Ye Gods!

by Tom Holt

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Gelos, ‘it’s still a hell of a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t take the risk unless I thought it was absolutely necessary. Trust me.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jason.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gelos. ‘You remind me a lot of me when I was younger,’ he added.

  Jason blinked. ‘I do?’ he said.

  ‘Not surprising, really,’ said Gelos, smiling. ‘We are related, after all.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Gelos said. ‘You see, although I am Gelos, spirit of Laughter, I wasn’t always what I am now. Before I was Gelos, I was . . . well, never mind that. Here, doggie.’

  Cerberus jumped forward, wagging his tail. Gelos made a slight gesture with his right hand and the dog was suddenly fast asleep.

  ‘I put a long joke in his minds,’ Gelos explained. ‘Good as an anaesthetic, I always find.’

  ‘A long joke?’

  ‘Shaggy dog story, I think they’re called. Now, are you ready to receive your half of the Joke?’

  Jason nodded and braced himself. Although he was very frightened and not a little confused, he knew that the three dots in his mind had become words now, and the sentence was complete at last.

  ‘Right,’ said Gelos. ‘There was this guy who went into this bar . . .’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pluto reached out. Eventually, to his initial relief, his hand connected with something. It was wet.

  ‘Yuk,’ Pluto said, and reached for his handkerchief.

  After a further period of exploration, however, he arrived at the conclusion that beggars can’t be choosers, and set out to follow the series of damp, smelly patches on the walls of Nothingness to their eventual conclusion. If the dog came this way, he reasoned, Derry can’t be far behind.

  He had been feeling his way in this manner for perhaps ten minutes when he felt something that wasn’t wet and smelly. If anything, it was rather worse.

  ‘Don’t mind my asking,’ said a voice, ‘but why are you holding on to my ankle?’

  Pluto considered the cold, scaly surface he had just made contact with and shuddered. ‘Beg pardon?’ he said.

  ‘My ankle,’ said the voice. ‘You appear to be holding on to it. Why?’

  ‘Because it’s there?’ Pluto suggested. ‘Whoever you are, might I trouble you for some light, by any chance?’

  ‘Light,’ the voice said thoughtfully. ‘I may be able to manage that. Just bear with me for a moment, will you?’

  A moment later there was indeed light.

  ‘You’ve just missed him,’ said the voice.

  Pluto blinked. The same could not be said for the piercing eyes of the colossal obsidian statue, which seemed to be trying to see through the back of Pluto’s head.

  ‘Have I?’ Pluto asked.

  ‘I imagine so,’ said the statue. ‘He went that way.’

  ‘Did he have a dog with him?’

  Gelos made a show of thinking about this, and then replied, ‘I believe he did, yes. And a man, too.’

  Pluto drew his brows together in a frown. ‘Did he indeed?’ he mused. ‘What sort of a . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gelos, ‘there you have me. Let’s see.’

  ‘Late middle-aged,’ Pluto suggested, ‘friendly looking, big smile, probably in dressing gown and slippers.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it,’ Gelos said, ‘I think you could be right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Pluto. ‘Er, how about the light? Do you think you could fix it to stay on for a bit, only I get a bit jumpy in the dark. You know how it is.’

  The statue nodded its head. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

  Pluto turned to go and then looked back. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘No,’ Gelos lied, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Pluto said, ‘I’ve got a rotten memory for faces. Occupational hazard, I suppose. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Gelos. ‘Go carefully, now.’

  Pluto waved and soon was lost to sight among the shadows. For his part, Gelos sighed and shook his head. Of his three nephews, he considered, Pluto was probably (though only by a short head) the dimmest. He reflected for a moment on the fact that these same three nephews, idiots all, had castrated his brother Cronus, imprisoned his sister Rhea and made him, Thing, the greatest of the three, hide out at the end of a sleazy underground railway line for most of the history of Creation. Fool’s luck, he said to himself; or something like that.

  There is an old accountant’s proverb that it’s no good the meek inheriting the earth if they end up having to pay tax on it at 40p in the pound. For his part, Thing (as Gelos should properly be called) didn’t really mind being cheated of his inheritance just so long as none of the other members of his family got their grubby paws on it. Having reassumed his true shape, therefore, he reached out his mind into the World and made contact with his oldest and best ally, presently suspended from a number of mountaintops in the Caucasus.

  ‘Pro?’

  ‘Is that you, Gel?’

  ‘How are things your end?’

  A flicker of a shadow passed across Prometheus’s thought-waves. ‘I don’t know,’ Prometheus replied. ‘I have a feeling something’s going to happen.’

  ‘You’re right. Apollo is coming to get you.’

  ‘I know that,’ Prometheus thought back. ‘The eagle told me. I’ve told it to lie low for a bit. Any suggestions?’

  ‘None that spring immediately to mind, Pro. I’d send you the boy, but I need him here. Mars is on his way, and Pluto’s just come through. I need the dog, too. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Look, Pro, if things get out of hand, call me, will you? I might be able to help out, you never know.’

  ‘What was that? It’s a very bad line.’

  ‘I said I might be able to help,’ Thing replied.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Prometheus assured him. ‘But send the boy when you can spare him, I’ll stall them till then, all right?’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Thing let the mental link subside and made himself a cup of Ovaltine; but his mind still moved on his comrade’s dilemma. It was a pity he couldn’t send the boy.

  Of course, he said to himself, I could always send the next best thing.

  At the very end of the corridor there was a door.

  Like most doors in the Underground it had a very silly notice above it. It said No Exit.

  Extremely silly. After all. if you couldn’t go out of it, what was the point in it being there? Jason shrugged and tried the handle. It was locked.

  ‘What do you think, dog?’ Jason asked. It was a rhetorical question really, as he knew that the reply would be Woof, but asking gave him time to weigh up the pros and cons of the move he had in mind.

  ‘Woof.’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ Jason said happily. ‘What is the point, after all?’

  He lifted his leg and gave the door an almighty kick. A door is just a door. It flew open, and a moment later Jason realised that the notice hadn’t been so silly after all.

  ‘Jason Derry.’

  For someone who had led an adventurous life, frequently paddling in the backwaters of the paranormal and semi-divine, Jason hadn’t quite managed to develop the proper attitude to apparitions. Contrast his reaction to Gelos in his statue persona, for example, with Pluto’s, recounted above. Pluto, you noticed, just took a colossal talking statue in his stride. Pluto, after all, knows that something that looks like that can only be something else dressed up, since colossal talking statues are not, of course, possible.

  ‘Er,’ was all that Jason could find to say. Curiously enough, the apparition somehow managed to find it intimidating, because it crouched further down behind its shield and trembled slightly.

  ‘Don’t count on it, mortal,’ said the apparition.

  Jason took another look at the monstrous figu
re in front of him. Was it possible that this apparently divine and heavily armoured person was afraid of him?

  ‘Don’t count on what?’ he asked.

  ‘Look,’ replied the apparition, ‘I’m only doing my job, okay? I didn’t ask to be sent. I just got volunteered.’

  Time, Jason thought, to do a little essential spadework. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Mars.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mars.’

  Jason didn’t relax, but the quality of his tension improved. ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you’d lie about,’ replied the ex-God of War. ‘But if you don’t believe me, I’ve got one of those little cards with my photograph on it. Hang on.’

  The Widow-Maker leaned his spear against the door-frame, slipped off his shield and rummaged around in the inside pocket of his breastplate until he found a creased plastic folder. He opened it and Jason’s eyes grew round.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I mean,’ Jason said, ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Mars was so surprised he dropped his spear, which fell with a clang on the ground. At once Jason leaned forward and picked it up for him.

  ‘Are you trying to say,’ Mars asked, ‘that you’re actually pleased to meet me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jason said. ‘Hell, when I was at school I had posters of you all round the walls of my bedroom.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You were my favourite,’ Jason went on enthusiastically. ‘I read all about you in the mythology books. I even had a tee-shirt printed with . . .’

  Mars dropped the spear again. ‘You’re sure you’re not thinking of someone else?’ he asked. Jason shook his head, then blushed and produced a scrap of paper from his pocket.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘I know this must be really boring for you, but could you just write . . . I don’t know, Best Wishes from Mars, something like that. It’s not for me, it’s for my . . .’

  ‘You do know,’ Mars said, ‘why I’m here?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Jason said. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ he added hopefully.

  Mars swallowed hard. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said, ‘yes.’

  ‘What?’

  Mars closed his eyes. Was this, he asked himself, yet another manifestation of his usual filthy luck? The boy’s eyes were shining at him with the golden light of hero-worship; for the first time ever, he told himself, somebody is actually glad to see me. Oh nuts . . .

  ‘You see,’ Mars said, as gently as he could, ‘I’ve been sent . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been sent by Jupiter . . .’

  ‘Yes? How is Dad, by the way?’

  ‘. . . to kill you,’ Mars grinned feebly. ‘As it were.’

  Physiognomists would have you believe that it is impossible for the human face to have no expression whatsoever; and if that is the case, then Jason was more divine than human. Mars bit his lip.

  ‘When I say kill,’ he went on, ‘it’s not as bad as it sounds. More translate you to the stars. Immortality. Apotheosis. Haven’t you ever wanted to be a star?’

  Jason said nothing.

  ‘And,’ Mars continued hopelessly, ‘the apotheosis framework is designed for maximum flexibility, to cater for a wide range of individual aspirations. Red dwarf, blue giant, supernova, you name it. Just so long as you’re not . . . well, alive, really.’

  Jason said nothing.

  ‘They tell me,’ Mars whimpered, ‘that it doesn’t hurt a bit. It’s not really death, you see, though of course death does come into it, peripherally. But really it’s more a sort of ouch!’

  Jason woke suddenly from his reverie and kicked the dog savagely on the rump.

  ‘Cerberus!’ he shouted, ‘let go!’

  Two of the dog’s heads obeyed; the third needed a clip round the ears to convince it. Mars rubbed his ankle and then looked up.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered wretchedly.

  ‘Bad dog,’ said Jason. ‘Mars, I’m so sorry, this bloody dog . . .

  ‘Look,’ Mars said, ‘don’t worry about it, right? I mean, if someone should be apologising, it ought to be me. Except,’ he added without conviction, ‘really, it’s more of a career move than anything else. And you don’t actually have any choice, of course.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘So am I,’ Mars sighed, ‘believe me. But when the Big J says that’s the way it’s got to be, then that’s the way it’s got to be. And . . .’

  Jason looked at him. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mars, ‘but I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘No,’ Jason said again. ‘Just because Dad says something doesn’t mean anything of the sort. I thought you would have realised that.’

  Oh, for crying out loud, Mars thought. ‘Listen, son,’ he said. ‘I wish it didn’t have to be like this . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  ‘No it doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  ‘No it doesn’t.’

  In the very back end of his mind, Mars’s memory nudged his consciousness and reminded him that in the old days, when he used to be the God of War, he didn’t have to take this sort of shit from anybody, let alone a snot-nosed kid who thought the Widow-Maker was a more suitable candidate for a role model than, say, Mother Teresa. Enough of this, it said.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ Mars said. ‘I’m saying it does, and I’m the one who ouch!’

  About ten seconds later, Jason helped Mars up again, handed him his spear, bent the chin-guard of his helmet back into shape, dusted off his cloak for him and apologised.

  ‘Now get lost,’ he added.

  Mars, his divine head still swimming, tried one last protest. ‘Look,’ he started to say.

  ‘. . . or I’ll have to hit you again.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mars. ‘Nice to have met you. Classy left hook you’ve got there, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Jason’s face lit up. ‘You really think so?’

  Mars humped his throbbing jaw into a grin. ‘You bet,’ he said.

  By a strange coincidence that would have had the Possibility Police round in ten minutes flat with a forged warrant had they known about it, Mrs. Derry was at that very moment removing Jason’s Mars posters from the walls of his bedroom.

  Part of being a mother is realising that one of these days, the fledgling is going to leave the nest for good. The sensible mother realises that this is perfectly natural, and also a heaven sent opportunity to give parts of the nest their first thorough cleaning for eighteen years.

  She was just wiping away a tear while trying to scrape off a chunk of petrified Blue-Tack with the handle of a spoon when the doorbell rang. She muttered something, climbed down off the chair and went to see who it was.

  ‘Hello, Phyllis.’

  Mrs. Derry gave Jupiter that particular look that only female mortals can manage. It is a masterpiece of non-verbal communication, and says (inter alia) that you are not welcome to come into my house because of what has happened between us in the past, because you never even sent flowers or a postcard, and most of all because the kitchen floor hasn’t been cleaned for a week. It is to Jupiter’s credit that he managed to field it without falling over; but the gods, as Homer reminds us, are stronger by far than bread-eating mortals.

  ‘It’s about Jason,’ Jupiter said. ‘Can I come in?’

  Mrs. Derry hesitated, even then. Because of Jupiter, her married life had been a cross between a Feydeau farce and one of Landseer’s more exuberant productions; there was also the matter of the unwashed breakfast things. But in the end she nodded, and Jupiter walked past her into the house. As he did so, small clumps of incredibly sweet-smelling flowers sprang up where his divine feet left their print in the soft pile of the carpet. This is a common manifestation of a divine presence and Mrs. Derry could hardly fail to notice it.

&n
bsp; ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ she said. ‘Wait there.’

  She darted off and returned with a bundle of old newspapers, which she arranged by way of a footpath leading from the hallway to the lounge. Having placed the final page on the seat of the sofa, she sniffed, sat down in the armchair, and folded her arms disapprovingly.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Yetch,’ said Pluto, in fact. He had been reduced to drying his hands on his handkerchief, an operation which always made him feel seedy. Having put the now damp hanky away, he looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie and set out once again to find Jason Derry.

  This time, he was successful, probably because Jason was now looking for him.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ said the son of Jupiter, ‘or you’ll taste the edge of my sword. You got that?’

  Pluto turned round slowly and drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘I’ll trouble you,’ he said, ‘not to take that tone with me. After all, I am your uncle, so let’s have a little respect, if you please.’

  Jason’s brows knotted. ‘Respect?’ he queried.

  ‘Respect. And for pity’s sake put that sword down, before you break something.’

  Without quite knowing why, Jason did as he was told. Pluto nodded severely.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘And take your hands out of your pockets.’

  The explanation is, of course, simple for non-Heroes to grasp. Having throughout his career been confronted with a succession of opponents who were bigger, stronger, faster, nastier or better equipped with limbs than he was, Jason had never developed the necessary techniques for dealing with people who were smaller, weaker or better mannered than himself. He had killed dragons, but he’d never had to jump a queue of pensioners in a post office.

  ‘You are Pluto,’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the god stiffly. ‘And I presume you’re the Derry boy.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Pluto gave him a look, and Jason suddenly became painfully aware that his fingernails weren’t as clean as they might be.