First Blood by S. Cedric Page A

didn’t have our westernized ways of seeing life and death. On the contrary, they encouraged patricide and infanticide for clan survival.”
    Madeleine is used to this kind of reaction to Mr. Parme’s assertions. She feels tension in the air. This has happened several times before. She has the strange feeling that she can visualize people’s emotions as if they bubble up and slough off. At that moment, she is seeing the emotion beneath the dark skin of her friend.
    She blinks, and the illusion stops.
    On the stage, the professor continues his amplified monologue. The giant screen shows a dark and terrifying painting of a monster holding a child’s body. The monster is closing its mouth over the body to devour the child. Its eyes are crazed, devilish, and yet filled with distress.
    “Saturn devouring his son,” Ismael whispers. “I love this painting.”
    “As we will see, infanticide has always been the privilege of the gods in their blood struggles,” Mr. Parme goes on. “Every system has divinities that committed this sin. The painting you see is by Francisco de Goya. You will note that it is not beautiful. In fact, it is violent and powerfully ugly. It’s like a vision of hell.”
    Ismael grumbles. “What bullshit.”
    Madeleine chuckles.
    “It represents the Greek God Cronus, called Saturn by the Romans, eating his child. You should know that Cronus attacked his own father, cut off his testicles, and took his place. His father had sworn that one of his own sons would dethrone him. To keep the curse from coming true, Cronus ate his own offspring.”
    “Now, that is true,” Ismael says.
    Madeleine glances at him. He is half smiling.
    She looks back at the screen, where another picture appears.
    It is an ancient Greek banquet. Men and women in armor are seated around a table. They are sharing meat set out on multicolored plates.
    “And here is Tantalus,” the professor says. “He is seen at the right in this painting, which is from the Delphic temple. You are probably familiar with his eternal punishment in the underworld. Does someone remember what it was?”
    High up in the tiers, a boy in a hoodie raises his hand and hesitantly says, “To suffer eternal thirst and hunger?”
    “Exactly, Guillaume. Tantalus was sentenced to eternal thirst and hunger. He was chained to a tree in a pool of water, with branches of fruit hanging just beyond his reach and the water would retreat every time he leaned over to quench his thirst. Why was he punished in this way?”
    This time, Ismael’s voice rises from the first row, “Because he killed his son. He served him up for the gods to eat.”
    Students murmur in the tiers. A girl groans in disgust. Ismael puts on a carnivorous smile. This is one of his favorite legends.
    Mr. Parme nods. “That’s correct, Ismael. It is a terrible story. Tantalus brought together the gods and served them his own son. He thought he would please them. But the opposite was true.”
    “Not exactly,” Ismael responds.
    Madeleine tries to pinch his leg. She feels another confrontation coming on. They had already occurred far too often. She doesn’t want to be thrown out of the class another time.
    The professor continues as if he hasn’t heard anything. “The price to pay for having killed his child was being condemned to the underworld with an exemplary punishment.”
    Ismael waves his hand.
    “Excuse me, but that is not at all what happened. For Tantalus, infanticide was a way to become immortal. He came up with that evening with the gods for just that purpose. It was designed to be a ritual of passage. It didn’t work the way he planned it because he was betrayed.”
    The professor clears his throat.
    “My dear Ismael, I see that you once again have a very interesting theory.”
    “These are not theories,” the young man says. “There are numerous studies that discuss Tantalus in terms of infanticide leading to divinity, like Medea, who organized every detail of her