Wings of Olympus

by Kallie George

  It seemed like a sign. She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt for her coin. She was ready to find answers about her parents—whatever those answers might be.

  Bellerophon landed at the temple’s entrance and dismounted, gesturing for them to do the same. Pippa and the others did so, and he said, “Let the horses graze. They will not stray far.”

  The spring and the temple were beautiful. Since the feather leaves didn’t rustle in the wind, there was a quiet that was almost reverent. Even Zeph seemed to sense it and was calm beside Pippa. Not even his tail swished.

  A crow broke the silence: “The riders are here!”

  And with that, a flurry of gods and goddesses burst forth—some swooping from the sky, others striding from between the trees, one even transforming from a tree. Each seemed more spectacular than the last. One wore a wreath woven of grains and a dress as golden as a wheat field. Surely this was Demeter, goddess of the harvest. Another had a scraggly beard tangled with bits of metal that glinted in the sun. Undoubtedly Hephaestus, god of blacksmiths. And it had to be Poseidon who jumped from the spring itself, splashing some of the other gods and goddesses and making them cry out in annoyance. Among these was Ares, in his silver helmet. He pointed his spear threateningly at Poseidon.

  “Come! Come now!” bellowed Bellerophon. Pippa wasn’t sure if he was shouting at the gods or at them. The commotion unsettled the waiting horses. Kerauno reared up with a whinny that turned to a roar.

  “Whoa!” yelled Ares. He put down his spear and strode toward the massive horse. Gently but firmly, he gripped Kerauno’s reins and coaxed the horse back down while everyone, including the other horses, watched in amazement.

  “Oh ho! The mighty Ares without his spear,” taunted Poseidon. “What shall we see next? Dionysus without his wine?”

  Ares scooped his spear off the ground. There was a moment of tense silence, broken by a hearty chuckle. Dionysus raised his cup. “Never!”

  Everyone began to laugh. Within moments, the riders had paired off with their gods and goddesses. Only Pippa hung back, between two trees, searching hopefully for Aphrodite. She knew Aphrodite was said to be one of the most beautiful of the goddesses, but all the goddesses were beautiful. How would she recognize her?

  “This is for you,” said a woman’s voice, low yet sweet.

  Aphrodite?

  No. Pippa peeked around one of the trees and saw Sophia standing nervously beside a goddess with a long graceful neck and a high nose. Athena. Her chiton was short like the riders’ and wrapped with belts that looked like serpents.

  “Remember, Sophia, smart you may be, but I did not choose you for your wits alone,” said the goddess.

  Sophia frowned. “But . . . about Ajax . . .” She sounded perplexed.

  “That’s why I am giving you this,” continued Athena. “Just like your horse, there is more than meets the eye.”

  She passed to Sophia a wooden box inlaid with precious stones, but her gaze met Pippa’s. Pippa slipped behind the tree trunk, breathing heavily. She had not meant to be caught eavesdropping.

  But it was hard not to. . . .

  There was so much to see. Between an archway in the temple, she saw Khrys receiving a saddle woven of golden threads from Apollo, who looked remarkably young and rather aloof, like Khrys himself. She turned to see another goddess accompanied by a deer, pinning a long cloak on Perikles. Suddenly, the deer started and bounded away.

  No wonder. Out of the forest emerged a fearsome sight: an enormous three-headed dog. He strode toward Timon and sat at the boy’s feet. To Pippa’s great surprise, Timon reached out and took a package from one of the dog’s mouths. The dog gave an unearthly growl and disappeared back into the forest. Timon opened it, looking more ashen than ever, but he didn’t share what what was in the package with the other riders.

  Pippa had hoped that Hades would be there and she would be able to summon enough courage to ask him about her parents, if they were dead and now living in the Underworld. But she would have to ask her goddess instead. Still, neither Aphrodite nor any of her Graces—not even Pandaisia—arrived.

  And they were not there when the Muses, nine nymphs, paraded out with platters of food, flatbreads and olive paste, crispy fish, spiced eggs, and soft figs. Music filled the air, played by Apollo on his lyre. While everyone enjoyed the food, Pippa stayed by two twisted trees that formed the back pillars of the temple. She wasn’t hungry.

  “Aphrodite will come,” said Sophia encouragingly, walking up and handing her a honey cake.

  “Has Athena gone?”

  Sophia nodded. “Not all the gods and goddesses spend their time amusing themselves,” she said, disdainfully gesturing to the others—such as Ares, one of his mighty hands on Bas’s shoulder, the other brandishing a spear that he was showing off to Artemis. “Some have more important things to do. I am sure Aphrodite is busy too.” Sophia sighed. As she headed away, she muttered to herself, “I was sure she would give me a scroll, something that would actually help me, but a box of medals . . .”

  Pippa finished the cake and decided it was time to ask Bellerophon where her goddess might be. Bellerophon, however, was in the middle of an argument.

  “You know there are no tricks allowed in the races, Poseidon,” he said. “That food for Theodoros’s horse,” he said, pointing to the seagrass Poseidon was holding, “looks altered. . . .”

  Indeed, it was a strange shade of green, almost glowing.

  “So what if it is?” Poseidon demanded. He shook his head, and water from his hair and beard fell over Pippa and the children like rain.

  “It is not allowed,” replied Bellerophon sternly.

  “Allowed? Who are you to say what is allowed?” Poseidon’s face turned blue. “What of Ares? Did you not see the spear he gave his rider?”

  “Yes, but that has no magic in it. It is just a spear. Of course, the boy must not use it to—”

  Poseidon interrupted with a roar. He flung the handful of seagrass at Bellerophon. It missed and spun toward Timon instead, but seemed to go right through him.

  “Duck!” cried Bas.

  Pippa didn’t move quickly enough. Splat! The stringy, strangely colored seagrass hit her head, then dripped off, leaving her covered in slime.

  Poseidon and Bellerophon just kept arguing. They didn’t seem to notice Pippa. She felt a lump rise in her throat and hurried to the spring to wash herself. “I can’t look like this for Aphrodite . . . if she comes,” she said to her reflection.

  “You don’t have to worry. She’s not coming,” said Bas. He walked up beside her. His face was red, and he was awkwardly holding a spear. “Ares told me.”

  Pippa didn’t reply.

  “Did you hear me?” asked Bas.

  “Yes!” said Pippa sharply, storming away. She’d heard. Aphrodite wasn’t coming. Pippa wasn’t surprised. She’d already waited so much of the day. She didn’t want to stay there any longer.

  Nor, it seemed, did Zeph. She found him nearby the temple, his attention fixed on a white bird, dancing just beyond the treetops. His wings were quivering.

  “Okay, Zeph,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Nine

  Pippa slipped onto Zeph’s back and let him follow the bird. She felt the wind in her hair and smiled. Zeph flew faster than ever. They swooped after the bird, above a cluster of trees, and around a rocky outcropping. But when they reached the other side, the bird had disappeared, and Pippa’s frown returned.

  What had she done? She and Zeph had just run off from a meeting with the gods. Bellerophon would be furious—and Aphrodite would regret choosing her more than she probably already did. Unless . . .

  We should go train, thought Pippa. That would show the goddess how determined she was. And maybe if she was practicing, Bellerophon wouldn’t care that she had left suddenly. But the beat of Zeph’s wings seemed to sing to her: Sunny day. Fly away. Sunny day. Fly away.

  The sky was bright, the nearest cloud far in the distance. Zeus ha
d not played any tricks with the weather—at least not yet. There were no rules against flying around the mountain. And so Pippa let the reins slacken, just for a moment, and the sun crisp her cheeks. Zeph lazily flew along the path of a meandering stream. Pippa stroked Zeph’s mane and lay her head on his neck, feeling his warmth and letting the wind whisper in her ears and then . . . something else whispered too. Music.

  It was coming from downstream. The melody was faint but enchanting, full of bubbling joy. Who was making it? Zeph was clearly curious as well. He flew toward it, this time even faster than before. Pippa had to clutch his mane to keep from slipping off. If only he would fly with this much purpose on the training course, she thought.

  The music wound along with the stream, growing louder and louder, leading them at last to a small pool. There, sitting on the pool’s rocky edge, was a naiad, a water nymph. Pippa had never seen a naiad but had heard stories of their tricks. The nymph’s hair, green as grass, was woven with reeds and fell all the way to her feet. Her skin had a greenish-blue tinge to it, not sickly but shimmering, and in her webbed hands she held a small flute, which she was playing. When she saw Pippa and Zeph, she startled and dropped it, and it fell with a splash into the water.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Pippa. But it was too late. The nymph was gone, slipping into the water after her flute, disappearing as mysteriously as the bird. Zeph snorted, as though offended at the naiad’s sudden departure, and Pippa laughed.

  This was the world of the gods and goddesses—a world of surprises, where everything could change on a whim.

  She hugged Zeph’s neck tightly. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t gotten to ask Aphrodite about her parents. “You’re my family now,” she said, resting her chin on his bristly mane. “I want to stay with you on the mountain forever.”

  And the only way to do that was to win. She had to win. It was time to return to the training course.

  With gentle encouragement, Zeph circled the pond, then headed higher into the sky. It was then that Pippa realized the flags were nowhere in sight. Nothing familiar was. In fact, they were so far down the mountain, the meadows had turned to forest, clusters of bushes and small trees.

  Oh no, thought Pippa. I’m lost.

  Although she wasn’t sure which way they had come, heading back up the mountain was a good start. She turned Zeph around and they continued flying. Still, there was no sign of the flags. Worse, the clouds had moved in and the wind had picked up. Now, of all times, Zeus had decided to play with the weather.

  A hill rose up in the distance, like a coin half shrouded in mist. They certainly hadn’t flown past these meadows before. Now she was sure they were lost. She peered down, hoping to catch sight of something she recognized.

  All she could see were trees and grass and . . . a shadowy shape, flitting between two trees. Was it a dryad, a tree spirit? Pippa wasn’t sure, but she was willing to speak to anyone who might help.

  She coaxed Zeph down. Although at first he seemed hesitant, he eventually circled, then landed. Pippa slipped from his back and took a few steps away from him, toward the twisting trees. There was no sign of anyone anymore, dryad or otherwise.

  “Hello?”

  No one replied. Still, Pippa kept talking, in hopes it was a dryad, who’d hidden back in the bark of her tree.

  “My name is Pippa. I’m . . . I’m lost,” she added.

  From behind her came an echo. “Lost . . . Are you lost . . . ?”

  Pippa spun around. Three figures were approaching Zeph from the side. They were children, wearing knee-length tunics similar to hers. Were they riders too? She hadn’t seen them before. They were all thin as wisps, with hair so fine it seemed to be made of spun mist.

  Zeph’s wings were raised and his body tense, as though he was ready to bolt into the air.

  “Are you lost, winged one? Us too. Come, come to us,” the children were saying as they came up beside him.

  Zeph’s ears pinned back, and he pawed the ground, clearly distressed.

  “Get back,” cried Pippa, rushing between the children and her horse. “He’s not lost. He’s with me.”

  The children’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and they gave a collective sigh, as though disappointed. “Are you a rider?” one of the children asked.

  “Yes,” said Pippa. “Are . . . are you?”

  “We were,” said the second.

  “We are,” said the last.

  “Which is it?” said Pippa. It was hard to make out their features, as difficult as determining a raindrop’s edge. She wondered if it was because of the fog that had suddenly swept into the clearing, or maybe it was something else.

  “We were riders. Long ago. Before the race. . . .”

  “We were cursed. . . .”

  “We were lost. . . .”

  “We are lost still. . . . Now, not even horses will come to us.”

  The taraxippoi! A shiver ran down Pippa’s spine. Bellerophon had mentioned them. They were the children, neither alive nor dead, who had been punished for getting lost, like her. . . .

  “Are you lost too?” one child said. “Are you joining us?”

  “No!” exclaimed Pippa, stepping away. “I’m going back to the stables. I was just exploring.”

  “Do you know where the stables are? Take us, please. . . .” The children grasped at her, their fingers damp as the mist.

  “No, don’t!” she cried, stumbling backward. She had to leave at once. But . . . where was Zeph?

  He had disappeared!

  Had he flown away? She glanced up. Clouds, dark as bruises, scarred the sky, but there were no horses. The children must have scared Zeph away. She should have been paying better attention. Pippa tried to whistle, but her throat was dry.

  “You have no horse,” chorused the children. “You are like us now. Come with us.”

  “No!” Pippa cried.

  Her heart raced, and her feet too. The grass, wet with dew, licked at her legs. What had she done?

  “Come with us!” the taraxippoi called.

  “Leave me alone!” Pippa ran up the misty hill. Her knees were stiff from the day’s riding, and she slipped.

  One of the children was upon her. Her skin prickled as the child grabbed for her, this time at her tunic.

  “Help!” she cried.

  But there was no one to hear her. “Help!” she cried again.

  And help came. Zeph! He landed beside her, still clearly distressed. His wings trembling so much, some of his feathers drifted to the ground. The taraxippoi scrambled to touch them, even the one who had been grasping for Pippa.

  “Winged one! Winged one, join us!” they cried. “We miss our horses. We miss our flying.”

  Zeph took a step back. Pippa jumped up and ran to him, leaping onto his back. “Go, go!” she said. He needed no encouragement.

  He took off, the taraxippoi crying below them, Pippa’s heart beating faster than Zeph’s wings.

  She didn’t notice where he was going . . . until he landed.

  Landed in a garden, beside a small red-and-white house.

  Pippa glanced behind her. The taraxippoi were nowhere to be seen. She turned her attention back to Zeph. Her little horse was standing amid the bright vegetables, busy munching carrots. Whose carrots? she wondered. Whose house could it be?

  The gods and goddesses lived with their attendants in the palace on the mountaintop. The nymphs and dryads lived in the streams and trees. The house was modest, even for a mortal, with whitewashed bricks and the vegetable garden in front. It didn’t look like it belonged on great Mount Olympus at all. Had she strayed off the mountain? Fear nipped at her heart. But maybe the house belonged to one of the grooms, a past winner of a race?

  Although she didn’t want to get caught in another frightening situation, now, more than ever, she needed to find her way back to the stables. And the only way to do that was to get help.

  She slipped off Zeph’s back, let him nuzzle her for a moment, then led him to a g
narled olive tree in the garden and tied his reins to it. She checked again for the taraxippoi, but there was no sign of them.

  “I’m just going to see if anyone is there,” she told him. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” Zeph didn’t seem too bothered, munching his last mouthful of vegetables.

  The house really was very small, built in a horseshoe shape around a tiny courtyard. There was a cistern in the courtyard, but that was all, no sign of a person or otherwise.

  Then she heard arguing coming from inside one of the rooms.

  “Might!” snapped a woman’s voice. “Might is greater than love.”

  “Love!” insisted a second woman, her voice higher pitched than the first. “Love is greater than might.”

  “Not this again!” came a third voice, so raspy and low it could almost have been a man’s. “And look what you’ve made me do this time! You distracted me, and I’ve spun the threads together. These poor lives will be a tangle.” There was a heavy sigh. “Why can’t you give up on that argument? It’s best left to Aphrodite and Ares.”

  “But, sister, destiny depends on the outcomes of love or might, does it not? Just because you are the weaver, you do not care to trouble yourself with things that Atropos and I must think about every moment.”

  Pippa breathed in sharply. Atropos?

  These were no mortals.

  Nor were they gods or goddesses. These were the three beings who spun and measured and ended the lives of every mortal below the mountain. Atropos and her sisters, Lachesis and Clotho.

  These were the Fates!

  Ten

  Pippa wasn’t sure what to do. Should she go back to Zeph? She did not want to disturb them, but she did need directions. The Fates, she had been told, were as mighty as Zeus himself. They determined the outcome of every mortal’s life.