She showered, scenting her hair with a fruity shampoo, and her body with a coconut gel. Royce said that she reminded him of a fruit salad, and this was her homage to him.
She made sure her arms and legs were shaved, before drying off and standing before her open suitcase, pondering what outfit she would wear for tonight’s excursion. She picked up different patterned shorts and skirts, pairing them with loose tops and skimpy shirts, before finally settling on a long white maxi dress, with a beaded bosom, that flowed down to the sandals that wound around her ankles, in true Greek fashion.
She placed the bracelet that Zeus had given her on her left wrist, whilst her other was bare. Around her neck was a long silver necklace—a trinket Royce had bought her back in London for securing a deal with the company. It was in the shape of an owl, and Athena cherished it. That small connection to her past…and he hadn’t even known. He had just thought it was cute.
She swept portions of her hair up and clipped it at the back of her head, letting the rest of the chocolate brown curls fall down her back. She shined her lips with a little lipstick to prevent them from cracking in the heat and studied her reflection.
Athena wasn’t vain—far from it. Occasionally though, she liked to dress nicely and present herself well. She always dressed smart at the office, in skirt suits or boot-cut trousers that flared out as she walked. She dressed to impress and it certainly showed. When she and Timothy went into board meetings against sporting personalities and business men, they set the bar high with their talent, professionalism and good looks. Timothy often said it was what had won London the Olympic bid in 2012, and all Athena had been able to do was smile.
Checking her evening bag for her purse and mobile phone, she counted out her Euros. There would be enough for tonight, and then she could exchange the rest when she passed the travel agents when she was home.
In the short time she had spent in her hotel room, the air had chilled slightly and the sun had lowered. There was a dull haze and the insects had decided to wake up. As she passed the pool, she noticed the others were still there—the girl had fallen asleep in an inflatable ring, the couple was still burning, and the drunken boys had sobered with an intense volleyball game.
She continued on through the hotel itself, raising a hand to the staff that recognised her and had at least one interaction with her that holiday. The bar was preparing for its evening clientele and some other holidaymakers had already stepped downstairs to sip from wine glasses. Barely anyone spoke to her and she continued on, until the cool breeze hit her.
It was a short walk to the town from the hotel, and Athena enjoyed the exercise. She passed other hotels and small supermarkets that tourists flocked to in search of bottled water and snacks. There was surprisingly little traffic at this time, but there were multitudes of stray cats, strutting around and climbing trees. One walked alongside Athena as she continued down the road to the harbour, and eventually, she stopped to stroke it behind the ears.
It shocked her sometimes, at how this could happen to a world. There were conflicts all around the globe and to return to Greece after so long, to still see her home world overcome with such grief and atrocities…. It made her heart sink.
Leaving the cat behind, she continued down past the harbour, heading into the town. Tourists began crawling out of the woodwork, mingling with locals. Runners jogged on the beach, whilst boats sailed lazily on the still waters. It was such a diverse sight, that Athena’s smile could have rivalled the sun that Apollo pulled across the sky each night.
As she neared the city, she felt the throng of people surround and crush her. Sighing, she separated herself from the crowd and found herself wandering along a side street. Small stores were already open for business and some workers stood outside, trying to beckon those with money to spend to come inside. Athena politely declined and continued into the market place.
Vendors and street artists surrounded the square and set up their stalls not far from restaurants and busy stores, hoping to draw in drowsy and drunk customers. Athena stopped at one stall to browse through leather crafted items. Maybe a bracelet would be a good idea for Royce—he was into this sort of thing, a craze that had started with his love of eighties music. She was about to ask how much the one in her hand was, when a cheer rose up from the other side of the market.
Replacing the jewelry and apologizing, Athena followed the voices until she came to a crowd surrounding the opening to a fabric store. It had drawn plenty of attention and Athena moved through the people when there was a gap possible.
A lovely young woman sat before a vertical loom. Athena watched the girl work to the crowd’s enjoyment and surprise. Her fingers were deft as she practised the craft, keeping her eyes focused on the fabric as the shuttle slowly began to empty, ready for another load of thread.
Athena did not know how long she had watched, but before long, it was clear what was being crafted—a small carpet. It depicted a woman, clad in a Doric veil with helmet, holding a spear in her right hand. Athena’s hand rose to her mouth in shock as she realised it was her that the woman was recreating. She had seen the original carved in stone, but this was something else entirely.
After a while, the girl stopped her work and stood. She bowed to the crowd and blushed furiously when others told her how good her work was. She gracefully accepted cash and coin donations that were forced upon her and posed for photographs with people and the great loom.
As the crowd dispersed, she noticed Athena still watching her.
“You like my work, miss?” the young girl asked politely, her accent thick.
“You have a lot of talent. How is it you’re not at a university, studying art or something like that?” Athena asked.
“I could never disrespect my grandmother and mother’s wishes. This was their store before I was even born—I will continue the tradition.” The girl shook her thick black hair from her face and stood a little straighter, almost defensively.
“I did not mean to offend you,” Athena said softly.
“It is no matter. Anyway, what need would I have for an art school in Athens? I earn a great deal working here, especially during the season, and I would not wish to give any of my secrets away to some tutor, anyway.”
“Secrets?”
The girl smiled proudly, showing a set of perfect white teeth. “My grandmother says I was blessed by the goddess Athena to have a talent like this. She taught my grandmother how to weave and sew. Grandmother and Athena told my mother, and they all told me. When I have a daughter, Athena will be sure to pass her secrets on to her too.”
I think I’d remember blessing someone like you, especially since I haven’t returned to Greece in centuries, Athena thought. And I certainly don’t remember telling anyone how to do anything like this.
“Are you good at sewing?” the girl asked, breaking Athena’s thoughts.
“I’m not bad, I suppose,” Athena said slowly. She could sew a button back on a shirt and repair any necessary clothing items, but that was about all she could do nowadays. She remembered the personalised princess dress for Royce’s niece last Christmas. She had been overjoyed to receive the gift and everyone had complimented the great skill. Royce had bought her a new sewing machine in the January sales, but she had barely used it.
“I bet you cannot be as good as me. I made this skirt myself.” She plucked at the pocket, drawing the material out and showing off the fine work.
“I have not made anything in a while.”
“Still, you cannot be as good as Athena’s tutee.”
Was that even a word? Athena thought. Instead she said, “Haven’t you heard of modesty?”
“What’s the point?” the young girl asked. “If you have it, flaunt it. And if you have talent, use it. Put it to good use.”
“And is that what Athena would have you do? Flaunt your wares and talent to receive coin from tourists?”
“I don’t think it’s any of your business. My God, you’re a cow. I don
’t even know you; I won’t even see you again! When’s your flight? Soon, I hope.”
“I’m older than you, remember? If you respect your grandmother and mother, you should respect me.”
“You don’t deserve respect! Bet you make all the old Gods bow down to you, oh mighty whatever your name is!”
“My name is Athena.”
“Ha! Oh that’s rich! Let me guess, your wonderful mother or father named you after a Goddess because they think you are one? And you’ve come to Greece to feel some sort of connection on their deaths?”
“No. I came because I wanted a holiday.”
“Don’t be such a stuck up bitch!” The girl spun on her heel and tried to move away, but Athena stopped her, holding onto the material of the long sleeved tunic shirt. “Get off me!”
“I will when you learn modesty.”
“I have it in buckets in the storeroom. Get away with you!”
Athena dogged the girl’s steps into the workshop. Father, I know I promised, but this is an affront to our family, she thought.
“God, what’s it going take to get away from you?” the girl asked. She threw her hands up in the air, her fury growing. “Do you want to take me up on that bet, is that it?”
Athena raised a hand as the door shut, securing the bolt across it with her powers. Her fingertips tingled pleasantly.
“Yes, that will be fine.”
The girl stared blankly at the door, and then back at Athena. “How did you do that?”
“I told you I was Athena, but you didn’t listen. You scoffed and belittled me, and you will learn.”
Athena passed the girl and sat at another loom situated further into the workshop. A layer of thin dust had settled, and she swiped her hand across it. The dust turned invisible, never to be seen again. She quickly set the loom up, and settled upon the cushioned seat, turning back to the young girl. “I haven’t got all day. I have a flight to catch. Soon.”
The girl settled herself back at her machine. She tinkered here and there, before suddenly shouting, “Go!”
The girl and her machine worked noisily as she tried to craft as fast as she could possibly go. There were clatters and clunks, and swear words a plenty as the girl hurried to work on the tapestry. Meanwhile, Athena weaved her own in silence.
Ten minutes had gone before the girl shouted, “Stop!”
She moved away from her workstation, surveying her splendid work. Yes, there were a few hitches here and there, but she was sure to win with her great skill.
When she approached Athena’s loom, she paled instantly. “How did you—”
“Have you learnt modesty yet?”
Athena’s tapestry was already completed—a beautiful owl in a rainbow of colours, its eyes always watching and shifting with the movements of the room.
“You couldn’t have done that, not in that short time!” The girl backed away, shock creeping over her.
Meanwhile, Athena let a little of her true self through. A serene blue glow emanated from the pores of her skin, whilst her hair began to swirl in a non-existent breeze. She recalled the feel of her helmet, its weight atop her head. She wished for the long spear in her hand, the wood and metal secure in her grip. Her robes, light and carefree, whilst striking fear into anyone who looked upon her.
“Who are you?” the girl asked in a quiet voice.
“I am Athena, the goddess of wisdom. And you are?”
“Arachne, the weaver.”
“A fitting name, don’t you think?”
Athena raised her hand, the fingertip of her index finger tingling once more as her power swirled through her veins. It sailed out, wrapping Arachne in a great white veil, blocking her from view and hoisting her into the air. Her cries were muffled, as the spell took control of the young woman.
Athena smiled to herself, thinking of a chicken souvlaki, dripping its hot juices from the skewers. She would order chips, pita bread and tzatziki to go with it. She had grown rather hungry, and using her powers had given her an ache. After she had filled her face, she would go back to the jewellery stall and buy Royce the leather band. She might even get him the one with her insignia on it—her private joke.
She would deal with the fallout from father later. She had food to eat.
Meanwhile, Arachne the spider had climbed onto her loom and begun to spin a new web. Her web would be finer and greater than all the others in this little store. This one would even rival the goddess Athena, should she ever return to Kos again.
Shield of Light
Beth W. Patterson
Smoke and mirrors. That’s all my world has been reduced to, he thought grimly. He took another drag from his cigarette and gave a final wipe to the giant glass behind him that spelled out GUINNESS in big letters.
He regarded the spotless bar, worn smooth by the dramas of so many emotionally hungry people over the years. The varnished surface gleamed in the noonday light, trapping him in this tiny confinement like the safety bar of a two-bit carnival ride. He was bound to be in for another sickening day. It didn't make sense. He sometimes had to wonder how he could be willing to help so many people, and still be so damned misanthropic. Then again, maybe it wasn't such a mystery.
You tried to help these people, tried to treat them with the same respect you'd want from others, but people were all goddamned users. They all act as though the world owes them something. He didn’t quite want to believe this, and contradictory thoughts within him began to clamor for an audience with his consciousness, but he shushed them all with another pull of his cigarette. Folding his tall, rangy frame against a barstool, he savored the temporary peace of the still-empty Irish pub.
Frank Laska was a stoic man with classically handsome fifties’ movie star good looks and unreadable glacier-blue eyes that missed nothing. He was a rare specimen in a changing world, a black and white beauty superimposed onto modern times, in which the subtle arts of light, shadow, and filtering had been overtaken by in-your-face high definition values.
And he possessed another endangered trait—he was an honest man.
He had a heart of gold, and they knew it. Their kind had become so diverse over the centuries that one could no longer stereotype them. But they all knew that nothing was as sweet as the blood pumped by a heart of gold. Most no longer craved physical blood, addicted instead to other resources. Money. Attention. Sex. Temporary painkillers of all sorts. New Orleans often seemed to be more of an oversized small town than a city, a safe haven for those who had no inner resources and had to mooch them off of others. Unctuous smooth-talkers, drama queens, sugar babies, and derelicts played out their schemes night after night right in front of him.
He saw the world through a cracked lens that Diane Arbus would have rejected. People are all the same, he mused. When the wrong person had discovered his weak spot, his good intentions poured out of him like a fountain, sometimes a spurting jugular wound, and they all came forth to lap it up, to take advantage of every drop. Borrowing money they had no intention of ever repaying. Asking outrageous favors of him, and then turning right around and screwing him over further after he’d already obliged.
An excited voice cut through his thoughts like the whine of a mosquito about to land. “I know who wrote that! It was W.C. Fields!”
He stepped smoothly out of his reverie and politely turned his attention to the woman pointing at the chalkboard by the bar. “Of course you do,” he replied neutrally. “His name is written right next to the quote.”
She shook her head, a little too vehemently. “No, I mean I recognize the handwriting. That was W. C. who wrote that on the blackboard.”
“Lady, W.C. Fields was born in the late eighteen-hundreds. If he really had come along and written on that chalkboard, he’d have to be, what, around 130 years old or something?”
“I’m telling you, that is his handwriting!”
There was only so far he was willing to argue. What was the Chinese proverb? One never needs his humor as much as when he argues
with a fool. He could either give the issue a rest or have a little fun with this.
As it turned out, both options became lost causes the moment Maxilla walked in.
She threw her arms outward upon entering, as though paying tribute to millions of unseen adoring fans and paparazzi. Her trademark glue-on fangs, as well as the rest of her sizeable upper row of teeth, were smeared with her own scarlet lipstick. He was fairly certain that, judging by the off-center tilt of her entire hairline, the Betty Page hairdo was a wig.
She yanked a barstool away from the bar with a loud scraping sound, settled herself ceremoniously in front of the beer taps, and announced to no one in particular, “Hmmmm! I think I shall have a Bloody Mary today!”
“Maxilla, you always order the same damn drink every time, so why raise a ruckus? No one gives a shit.”
Her tone was so cloying that it nearly made him sick to his stomach. “Oh, come on, Frank...you know you love it. Come on, a truce? Let’s shake.” She batted her exorbitantly false lashes like a tiny pair of beckoning tarantulas.
“Don’t touch my hand, and I’ll fix you a Bloody Mary if you get the fuck out of here.”
He was grateful that this town permitted alcoholic beverages to be carried in public, so long as they were in plastic go-cups. One typical New Orleans breakfast, coming right up. Tomato juice, vodka, a stick of celery, a couple of pickled green beans, and what felt like a million or so other little ingredients. There was no excuse for not making a great Bloody Mary in this town. He slid the drink in its plastic grail across the bar before she could strike.
She took a tentative sip and rolled her eyes skyward. “Praise Father, Son, and Holy Spirit! The holy three-in-one! It’s one of the great mysteries. That is one delicious communion!” Satisfied, she paid, left her usual paltry tip, and sashayed out again like a bat in a black tutu.
He paused to reflect on the quote that was, in fact, not handwritten by its author. It read, WOMEN ARE LIKE ELEPHANTS TO ME. I LIKE TO LOOK AT ‘EM, BUT I WOULDN’T WANT TO OWN ONE.
Rise of the Goddess (****All proceeds from the Rise of the Goddess anthology will go to benefit the Elliott Public Library**** Book 1) Page 17
