by Nancy Madore
But now the gods decided that they, too, would compete in the Funeral Games. These new games were intended to dazzle and charm the mortals, and the prize was to be worshipped.
Unlike the contests between the mortals, the games of the gods could involve anything, provided there were at least two of them willing to compete. This is not to say that they didn’t engage in some of the same events as the sons of men. Archery, for example, was popular among mortals and gods alike. But even here, the gods performed on a much larger scale. Whether competing from a body or in their spirit form, the gods were far and away more skilled than mortals. They were faster, keener and stronger. If the strongest mortal could shoot an arrow two hundred yards, a god could easily shoot it three hundred from the same body. The souls of the immortals were so superior that they could literally make the flesh they inhabited perform better. Simple activities became incredible feats. For this reason, mortals did not compete against the gods. To even suggest such a thing was considered a great impertinence that would certainly invoke that gods’ anger.
Though Apollo was the undisputed god of the bow and arrow, the event itself was a favorite among the goddesses. Artemis, for one, had gained many an admirer with this skill, particularly among the daughters of men. It was often that way; that mortals would choose their gods for some aspect that appealed to them besides just their talent and skill. Picking up on this, the gods added contests of beauty, benevolence and charm to the games.
Of course, the most popular events were those in which the gods competed in their spirit form. These were far and away the most interesting to watch. Though their souls could be frightening to behold, they inspired awe, and signified their ability to live on forever, far beyond the constraints of mere flesh. This portion of the games was so spectacular that it was saved for last, to produce a staggering finale.
The Funeral Games were a community event where mortals from each tribe would vote on who should become their patron god. The competition was fierce, and the gods surpassed themselves in each consecutive game.
Although Poseidon resented the games, he was irrepressibly drawn to compete. And he almost always did so in his spirit form. But the games were a kind of torture for him. He felt that, since his abilities were so superior to everyone else’s, he shouldn’t have to compete. His power was real and tangible, whereas most of the other ‘powers’ were little more than silly tricks. And yet, the mortals seemed to prefer tricks—the sillier the better. Prometheus, for example, drew great cries of admiration with his exploits with fire, and even dared to challenge Poseidon’s thunder clouds with his colorful explosions in the sky. But of what use were they? Could they bring rain? Could they stop an enemy in his tracks? Poseidon was baffled by the enthusiastic cheers that Prometheus’ exhibition inspired. He listened to the applause in a kind of paroxysm of bewilderment and horror. Was it possible that Prometheus’ cheers were louder than his? That was the agony of the games for Poseidon—and for many of the other gods as well—that the applause always seemed louder for the other side.
And yet, it was a sad fact that the mortals sometimes preferred being amused to being presented with something useful. Take Demeter, for example, and her enticing—but perilous—red flower. Many a mortal had gotten lost in her seductive potion only to realize later that it had been nothing more than an illusion. And of course, there was Circe, with her trifling little wand, turning mortals into swine to be roasted at the great feast later that day. Nobody seemed to notice when those same mortals reappeared later in their regular form—at the very feast where they were supposed to have been served as the main course, no less! And yet, she had acquired many a worshiper with that trick!
But at least those gods were entertaining. There were some whose talents didn’t even rise to the level of mortals—and yet, they, too, managed to find admirers. The one that angered Poseidon most was Athena, the daughter of Zeus. She wasn’t even a real goddess. Her mother had been an ordinary mortal, making her a mere Nephilim! No matter how he tried, Poseidon could not account for the love the mortals felt for her. He would watch with growing resentment as the crowd cheered her on—just for stepping into the arena! What made them love her so much? She could weave a pretty craft, but what of that? Any mortal could do the same. Her popularity was a bone of contention with him—a constant, chafing thorn in his side. It seemed as if he could not win a similar devotion no matter what he did.
The gods were ruthless in the games, often cheating in their effort to win. The goddesses were the most vicious of all, especially when it came to contests of beauty. Among these, Hera was, perhaps, the most notorious. She was famous for her jealous and vengeful nature, which was mostly directed at Zeus' lovers and their children, but could also be roused against mortals who chose other goddesses over her. Aphrodite was almost as malicious as Hera in this respect, and it was not at all unusual for contests involving the two of them to end up in a tie.
Competing under such circumstances as these, there were times when it was all Poseidon could do to keep from splitting the earth beneath the arena so that it would swallow up the lot of them.
It was rare for a god to challenge Poseidon (since none of them had powers to match those of his trident), but as a matter of fact, Poseidon’s talents extended beyond this. He was masterful in all that he attempted to do. And he was a determined opponent, willing to go to any lengths to win. He showed no mercy, regardless of who he might be competing against, male or female. He had no particular affinity with any of the other gods. In the arena—indeed, in every aspect of his life—he considered them his opponents. There was only one immortal who garnered any consideration from him at all, and that was Zeus.
Zeus had a strange effect on Poseidon, making it hard for him to refuse his brother anything. In fact, there was only one thing Poseidon ever denied his younger brother, and that was the secret to his incredible power to create earthquakes and storms. The truth was that Poseidon didn’t know the secret. Uranus had never explained how the trident worked. All Poseidon knew was that it was a part of him now, like a limb, whenever he was in his spirit form—which was often. Secretly, Poseidon was glad that he didn’t know how it worked, for he was not sure he would be strong enough to withhold the information from Zeus. But here again, Zeus proved more clever than Poseidon; for one day he returned from the volcano with a bright new staff of his own. It was not nearly as powerful as Poseidon’s trident, but it was still impressive. For while Zeus’ new staff could not shake the earth, it could call forth thunder and rain. And somehow, this seemed better to the mortals. Zeus’ staff brought the good—without the bad. Poseidon’s ability to bring earthquakes had not endeared him to the mortals. They feared him, yes, but it was not the same as with the other gods. It was not a fear born out of love or admiration. It was more like horror. This puzzled Poseidon, who would’ve thought that the mortals would appreciate his efforts to resist his rather frequent urges to use his trident against them. Why should his power instill only horror when other gods got admiration?
It was hard to predict what would please the mortals, so the gods were always coming up with new challenges. One of the most popular events to come to the Funeral Games turned out to be the taming of wild beasts. The mortals loved to watch this contest of wills between the gods and the animals—both of which seemed so dangerous and unpredictable to them. Some of the gods used brute force to subjugate the animals, while others preferred to beguile the creatures into submitting. This latter method was, of course, the more popular with the mortals. It was one thing to dominate a creature physically, but quite another to charm it into doing your will. The gods came up with all sorts of methods for achieving this, but none was as popular as music.
The immortals were especially gifted in the art of music, and it was a singular delight to hear them play or sing, even without the added challenge of charming a wild, possibly dangerous, creature into submitting to them in the process. The gods eagerly rose to the occasion, offering up all manner of m
usical strains to enchant and enthrall the most vicious animals they could find. But it was the mortals who were most enchanted of all, and no god was more admired for this ability than Orpheus—who was even a favorite with Poseidon.
Orpheus had mastered the lyre, but his voice put even that instrument to shame. His songs were so exquisite that it was said that he could charm anything living or dead—even a stone. And indeed, in the course of the games, Orpheus persuaded many creatures to abandon their feral nature and dance—yes, even dance—for him and the cheering crowd. Lions would bow and twirl before him. There were few gods who could compete with Orpheus, though many tried. Apollo came close, once coaxing his prey from its hiding place and causing it to bow down and expose its neck to him—literally offering itself up for the kill!
This ability to tame wild animals was as practical to the mortals as it was entertaining. To worship a god who could control birds, snakes—and even lions—would surely bring prosperity to their community.
This concept of commanding the animal world appealed to Poseidon as much as it did the other gods. Lions and birds did not interest him however. What challenge were they? What benefit could they bring to the sons of men? There was another creature that intrigued him more, though no one else seemed to have given it much thought. It was a harmless animal that wasn’t particularly favored for eating. There seemed no reason to pursue it, except that it was a powerful creature that appeared to be cleverer than other animals. This combination of cunning and strength appealed to Poseidon. He felt that he might finally gain favor with the mortals if he could master this beast that had eluded mankind’s influence so far.
Poseidon had always admired the horse. There was something in its aspect, some wild passion that he identified with. He could see it in their eyes, a kind of fury to be free. He had felt that same passion as a child—and he even sometimes felt it still, though he had no idea why he should feel such a thing now. But he felt a kind of kinship with the horse and, determined though he was, he decided that he would not take it by force. He would win it over like a true god, by establishing himself as its superior.
The horse was a large and formidable animal, and Poseidon knew it would be difficult to bend its independent nature. But with his usual determination to win—not just the horse, but the mortals as well—he struggled against his own tempestuous nature to find a way to charm the beast.
He went about this task in his spirit form, going far into the wild to the place where he knew the horses congregated. At first, he simply resided there with them. He followed wherever they went; just kind of existing alongside of them until they were no longer alarmed by the sight of him. They roamed as one through the countryside during the days, and rested together throughout the long, chilly nights. Poseidon gradually began guiding them. He did so subtly; really just using his presence as an incentive to encourage them to move in one direction or another. When necessary, he used his trident—but only to add emphasis to his direction, and never to inflict blows upon the creatures. Whenever one of the horses challenged him, Poseidon always stood his ground.
The truth was that it wasn’t all that difficult for Poseidon to establish himself as one of them. In many ways he was like them. It was almost as if the horses expected him to lead—they even seemed to want it. A simple gesture of his head could make them stop and turn in an entirely different direction.
For Poseidon, living among the horses was not at all unpleasant. They were extraordinary creatures that he understood and respected, perhaps even more than he understood and respected his own kind. They were a peaceful species, moving together as one as they unanimously followed their benevolent leader, who always led them to the best fields for grazing. At night, Poseidon hovered over them, caressing their backs with his enormous tentacles while speaking to them in soothing tones.
When the time came for Poseidon to test his authority over the herd, he went out in search of a body. The creatures must associate him with mankind if they were to truly be tamed. The horses did not balk at his new form, instantly recognizing the soul within. In fact, they seemed to prefer him with a body. Now they could better feel his touch. Yet he could not keep up with them in this form, as they were much too fast for him. He was, therefore, forced to sit upon the back of one horse and to lead the entire group from there.
Up to this point, Poseidon had planned to introduce the horse as an object of strength and power, to be used to assist with the heavy labor involved in farming and building. But suddenly he realized that the horse was much more valuable than that. With this new gift, the mortals would be able to fly like the gods. He would surely be worshipped for this!
And Poseidon was right. The mortals went wild when he rode into the arena atop the enormous horse, wearing the body of a decrepit old man. Mortals and immortals alike marveled over how easily the feeble old man was able to control the formidable creature. Next, Poseidon brought in the entire herd, and led them around with one arthritic finger! Then he called down from the crowd a little girl who was no more than ten years old—instructing her mother not to be faint of heart—as he directed one of the horses to kneel before her so that she could climb onto its back. With only a few words of instruction, the little girl was able to steer the horse all around the arena. When the spectacle was finished, there rose up a unanimous cry of approval from the crowd the likes of which Poseidon had never heard before. He trembled with pride. Using the lowliest mortal form he could find, he had gained the approval of the people. He had finally proved to them that he was a god worthy of their worship! He was no mere Nephilim making empty claims on the sun or the moon. He had the power to destroy them all, but he had shown them that he was a benevolent god too. He had given them an invaluable gift. He had given them the horse.
But the gods kept competing, and the stakes just seemed to keep getting higher. The mortals were spoiled. No sooner did they get one gift than they were already looking for another. They had little fear of the gods—not even when they were in their soul form. They had not only grown accustomed to the way their gods looked, but they even argued amongst themselves over which of them was most magnificent. But there was no real loyalty with the mortals. If there was something in it for them, they would turn their back on one god for another.
The Olympians had truly been accepted as ‘gods,’ but who was the master and who was the slave?
Chapter 35
Poseidon was indisputably the most powerful of all the gods in the kingdom of Olympia. Mortals looked to him for protection and prosperity—both of which largely depended on their ability to travel safely across his seas. Songs were sung in his praise. Temples were built in his honor.
But Poseidon was still plagued with doubts. He knew that he should be reveling in the many worshippers that he had, but he couldn’t help brooding over those few who had chosen other patron gods over him. Why had they rejected him?
And the gods just kept competing. Poseidon feared that if he didn’t compete too he would be forgotten. But it was tiresome, trying to win the mortals over and over again. It almost seemed as if it was the gods who were doing the worshipping. The more they gave, the more the mortals demanded.
It was a strange relationship. On one hand, the gods were little better than glorified slaves, working day and night to win the approval of the mortals. But on the other hand, the mortals were ready to place their fate in the hands of the winners. Men going off to war would say; ‘Of what use is it to train? The gods have already determined whether we shall live or die.’ And it was the same no matter what the occasion. They were convinced that the only way to improve their lives was to choose the right god. The gods were weighed down by the burden of all this ‘worship.’ They worked hard to enrich the quality of their patron cities—competing with each other even in this—but how could they possibly control every circumstance of each individual mortal life? It seemed they were doomed for failure.
In the end, this problem worked itself out. The mortals’ need for a god
was so great that they could not abandon it, no matter how poorly their god performed. In fact, they preferred to turn on one another when ‘fate’ dealt them a blow. Someone in their dominion must have upset the gods. They would hold riotous meetings to determine which god they had angered and how, always finding—and punishing—the responsible party or parties, in an effort to appease that god. This made it easy for the god in question to ‘forgive’ the errant city its trespass, and shower benevolence on it after the fact.
There was one advantage—Poseidon was forced to admit—in all of this competing. The standard of living throughout the Olympian kingdom had risen to an all-time high. The region was booming with invention, development and culture. With this new standard came all manner of artistic expression, which presented another way for the mortals to compete for the approval of their gods. This new form of competition was brought about by the fervor with which the mortals worshiped their gods. No one knew quite how it started, but once begun, these games would become legendary.
Storytelling had always been a favorite pastime among the mortals. It served the fundamental purpose of passing down historical events from one generation to the next. Though the stories might be inadvertently laced with prejudice and superstition, they had always been generally accepted as truth. Any deliberate ‘enhancements’ were only added when absolutely necessary—to teach a lesson, or to make the events more memorable. There was a solemnity to the task that emphasized the importance of keeping the actual events intact. But this was not the case with this new form of storytelling. In fact, with this latest addition to the games, the more outrageous the tale, the more popular it would become.