Some may be put off by the preceding sentence. To those difficult individuals, it can be said only that Olympian language is difficult to translate at best, and do try to relax a bit.
And so the Olympians put their heads together and came up with a stunt that would both announce their return to the mortal world and demonstrate their power:
They would raise the lost city of Atlantis.
There was some debate about this, but it primarily consisted of Ares’s claim that General William Tecumseh Sherman had already done such a thing during the U.S. Civil War. Others swiftly pointed out that what Sherman had actually done was raze Atlanta. Ares was promptly laughed at; those who had foolishly named Atlanta after a doomed sunken culture were then laughed at as well, and the plan continued unabated after that.
Natural laws being what they are, even the gods could not raise Atlantis without sinking something else to maintain the balance.
They went with Iceland.
They nearly opted to sink Atlanta instead just for the sake of symmetry, but finally decided on Iceland. This was partly due to the fact that Iceland, unlike Atlanta, was also an island, but primarily because the gods honestly didn’t think anyone would miss a country located entirely above the timberline. And so one late November afternoon, the whole of Iceland was unceremoniously plunged under the sea— swallowed up in a horrible torrent of water, destruction, and sheep.
A new island simultaneously surfaced off the northwestern coast of Spain. Truth be told, it didn’t surface nearly so much as hurl itself from the water like a spastic whale before crashing back down to the ocean surface in a cataclysm that instantly shattered the remaining ruins of ancient Atlantian culture. But it was above sea level, and that was the goal.
No one noticed.
Atlantis hadn’t been in that spot before, of course—and that is to say, ever. This was a large part of the problem. Before it sank (due to one of the first and most wholly catastrophic experiments in flushable toilets), Atlantis lay off the coast of Crete. It’s just that none of the gods were ever truly happy with the island’s previous location, so they deemed it worthwhile—and altogether more divinely impressive—to move it. Yet now that Atlantis suddenly existed in a spot on which absolutely zero historical scholars had staked their careers, recognition of the island stood to invalidate numerous theories, and so none of them cared to pay it much heed.
Everyone else was busy wondering why there was now a large tract of open sea northwest of Britain and trying to determine why the price of wool had just gone up.
So the gods made other attempts to get noticed. Apollo held the sun in place in the sky for a full hour, which people mistook for another revision to Daylight Savings Time. Hades incited an entire cemetery’s worth of corpses to rise, create picket signs announcing the gods’ return, and march outside United Nations headquarters. All were promptly arrested for holding a sci-fi convention without a permit. Even Ares had an idea: pull to Earth some debris from Saturn’s rings and create a gigantic “marquee of the gods” from the resulting meteor shower! He got only so far as yanking the rocks out of orbit before the others informed him that the debris would take a number of months to reach Earth.
It was Hermes, with his communications savvy, who finally suggested the press conference.
The conference was already in progress when local Seattle television Assistant Producer Tracy Wallace arrived in the control room. Late. For the second time in as many days. Right in front of her boss. During a major news crisis.
Without a cranberry-orange nut muffin.
The muffin wasn’t really an issue, but as she was listing everything that was going wrong that day, the lack of her usual cranberry-orange nut muffin should be on there somewhere.
She shot an apologetic smile to her boss and, suppressing a yawn, limped to her usual place beside Chelsea. Her boss fired back a glare that Tracy ignored as she sat down; she did damn good work, and he knew it. Besides, they were essentially just on standby while the national feed of the conference came through. And she had enough drama in her life this week to think about already. And no one had prophetically left a cranberry-orange nut muffin at her workstation.
“Got you some coffee,” Chelsea whispered as she handed it to her.
She gave a thankful grunt and shotgunned the life-giving ambrosia until she could no longer ignore its scalding temperature. Okay, so that was a poor choice.
“Thanks. I slept like a crack addict.” She blamed her friend's stupid uncomfortable couch; though she’d had trouble sleeping in her own bed the nights before too, she supposed. Okay, wake up, Tracy. There are gods on TV for crying out loud. She rubbed her eyes behind her glasses. “What’d I miss?”
“Not too much we didn’t know from the press release yesterday. The Greek gods are back, and their king Zeus is dead. Oh, and ‘Posideron’ or something is king now. They opened the floor for questions pretty fast.”
“Poseidon?”
“Yeah, sea god.”
“I know.”
“Oh, and Fagles is standing by in the studio with some mythology expert in case the network doesn’t preempt us for their own post.”
“Like that’ll happen.” She slipped on her headset and focused on the press conference the entire world was watching.
Six men and six women sat at a long table, each with a nameplate and microphone in front of them. Clad in reasonably modern fashion, they looked nothing more than human—save for an intense, almost otherworldly regality and an inner radiance that seemed to light up the stage. No, she amended, that bit was from the spotlights. Well, mostly. None of the gods seemed to be under six feet tall, though it was difficult to tell while they were sitting down. At the center of the group sat a stern, white-armed woman and a stormy-eyed, bearded man holding a trident. The man she guessed to be Poseidon even before she saw his nameplate.
A trident at a table? Well, that was just trying too hard, wasn’t it? Tracy realized they each carried a symbolic accessory: Apollo a lyre, Artemis a great bow, Athena a National Rifle Association jacket. It was like a photo shoot for some sort of ensemble TV show. Featuring gods.
Hera, the white-armed one beside Poseidon, was speaking.
“Hades has chosen not to attend this conference. My brother has much to attend to in the underworld—”
“And he likes being mysterious,” shot Hermes, the youngest-looking god present. Tracy had only a moment to notice he had a British accent.
“—but he wishes to assure everyone that he, too, has returned, and that he shall meet all of you . . . eventually.”
“Is Hades the devil?” shouted one of the reporters lucky enough to be in attendance.
Hera glared as Poseidon frowned and ordered, “Do not shout questions. My brother is the god of death, not the devil.”
“If I may, Uncle?” Athena spoke, leaning closer to her mic to address the reporter. “In modern times, Hades endures much bad press for being god of the underworld. He is god of precious metals as well, yet mortals see only his connection to death and deem him evil.”
“He’s actually a decent enough chap,” Hermes chimed in. “A bit inexorable. A tad strict, perhaps, but it’s his job to keep the dead out of the world of the living. You don’t want someone like me in charge of that. One good distraction and wham! Zombie apocalypse!”
Some of the press chuckled at this. Hera motioned to one of the many other reporters with hands up. “Speak.”
“Are there—?”
Hera immediately cut off the question. “Address the gods with respect, child! ‘Queen Hera’ will do in this case.”
The reporter—a woman Tracy knew to be in her late fifties and used to humoring such demands due to more than a decade’s worth of experience in the White House Press Room—gritted her teeth and began again. “Queen Hera, are there other gods not in attendance?”
“Only my sister Hestia, goddess of the hearth—and as such something of a homebody. However—”
“Howeve
r,” Poseidon said, “there are other, lesser beings whose existence you will soon relearn: the Muses, the Erinyes, and . . .”
As Poseidon continued, Tracy leaned over to Chelsea. “Hera’s queen, Poseidon’s king; are they married now or something?”
“So they say.”
“And he just cuts her off like that? She looked annoyed. Could you see it?”
“She looks annoyed at everything so far.” Chelsea turned to her. “Still stinging over your breakup? Maybe you’re projecting.”
“Still? It was two days ago.” Two days since Tracy walked out on Kevin. Two days she’d been crashing at the apartment of a generous friend with an uncomfortable couch. “And yeah. Now shh! Gods.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
“What about the Titans?” another reporter was asking.
Poseidon pounded the butt of his trident on the floor. “Speak not of them,” he ordered. “Our precursors remain safely locked away, and always shall be so.”
Hera nodded. “Hear also that we are the only gods from your ‘mythologies’ who truly exist. Mortal speculation has reached our ears that others, such as Thor of the Norse stories, may also ‘return’. Know this: those cannot return who never were. Thor is a god only in your mortal imagination, just like Loki, Anubis, and Elvis Presley.”
“Queen Hera, what about Christ?”
Silence took the room as the Olympians exchanged glances. The assembled reporters awaited their response with bated breath. It was Hermes who finally spoke.
“He’s not really what you’d call a team player. Put it this way: We don’t bother Him, He doesn’t bother us.”
“I will allow no further questions on the subject,” Poseidon warned.
“That’s going to tick off a lot of people,” Tracy whispered. And why did Hermes have a British accent?
“Everything ticks off a lot of people. It’s a big world.” Chelsea turned to her again as Poseidon began introducing each god in attendance and their major purviews. “So you heard about Patrick?”
“Getting the Seattle Scenes job? Yeah, I heard. Shh.”
“Sorry. I was pulling for you.”
She shrugged. “Other shows’ll need producers.”
Okay, so it probably wasn’t a very convincing shrug. She’d wanted that job, damn it. Maybe what she needed was an idea for a show so good they’d have to make her the producer. Yeah, and then she needed a magical goat that vomited money.
“Yeah, but since you broke up with Kevin—”
Tracy covered her mic and cut Chelsea off with a whisper. “Would you shut it? There’s frigging gods on TV now, and I’m trying to do my damn job!” Frustration boiled up as if she were still having the argument with Kevin; she couldn’t force it back down. It wasn’t that he got the Miami job while she was trying for one in Seattle; but he just expected her to go with him without even asking her!
“Okay, sorry, I didn’t—”
“Forget it,” Tracy told her. They weren’t even married and he’d treated her like a damn accessory! Okay, let it go . . . She took another swig of coffee and tried to focus. “I’m sleeping like crap lately.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Chelsea winked. “Don’t worry about it. Now, shh. Gods.”
At the conference, Poseidon had finished the immortal introductions.
“Understand that we have no intention of ruling over the everyday trivialities of your international affairs. You are free to govern yourselves as you see fit, to make war and peace as you see fit, and to live your lives as you see fit. We will simply require the recognition and worship that is our due. As god of the sea, those who sail the oceans would do well to respect me. Those who farm the bounty of the land should give thanks to Demeter, goddess of the harvest.”
“Et cetera, et cetera,” Hermes added.
“Sacrifices will be rewarded,” Hera said. “Insults will be punished. You may find it difficult to adjust at first, but we will guide you. As in times of old, those who worship best and are beloved of the gods will find great rewards.”
Poseidon nodded. “And for those of you who believe you have no need of gods, who point to the advances mortals have made in the last two millennia, know this: Never have we who dwell on high Olympus been gone entirely. We simply have not made ourselves known. Many of the advances you mortals claim as your own came from immortal hands.”
Reporters clamored to ask further questions, but Poseidon spoke over them. “The influence of Apollo and his Muses on the creative arts is widespread. Shrewd Athena, goddess of defense, originated the idea of nuclear deterrents”—(Athena smacked an open hand on the tabletop. “And it’s not ‘nu-CU-lar,’ damn it!”)—“and prior to that, Ares, god of war and conflict, aided the development of the Manhattan Project and many of your political pundit programs.”
A particularly bold reporter shouted out, “Did one of you invent the Internet?”
Poseidon scowled at the interruption as messenger-god Hermes cleared his throat. “Ah, no. That was Al Gore.”
Chelsea suddenly leaned toward Tracy. “You know you’re pretty enough to work in front of the camera if you want to, right? Why hide it?”
She bristled. “My looks aren't what I want people to care about.”
“Oh, come on, you're sort of . . . Athena-esque!”
“You’re not helping.” Tracy redoubled her focus on the conference.
“Regardless,” Hera announced, “now that we have returned, we shall be taking credit for our deeds from now on.”
“King Poseidon, what happened to Zeus?” This question came from a younger member of the press. He paled for a moment as all twelve immortals focused on him. “Er, just curious.”
“Gone,” the sea god spoke.
“Killed,” Ares added. “Big damn part of why we’re back.”
Poseidon pounded his trident anew and glowered at Ares.
“But . . . killed?” someone in the room asked. “An immortal can be killed?”
“What’s the connection between Zeus’s death and your return?” another called out. Others shouted questions over each other in a sudden free-for-all until no one could be heard clearly. Tracy caught Ares smirking on one of the feeds amid the din.
Then the camera began to shake. Reporters reached out for something to hold on to, with startled glances to the ceiling, the floor, and everywhere. Questions were forgotten. “Earthquake!” someone shouted. A few of the gods on stage looked about nervously as well, yet most—Poseidon in particular, his overturned palm held out before him—merely presided over the chaos.
“Are they causing that?” Chelsea asked.
“Probably a good bet at this point.”
“Awesome. Maybe this is real.”
In moments the quake retreated, taking the reporters’ clamoring with it. Hera looked out over the throng. “Witness the power of Poseidon, Earth-Shaker!”
“None may slay an immortal,” Poseidon announced, finally answering the question, “save for another immortal, and then only in the most extreme and unlikely of circumstances. I will say only this: the events that culminated in Zeus’s death precipitated our return. That is all you need know.”
A brave member of the international press raised her hand. “Queen Hera?” All seemed to hold their breath as the goddess’s eyes turned to the woman and seemed to give her leave to continue. “Who—that is to say, may we ask who killed Zeus?”
Tracy caught traces of what was either uncertainty or discomfort across the immortal stage.
Hera raised her head high. “The question of who killed Zeus is unimportant. Trouble neither us nor yourselves further with this. It is only for you to know that the gods of Olympus have returned.”
Ares cleared his throat. “’Cept I’d also add that it was me. Next question?”
Chaos threatened to break out amid the reporters again before Poseidon once more held out his palm. The reporters quieted instantly. “You learn well,” the sea god said. “Next question, one at a time. O
n a different topic.”
Seconds passed as the press murmured and attempted to change direction.
“King Poseidon,”—the next question came from a “correspondent” for a prominent fake-news program on a comedy cable channel—“a lot of you have names that start with A or H. Just what’s that about?”
The question garnered a few snickers about the room. In the wide shot, Tracy caught sight of Apollo, Hermes, and Dionysus cracking smiles. Poseidon merely arched an eyebrow.
Hera, however, lifted her arm, raising the correspondent out of his chair with a small demonstration of power. Following a moment’s study, she flicked her wrist to one side. With a yelp, the reporter ceased to exist in the room.
“Next question.”
No one asked just what she had done, but the correspondent did fail to show up for work for the rest of the week.
“Neat little trick,” whispered Chelsea.
Tracy nodded. “I’ve had job interviews like that.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Of glorious Apollo, son of Zeus, twin brother to Artemis, all shall sing praise! Great things does Apollo bring us, for he is god of the sun, of healing, of music, of archery, of prophecy, and so much more! He gives us poetry, he gives us light, and he brings to us the wonder of gelatin desserts! Though there are those more powerful, no other god upon Olympus holds such broad interests.”
—Your Olympian Gods: Wondrous or Fantastic? (propaganda booklet)
“Artemis: goddess of nature, goddess of the hunt, goddess of the moon. Despite being a chaste and childless Olympian, Artemis is often equated with the concept of ‘Mother Nature,’ though she refuses to comment on this. While close to her twin brother in temperament, she seems far more focused. Note to the media: though archery is a shared interest of both Artemis and Apollo, the question of which of them actually invented it seems to be a subject of contention and is not a recommended topic for joint interviews.”
Zeus is Dead Page 2