Gorgon

The sound was similar to the piercing cry of a hawk or, at times, to the yapping of a small dog. Yet there was also something unearthly about it, some indescribable element of... what? Agony? Well, of something strange and dark and indefinable. It waylaid the the two men traveling through the forest. Fascinated and appalled by the mysterious strident notes, they followed the siren call through the tangled underbrush until they reached the top of the hill where they finally rested, rubbing their barked shins and scratches. Peering in a small clearing in the vale below them, they saw the source of the haunting cry. It was a gorgon.

"Well," sighed Quasimodo, "this is certainly a disappointment."
 

"Indeed," Iago replied, "I was hoping for something a bit more exotic. Still, since we're here..." Quasimodo nodded and they quietly observed her wildly gyrating and thrashing about.

"I can't tell if she's dancing in unbridled joy or writhing in pain," said Quasimodo.

"Nor I. She probably doesn't know herself." Iago shrugged. "Probably both."

"Well, at least her shrieks certainly don't sound joyful. Besides, come to think of it, what could make a gorgon dance for joy anyway?"

"She found a good hairdresser?"

Ignoring his companion, Quasimodo squinted his eye. "You know, I don't believe she's... dancing... like that voluntarily."

"Eh? Do tell!"

"I mean, look at her, really look at her."

"Why? You want me to turn to stone?"

Quasimodo smiled. "You already have a heart of stone. What does the rest of you matter?"

Iago returned the smile and nodded. "You're too kind. But you know, now that you mention it, I see what you mean. Her spasms aren't just... they're not altogether her own doing. It's like... like..."

"Like there's something else down there with her, something invisible that's pulling on her, twisting her."

Iago stroked his chin. "You're right, you're quite right. Look at her. At times she seems to even partially dissolve only to reassemble with different proportions."

"It's as if she's simultaneously being stretched on a rack and constricted in a small iron box."

"Her arms, even her face, everything warped, yanked, distended, contorted as if something is pulling at her and compressing her all at the same time."
 

"It's all like a child with some clay. How interesting after all: a malleable gorgon, elastic and easily deformed."

"But, my dear Quasimodo, aren't we all?"
 

Quasimodo chuckled. "Well then, I  guess that proves she's in torment."

"Or not. Maybe to a tormentor, if she has only a shadow of a conscience, being tormented offers a small measure of mercy."

"You confuse me, friend. How so?"

"Why, because the outer pain distracts her soul from her inner misery. You know, there are few things more mournful than a monster who knows its own monstrousness."

"Spoken with the voice of experience."

Iago grinned. "Indeed!"

"But who... or what... is tormenting her?"

"Perhaps her tormentor is herself. Maybe it's her own outraged conscience, like Poe's Imp of the Perverse, or maybe it's her self-realization that she's a monster. Maybe, maybe not. Who am I to say?  But enough of this," said Iago rising, a broad smile on his face. "Come, old friend, and let us leave both this fair damsel and these fairer woods to temporarily visit the realm of Man."

"For pity's sake, Iago, why?"

Iago winked, "Because, my friend, I think we could both use a haircut."