For a while, near sunset, it seemed as if the gulls had taken over the world.
They swarmed over the sea, sometimes diving, sometimes coming up with flashes of silver wriggling in their beaks; they clouded over the fishing boats heading back to shore, complaining loudly, swooping, trying to snatch fishes from a net on a fishing boat; they sat like white-haired old men on the high massive boulders at the north end of the harbor, watching the other birds, one leg tucked up, never making a sound, the steady sea breeze puffing their feathers.
For Holix, the sight never failed to please, even though he had seen it a thousand times. Coasting on the thermals, gliding on the breeze, confident that sooner or later they would get what they wanted, the birds fascinated him.
Whenever he was able to escape from the training stables, he came here to watch them. He loved sitting high above the beach, at the edge of the plain on a favorite flat-topped boulder the sea never reached except in the fiercest of storms. Directly below, the other rocks sloped down to the water. Jagged and tall inland, they grew shorter as they approached the surf, seeming to do battle with the waves.
Like the teeth of a dragon, he thought; ready to snap shut and crush the first human who passed by.
He scowled, and scolded himself for thinking such a gruesome thought.
Yet he couldn't help it.
Something was out there.
Everyone knew it, but no one wanted to talk about it. And when you asked, they either yelled, or aimed a kick to drive you away, or simply pretended they hadn't understood.
But something was out there.
He was determined to find out what it was.
He shifted to ease the stiffness in his rump, grinning when one of the rock-sitting gulls glared up at him, fluffed its feathers, and looked away disdainfully.
"I could have you for dinner," he said lightly.
The gull ignored him.
"Hey," a voice said behind him. "He's talking to the birds again."
The sound of giggling made him turn, a mock scowl on his face.
There were three of them on the grass, passing around a wineskin and a basket of fresh bread. From the way they tried and failed to sit straight, and the sight of the flattened wineskin tossed on the ground, it was clear that they had already begun the party.
Not that he really minded. Jax, who worked with an armorer, had been the first to befriend him when he had arrived; and the twins, Sana and Cire, had decided he would be the brother they'd always wished they had.
Like he really wanted to be their brother.
Cire, lush red hair and a figure that had more curves than the coastline, beckoned him away from the rock. "We're supposed to be having fun, Holix," she said with a pout.
"Not being glum and brooding," finished Sana.
At least he thought it was Sana. He was pretty sure it was Sana. Even after all these months, he could barely tell them apart.
Jax, tall and lanky, his black hair in tight curls around his head, tossed him the wineskin. "He's not being glum, he's contemplating great thoughts. Figuring out the workings of the world."
"Oh, not that again," Sana complained. "Pass the wine."
Cire pointed to the horizon. "There's nothing out there but water, Holix. Deep water. Lots of deep water."
"And fish," Sana added.
"Okay, and fish."
"But nothing else."
"Of course not. Except for the boats."
"Well, sure, the boats. And the birds."
"Absolutely."
Holix blinked and looked to Jax, who only shrugged and tore off some bread, shoved it in his mouth, and grinned around the crumbs as he chewed.
"It's the festival," Sana decided with a knowing nod.
"Right," her twin agreed.
"It can get very confusing."
"Of course it can."
Holix filled his mouth with wine, swallowed, coughed, and handed the skin back to Jax.
"So much to do," Sana said—unless it was Cire.
"So little time."
"Exciting, though."
"And scary."
"Oh, not really. Not if you know what's going on."
"Well, that's true."
"Of course, even if you know what's going on, it can be kind of scary. In an exciting sort of way."
Cire giggled—unless it was Sana.
I'm getting dizzy, Holix thought, and looked over their heads to the trees some fifty feet away. They were tall and slender, slightly bent from the constant breeze, with silvery-green foliage that fluttered and whispered. They formed a single line a hundred yards long east to west along the heights above the beach, and some of the leaves winked hints of gold as the sun continued its glide toward the horizon.
"Do we have to talk about this?" Jax complained. "After tonight, we're barely going to have time to breathe."
Holix agreed. He had been in the city less than a year, and while it had been a wonderful experience up to now, it was threatening to turn into something else entirely. For the next several weeks he and the other stable hands would have to practice braiding the horses' tails and manes, entwining them with silk ribbons and gold tassels. Perfect, his boss had said; everything had to be perfect, or the gods would be displeased.
He would also have to ride the animals, alone, because of his experience. Training them to march, to high-step, to pull chariots, to keep their calm amid throngs of cheering people would consume his every waking moment, and probably some sleeping ones as well. Tonight, then, would undoubtedly be the last opportunity for the four of them to have any peace for months. Or any substantial time together.
Sighing silently, he looked back at the sea. The setting sun to his left had nearly touched the water; a half mile along the beach to his right the last of the fishing boats were coasting toward their piers.
The gulls were in full flight.
Far beyond the breakers a single boat worked one last catch before nightfall.
Holix wondered what it was like out there.
"There he goes again," Jax said, a hint of friendly laughter in his voice.
Throwing the nets, hauling in the fish, riding the swells that never stopped.
"I think it's cute."
Cire, he realized; that was Cire. Her voice was husky; Sana's was smooth.
She thinks it's cute.
He rolled his eyes. Cute is not what I want to be. Cute is a puppy or a kitten. Or a brother. I want to be—
"It's not cute, it's morbid," Sana said.
"No, it's not," he answered without turning around. "I just want to know things, that's all. And one of the things I want to know is, what happens to the queen of the festival after everything's over?"
No one answered.
The sun cast a streak of fire across the surface of the sea, catching the lone fishing boat and turning it into a flimsy silhouette against the darkening sky.
"They move on," Jax suggested finally, although he didn't sound very certain. "Something as important as that, they don't want to stay around here. They want to see the world."
"Why? It's beautiful here. It's . . . perfect."
"Spoken like a true farmer," Sana said flatly.
Holix didn't look; he didn't respond. Besides, he hadn't really been a farmer. He had grown up on his family's farm, true, but it had been discovered early on that he had a special talent for training animals, especially horses. So that's what he did now, and that's why he had been picked by the stable master to help train the festival horses.
And that's when he realized with a start why the twins' master and mistress had been spending so much time around the council chambers lat
ely—they wanted one of the girls to be summer queen. The honor that would bring to the household would be incalculable.
You know, he thought, sometimes you can be thick as a post, Holix, you jerk.
"Look," Jax said to Sana, "if you're going to be like that, we're not going to have any fun at all."
"He's right." Cire was taking someone else's side for a change.
Holix heard Sana mumble something that had the tone of an apology, but he didn't turn around. With one hand shielding his face from the final glare of the sun, he stared at the fishing boat.
Despite the distance, he could tell something was wrong.
"Hey," he said quietly.
The sea was calm, but the little craft had begun to rock alarmingly.
"Quit hogging the wine," Cire complained lightly.
"I'm not hogging, I'm . .. tasting," Jax insisted.
"You're drunk," said Sana in disgust. And hiccuped.
Cire giggled. And hiccuped.
"Hey," Holix said, louder.
"Ladies, ladies," Jax called out grandly. "There's plenty for everyone." He belched and groaned.
"Disgusting," Cire said.
"Very," Sana agreed.
There was very little light now, but Holix, squinting and leaning forward, could have sworn he saw something more in the dark out there, something that wasn't part of the boat.
"Hey!"
"What now?" Sana snapped.
He pointed as he turned to them. "Look!"
Cire, who seemed to have caught his alarm, crawled quickly to his side, her shoulder touching his. '
'What, Holix?"
"There," he said. "See out there?"
She raised a hand to cut the wind from her eyes, and shook her head. "I don't see anything."
Slowly Holix lowered his arm.
She was right.
The boat was gone.
It should have been a perfect moment, a dream moment. Cire beside him, the tickling of her breeze-touched hair against his cheek, the feel of her shoulder against his, the smell of her skin ... it should have been perfect.
But the boat was gone.
And something was out there.
The wall was not nearly finished, but the man who was building it was in no real hurry. It would be nice when it was done, the protection it offered complete, but the digging, the hauling, the fitting of the stones, all this gave him a chance to be alone, to think without distraction, to let his mind wander and dream of things that might have been, or that might yet be.
This particular section reached just to his thighs, and while it wasn't high enough yet, it suited him for now. He didn't have to bend over so far, and the lifting was still quite easy. Another advantage—he didn't have far to sink when he wanted to sit down.
A large rock balanced on the broad top, bridging a gap. He closed one eye and tilted his head, measuring. When he was sure he was right, he raised a hand over his head, stared at the rock, and slowed his breathing. Concentrated. Pushed up on his toes, and suddenly brought his arm down more swiftly than lightning.
The side of his hand struck the rock squarely, sparks darted into the afternoon sunlight, and the rock split. The larger portion fell neatly into the gap; the smaller flew into the trees on the other side of the wall.
He grinned his satisfaction, looked around to see if anyone had observed him, then grimaced, sagged a little, grabbed his wrist with his free hand, and groaned, "Damn, but that hurts."
"I heard that," a woman's voice sang.
Great, he thought; great.
"Sorry, Mother."
A woman stepped out of the trees behind him, a basket of fresh flowers tucked under one arm. She was slender and fair-haired, with hints of gray that appeared only when the light touched her head a certain way. Her face was slightly rounded and unlined, with flushed cheeks and a sheen of perspiration across her high brow.
"You know, you could use a hammer like ordinary people, Hercules," she scolded with a smile.
Hercules smiled back. "That would be too easy." He leaned over and stuck his hand into a wood bucket filled with water. He sighed, exaggerating his relief so she would laugh aloud.
She did.
"You look warm," he said when the stinging finally stopped. "Sit for a while."
Even as the protest began to form on her lips his hands were around her waist and she was up and seated on the wall.
"Well," she said, setting the basket beside her and smoothing her dress primly. "Showing off again?"
"Since when do I have to show off for you?"
He sat at her feet, his back to her legs, knees up and hands clasped loosely around his shins, grateful for the opportunity to take a break, half closing his eyes when he felt her hand brush across his hair.
They remained silent for several minutes, listening to the birdsong in the woods, the drone of bees in the meadow, the almost inaudible whisper of a fitful breeze in the branches.
"You realize, of course," said Alcmena quietly, "that you're driving me crazy."
He frowned. "What are you talking about? Don't you like me to come around?"
Her hand slapped the top of his head lightly. "Of course I do, you know that. I don't see you often enough."
"Then what's the problem?"
She gestured left and right. "The wall."
He remembered her original reaction to his project—that she didn't need a wall to protect the house and land—and his response, which was that she shouldn't refuse the protection it would offer, not when she lived alone.
Not having to add that it would make him feel a lot better to know she was secure while he was away.
"What about it?"
"Stop pouting. It doesn't become you." She cuffed him again.
"I'm not," he complained, even as he heard the pout in his voice. He laughed easily, and tilted his head back to butt her legs gently. "Okay. I am. But what about the wall? I thought you decided it was all right."
"It is, Hercules," she said patiently. "It is. But whenever you come home, you work on it a little, sit with me a lot, we talk, we go into the village, and the days pass." A pause that held a silent sigh. "Too quickly sometimes. Too quickly."
"So?"
"Hush." Another cuff. "So sooner or later you're out here most of the day—"
"Mother—"
"—thinking."
Immediately, he realized the truth of her words, and lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
Her voice was tender. "Hercules, you're my son. I know you too well. Either you have a problem you won't tell me about, or you're getting restless." Melancholy replaced the tenderness. "You're getting ready to move on."
He twisted around so he could look up at her face. "You're right."
"I know."
"I hate it when you're right."
"I know that, too."
He squeezed her ankle. "Sort of."
Her eyebrow lifted. "Sort of?"
"I'm not really restless, and I don't have a problem." He stared at the grass at the base of the wall. "This time it's just a feeling. I don't know. A premonition, maybe."
She waggled her fingers, a signal to let her climb down. When he complied, they strolled through the sparse woods toward her house. The shade was cool, the sun warm, and wildflowers grew in profusion here and in the meadow after two days of light but steady rain.
"You're worried about Hera," she said.
He was about to contradict her when, abruptly, he realized that, once again and maddeningly, she was right. Yet it wasn't precisely worry. It was more like anticipation. It had been so long since his vindictive stepmother had tried to kill him that it was making him nervous. Unless, of course, that was the reason why she was waiting so long to try to kill him again— to make him nervous. In which case, he ought to become more alert, not more ill at ease. Unless, of course, making him ill at ease was the reason why she was waiting so long to try again to kill him. . . .
Alcmena laughed softly and hooked her hand around h
is arm. "Don't think about it so much. You'll make yourself dizzy."
"Too late," he muttered as they stepped out of the trees.
The house was modest, appearing smaller than it was because of the trees that rose about it, protecting it from winds hot and cold, and from sun and storms. In a garden that was set to one side, Alcmena grew her own vegetables, as well as flowers whose exotic beauty rivaled those developed by the professionals around Corinth and Sparta.
A place of comfort.
A place of serenity.
As they approached the entrance Alcmena grunted softly and nudged him toward a long and low marble bench near the garden. "You go sit. I'll have Pleophy fetch you when dinner's ready."
"What?" He feigned insult. "Don't you want me to cook tonight?"
"Sit," she ordered, and waited until he did. "You cooked last night, as I remember."
So he had, and the memory made him wince. So did the words Pleophy, his mother's handmaiden, used when she had seen the fruits of his labor in the kitchen. A young woman, he had thought, shouldn't know words that only soldiers used.
He surrendered with an apologetic smile. "All right. I'll wait."
Alcmena leaned over and kissed his brow. "And stop worrying about Hera. She'll do what she does when she does it. No sooner. Your fretting isn't going to rush her." She kissed him again and went inside, but not before he caught the concern in her eyes.
She knew full well that Hera would not rest until he was with Hades; she also knew that he would not rest until, somehow, he had exacted full revenge on the goddess who had murdered his wife and three children.
A revenge that would take him the rest of his life to accomplish.
Even then it would not be enough to repay the goddess for her crimes.
All right, all right, he scolded himself harshly; that's enough. You're home, and Mother doesn't need this burden.
That was certainly the truth. Every time he arrived, she nearly wept with joy at the sight of him, and with relief that he was still alive; and every time he left, she did her best to hide her fears and the tears they caused her to shed. She also did her best to live a normal life during his absences, but he understood from his friends in the village that she worried constantly.
He knew from listening to her talk that she was aware of what he was doing most of the time, because Zeus, his father, made it a point to inform her about his welfare.
Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 02 Page 1