“Not because you would not be useful,” Artemis insisted.
“But because I would confuse the plan,” Callisto agreed, though she’d known that the others were trying to protect her from further hurts. “So the nymphs covered me in mud and decorated my body with leaves and sticks. Artemis’ followers are masters of camouflage.”
Artemis always laughed proudly at that part.
“And then came the rest of the plan. Taking a cue from your father, you transformed yourself. You turned into a bear, exactly like the one Hera turned me into. Then you fled from the meadow and ran and ran. Hermes brought a message to Zeus that Callisto was being hunted by Artemis, and that his unborn child was in danger.”
“Oh no!”
“Zeus looked down from Mount Olympus to see for himself. He saw a great bear on the run, and Artemis on the chase close behind. But wait. How could you have been the hunter and the hunted?” Callisto paused dramatically. To her, this was the best part of the plan. It had surely earned the most laughs. “Apollo, twin to Artemis, in his brotherly devotion—and as recompense for having orchestrated Orion’s death—had donned a pretty wig and saffron tunic, and it was he who chased after the bear, completing the illusion. It was so believable to Zeus that, when he saw it, he cursed his jealous wife. He scooped the bear from the forest and placed her in the stars to keep her safe until their child could be born.”
Artemis cuddled closer, nuzzling into her neck. “But the heavens cannot contain a goddess.”
“No, they cannot. Artemis escaped from the sky, leaving behind only the shape of a great bear in the stars. Then she returned to the true Callisto—me—and washed the mud from her body, leaving kisses over every inch of clean skin.”
“I kissed you muddy, too,” Artemis chimed.
“Hush, it’s the end.” Callisto cleared her throat. “Zeus was saddened when his bear in the stars never gave birth to his child. But Hera was pleased. She never looked for Callisto again, because she was right there, every night, shining in the heavens.”
“But unbeknownst to them,” Artemis prompted.
“Unbeknownst to them,” Callisto continued, “Callisto remained in the mountains at her goddess’ side. And the babe was born healthy and lovely, and completely hers and completely Artemis’.”
“Completely ours,” Artemis whispered. She was growing tired. Callisto could hear it in her voice, and feel it in the way her head lay heavily on her shoulder. Their small son, Arcas, lay between them. Completely theirs.
“And they lived happily and perfectly—though certainly not chastely—until the end of their days. Which,” Callisto murmured against her lover’s hair, “are yet to come.”
Artemis was asleep now, as was Arcas. But Callisto remained awake for some time, staring up at the stars.
She smirked at the great, sparkling bear, and basked in her triumph.
No man, no god, not even the sky, could conquer her. Not when she had her goddess’ heart, and her goddess had hers. She was a huntress. She was Artemis’ lover. She was Callisto.
And the stars could not contain her.
Hermes
None could have passed me then—
no garland-bearing girl, no priest
or staring boy—and lived.
-Robert Hayden
Ask anyone.
Hermes had the worst luck.
Not in all things, mind you, for he was born too clever for his own good, sneaking out of his crib on the day of his birth to steal a herd of Apollo’s pretty cows. He invented the lyre the very same day, but no matter. He was unlucky in love, and that was what ailed him.
You wouldn’t know it to look at him. He was handsome and honey-haired. Honey-tongued, too. And there was usually someone just as handsome hanging off one of his finely toned arms, frequently a nymph. But these pursuits were trivial and unsatisfying, and more often than not, the nymph in question, for one reason or another, was turned into a plant of some kind. Such was the lot of an Olympian.
One lover, one of his early favorites, was not a nymph, but ended up as something floral regardless. But Hermes could not blame any of his golden brethren for this incident; Crocus was entirely his fault.
He’d loved him, his beautiful mortal youth. He was strong but delicate. Playful but intelligent. Athletic but tragically remiss in the game of discus. On a bright and sunny day, he ran directly into one of Hermes’ throws, resulting in a blow to the head that proved to be rather serious, as in he died upon impact and there was a copious amount of blood. Hermes could not stand the sight of his lover’s life leaking red all over the grass, so he’d swiftly turned Crocus’ lifeless body into a sweet little bed of flowers. He’d plucked one to tuck behind his ear and apologized to the plant for having such an excellent throw.
It was one of his least favorite days in memory. He’d loved Crocus, after all. Or at least liked him very much.
He’d fancied Hecate for a time, the witch-goddess who dwelled in the Underworld with Persephone half the year. The other half was spent not returning Hermes’ messages and avoiding him at get-togethers. She was gorgeous and a little rude, and she did not need him nearly as much as he required for a sustainable relationship, so he ended it. (If you ask her, she might say differently, but do not ask her. She’s a lying witch and can hardly be trusted with the truth.)
Once, and for a long while, Hermes thought he’d found the one to complete him. Coincidentally—and to no one’s shock—many years before, his father had disguised himself as a satyr in order to bed a follower of Dionysus. The result had been twins, and while one was too political and obvious for Hermes’ tastes, the other suited him quite well. His name was Amphion, and, feeling curious about his technical half-brother, Hermes visited him, bringing a gift.
He’d heard Amphion was artistically inclined, and it was true. Once he received Hermes’ lyre, it was easy to teach him. Hermes became smitten just as easily, and the two were quickly inseparable. Hermes spent all of his free time in Thebes with the gentler twin, showering him with golden headbands—“a most lovely ornament”—and a chlamys of divine make, which frequently changed to different colors of the rainbow. Overcome with love for the gentle Amphion, Hermes pursued him singularly, and his love, for a time, was singularly returned.
After rising to a king with his brother Zethus, Amphion, at one point, played the lyre so well that the great walls of Thebes rose into creation (none saw that Hermes helped to lift them). The people adored him, but none adored him as much as Hermes.
That is, of course, when his luck in love ran short.
Amphion married. A woman. Her name was Niobe and she was annoyingly fertile. Within a frustratingly short time, she’d produced twenty children. Twenty proofs of Amphion’s disloyalty to Hermes. It was no great comfort when, doomed by idiocy, Niobe bragged that she was a mightier mother than Leto, who’d only birthed two babies and not twenty. Leto’s babies being Artemis and Apollo, two quick to temper Olympians, Niobe’s claim ended in devastation.
Though Hermes had pled (half-heartedly, he’ll admit) for his siblings not to act, Apollo and Artemis were enraged by the insult to their beloved mother. They killed the twenty children of Amphion and Niobe, ten each, with their arrows. Amphion leapt from one of his great walls shortly after, killing himself.
Hermes considered making him into a shrub, but he was too exhausted. After years of being strung along by a married man, he was mostly just relieved it was finally over.
He was fond of the cup-bearer, and would sometimes visit Ganymede in the Underworld, but his was an innocent friendship not even Hermes dared to ruin. And besides, he craved a living soul to cherish, a warm and solid body to hold against his own. Ganymede was forever sweet and beautiful, but he was no longer warm to touch, and he’d never been Hermes’ to hold.
For a time, he resigned himself again to the familiarity of nymphs. He did not try for love, because he was tired of attempting conversation with herbs. He went
through the motions of his Olympian brothers. Bed some, wed some, get some with child. When offspring appeared, he was thrilled by them, and they filled a piece of him that had been empty, but he was never all the way full.
Unlucky in love was what he was. But this can be said of luck: it is always changing.
Hermes’ luck began to change one nondescript day on Mount Olympus. He was in the pantheon for the daily gathering, silently lamenting the days of Ganymede. Zeus had yet to choose a new cup-bearer, claimed it hurt too much to think on it, and for the time being, to everyone’s amusement but Hera’s, Heracles was filling the spot. He was the new Olympian porter anyway, so it only made sense he would pour their wine, as well. His muscular figure made for excellent entertainment, and Hermes was drinking more than ever these days, just to watch Heracles toddle over to refill his goblet, always with a happy grin on his face.
Hermes was chatting with Athena while the others discussed their own mortal quarrels and complaints. He was mostly tuning her out, since he usually found her tedious, but then a word or two caught his interest, and he sat up in his throne, asking her to repeat herself.
She did so seriously, as she did most things. Honestly, Hermes had been trying to switch thrones with Demeter for centuries. Dionysus was always good for a laugh. “I said,” Athena repeated, “that another one of father’s bastards has found himself in trouble, and I was considering lending him a hand.”
It had been the words “bastard” and “trouble” that had caught Hermes’ attention. He was surprised but pleased to discover he was not the bastard Athena had been talking about. He leaned on his elbow, slinking closer to Athena. “Another child?” he asked, shaking his head in disapproval. “Which one is it now?”
“Perseus,” answered Athena. “Son of Danae. Do you remember her?”
“The one with the dreadful husband?”
“Aren’t they all dreadful?”
“Yes, but the one with the . . . was there fishing involved somehow?” Hermes groaned into the palm of his hand. “There are so many.”
Athena sympathized, and so she explained further. “Zeus came to Danae, showered her with gold, and bedded her,” she said, to which Hermes rolled his eyes and summoned Heracles for more wine. “When she had the child, her husband thought she’d had an affair with his brother. He put her and the little one on a tiny boat and pushed them out to sea to die. A fisherman happened upon them—”
“I knew it.”
“—and saved their lives. He brought Danae and the child, Perseus, to Seriphos, where they have both lived in the house of King Polydectes ever since.”
“And now what trouble has the child found?” asked Hermes.
“He is not a child any longer,” Athena said, with the barest hint of wistfulness. “He is a man full grown now.”
“I’m intrigued. Continue.”
“He is still your brother, Hermes,” Athena scolded.
Hermes laughed. “If I let that stop me, half of Greece would be off limits. So tell me, what is the trouble?”
“The trouble comes from King Polydectes himself. Danae is still a beautiful woman, and he wishes to take her as a wife. But Danae does not love and has no wish to marry the king. Perseus was speaking with Polydectes and said, ‘If you would only make another choice of wife other than my mother, I would do anything, even fetch you Medusa’s head.’”
“Oh dear,” said Hermes. Medusa had long been an enemy of Athena’s, though Hermes was of the opinion that poor Medusa got the worse end of things. She had been bedded within one of Athena’s temples and Athena had grossly overreacted, turning the pretty young woman into a monster. There were snakes involved, and very sharp teeth, amongst other features.
“My thoughts precisely,” Athena continued. “He will surely die without assistance. And I feel partly responsible, I must admit, since I am the one who turned Medusa into the gorgon that will kill him.”
“You intend to intervene?” Hermes asked.
“I intend to offer my guidance and provide him with the tools that may lead to his survival, if he is capable,” replied Athena.
“Hmm.” Hermes emptied his goblet. “I will help.”
“What? That will not be necessary.”
“He is family,” Hermes explained. “I should at least meet him before he turns to stone.”
Athena looked as she often did after speaking with Hermes, like she thoroughly regretted it. But he was unswayable in his curiosity to meet this Perseus. And if he truly needed help, well, that might be nice. He sometimes enjoyed being helpful. It was good for the spirit.
What turned out to be good for the spirit was Perseus’ face, Perseus’ body, and Perseus’ smile. All were obscenely gorgeous. Hermes could—and would—judge Zeus all day for his lechery, but he had to admit, the god sired some fantastic offspring, Hermes included.
He met Perseus with Athena the following morning, coming to him as he walked through an olive grove, his face intense and his masculine forehead wrinkled with worry. He became quite startled when the Olympians appeared in his path, and then, after realizing who they were, he hit them with a smile that would have knocked Hermes out of the sky, if he’d not already landed with his winged sandals.
A thousand lovers flashed through Hermes’ mind: Crocus had been beautiful, Hecate was glorious, Amphion was lovely, and who didn’t love a nymph? But Perseus. Perseus.
Perseus.
“I am Perseus,” said the young man, and his voice was what a lyre might sound like, were it human, only deeper, gruffer, more attractive. “It is an honor to be in your presence, Athena.” He bowed and his bright blue eyes strayed to Hermes. “And yours, Hermes.”
Hermes dipped his head in a little bow and smirked. “Perseus,” he said. “A pleasure.”
Athena was disinclined to allow much time for flirtations, and she cut in abruptly, stepping between Hermes and Perseus. Hermes was slightly startled; he’d not been aware he was commandeering all of Perseus’ personal space.
“Our visit is of a grave nature, as I am sure you’ve guessed,” she said.
“You’ve heard of my plight?” he asked. His eyes had a way of crinkling at the edges when he smiled. If he was to be turned to stone, Hermes hoped Medusa might recite to him a joke first, so Hermes could keep those crinkles forever.
“We know you must embark on a quest to bring back Medusa's head,” Athena answered.
Perseus rubbed at the back of his neck and rolled his muscular shoulders. “I must. It is the only way to save my mother from a loveless marriage.”
Hermes put a hand to his chest, only half-mockingly. “And he loves his mother,” he whispered to Athena.
She dutifully ignored him, although Perseus’ cheeks revealed a small blush.
“I made Medusa what she is,” Athena continued somberly. “I know what she can do, and I know the best means of thwarting her.” From behind her back, she revealed a gaudy, reflective shield. She held it out until Perseus took it. “A single look into her eyes and you will turn to stone, Perseus,” she warned. “Therefore, you must not look at her directly, not ever.”
Perseus gulped. “How am I to fight her if I cannot see her?” he asked.
This was Hermes’ moment. He brandished from behind his own back an adamantine sickle. “Use this,” he said, pressing the weapon into Perseus’ arms, which were already busy holding the shield. He was strong enough to hold them both, but his balance was a struggle, and he looked positively endearing as he shuffled his feet to keep from dropping the gifts.
“Thank you,” Perseus said, finally managing to pull the shield onto his back and take the sickle into a single fist.
Hermes appraised him a moment and frowned. Something was missing. “If you’ll wait just a moment.”
His winged sandals fluttered and he flew off in an eye’s blink. More specifically, he flew down. It only took him a few seconds to find what he sought, and then he was fluttering back to the oliv
e grove in Seriphos, now with something new in his hands.
Athena saw it and stifled a groan of disapproval. “Is that yours to give?” she asked, knowing the answer was definitely no.
“I left a note that I have borrowed it,” Hermes defended, handing Perseus the Helmet of Invisibility. Copying Athena’s somberness, he looked him in the eyes and said, “The gorgon will not be able to see you if you wear this, but she’ll still hear you, so do not use it as an excuse to abandon stealth. And do try not to scratch it. Hades would be displeased, but Persephone would have my hide.”
Perseus’ eyes were comically large for a moment, but he did not refuse the loan. Perseus was glad. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted this hero to succeed in his quest. He wanted him to succeed and live so Hermes could just . . . keep looking at him, even if it was from a distance. He wanted him to succeed so much, in fact, that he then did something unprecedented.
He took off his sandals.
Then he handed them to Perseus.
“We look about the same size,” he said, slowly scanning up Perseus’ body. “Perhaps you are a bit bigger.” He certainly hoped so.
“Hermes,” Athena scolded.
Once again, he ignored her; he was quite good at it. “Wear my winged sandals, Perseus,” he said, already bending down to help the man strap them to his feet. “With them, you will find your way to Medusa with the speed of the gods, and make it back to your mother with your prize all the sooner.”
Perseus gazed down at the winged sandals on his feet, then at the bare feet of Hermes. “I do not know what to say. How can I thank you for such a gift?”
Hermes considered having him promise something inappropriate, but opted for gallant charm instead. “All I ask is that you return them swiftly, with yourself perfectly intact.” And then, because he could not help himself, he leaned close and whispered in Perseus’ ear, his lips brushing against a curl of hair, “Do not get blood on my sandals.”
“We will be watching, but we cannot assist you any further,” Athena told Perseus. She offered him one of her stoic smiles. “Good luck, brave Perseus.”
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 18