brighter than the Król’s roaring ovens! with a fire as white as the face of the moon.

The altar broke.

The Face of the Sul broke.

The star raged in thunder.

“Break his throne and break his crown. Let his palace fall. Let the city drown. Away with the unclean, away with the wicked. O, Elder Moon, awake! Awake!”

And all the people fell down afraid.

When the star disappeared, the Król was white as the face of the moon. In his terror, he gouged out his own eyes and in the presence of all the people cried, “Not upon us, not upon us!”

Then the Elder Moon stood up in the heavens like a warrior in a drunken rage, and said to her sister the Younger.

“Now is the time to visit on Vineta, that wicked city, the full reward for her wrongs. The Maiden’s cry has come up to me, and the cry of the innocent dead has come up. Now I will avenge their blood forever.”

The Elder Moon cast herself to the Earth, upon Vineta, that wicked city! Down came the walls of moonstone and blue beryl! Down came the Król’s palace, on him and on his bronze chalkydri, crushing their bones to powder!

The Sul could not save the city nor its stupid people. They mourned and cried out for the waters to hide them from the wrath of the Elder Moon. Vineta and its shimmering walls fell into the sea burning with fire.

By daybreak, the city was no more.

The Younger Moon wept for her sister, and made this declaration: when Vineta rises again, she will cast herself down to us, and this time all the Earth will perish, and all its people will be tortured in the heart of the sapphire glass. 

But what of the Winged Maiden and Young Shepherd? 

They’re alive. Suffering. She entombed in the sea. He entombed

in his armor, a wander in the earth. Separated forever. In fact, Vineta cannot rise again until their suffering is complete.

When will that be?

When men walk in the heavens. 

This is the secret of Vineta.