Olympus ssc, p.8
Olympus (SSC), page 8
Zeus glared at Aello’s chest and cleared his throat. She looked down at the purple warts which had sprouted in her sleep.
The humans depicted the Harpies as having the talons of vultures and the faces and bared breasts of women. It was certainly what people had come to expect. Aello and her sisters couldn’t very well come swooping down as butterfly hummingbirds and get the same terrified reaction. Once they’d tried something more creative, a concoction of scorpion pincers, sea cucumber bodies, and clusters of giant eightfold spider eyes. Very admirably it had worked, too, except the priests complained to Zeus and he’d forbidden any more experiments.
Now Aello altered her wonderfully textured and colorful warts to resemble human breasts. Underneath the curved pink flesh lay pouches for carrying away food, one of the ways Zeus commanded the Harpies to harass the disobedient.
Zeus smiled and waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’ve got a job for you.”
“Someone else to harass for breaking some law which should never have been made in the first place,” Celeno grumbled. “Why don’t you do your own dirty work?”
“You are my dirty work!” Zeus smiled even more broadly. “Why else do you have such a stench?”
At least, Aello thought, Zeus was in a good mood today. He’d probably caught whatever unfortunate female creature he was running after with those ridiculous flowers in his beard.
Sex again! Dividing everything into “innies” and “outies”! What was the point of it all?
“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “Who do we go after this time?”
“Phineus, the blind King of Eastern Thrace, has been a naughty boy.”
As Zeus filled in the details, it sounded to Aello like the usual story of bestowing prophecy on some poor fool, as if that somehow balanced out the loss of vision, and then placing all kinds of restrictions on what he was allowed to say without telling him what they were.
“What did Phineus do that was so awful?” Aello asked.
“He revealed that which only the gods should know.” Zeus repeated the traditional formula.
“So what was it?”
“The recipe for apple strudel.”
It took a lot to astonish Aello. She baited, her wings churning the air. “But the Greeks don’t eat apple strudel.”
“Not yet, they don’t.” The god frowned. “/ get to say who eats apple strudel and who doesn’t.”
“You’ll want the usual treatment, I suppose?” Cel-eno said. “Screeching, laying waste to croplands, carrying off banquets, befouling what we leave behind?”
“You got it, sweetie.” Zeus pointed a finger at Cel-eno and winked. Then his form dissolved into a curtain of confetti.
With a clashing of metallic feathers, the third Harpy flew into the cave. Ocypete, whose name means speed, glanced nervously from one sister to the other. “Uh-oh!” Ocypete said. “Zeus again?”
“Who else?” Aello shrugged.
“Well, he can wait for his petty revenge,” Celeno said. “I want to know how the plans for the cousins’ reunion are coming along.”
Aello had mixed feelings about family gatherings, as she had about just about everything else. Iris was a sweet creature, if untidy, scattering her rainbows everywhere, but the other relatives could be temperamental when provoked.
“Scylla absolutely insists we hold it at her place,” Ocypete said. “Charybdis is in one of those moods again and refuses to travel.”
“We had it there last time,” Celeno whined. The mermaid Sirens hadn’t minded, as anywhere near water and handsome sailors suited them just fine, but the Gorgons had put up an immense fuss and almost ruined things for everyone. There were few things as off-putting as the sight of a headful of sulking snakes.
“Let’s worry about the reunion later. There’s work to do,” Aello said, spreading her wings. Celeno and Ocypete followed.
Aello loved flying. The sky lightened to that pellucid shade which held all colors. Her wings beat strongly, sending their rhythm through her body.
After the bright surging foam of the sea, the rocky coast seemed dreary, giving Aello the itch to mix things up. The place could stand an infusion of Water and Fire. Inland had once been fertile, vineyards and strips of golden wheat, but now lay waste. It looked suspiciously as if the landowners had decided that having a prophetic king was enough in itself to ensure prosperity, and had simply abandoned their fields.
They reached the city of Salmydessus. Instead of gleaming white walls and neat tile roofs, beds of bright green rosemary and oregano, a heavy veil of dust, dead vines, and spiderwork cracks dulled every surface. The palace roof was in terrible repair. From inside, Aello caught the smells of roasted goatmeat and pastries, fermented fruits, and toasted nuts.
Ocypete made a quick circuit and decided that the windows were a bit narrow for a suitably spectacular entrance.
“Then we’re stuck with the crash-through-the-roof maneuver,” said Celeno, whose feet always hurt afterward. “On the count of three—”
Together they hurled themselves at the weakest point of the roof and burst into the central hall, shrieking political slogans in Neanderthal. Sometimes Celeno got a little confused and switched to Esperanto, not that the humans noticed the difference. They gibbered and cowered just the same.
In the hazy dust-laden light, Aello spotted King Phineus sitting at the head of the banquet table. A strip of linen embroidered in crimson-and-gold thread covered his eyes. He himself could have benefited from a little culinary restraint earlier in life. Missing a banquet or two wouldn’t hurt him a bit.
A pair of armed guards rushed forward, poking their spears upward. Laughing, Aello dodged their thrusts. She was tougher than a few bronze points. Meanwhile, Ocypete stuffed food into the pockets beneath her breasts with her usual speed and Celeno took out her temper on the servitors, slashing at them with her talons. Within a few minutes, the room emptied of all except the Harpies and the hapless king.
“My doom has come upon me!” Phineus flailed about with his arms. “Cried the Lady of Shalott!”
“Look, Kingie,” Aello said, settling on the whole roasted kid and inserting chunks into her chest pouches. The inner linings flooded the air with pleasure pheromones. Phineus covered his nose and mouth. “You might as well get used to it. You’ve managed to piss Zeus off, and we are what happens.”
“Liberté Egalité! Fraternité!” cried the hapless Phineus.
His utterances made a bizarre kind of sense to Aello. After all, wasn’t prophecy the ability to see into the future. Zeus just hadn’t said how far or which future. Phineus’ subjects, being human, would undoubtedly manage to make sense out of whatever he said.
“Are we done yet?” Celeno demanded. The walnuts in the baklava gave her hives and she was anxious to dump it in the first available ocean. She ruffled her wings, releasing more gusts of pheromones. By now, every bit of food left on the table reeked.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps on this petty pace,” Phineus moaned.
Aello launched herself into flight. “Sit tight, Kingie. We’ll be back!”
“Sink the Bismarck!” was the King’s reply.
Ocypete shot Aello a quizzical expression as they sped back toward Crete. “And this is going to go on for a long time?”
“Until Zeus says enough,” Celeno grumbled.
“Or we find some way out of it,” said Aello. For the first time, she resented the shared origins which made her subject to the will of the gods. Division and separation seemed like an excellent idea.
The commute itself quickly became tedious, even for hyperactive Ocypete, so they moved to the mainland, where Celeno discovered a new allergy to blooming rosemary. For a time, Aello diverted herself by sorting Phineus’ utterances by chronological period, although she never could decide where to put “Ba Ba LOO.”
Then the heroes came, as if Torture by Harpy were a magnet for their kind. They were mostly bearded and half-naked, hoping to win Phineus’ kingdom and his daughter’s hand in marriage, only Phineus didn’t have a daughter and by this time the palace was in truly decrepit condition. The Harpies’ daily forays through the roof and back out again, chest pouches bulging with whatever the kitchen had concocted that night, had enlarged the opening considerably.
The heroes bore the usual swords and shields, which they applied vigorously and with no particular degree of accuracy. They also swaggered, used bad language, and had obviously not bathed in far too long.
“And they say we smell bad,” Celeno muttered as they rested beneath the crumbling Bronze Age tomb that was their temporary den, discussing the latest forays.
Aello closed her eyes and pretended to be sleeping. Ocypete had gone off to calm Scylla about having to put off the reunion yet again. As long as the heroes kept coming regularly, they couldn’t reschedule. By the time Zeus relented or Phineus died of starvation, they’d all be downright happy to hold it in Hades.
She sensed a disturbance in Salmydessus. The clashing of swords and body armor, the tramp of sandaled feet. And food—a shipload of supplies. A new band of heroes had arrived. It was time to get back to work.
As Aello and Celeno neared the town, Aello noted the difference in this bunch. She wondered if they’d come to rescue Phineus like the others, or to consult him about a noble quest. Something shone from within the intruders, a glimmering like gold; two even bore the unmistakable stamp of godly ancestry. She’d never felt anything like them, as if a cold, delicious wind lifted her pinions. Part of the wonderful sensation was the response it evoked within her.
She said as much to Celeno as they circled above the ruined palace. Celeno snorted, in a worse mood than usual because they had to cover for Ocypete’s absence.
Aello swooped into the hall, her eyes adjusting instantly to the dim light. Phineus cowered in his throne, now a pathetic wreck of a man. Even the bandage over his eyes had turned dingy. But this time he was surrounded by a band of warriors in gleaming breastplates.
“Jason! They’ve come!”
“Defend the King!”
Swords leaped from scabbards. Celeno screeched and dodged the nearest blade, talons extended.
“Behind you!” the one named Jason shouted.
In a single graceful movement, the Greek raised his shield. Celeno swerved just in time. Nimbly, she dipped to gather up a basketful of dried figs. Pheromones from her chest pouches filled the air. The men’s faces contorted, but they held their positions.
“Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!” Phineus gibbered.
Aello grabbed a pile of round loaves of bread and assessed the situation. Clearly, this was not a disorderly band like the others. Golden-headed Jason gave his orders in a calm, ringing voice and was obeyed instantly. Within moments, two of the heroes had raised their shields to cover Phineus from attack. Others moved around the table in a coordinated maneuver, setting the pattern for the defense. Unenthusiastically, Aello started another run at the table.
A hero appeared before her, his bared arms glimmering like marble. She backstroked, scenting immortality in his blood. His face, although contorted in battle fury, was comely, the silvery curls forming a halo. But the most astonishing thing was that he had thrown back his short cloak to reveal…wings.
Wings?
Out of the comer of her eye, Aello noticed a second winged warrior bearing down on Celeno, but dared not stay to watch. Her own pursuer was closing fast. She dodged sword thrust and stayed just out of reach. Her heart beat unaccountably fast.
“What manner of man are you?” she cried.
“I am Zetes, son of Boreas, the North Wind!”
Aello had heard rumors, mostly from the Sirens, about Boreas’ exploits among the nymphs, but she’d never encountered one of the inevitable results. She had no time for any questions now, for Zetes appeared to be in deadly earnest about his mission to protect Phineus.
Fine. She’d let him chase her off and then complain to Zeus there was nothing she could do about it. They’d be off the case and enjoying the cousins’ reunion within the week. Celeno must have had the same idea because she bolted from the palace, the second winged warrior practically on her tail feathers.
Aello’s wings beat strongly, carrying her toward the roof opening. Zetes followed a heartbeat behind. She burst through the clouds and into crystalline blue sky. Hovering, she turned to face Zetes again.
Suddenly, Aello forgot poor Phineus, forgot Zeus and his peremptory commands. Let Jason go on to whatever glory awaited him. She had far more interesting things to consider.
The hero before her was neither man nor god, but a glorious combination. Gleaming wings stroked the air rhythmically, a drum beat. Wisps of clouds clung to him like bits of dream-stuff, air and flesh and water churning most enticingly. He was born of the union of air and nymphly flesh, just as she was the product of earth and sea. She had never felt so fully herself and at the same time so unique.
Ever since the Olympus gods had started separating this from that, rupturing the patterns of elemental chaos, she had resisted the very concept of difference. Resisted it. Resented it.
It had never occurred to her that difference might be the basis for attraction. Or that without separation, there could be no coming together, no completion of one another.
Maybe, Aello thought, there was something to this male-female business after all. Curious, she drew closer.
Something in her responded to Zetes like a resonant chord. The flesh of her body, malleable, began to take on a complementary shape. Without her conscious will, she shifted form, chest pouches into voluptuous breasts tipped by rosy nipples, and softened the contours of lips and cheek.
“Begone!” Zetes shouted again. “Begone, foul destroyer…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes, men call me foul when I carry out Zeus’ foul orders,” she pointed out.
“But you are not foul, as the legends say. You are fair, O most splendid winged one, so fair…
As they talked, they drew closer, wings fluttering. Aello’s body continued to change, to…respond. Curves matched to his, softness to his hard muscle. His breath stirred the delicate feathers on her neck. He touched one of her breasts confidently, but with wonder. The most delicious sensations flooded through her, so unexpected that she knew she could not have imagined them. Smiling, she enfolded him in her wings.
Together they possessed three of the four Elements, Air and Earth and Water, aching to be recombined. They would make their own Fire.
IN THE QUIET AFTER MIDNIGHT
by Charles de Lint
Charles de Lint has been producing finely crafted novels of contemporary urban fantasy for years now. He is a resident of Ottawa, Canada, the setting for many of his stories. His latest book is Trader.
1
I’m fifteen when I realize that I don’t remember my mother anymore. I mean, I still recognize her in pictures and everything, but I can’t call her face up just before I fall asleep the way I once did. I used to tell her about my day, the little things that happened to me, all the things I was thinking about, and it made the loneliness seem less profound—having her listening, I mean. Now I can’t remember her. It’s like she isn’t inside me anymore, and I don’t even know when she went away.
I still remember I had a mother. I’m not stupid. But the immediacy of the connection is gone. Now it’s like something I read in a history book in school, not something that was ever part of my life, and it scares me because it was never supposed to go away. She was always supposed to be with me.
It’s a seriously hot day in the middle of June, and I’m walking home from school when it hits me, when it stops me dead in my tracks right there in the middle of the sidewalk, near the corner of Williamson and Kelly. I can’t tell you what makes it come to me the way it does, so true and hard, bang, right out of nowhere. But all of a sudden it’s like I can’t breathe, like the hot air’s pressing way too close around me.
I look around—I don’t know what I’m looking for, I just know I have to get off the street, away from all the people and their ordinary lives—and that’s when I see this little Catholic church tucked away on a side street. Kelly Street was a main thoroughfare years ago, back when the church was really impressive, too, I guess. Now they’re both looking long neglected.
I don’t know why I go in. I’m not even Catholic. But it’s cool inside, dark after the sunlight I just left behind, and quiet. I sit down in a pew near the back and look up toward the front. I’ve heard of the Stations of the Cross, but I don’t know what they are, if they’re even something you can see. But I see Jesus hanging there, front and center, a statue of his mother off to one side, pictures of the saints. I wonder which one is the patron of memory.
I bring my gaze back to the front of the church. This time I look at the candles. There must be thirty, forty of them, encased in short red glasses. Only five or six are lit. They’re prayers, I’m guessing, or votive offerings. Whoever lit them doesn’t seem to be around.
I slouch in the pew and stare up at the vaulted ceiling. It’s easier to breathe in here, the world doesn’t seem to press down on me the way it did outside, but the sick lost feeling doesn’t go away.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there, when there’s a rustle of cloth behind me. I turn to see a hooded man kneeling, two pews back, head bent in prayer. He’s all in black, cloak and hood, shadows swallowing his features. A priest, I think, except they don’t dress like that, do they? At least none of the ones I’ve ever seen—on the street or in the movies.
Maybe he’s not even a man, I find myself thinking. Maybe he’s a she, a nun, except they don’t dress like that either, do they? I guess I’m thinking about him so hard that my thoughts pull his head up. I still can’t see anything but the hint of features in the spill of shadows under the hood, but the voice is definitely male.
