But it was the tiny reddish creatures that were the most astonishing. They were asleep high overhead; hundreds clinging to the ship’s ropes by a hand or a knee. Others were clustered in tight bunches on top of the guard towers.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the captain said, seeing Alcie and Iole staring up, “they want to be high. As high as they possibly can. It’s like they’ve been trained. I don’t know what happened to them.”
Three times a day, Homer was sent to the galley for meals for the captain and the girls. It was only when Homer was delivering the food that he and Alcie were able to exchange a few words:
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Gotta go.”
“Bye.” Which was often followed by Alcie sticking her head out into the corridor and whispering, “Homie.”
Alcie and Iole were restricted to their cabin during the day. When they weren’t sleeping, crying, praying, trying to figure out how to get out of their predicament, deciding the worst way to be killed by pirates, or speaking of Pandy and all the things that might have happened to her, Alcie and Iole were having one long conversation of a very different sort.
“Who, might I query, is Homie?”
“Um—what’s a query?”
“It’s a question.”
“Can’t you say ‘I have a question’?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay. Prunes. What was the question, again?”
“You’re being obdurate and obfuscatory!”
“I’m not! I don’t think.”
“You’re keeping something from me.”
“Dried dates! Now I’m mad!”
Then both would simply stop speaking—until one or the other started praying or crying about Pandy.
But on the afternoon of their fourth day aboard, Iole was being more persistent than usual.
“I’m one of your best friends, in case you weren’t aware! Don’t even think about denying it. And best friends are supposed to confide in each other.”
“You don’t have to know everything. Can’t I just have a little secret to myself?”
“Fine,” Iole said, then she paused. “I know what it is anyway.”
“What is it?”
“Never mind, I just know.”
Alcie was so disconcerted by this that she chased Iole all over the room, until the two girls began to laugh wildly. It was almost exhilarating to finally be able to release some of the anger and tension of the past few days, that Iole didn’t even mind when Alcie ultimately tripped her, sending Iole sprawling onto one of the pallets, where Alcie sat on her back until she turned pink.
“Your hair is getting really long,” Alcie said.
“So is yours. And you’re getting heavy. Really heavy.” Iole’s words were muffled because she was facedown in the pallet linens.
Alcie began to absentmindedly braid Iole’s dark brown hair while she sat on her, when suddenly the ship gave a tremendous lurch, followed by a long shudder and (they thought) a groan. Then silence. Then the old wood, all the beams, sidewalls, and floorboards at once, began to creak incessantly. Then silence.
Alcie leapt off of Iole’s back. They both remained stock-still for a minute. Then they heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, which stopped just outside the door to Homer’s cabin, directly across from theirs. Homer had been out all day, Alcie was sure of it, and was just now returning to his cabin. Waiting a full ten seconds, Alcie opened the door and collided with Homer, standing in the doorframe. She felt the most astounding and unusual electric shock run through her body.
“Uh—”
“Uh—”
“Okay,” Iole said from behind, “our cabin. Hurry before anyone sees!”
Alcie and Iole picked the cushions off the floor and sat on one of the two small pallets in the cabin while Homer sat on the other, after turning it right-side up.
“Do you know what just happened?” Alcie asked.
“Yes, do you know why the boat just lurched so violently?” Iole followed.
“Why is everything overturned?” Homer asked, unaware of their questions. “What were you guys doing?”
“Oh, that. Uh . . . exercising,” said Alcie. Iole just rubbed her sides.
“Well,” Homer whispered, “you know I’ve, like, basically been in only two places since we were kidnapped: my cabin and the captain’s quarters.”
As Homer was talking, Alcie noticed that he wasn’t really looking at them . . . his gaze was focused just past her and his voice, even in a whisper, seemed to catch in his throat.
“Now, I know Jealousy and Vanity are already in the box, that is if Pandy is still alive, and the box didn’t get smashed or something.”
“May I just say that you have the most delicate, sophisticated, and urbane way of putting things,” Iole said.
“But you also said something,” Homer went on, completely oblivious, “about having to find some lesser evils. And you didn’t know where to look for them?”
“Correct,” Iole said.
“Well, I was just looking at some scrolls in the captain’s cabin, and there’s—uh—something you might want to see.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Mount Olympus
“Ow!”
There was a crash of glass, followed by a bark, then a yelp . . . then soft whimpering. A pungent perfume filled the hallway.
Demeter, who normally hurried anyway when summoned to Hera’s apartments, now broke into a run, shaking spring grasses and flowers loose from her hair.
“I will teach you!” Hera’s voice ricocheted off the marble walls. “I will show you just what happens to mangy, flea-bitten—”
“Hera! What . . . ?!” Demeter cried, arriving at the large entryway just in time to see Hera send the shards of glass from the shattered perfume bottle flying upward, cementing them into the ceiling.
The Queen of Heaven was standing in the middle of her salon, a small tear in her blue robes about halfway up her rather sizable leg. She raised her left arm, her index finger twirling the air. In a corner of the room, Dido was pinned on his belly to the wall, spinning around in time with Hera’s finger. As Demeter watched, Hera forced Dido up the wall and across the ceiling, toward the shards of glass.
“Stop!”
Hera was stunned. Demeter never raised her voice unless it was time for her daughter, Persephone, to descend back down to the underworld to join her husband, Hades. Then Demeter made her opinion known, Hera recalled. But now . . .
“Hera, put the dog down!” Demeter cried.
“He bit my leg!” Hera said, but she stopped moving Dido across the ceiling.
“Hera, please put the dog down. You know what will happen if any harm comes to him.”
Hera stuck out her lower lip and pouted for about ten seconds.
“Oh . . . fine!”
With a squeal, Dido dropped to the floor. In a flash, Demeter caused a large patch of soft grass to grow a full meter high right underneath, so Dido fell onto a cushy green pillow. He lay there stunned for a moment.
Hera made a move toward him.
“Hera . . . darling . . . back away from the dog,” Demeter said softly but firmly.
“Oh, pooh!”
Demeter went to check on Dido as Hera, with a flick of her wrist, tore the glass shards out of the ceiling and reconstructed the perfume bottle on her dressing table.
As Demeter approached, Dido gave a growl; then, seeing it was not his tormentor, licked her hand in gratitude. Quickly he leapt up and slunk into a far corner.
“I’m sure he was only playing.” Demeter turned to see Hera, now standing out in the hallway, arms spread wide, blowing mightily back into the room. Above Demeter’s head, the escaped perfume was collecting into an amber mist, which condensed into a dense cloud and floated over the perfume bottle. After a moment, the cloud began to rain, drop by drop, into the bottle until all the perfume was replenished
.
“No, he was not playing,” Hera said, approaching Demeter. “He plays with you, remember? He doesn’t play with me.”
“Well, you stole him from his mistress. You can’t be surprised that he’s not overly fond of you.”
“I think I can, yes.” Hera sulked. “I take excellent care of him.”
“You feed him scraps, you don’t let him exercise, and he’s lonely. How is that taking excellent care?”
“I haven’t killed him, okay?”
“Pardon me, your generosity is boundless.”
“I just wanted to sprinkle a little perfume on him. He’s begun smelling up my fragrant rooms and I’ll be a mortal slave before I give him a bath. So I just tried to do something nice . . . and he bit me.”
“Yes.” Demeter sighed. “You said. Well, it’s over now.”
“He’s still stinky.”
“When all are asleep, I shall give him a bath in my rooms. All right? Will that make you feel better?”
“Hmmm . . . I think it will.”
“Now, dearest Hera, why did you summon me?”
“What news?”
“Everyone’s keeping rather quiet, you know.”
“Are you telling me you’ve found out nothing in the last few days?” Hera spat.
“Well, as I told you, when Pandy fell from the chariot, Dionysus actually sobered up and sequestered himself away for a bit, no bacchanals, no revelry, and he canceled his wine delivery. The only thing I can tell you is that I saw him talking to a large squirrel the other day.”
“Squirrel . . . hmm, I see.”
“And,” Demeter continued, “I know Hephaestus has been talking with the spirit of Cassandra—”
“Cassandra?”
“She was the maiden that Apollo gave the gift of prophecy to, but when she refused his love, he cursed her so that no one would believe her predictions. Sort of messed up the Trojan War . . .”
Hera glared at Demeter.
“I know who she is! I’m just wondering why he would be talking to her spirit.”
“Apparently, she contacted him. Something’s happening with the other three on the Syracusa and she told him to be prepared. He just can’t decide whether to believe her or not. Look, darling . . . light of all our lives . . . there’s nothing you can do about it anyway. Not without all of them knowing that you know something and then they’ll rat you out to your husband and he’ll make a rare visit to your rooms, see the dog, and fly into a teeny-tiny rage. Let it go for now. You know what Pandora has coming up. Five days of it. If that doesn’t kill her, well, then nothing will. Now, I must get a moment’s rest before I give Dido his bath. I shall see you presently.”
With a kiss blown to Hera, she was gone.
“Let it go . . . ,” mused Hera. “Hmmm . . . I suppose she’s right. Huh?”
Hera whipped around, suddenly possessed with the sensation that she was not alone.
No one was there. Nothing was amiss. Everything was in its place: the reclining couch, the dressing table, the silver candelabra, the hairbrushes, the knickknacks, Dido on the floor in the corner.
All was as it should be.
She did not notice as the eyes on the small bust of her husband, Zeus, on the table next to her magnificent sleeping pallet, stopped following her movements and returned to their original black marble.
She pondered for a moment and then shook her magnificent red hair.
“Oh . . . silly.”
Feeling a little better, slightly more certain of her position and, therefore, a touch more benevolent, she turned her attention again to the rebuilt perfume bottle and then to the cowering dog.
“Let’s try it again, shall we? Here, doggy!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Minor Operation
Two days of walking had taken Pandy and the boys just slightly less than twenty kilometers westward. “Not far at all,” Pandy thought.
Aware that the filmy black wall was slowly nearing with each step, they skirted to the side of the main road through the pass to Jbel Toubkal and the home of her uncle Atlas, hiding from kidnappers with a heavy complement of prisoners heading back into the mountains one moment; the next, fleeing from a raiding party on its way out to pillage. They traveled at night, dusk, or dawn, never nearing the campfires or only getting close enough to eavesdrop on the kidnappers’ conversation.
The first night on the road, Pandy decided to tell the boys all about the shells.
“Okay,” she said, running her finger down the lip of her shell, “now listen.”
On the other end, she heard her father’s voice clearly, and Pandy held the conch up to Ismailil.
“Say ‘Hello, Prometheus,’ ” she whispered.
When Prometheus answered, Ismailil’s eyes grew huge.
“Magic! Magic!” he said, smiling broadly.
“Yeah, kinda, but good magic,” she said, taking the shell back.
Pandy told her father about the black wall, the prisoners, and Jbel Toubkal.
“I think we can hide from the kidnappers, but I have no idea what I am gonna do when I get to, like, wherever it is. But Daddy, I’m certain it’s where Uncle Atlas lives. I’ve never met him, so he probably won’t recognize me—”
The line began to crackle, then went dead.
“Daddy . . . ?”
Pandy shook the shell.
“Daddy?”
She tried using the shell again. Nothing.
“It’s probably the mountains,” she said to the boys. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
They spent a great deal of time in hiding, which was the only time Pandy could check Amri’s wound. His leg was now so bad that Pandy didn’t know how the little boy stood, let alone trudged the steep inclines. Ismailil tried to carry his brother, but that got all of them nowhere fast. Pandy did a little better but needed to rest often with his extra weight on her back. For his part, Amri made not a sound, trying to be very brave; it was only when Pandy saw a single tear slide down his cheek did she realize the pain he must be in. The wound was deeper than she first thought, and now the leg was turning a slight green. Maybe it’s just days and days of dirt, Pandy tried to reassure herself, hoping that underneath, Amri’s leg wasn’t that bad, but she’d seen the color before: playing behind the Athens Free Clinic one day, she’d seen a hulky assistant healer carry out a single greenish leg that had been freshly severed from its owner and toss it onto the garbage pile. Pandy knew she simply didn’t have it in her to remove a little boy’s leg. That was asking too much.
Clambering up the side of the hill in the late afternoon, hidden behind a large cedar tree, the boys watched another group of passing prisoners for anyone they recognized while Pandy thought only of the Eye of Horus, desperately wishing she had it with her. That led to thoughts of Alcie, Iole, and Homer: what had happened to them? Were they alive? Where was Dido? Was Hera even feeding him? And then the realization that always ended these thoughts: none of this would have happened if not for her.
Everything was her fault.
Suddenly, Amri cried out. Not very loud, but loud enough that Ismailil put his hand over his brother’s mouth and everyone froze—almost. Several large red fire ants had crawled up Amri’s leg and into his wound. The little boy tried to squirm but Ismailil held him fast.
The line of prisoners was almost out of sight, but a single slaver, bringing up the rear of the line, stopped short and turned around, his head cocked to one side.
At this, Amri became still, his breath coming through Ismailil’s fingers in short bursts, tears streaming down his small face.
The slaver stood for a long time just staring at the hillside, scanning the bushes and rocks for any movement, listening for any sound—focusing particularly on the large cedar trees high to the right. Only a shout from far up at the head of the line caused him to turn around and move ahead, running to catch up with the others.
When the group had rounded a curve in the road, Pandy crawled over to Amri, now frantically beating
at his wound, and poured some water from her skin over his leg, washing the ants away. Reaching down for her cloak to dry him off, her hand brushed against her carrying pouch and she felt something oddly shaped and hard.
The bust of Athena. The miniature replica of the goddess, a gift from the Wise One herself. When Pandy was in trouble, or completely dumbfounded like she was now, she could seek help by questioning the bust and Athena would answer through it.
“Now, don’t be afraid, okay,” she said to the boys as she brought out the bust. “I think this will help.”
Remembering Athena’s warning that she could only ask a question once and that the statue’s tiny tongue would stick a little, she thought carefully before she spoke, switching to her native Greek.
“Great Athena—”
The bust’s lids flew open, revealing again Athena’s beautiful green eyes.
“How can I heal this little boy’s leg?”
Immediately, the mouth began to move, the little tongue clicking and clacking as if it were glued with honey. But Pandy caught every word, every herb—“fenu-click-greek, stinging nettle.” To her surprise, she knew all of them. Then came the instructions—“gather”—click— “mix a dry poult-click-ice.” Although, the last one made no sense: “Sew.”
Sew what?
The wound—had to be.
With what?
When the bust stopped speaking, she stowed it away, told the boys to stay put, and began checking the hillside. The nettles and the knit-bone she found right off. But she couldn’t locate the fenugreek, charcoal, or the Ulmus rubra.
“Come on, come on,” Pandy began mumbling. The bust wouldn’t have said it if she wouldn’t be able to find it. The gods couldn’t be that cruel. Not with a little boy’s leg at stake.
Suddenly, a bush ten meters up the hillside began to glow with a bright red halo. Pandy hiked up and picked some of the light green fenugreek leaves. Then a pile of black stones much farther up began to glow, and Pandy, with a great deal of difficulty, panted her way up the hillside and gathered up a handful of black charcoal. She needed one last ingredient: Ulmus rubra. She looked for something glowing. Nothing. But she was learning the ways of the gods: they were helping, most definitely, but more often than not she would have to work for every bit of aid they gave, especially from Athena, who, Pandy sensed, expected just a little bit more out of her than everyone else.
Pandora Gets Lazy Page 5
