“Athena,” I whisper.
“She makes your Horse run, does she not?” he asks with a kind smile. “She always has. You are drawn to her like the moth to the flame.”
I feel as red and hot as the fire. “How do you know?”
He chuckles. “Because you are my son. I know the parts of me that became the parts of you.”
“Les takes more after you.”
“In obvious ways, yes. One could say he inherited that outer façade the world sees. And much of my inner workings, too. Whereas I believe you were given the outer parts of your mother—as surely as you inherited her looks. But I believe you got saddled with the deeper parts of me. Your mother gave you talent and the discipline to develop skill. I gave you yearning for things you might never be able to reach or own. And perhaps deeper and darker things than that.”
I listen with amazement, thinking of what I choose to show, wondering how I have betrayed myself. But he is, after all, my father, as he says. What have I never known about him?
I do know he loves me. “I think I might be mad.”
He nods. “Does your Horse want things you feel are mad?”
“Yes.”
“Like Athena?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have two choices. And it is not as if this is the only time in your life you will face this fork in the road. You will probably encounter it over and over again. But the choices are to either take the easy road that goes ever downward, or to take the hard road that goes ever up. Every time you choose to climb to new heights, it will be hard, but you will see and understand more of the land of your heart and soul; and you will learn the landmarks; and see future roads in the distance that you might someday wish to travel. Every time you choose to follow the valley, the going will be easier and you will be able to rest and find comfort, but the trees and buildings will close in around you and you will not be able to see what lies behind them or around the bends ahead. Sometimes you will find life is a series of hills and valleys and you will alternate periods of striving for some new truth with times of relaxation where you frolic and enjoy the fruits of your labor in some new valley.”
He has always taught us with allegory, but I often wish he would simply tell us right or wrong: do this but not that. This is definitely one of those times.
“I do not know what the hard path is even if I wished to take it,” I say with a little frustration.
Dada smiles. “All right. It will be a hard path—possibly straight up a cliff—to discover if the things Athena makes you feel are mad, but if you do not attempt to know that, you will never know what you truly want.”
“But she is my sister.” It is my last defense; because I see the cliff now, and it is very tall.
He sighs. “I always knew that was going to be a problem. No matter what we permitted or forbade, there would be attraction between some of you. Our greatest concern in forbidding you to be with one another was to protect your innocence until you were old enough to make a more informed decision. Do you feel you are old enough now?”
“Is it possible to never be old enough?”
“Yes.” He is patient.
I surrender. “I know she might hurt me, but not knowing if there is ever a possibility hurts more—at least it does now.”
Dada nods. “Then it is between the two of you and the Gods.”
“Have you asked her—”
“No. That is your task. I know she is old enough to answer.” He stands and leans to kiss my forehead. “I am not trying to be cruel by forcing you into manhood, but sometimes we must ride in the rain.” He sighs and awards me a loving smile. “Your brother has brought the spring rains early. If you wish to stay with us and ride along here in the valley—for a time anyway—you are welcome to. I will not send you away. But if you know you will be happier with a little more knowledge, you need to start climbing. Your family will always be here for you, either way.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He takes the empty bowl and leaves me with shadows dancing on the wall, the crackle of the fire, and the quiet whistle of wind under the eaves.
I find Athena in the kitchen eating a buttered scone with jam. She’s perched on a stool and wearing a velvet dressing gown that is as green as her eyes. She regards me with a touch of curiosity, just enough to make her face engaging and not cold.
We are alone. I have stood in the hall waiting for various servants to leave for the better part of an hour.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “I wish to go to the Continent and the Mediterranean, and see art galleries and museums and famous places. Would you like to go with me?” I am proud I spit it all out without stuttering.
“As your sister?” She is studying pastry flakes on her finger.
“No.”
Her gaze returns to mine.
I hold my ground and force the words out. “I do not know what we should be, but I would rather explore us being something other than brother and sister.”
She smiles like a cat. “Then yes, I will go with you.”
I no longer feel I am riding a pony. I am not sure about this Horse, but I do feel a powerful animal beneath me, ready to run—or scramble up cliffs. For once, I feel I am ready.
For more information about the Raised by Wolves series, please visit AlienPerspective.com.
Author
I, W.A. Hoffman, am a reader who wishes to know nothing about the writers of the books I enjoy. I wish to regard another artist’s work on its own merit, as an entity unto itself, unattached to the mundane world by threads of minutiae and expectations born of labels. I don’t want to know how many dogs another author has, or the state of their conjugal bliss at the time of a novel’s publication. And what matters an artist’s bona fides, their talent and skill either blossoms on the page or it does not.
I realize my opinion on this matter is not widely held. I am aware of the customs of publication. I choose to follow my own path through this life, however. That is why I started my own publication company, Alien Perspective; so that I might be free to write what my muse and the Gods inspire and desire; and freer still to send the fruits of my labor out into the world in any form I choose: to find readers who simply wish to immerse themselves in art born of my love for my characters and their stories.
Cover
The illustration used for the cover is Howard Pyle’s, The Mermaid. The piece was started in 1910 and Mr. Pyle left it unfinished on his easel when he traveled to Europe. Mr. Pyle, considered by many to be the father of American illustration, died in Florence in 1911. The original painting now resides in the Delaware Art Museum.
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