Chapter 8
I wake my sleeping doves, hidden with my chariot in a nearby grove, touching my finger to each pure-white cheek so that they lift their heads and coo with pleasure. “Time to go,” I whisper.
The midnight sky glitters with stars as we ascend into the still and silent air; the fires and revelry of Ares’ rites dying away in the darkness.
Land and sea bleed together in the shadows. The breeze cools my flushed cheeks, lifting my hair behind me as we fly on. A calm settles over me, my pulse slowing to a regular rhythm.
The kingdom of Ares was like nowhere else I’ve been. There I felt a liberation, a giddiness, as if I were about to jump from a precipice and let the wind take me.
It was the passion of his mortals, the heat I could feel burning all the way from Olympus, that lured me there. But, as I get further away, I can’t banish the image of the slumped bull, or the violence of the frenzy.
We come to Cyprus, my island veiled in black by Nyx, Goddess of the Night.
The earth remembers me, shuddering with pleasure when I set foot on the soil, a tiny tremor that vibrates through the deep rock and makes the silhouetted trees sway just a fraction.
A nightingale is startled from her branch, a hare scampers across a meadow and freezes with its ears quivering.
The priestess of my temple stirs awake and inhales the scent of roses sweeping across the island, her eyes opening in surprise.
Two nightingales huddle together now, one feathered head resting atop the other.
The hare has found her mate and bounds toward him in swift leaps.
My priestess leans over her slumbering lover with a kiss, and she wakes, reaching up and pulling her closer, the two entangling, never knowing that they owe their bliss to their passing goddess.
The first gray mists of dawn emerge. The celebrations in Thrace will be over by now. The fire will have crumbled into soft ashes, flaking into the breeze. I think of the woman who slayed the bull and wonder if she sleeps alone or with the War God.
As the sun climbs higher in the sky, my sanctuary begins to ring with music—the lyre, tambourines, drums and the voices of the temple girls lifted in my honor.
I smile as I pass, noting the smoking altar, breathing in the scent of incense, letting the prayers weave around me, praise heaped upon praise.
But it’s not the sanctuary that I’ve chosen to visit today.
Thrace belongs to Ares, but Cyprus is mine.
I chased that prayer on a curious impulse, but this is where I should be.
Cyprus, where a sculptor has become strangely afflicted with love for his own statue and needs the intervention of Aphrodite.
A worthy cause and a more fitting challenge for me than anything there.
I follow the pulse of his thoughts.
I’m light as the air, silent and invisible, nothing more to a passerby than a waft of perfume and a sudden burst of longing.
I’m drawn to the studio where this man, Pygmalion, sets his beloved statue down, laying her on the couch he’s adorned with rich purple bolts of cloth.
It was expensive, but nothing is too good for her; he wants to give her the finest of everything.
His trembling fingers loop gold necklaces around her neck and slide amber rings onto her stiff fingers.
He props soft cushions under her head, treating her as though she’s precious and delicate, as though she might look up at him any moment and complain that her shoulders ache if he doesn’t take enough care.
Strewn about the airy room are the gifts he’s brought her: the gleaming white shells he’s collected from the beach, the flowers he’s gathered, the lifelike birds he’s carved to keep her company, the robes he loves to dress her in before bringing a glass to show her how beautiful he’s made her.
Then he lies down, holding her in his arms. That’s where he is when I drift into the room. I’m struck by the tenderness of the tableau, and an ache begins to build deep inside me, a flash of pain that feels heavenly and cruel all at once.
The fervency of longing that emanates from this man flows through me like nectar, sweet molten gold, glorious and radiant and alive. I hear him ask again, praying to Aphrodite to give him what he wants, and I whisper Yes.
This, I will get right. She won’t be taken like Phaon or threatened like Pandora. This woman will be made for love, not the mischief of the gods.
He kisses the statue’s lips and feels the stirring of her breath.
He pulls back, his eyes wide, not believing it could be true.
As he leans in and kisses her again, the hard stone of her mouth melts beneath his.
His hands roam up and down her body, but, instead of sweeping across cold ivory, his fingers sink into warm, soft skin.
Where she was once rigid and impermeable, now she’s like wax heating in the sun, yielding to his touch.
He lifts his mouth from hers and she draws in a long breath, her lungs filling for the first time, and, with a sigh, her eyes flutter open and look into his.
It’s a moment of magic and romance; a miraculous transformation. I feel his joy, and it surges inside me too. A thrill of power and delight; a gift only I could bestow.
My eyes slide to the new-made woman.
She has no past. No memory of anything until a few moments ago, no knowledge of the world beyond this couch and this man. While he is happy beyond all measure, she knows nothing but bewilderment—not yet.
I hesitate as Pygmalion slides to his knees on the floor, lifting his hands into the air in rapturous gratitude.
He calls out his thanks to me, his words of praise tumbling over one another.
Then he takes her hands in his with gentle concern and tells her how he’ll treasure her, that she needn’t be afraid.
She is sent by a goddess as a gift from the heavens, one he will prize above all else.
She stares at him, uncomprehending.
I’m wrapping the beads of my necklace around one finger, while Pygmalion is chattering on about how he’ll proclaim the beneficence of Aphrodite all across Paphos, and my altars will swell with yet more offerings.
She’s overwhelmed, of course. But Pygmalion will take care of her.
He tenderly tucks a blanket around her shoulders, lifting her hair out of the way and marveling at the way it falls through his fingers—the strands he carved in ivory with such meticulous attention.
I know how much she’ll enjoy being the object of his worship once she realizes what’s happening.
“Galatea,” he’s saying to her. He points to her and says it again. Her name.
I close my eyes and listen to the fluttering in her breast, an anxious flurry of fear.
I reach out to her, unseen by either of them.
She doesn’t feel the brush of my fingers, only the calm that settles over her.
She lifts her eyes to his, and, in that beating heart that was empty stone a moment ago, I spark a tiny flame.
She holds his gaze and breathes out, her shoulders relaxing, and he smiles, encouraging.
This is what I can do. Zeus and Eris toy with mortals and toss them away. I bring them to life in a loving embrace. Galatea will be happy here, safe and cherished by her adoring protector. Far more fortunate than the warriors slaughtered in the name of Ares.
I was hasty, perhaps, to awaken her in his arms. I remember now how Athena kept Pandora in the heavens, teaching her the skills she’d need for mortal life before delivering her to Epimetheus. It was far more sudden for Galatea; that’s why she was afraid.
That’s all it is. She just needs time to become accustomed to a world so new to her.
I imagine her offering flowers on my altar herself, when she comes to understand.
—
After I leave Pygmalion’s house, I wander through Paphos. I pass simple mud-brick houses with their wooden shutters closed against the bright sun, a potter’s workshop, a blacksmith’s forge—the last of which I stop at, my notice caught by the ringing of hammer on anvil.
The wide doors have been flung open, and smoke billows from the furnace at the back.
It’s plain and humble compared with the forge on Olympus, cluttered with tools propped against bare stone walls.
In the center, the smith raises his hammer, bringing it down with a crash onto metal, and I linger, watching him for a moment.
There are none of the dazzling examples of workmanship here that I’m used to seeing from Hephaestus, but he looks just as intent and his powerful arms ripple with strength just the same.
A curl of dark hair hangs over his forehead, sticking to his damp skin.
A trickle of sweat traces its way down his neck, sliding toward his chest. I follow its journey, captivated by this pleasing sight.
I’m about to send a little puff of divine breath to blow the stray lock of hair out of his face, when a large bird swoops down at my feet, startling me. It tilts its head on its curved and slender neck, peering up at me with inquisitive eyes, and I smile.
“Hephaestus!”
The crane spreads its wings out wide, standing tall on its narrow legs, before morphing into the shape of the god. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says, smiling warmly back at me.
“I’m just visiting forges.” He glances at the smith, who carries on oblivious to the hidden presence of two Olympian gods.
Hephaestus purses his lips and blows, and the rogue hair flutters away from the mortal’s face.
He sighs with relief, swinging back the hammer for another blow. “Where have you been?” Hephaestus asks.
“Come on,” I invite him. “Walk with me.”
I lead him away from the mortal village, toward the rolling vineyards and olive groves that lie between us and the sea. As we stroll, I tell him how I rewarded Pygmalion.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.