by Audrey Hart
―Very funny, Creusa,‖ I tell her.
She shimmies. ―Just kidding.‖
Zeus and I stand there like a new couple on their second date at a county fair. I swear I can smell cotton candy and roller coaster grease and I hear the Tilt-A-Whirl grinding in the distance.
Our whole lives are in front of us and this one night is just as exciting as the hundred years to come.
―My goodness,‖ she says. ―Do gods require engraved invitations? Come inside!‖
And we‘re off.
It‘s all even better than I remember. Or is that just because of the way Zeus‘s eyebrows arch when he feels the velveteen floor with his hands? Is that because I‘ve found someone appreciative, someone who sees things the way I see them, who isn‘t afraid to feel things? We belong here in the vale of the nymphs, where bright colors and plush surroundings seem even brighter and plusher now that we‘re sharing them. The hours—or is it minutes?—play like a montage of iridescent, wonderful moments, both blurry and distinct at once. I can‘t think of a more perfect place to go with someone you‘re falling in love with and I can‘t believe my good fortune that I get to be here with Zeus.
There‘s the pack of nymphs we pass, who gather around us, holding hands and dancing in a circle. When we kiss, they cheer and the sparkle dust descends on the tips of our noses, sticking to our eyelashes.
There‘s the time I‘m distracted, talking to Creusa, and almost miss the sight of Zeus cradling a baby nymph in his arms. He has a gentle hold on the baby. He is trust personified.
There‘s the joy that springs in my heart when we reach the pasture and find it flush with unnameable fruits, giant orange oblongs, vines ripe with tiny striped pellets that you chew like gum, and all of it, insists the lead gardening nymph, because of my help. And I‘ve finally learned how to accept a compliment; I did help them, even if at the time I didn‘t know how I‘d helped.
As we stroll hand in hand through the rainbow Candy Land, I‘m tempted to stay forever.
We get on well with the nymphs and they love having us here. It‘s safe and protected. The fruit is delicious and filling. If we wanted, we could easily make our home here. I plead my case to Zeus.
―But this isn‘t where we belong,‖ he says.
―I don‘t belong anywhere.‖
―Zoe…‖
―What if something goes wrong. I mean, once we get out there, anything could happen.‖
―You must imagine good things.‖
―But I have a bad feeling.‖
―You thought we would die in the labyrinth.‖
―I know but…‖
―You thought I was in love with Hera.‖
―Yes but…‖
―Zoe, don‘t you understand? We‘re safe now. We have each other.‖ And so I hug Creusa and vow to come back, somehow, someway, and she presses the lever. I know leaving is dangerous. But staying isn‘t possible.
As the bark slowly crawls up and the forest comes into view, I hold tight to Zeus‘s hand. He looks over at me and I nod and smile, preparing to exit.
But I still have a very bad feeling.
Chapter 38
Minutes later, when the most dangerous thing to have crossed our path is a surly striped squirrel, I am forced to admit that I was wrong. My so-called bad feeling was totally off base and I was probably just woozy from all the sparkles and colors.
―One more time, for me,‖ Zeus says.
I roll my eyes. ―Fine. I was wrong and you were right.‖ He pumps his fist. If he wasn‘t so cute, I might have to hit him.
―So, tell me more,‖ he says. ―You know, about your world.‖ I jab him. ―You‘re supposed to say ‗Tell me more, you know, about you. ‘‖ He picks me up and spins me around and around and kisses me and it‘s still there, that charge. He holds me close and whispers, ―But I already know about you, Zoe. You‘re amazing.‖
I can‘t blame him for wanting to know about the future. I mean, that‘s normal, right?
There‘s so much I could tell him. I don‘t know where to begin—with electricity and cars and global warming or Newton and Darwin and Freud, and it feels like my head might explode. I remember the first time I felt this way on this trip, when I was really nervous and scared and overwhelmed, when I didn‘t know what those feelings even really were.
―Do you like to sing?‖ I ask.
―Sing what?‖
―I‘ll start. And you…well, you‘ll see.‖
He‘s hesitant. I‘ve found Zeus‘s weak spot. ―Okay.‖
―You can‘t sing, can you?‖
He‘s blushing, and it‘s a relief that even a god is human sometimes. I start low and soft, and probably really off-key.
I‘m not sure exactly when he starts singing along. I only know that he does join me, and we‘re almost dancing here in the woods with the music we‘re making, singing Rihanna‘s
―Umbrella.‖ I‘ve never felt closer to anyone in my life, and never more far away from the rest of the world. And I think that‘s how I would describe love right now if someone asked me: You‘re so connected to someone else that the world and all its cliques and challenges and traumas and mysteries can‘t hurt you that much.
―You never could carry a tune,‖ Hera says.
We break off singing and spin around to see her, standing with a metal spear in her hands, hate practically steaming out of her ears in devil-red clouds.
Zeus moves his body in front of mine. ―Hera, what is this?‖
―Oh, this is really very simple, Zeus. This is the end.‖
―The end of what?‖
―The end of Zoe,‖ she says, and she steps forward. She growls. The Minotaur was nothing compared with this.
Naturally, Hera didn‘t come alone. Girls like Hera never do their dirty work by themselves.
She has roped in five of the gods to be on her side.
I nudge Zeus and ask, ―Where are the other five?‖
―They must have refused to be a part of this,‖ he says.
―I don‘t need all the gods to take care of one ratty-haired human,‖ Hera hisses.
Ares whispers something into Hera‘s ear and she laughs. Of course he’s here, the one who looks like he‘d catch the winning touchdown pass with one hand and wedgie a band nerd with the other. He‘s the god of aggression.
His muscles are all that matter to him. And I‘m not surprised to see that his girlfriend, Artemis, is here too. Those hippie-dippy privileged types with over accentuated cheekbones and aristocratic noses and handmade clothes that drape on their narrow frames are never as sweet as they seem. Maybe in the 1970s, when hippies were still about love, those hippie chicks were nice.
But Artemis isn‘t a nice girl. And the new me isn‘t afraid to put that knowledge into action. I stare her down. She looks away. I win.
―Your pants have torn.‖
It‘s Athena. I bet I can turn her. Deep down, she‘s not bad. She‘s just jealous, insecure of her powers. She‘s only here because Poseidon is here. I bet she wouldn‘t have come if she wasn‘t in a relationship with him. I won‘t let her get to me.
―You‘re right, Athena. That‘s why we both know that clothes would have been a better gift.‖
She has to know what I‘m talking about. Granted, it‘s not like we sat and bonded for hours, but we did have that moment together about footwear and gift giving.
She looks away quickly. For a moment I think she‘s gathering her courage, ready to be her own person at last. But then she looks back, and her face is all scrunched up, as if I smell, as if I‘m poison. ―Huh?‖ she says.
―What are you talking about?‖
I simmer, fighting back my anger. ―Never mind,‖ I say.
―Athena didn‘t come here to help you,‖ says Hades, god of fire, the one who casually wipes out entire villages just because he can. I scan the group.
Persephone isn‘t here.
―And I see that Persephone didn‘t come here to help you,‖ I say to Hades. ―Guess y
ou couldn‘t keep that fire lit.‖ But Zeus squeezes my hand and I know I should stop barbing them.
We have no chance as it is, six against two, and we have less of a chance if I poke them and tease them, but it‘s hard to be quiet when you know you‘re about to suffer and die at the hands of people like this, people who believe they are nothing without their collective power. My arms are shivering and my eyelids are twitching and my cowlick is back with a vengeance, tickling the bridge of my nose. How weak I must look now.
Meanwhile, Zeus and Hera are holding their respective grounds, having an irritatingly measured debate about what to do about me. I‘m starting to think that we‘ll spend the rest of our lives standing here and debating the situation. I guess the main difference between humans and gods is that the gods have a lot more time on their hands. They don‘t have homework or curfews or swim practice or TV; this is what they do. They‘re like a super powered debate club.
―Hera, there is no theory of twos. Zoe poses no threat to us.‖
―You‘re wrong, Zeus. Until she is gone, there is no peace to be had.‖
―Hera, please. If this is about us, let‘s talk. Let‘s just you and I go and sit down and you can say whatever it is you need to say to me.‖
―I have nothing to say to you.‖
―I don‘t think that‘s true.‖
She huffs, ―You really are arrogant. You think this is all about you? Oh, Zeus, I am done with you. You‘re nothing but a fool and I see that now.‖
―I understand you‘re hurt. It‘s natural that you feel hurt right now.‖ I‘m about to elbow Zeus in the gut. How can he know so little about girls? That was pretty much the worst thing he could have said to a scorned girl. I almost don‘t blame Hera for growling. First she gets dumped.
Now she gets pitied?
―I am not hurt, Zeus. I am disgusted. She has come here to strip our powers and dethrone us all and you are too blind and stupid to see it.‖
―She has done no such thing.‖
―Oh, is that so?‖
―Yes, it is so.
She jabs her spear into the ground. ―In the future humans worship each other instead of the gods!‖
―I know,‖ he says.
―And you don‘t care? The thought of a world without us doesn‘t bother you?‖
―The future is not ours to decide, Hera. It‘s larger than us.‖
―Well, I don‘t want to die. All of us don‘t want to die. We want to maintain our power and our order and preserve our authority for hundreds of years to come.‖
―Are you really that happy, Hera? Does power actually mean that much to you?‖
It‘s the wrong question. The answer is yes, because clearly Hera cares about her power very much. I feel sorry for her, I do. I feel sorry for all the lonely queen bees out there who care more about how they‘re perceived than about how they actually feel when they climb into bed at night and switch off the lights. She has nothing but her authority. And there‘s nothing more dangerous than an opponent whose only source of power and confidence has been threatened.
I roll my shoulders and let my backpack fall to the ground.
It‘s time for some tough love.
Zeus looks at me and I know what he wants. I reach into my pocket for the Minotaur‘s nose ring from the Petros and slip my hand into his.
―I wish you didn‘t need this.‖
―Me too.‖
―Are you ready?‖
He nods.
The second we break hands, his wings swell and soar, so fast that a breeze rustles my hair and I focus on a valley in the distance and see the dirt crest like a wave and crash. We‘re back. We have power. And we have each other.
―I‘ll never leave her,‖ he says to Hera.
As she runs forward, thrusting her spear at me, she hisses, ―I know.
Chapter 39
Hera and I are two giant tumbleweeds rolling at each other with a vengeance, and then suddenly we collide, and I am inside a blinding and binding typhoon of darkness. I can‘t move. I can‘t see. I can barely breathe. What energy I do have left I‘m using to contain Hera, coring her in a giant ball of dirt. I hear her scream with trapped rage and I push the dirt harder at her with my mind. I hope to smother her—but it‘s not true, is it, Zoe? You don‘t have enough venom in you.
You‘re still missing that bloodthirsty gene. You‘re still you, hoping for some kind of reconciliation.
It feels like I‘ve been trapped in this dark rolling place for hours even though I know it can‘t have been more than seconds.
―Hera!‖ I shout.
I hear nothing at first. And then she mutters something, sounding choked.
―You can‘t breathe and I can‘t see. I think we can work this out.‖ She emits a high-pitched growl. I take it as a sign of agreement.
―When I say ‗go,‘ we‘ll both drop our powers. Okay?‖
―Yes!‖
―Go!‖ As soon as I release her, the darkness begins to lift. It‘s slight, but I think I can see my own hand.
And then I can‘t see anything again. The darkness rushes in, tighter this time, and my body hurls backward. Trapped inside the black, impenetrable ball of darkness, I feel myself soaring up, up, higher and higher, and Hera‘s cackle will be the last thing I hear before I‘m dead.
Boom!
Thunder cracks all around me. The ball shakes and starts to drop.
―Zoe, I‘m here!‖
―Zeus!‖
―Hang on.‖
He‘s pushing me back to earth. The darkness crackles and vibrates from the bolts of lightning he‘s sending at it. I‘m like a chicken inside an egg, watching as the egg cracks, revealing sky.
Sky?
―Zeus!‖
―What?‖
―You have to stop! If you crack this open all the way, I‘ll fall and die!‖
―Trust me.‖
―But we‘re going so fast!‖
―Trust me!‖
I trusted Hera, who was plainly rude to me the first time we met, who excluded me and took advantage of my neediness and plied me with ambrosia to get the truth out of me, then tricked me into entering the deadly maze. And I trusted her to release me from her powers. But why is it so hard for me to trust Zeus? Zeus, who has saved me time and again, who has been there for me and who opened his heart to me. It‘s funny that all this time, I‘ve thought of trust as a symbol of greatness. Like, if I could trust Hera after all the bad things she did, I would know that I‘m a better person, forgiving and accepting. But trust isn‘t about being better than someone. Trust is about faith.
And I have faith in Zeus.
I close my eyes because I don‘t want to see the walls around me crackle and splinter and disintegrate. I just want to feel his wingspan save me When I open my eyes, we‘re about to touch down. The sweetness of the rescue is overwhelmed by the sight of the gods surrounding us.
They‘re circling like sharks. Hades throws fire at Zeus but I throw dirt to put out the fire. Ares throws a punch, but Zeus deflects it with a bolt of lightning, making him vulnerable to the wild-eyed dogs that have appeared, courtesy of Artemis, their teeth gnashing. They‘re about to bite him but I call upon a hail of stones and they duck their heads, whimpering from the assault, and retreat in fear. But it‘s far from over because then Poseidon raises his hands and water comes rushing toward us, hard as a fist, and I‘m struggling to escape and through the surge of gushing water I see Zeus wrestling Ares, for me, for me, and I can‘t let him die. I crack the earth to swallow all that water, and as the forest floor splinters apart, the gods are all thrown off balance, and Zeus seizes the moment and grabs my hand.
―Zoe, run!‖
―Are you kidding?‖ I reply. ―Fly!‖
He scoops me up and we take off. In seconds we are soaring above the land, speeding away from the gods.
―Are you okay?‖ he asks.
―I‘d be better if those things weren‘t chasing us.‖ Behind us come the bats. A dark swarm
of them catches up to us and they surround us, flapping and biting at us with their protruding shark like jaws. My stomach flips and twists as Zeus zigzags to avoid them.
―We can‘t stay up here with them, Zoe.‖
There is fear in his voice. It‘s my turn to rescue him. ―We need a wall.‖
―We can‘t fly into a wall!‖
I shriek as a bat-shark catches my boot and I kick it off. My boot is torn. The bat-sharks know they‘re winning. ―Just trust me,‖ I tell Zeus.