“Hello! Is someone there?” He’d never known a women to come this far afield or this close to the foothills alone. Beyond the trees, a bull snorted reminding Paris he must be cautious, if he wanted to eat supper at the day’s end. If he got himself killed there would be no one to tell the tale of how he saved the herd. He shrugged the laughter off as his imagination.
A pair of mossy green eyes followed the young herdsman from behind a wide tree trunk. The water nymph smiled. She’d sat all night observing his diligence. He truly feared very little from nature. She climbed the tree trying to keep the youth in her sight. She liked the way his black curls bounced when he walked. Quickly, he disappeared from view and she climbed down with silent foot.
“Who are you?” a voice asked behind the nymph catching her off guard. The herding boy was gazing at her expectantly. He reached a hand to touch her.
“Where did you fly from?” she asked.
Paris turned to show her there was nothing between his shoulder blades. “I do not fly. I’ve no wings on my back.”
The nymph smiled with delight. “You are right. You have no wings that I can see.”
“Why are you smiling?” Paris pulled his bow from his shoulder. Her smile annoyed him. No one took him seriously.
“No need to bother with your bow. True you did kill cattle thieves with skill. But your bow is no match for me.”
Paris relaxed his stance. True. She climbed a tree with great skill. “You make no noise when you walk.”
“I should hope not. Nymphs require absolute stealth to keep watch on their lands.”
“These are my father’s lands,” Paris narrowed his eyes, “you’re a nymph? A wood nymph or a water nymph.”
“Water.”
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Where the River Cebron washes over the foothills of the sacred mountain. I sprang to life where the cascading falls make love to the rocks.”
“Are you immortal then?”
“Such questions. Do you not have cattle to tend?
Paris eyed her undeterred. “Are you or aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am immortal.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
Paris wrinkled his nose. “Well, what is it?”
“Oenone. And your name is?”
“Paris.”
“Paris? Why are you called a backpack?” Oenone asked.
“Because I was carried from these mountains in a backpack. That’s why. It’s a good name, nymph.”
“Oenone,” she politely corrected. “And it is as good a name as any other, Paris. Apologies, if I offended.”
“You don’t say it like my elder brothers. They intend offense.”
“That is unfortunate.” Oenone shed a single tear on his behalf to show her sincerity. She caught it on the tip of her delicate finger, as it crystallized into a sparkling gem. “Take this, young Paris, to remember today.”
The boy suspiciously eyed the proffered gift.
“Are you going to take it or not, Paris?” Oenone asked.
He took the offering and put it in his satchel. “Yes. It will prove I met a nymph. No one believes me when I tell them my stories.”
“Off with you then. Cattle to mind and stories to tell, I suppose.” Oenone kissed the top of his head.
Paris shrugged and released a half grin like a deadly arrow. “Will I see you again?”
“I have no doubt, young Paris. Hero of the fields. Defender of man and beast.”
LEXIAS STARED AT the boy. Their eyes locked in a battle of wills and he resorted to his smile, as he usually did to win his mother over. Lexias shook her head at his expected maneuver, a grin that could melt the ice fringe from a pond mid-winter. But today he needed reminding he remained but a boy in her household. “Clean your hands and put on fresh linen before you sit at my table.”
“Why?” he looked down at his clothing. “I am clean enough.”
Lexias scoffed. “I can smell you from across the kitchen. All cow dung and wet grass.”
Paris exhaled loudly in continued protest, sniffing his armpits and his tunic. “I smell nothing.”
His mother shook her head. “Please, take me at my word, son. Fresh clothing. Then, dinner.” Lexias shook her head as Paris turned toward his room without another word. She’d won the battle of will and words for now but she knew full well the war was far from over.
“What will I do with this child?” she groaned. “He grows more headstrong with each passing day. Surely he will drag me to early death or cause more gray hairs to sprout,” Lexias muttered as she turned the flat bread over the cooking stone.
“What are you mumbling about now woman? Ah! Let me guess. Paris again?” Agelaus chuckled at his wife’s exasperation. “You are already gray, woman.”
Lexias didn’t bother turning around. “You may expect a cold wind to blow through your bed this night. Why couldn’t you have brought home a girl child?”
As soon as Paris sat to eat, he regaled his family with the tales of his cattle watch. He told them how he single handedly drove off a handful of thieves and met a water nymph named Oenone.
Harmon shook his head laughing at Paris. “You and your fantastic tales little sister.”
Paris squeezed his eyes to mere slits at his older brother. “I-am-not-a-girl!”
“Prove it then. Prove you’ve seen this water nymph,” Harmon goaded.
Paris produced the silver crystal, holding it out for everyone to see.
His eldest brother, Harmon, snatched the bauble from Paris’ hand and examined it closely. “That is not but a shiny rock.”
“It’s her tear. I saw her make it,” Paris insisted.
“Just one tear, not two or three?” Tymon, the middle brother said, fanning the flames between his brothers.
“Nymphs only cry one tear at a time,” Paris insisted
“How do you come by such nonsense? You don’t know anything about nymphs or spirits,” Tymon insisted.
“Boys, that is quite enough. Leave Paris alone. Perhaps, he did meet a nymph,” Agelaus defended his youngest son. “Not all mysteries in this world are revealed to every person.”
“Here begins the Paris is special oratory,” Harmon lifted his cup of wine in a toast to nothing. “This is no nymph tear. It is but a rock.”
“Agelaus, please. Don’t antagonize the boys against each other.” Lexias was forever pleading for fairness when tensions rose between her sons. She knew full well why her husband took the youngest to wing, but his protectiveness had bred an unintentional side effect. Their natural sons had grown to scorn Paris, refusing to accept him as a full member of their family.
“Paris, I believe you. Now, eat your dinner.” Agelaus refused to argue with his wife and ungrateful elder sons. He knew Paris was destined for more and that someday he would take his rightful place at King Priam’s side. And his sons would regret their youthful harshness toward the boy.
“WHAT LESSON DO you wish this day?” Oenone asked.
“Whatever you wish,” Paris answered.
The nymph rose from the rocky outcropping they were sitting on. “Come, we shall walk then.”
Paris stood dusting off his tunic. “There is always much to learn with you.”
They walked for a long while on the rocky ground without a trail to guide them. Paris kicking loose stones as they went. The nymph needed no markers for she knew everything about the woods and meadows and hills and streams. She grabbed his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. She bent her head close to his and whispered, “Look.” She pointed high above them.
Paris followed the direction of her finger, and squinted hard into the bright sun. “I see nothing,” he said.
She squeezed his shoulders gently. “Wait, you will.”
Paris kept his eyes on the sky, and then he saw it. A dark speck emerged from the expanse of azure heaven. It grew in size until...“It’s too big to be a bird. But, surely it has wings.” Quite suddenly,
his mouth fell open as the dark smudge grew, clarifying its shape. “It can’t be.”
Oenone smiled broadly, releasing her hold on him. “And why can it not? Do I not exist?”
“That’s different. You are real and that is...that is legend.” Paris stood in awe. “I can’t believe it is Pegasus.”
“He is rare indeed. My father grants him protection here among the hills. He roams where he will. Unencumbered by mortal intrusion. Or arrow.”
“Why should someone wish to harm Pegasus? That makes no sense,” Paris said.
“Why do men do anything they do? Man is a strange creature. Fickle. Changeable as the wind.”
“I am a man. What is fickle?” Paris asked.
“You are not quite a man yet, but soon. Fickle is to change your mind without regard for promises made to others.”
Paris laughed out loud. “I’ll not be fickle. I promise.”
“We will see if your time with me yields a steady head and heart.”
They walked in silence for several moments. “Oh! Here it is.” Oenone came to a tall plant bearing deep blue bell-shaped flowers. The plant stock stood as high as Paris and sprang from the very rocks. “Akoniton,” she said.
“I have not heard of this plant,” Paris said. “It is pretty.” Oenone slapped his hand as he reached out to touch the petals.
“It is deadly. And best avoided if you do not know how to handle it with care.”
“Where does it come from? Why is it poisonous?” Paris questioned.
“Sit. I will tell you, then, teach you its proper application,” Oenone directed.
Paris leaned against the rock the planet sprang from. “I am ready.”
The nymph folded her arms, eyeing her young friend. “You know about Herakles? And his labors?”
“Everyone knows about Herakles, Oenone. What has that to do with this plant?”
“One of Herakles labors was to fetch Kerberos from his post as guard at the entrance of Hades.”
“What is a Kerberos? Why did he have to guard the gate of Hades?”
“So many questions! But that is good. Kerberos was a fierce and wild beast. He had three vicious heads, a thick mane about his neck of venomous snakes, and the tail of a serpent. He kept the dead from escaping the Underworld and the living out.”
Paris hung on her every word. His eyes rounded in horror and surprise. “Kerberos was a beast of nightmares.”
“Truly, he was, Paris. Truly. Herakles captured the beast and carried him to the light of our world at the bidding of King Eurystheus of Argos. Kerberos was so cruel, so evil, that when the spit from his mouth fell, touching the earth the akoniton sprang up. This is why a deadly sap flows through the beautiful flower.”
“The spit of Kerberos,” Paris mused.
“It is most often used when hunting wolves. The arrows must be carefully tipped with the milky sap. The hunter taking great care not to touch the arrow head, and he must destroy the quiver after lest any remnant of poison remains.”
“That is a good story, Oenone. I will remember it.”
“Good. Now, go fetch enough wood that I may keep my fire burning bright the entire night.”
“I will,” Paris said. As he walked away, Oenone knew that someday he would need the knowledge of the plant would aid him, this much she’d seen in her dreams. Who it was intended for had not revealed to her. The gods were infuriating that way, telling pieces of a story never unfolding all the parts at once. They gave enough to cause concern and confusion, but never enough to avoid unpleasantness. She wondered what the war would be waged and when. And she prayed to the high gods that it would be far away from Troy and wouldn’t claim Paris’ life.
WHEN PARIS REACHED the edge of the wheat field, he saw his brothers ahead of him. He slowed wishing to avoid another argument, or worse a fight. Whenever he returned from the foothills alone after spending time with the nymph, they harassed him unmercifully. Paris dreaded any conversation at all with his eldest brother. He slowed allowing them time to move farther ahead, but Tymon turned in his direction and waited.
“Have you been out with your nymph again little brother?” Tymon’s voice carried on the wind.
Paris wished to be anywhere but standing dumbly skirting the wheat field. He put his head down and continued forward, dreading the inevitable encounter. As he walked, he noted the golden light of late afternoon skimming the swaying field. He reached out and snapped a head of wheat off in his hand. “You need not wait for me, brothers!” Paris shouted a reply.
“I would not miss another of your tales!” Tymon laughed. Harmon, standing beside him, laughed less enthusiastically.
When Paris finally closed the gap between himself and Tymon, looking his eldest brother hard in the eye, he resigned that a fight would occur. Even though he was several years younger, he stood almost as tall as his eldest brother. “I have no wish to argue today, Tymon. Let’s just get home before mother punishes us all for tardiness.”
“I have no wish to exchange harsh words with you either, little brother,” Tymon said. “But, tell me boy why you believe you’re better than us?”
“I don’t.”
“You carry on with your made up stories about a nymph, expecting us to believe that the gods somehow favor you by such a gift?”
Paris sighed. Tymon’s badgering would end when one of them was bloodied, usually him. He longed for the day his size and strength equally matched his eldest sibling. He prayed that just once he could knock Tymon to the ground and pummel his face with a hard fist. “I hiked the trail scouting for places to set traps for game.”
Harmon piped in, hoping to steer the conversation away from a physical encounter. “Good. Did you set any?”
“No, just scouted.”
Harmon shrugged. “Tomorrow, then. Set your traps. And surprise Mother with a hare or two.”
Tymon refused to let his little brother skirt his questioning. “No nymph today? No entertaining us with your stories?”
“I’ve no stories to tell,” Paris said. His eyes met Tymon’s hard gaze. His brother’s jaw twitched. Tymon’s shoulder dropped slightly, Paris readied himself for the heavy blow. Like lightening Tymon’s hand flew with fierceness cracking Paris on the cheek, knocking him backward into the wheat. Tymon stood over Paris, hatred dripping with each word. “You are a nobody.” He spat at Paris. “A nobody our father was willing to take in. And how do you repay his kindness? By trying to disgrace us with your lies.”
Paris’ face ached when he screamed back at Tymon. “They aren’t lies!” He begged Apollo to stop the pummeling.
Harmon stepped between his brothers. “Enough for now. Paris said there was nothing to tell. Leave it at that.” He grabbed Tymon’s shoulder. “My hunger is going to devour me like a loin if I don’t get something to eat.” The tension broke. He reached a hand down to Paris and pulled him to his feet.
“I suppose it is enough for now.” Tymon took a step toward Paris. Putting his face just inches from his youngest brother, he said, “There’s always tomorrow. Isn’t there?”
Paris rubbed the side of his face and seethed inside. He wanted nothing more than to punch Tymon in the throat and bash his nose until it spewed red like a fountain.
Harmon nudged Tymon’s shoulder again. “Come, let’s go home.”
“Yes, we shouldn’t keep our mother waiting.”
Paris didn’t say a word. He knew Tymon enjoyed watching him trying to defend his place in the family, just so he could lord it over him that he wasn’t truly tied by blood to any of them. He was nobody and he knew it in his heart, no matter how much Agelaus had tried to reassure him. Thoughts of his real family consumed him. Would he ever know who he was? Would he ever know why they abandoned him for dead? He wasn’t sick or deformed. Paris knew Agelaus knew the truth and refused to say. He guessed his mother knew as well. He wished he had their secret in his mind but no amount of asking produced a response other than he was wanted by them, loved by them and was by all rights on
e of them. It just wasn’t enough.
BY HIS EIGHTEENTH summer, Paris looked increasingly forward to his nights in the fields. He never minded the dark or cold, even as a boy. The stars he imagined as sparkling tears of gods and goddesses. The night breeze their divine breath. The lyrical buzz of insects’ soothing music he imagined created for him alone. Paris loved the life he lived on his own, away from his two elder brothers. Since he had told them about Oenone years ago, they relentlessly pursued him with hateful jests. As he grew, their teasing increased in cruelty. What began as a small bud of hatred for them grew like a weed in his heart.
He gathered wood for the fire as twilight faded the crisp blue sky with variations of purple. The cool night approached rapidly when Apollo took the sun completely from sight allowing the moon her silvery ascent. Tonight the pearl of the sky would be rounded to perfection, casting her beams among contented bulls bedding down for the night. Soft bellows carried on the air reassuring Paris that everything was as it should be.
“Greetings, Paris.”
Paris didn’t look up as he gathered wood. “Greetings, Oenone.” The nymph’s sudden appearances by his side no longer surprised him. She emerged unexpectedly every time he encountered her.
“How did the day greet you?” Oenone inquired. She flicked a small pebble at Paris with her bare toe. Oenone never wore shoes for they kept her from staying grounded to the earth.
Paris turned to face her, “Well enough, sweet nymph.” Of late, Oenone’s feminine qualities filled his eyes and his imagination. He noticed her rounded breasts and the curve of her hip. Paris now wondered what it might feel like to bed a nymph, or if truth be told, any woman. He turned away again not wishing to reveal his secret thoughts with an errant glance.
Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) Page 9
