Chapter Seven
I push through the olive groves, as though the long grass and grasping branches were my enemies. As though they were the racing thoughts battling in my mind.
Nemese .
Hair like flame, eyes of tawny gold. In the picture she looked nothing like me. What am I saying? She’s a goddess . Of course she’s nothing like me.
Even if it was long ago, how long is time, really, to a god? Perhaps to Eros, it feels like only yesterday.
What stings most is the not knowing. The feeling that he made a fool of me. My husband. The one who made those vows to me. How could he have let me believe that I was the only one he’d made them to?
I was never a great student of the myths. I only know the most popular ones, the ones everybody knows from the songs and poems. How was I to know about her? I flash back to the tapestry room, to their outstretched arms, the way their bodies stood so close to one another. What I saw depicted there was no brief dalliance, but something ancient and eternal. Something I flattered myself that we might have.
I take a glance behind me to be sure Athena isn’t following. Not that I thought she would. I suppose she doesn’t understand these stormy, human emotions. I suppose she thinks they’re a distraction . Behind me are the great spires and domes of its acropolis, but ahead there are only fields and meadows—the outskirts of the great settlement—and then, in the far distance, the ring of mist that separates this realm from the mortal one. I suppose if there are any gods around here they are the minor ones, those allowed to live on Olympus, but not lofty enough to sit on the Olympian thrones.
My feet push me onward, out of the olive groves and down a stony path. I fix my eyes on that ring of mist in the far distance, marking the dividing-line between gods and mortals. It is a long walk, and I remember a wall there, glassy and sheer. Even if I somehow got through it, what would await me on the other side? I’ve made it through the slopes of Olympus once, but I barely kept my life, and that time, I was armed with Eros’s bow and arrows. This time, I would have nothing at all. I surprise myself with a sudden noise of rage, the howl of a trapped animal.
My feet slow at last, as though finally realizing they have nowhere to go. And as I steady my breath, I notice something over the wall to my right. An orchard with trees as graceful as dancers, their white branches more delicate than glass. And from every bough, glowing like a tiny orb, hangs a golden apple. Even in my distracted state, I stop and stare. It seems to me I can hear music, as though the apples themselves each have a note, and sing it when the breeze touches them. I can’t help drawing closer. Something about them is enchanting. Mesmerizing.
There is a gate in the wall but it’s open wide, like an invitation. I suppose I know better than to walk through every open gate I see, but the call of the trees urges me forward, and besides, the anger has left me reckless. I step inside, and feel a great release, like a sigh going up all around me. As I move beneath the apple trees, it’s as though I leave my thoughts behind. With each step they grow more distant, like a fog lifting, and my mind grows blanker but also clearer, like the first moment of waking.
I’m alone. There is no one here to hide from. I walk on, feeling the light brush of the breeze, taking in the beauty of it all. I reach out and touch the tree-bark—it’s cool, like a mountain spring. Birds chirp in the distance, but there are no other creatures in sight. Just stillness, and the scent of wet grass, and a faint perfume which must come from the apples: not too sweet, but bright and clean.
A deep desire comes over me to sit beneath one of these trees: to be still for a while under its branches. So I do. My eyes close, my skin drinks in the sun and breeze. Peace, that thing we strive for, that we work so hard to master—here it is, suddenly, with no effort. It seems hard to remember how angry, how turbulent I felt only moments ago. What was it all for? The feelings are so distant now, somewhere out there in the fog.
As I sit, a strange sort of shudder passes through the tree, like a sigh. And then something falls beside me. It hits the ground neatly, with a clear, sharp tap. One of the golden apples.
I know right away that it’s for me. The tree knows I’m here and it’s giving me this.
I take the fruit in my hand, hold it up to the early morning light. I’m not a fool, I’ve met poisoned gifts before. But something in me says this tree means me no harm.
Either that, or I’m past caring.
I raise the apple to my lips and take a bite.
*
I taste nothing, nothing at all. In fact, it is as though my mouth has disappeared altogether: my tongue, my lips, my throat, even the hand holding the apple, I feel none of it. I know it happened, but it seems to have happened to someone else, far away.
There is just a flash of light, a bolt of energy, and then darkness. I don’t remember closing my eyes. Slowly, I open them—but no, that’s not quite right. Someone opens their eyes. I don’t know how to explain it. The someone is not me, but I am inside them. I feel my separateness, a stranger lurking behind their eyes. They don’t know I’m here, but I see what they see. Feel what they feel.
And what they see is water, shale, rough waves. The breeze is sharp with brine. Do I know this place? Perhaps, or perhaps I dreamed of it once. But through whose eyes do I witness it now?
My host is breathing quietly, his anticipation sharp as a honed blade. He, for I know it is a he, is waiting for something. Or someone? He rises from the boulder on which he sits, and I feel suddenly vertiginous.
This is no mortal body.
I feel it in his tremendous stature, in his vitality, his strength of will and of limb. I see it in the golden, burnished skin of his arms and hands.
His head turns now, alerted by some sound I’ve missed. There’s a figure on the horizon: someone else has made their way down that narrow, rocky path to this inhospitable shelf of land. My heart quickens as the silhouette sharpens into the form of a woman. Her movements are familiar somehow, or almost familiar. She has not seen us—that is, she has not seen my host, though he has seen her. He has hidden himself well behind the boulder, the better to watch her.
The air around us thickens with purpose; I can feel the god’s power ripple through him, a deliberate surge of will, and I feel something start to change inside him. His body is shifting, skin and muscle changing form.
His lustrous arms grow dull, the gleam of Olympus fading, giving way to skin marred by sun and toil and fighting scars. He seems almost to shrink, compressing into a frame that’s so much less than what he is. He’s turning himself…mortal.
I think I understand. He takes on a mortal form for reasons to do with this woman who draws near. I can feel his satisfaction, the touch of humor in it. He means to fool her, and he’s pleased with his own cleverness. He takes a step nearer the water, and as he bends over it his reflection comes into view, and I feel an icy shock.
A man gazes back: square face, strong jaw, reddish hair above his piercing eyes. A face I know almost as well as my own. My father’s face. He is younger here than I ever knew him, in the prime of his youth. But why does a god steal my father’s likeness?
I can hear footsteps now—the woman is very near. The god steps out from behind the boulder. I feel the smile that curves his lips. And I see the woman clearly for the first time.
If I had breath of my own to draw, I would gasp. I know her at once. My father kept a portrait of her in our home, and I have seen her too, in a vision. Mother , I want to say, but I have no voice. I am a silent, invisible thing, deep inside this creature’s mind.
She is beautiful. Beautiful enough to capture a god’s favor. Beautiful enough to cause trouble. And suddenly I realize why the coastline looked familiar. It’s Atlantis. I was here before: the village where my mother grew up.
Her eyes widen as she walks toward him, her mouth parted in surprise.
“Andros! What are you doing here? I thought you were to spend the day with your regiment…”
She looks pleased. Happy. My heart twists. She is so young.
“And so I was. But I wanted to see you instead.” His voice is my father’s, only warmer, more urgent. I can hear the desire in it: the one thing he has not bothered to disguise. And inside his mind I feel the anticipation: he has succeeded. The trick is played, and he will have what he wants—as he always does.
The thought comes to me that this is not the first time he has tried. He has pursued my mother before, but she retreats from him, fears him. She has promised herself to someone else—a mortal man—and so he has taken on the mortal’s form. She cannot object to his advances now.
She cocks her head at him, surprised, a little thrilled. What a thing, that he should come all this way just to surprise her on her morning walk. “But you saw me only yesterday.”
“And you think that is enough for me? I can never have enough of you.”
She flushes, laughs.
The god wearing my father’s skin steps closer, slides one of the pins free from my mother’s chiton , and pulls the fold loose. I see her shock, but I see, too, that her eyes thrill at his touch.
“We are not married yet, Andros.”
“In a matter of days, we will be. What’s a few days?” I hear the smile in his voice, and see the answering smile on her face as she reaches out to touch his cheek.
Stop, I try to shout, trying to summon breath from lungs that aren’t mine. But I have no power here. And then my world turns black again.
Someone’s shaking me.
Gasping as though I’ve been underwater, I draw in a breath and struggle to open my eyes. When I do, there’s a dazzling brightness, and a dark figure standing over me.