Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Much to Philipp’s astonishment, the god—after springing such shocking news on him—disappeared. There was no flash—no noise whatsoever—he was simply gone.

“Well,” the boy thought to himself, “I guess that is that.”

It did ease his mind a bit—he was no longer going to be “stolen”. But a strange feeling welled up inside of him. He laughed. Could it be disappointment?

He didn’t have long to feel it. Violent popping assailed his senses, and he hunkered down—covering his head.

With a slighty-muted blast of light, Hermes was standing before him once again. His face seemed more haggard, and he let out a long, dry hacking cough.

“Where—“ the god asked hoarsely. “Oh, there you are—what are you doing down there?”

“I’m sorry,” said Philipp peevishly. “A little warning would be nice next time.”

Hermes shivered and wiped invisible spiderwebs from his traveling cloak. “When you’ve got to go, Sheepboy, you’ve got to go.” He coughed once again.

“It sounds like you’re about to catch your death of cold,” the boy asked.

“I doubt it,” said the deity—wringing nothingness out of his hat—and with a look of disgust, dropping it to the ground. “The thing about being one of the Deathless Gods is that you can’t die.”

“It’s just an expression.”

“In fact, I doubt I can actually catch a cold,” Hermes continued. “It’s just every time I go into the Underworld, I get so empathetic toward those poor freezing souls that I force it on myself. It’s depressing.”

“Why the Underworld?”

“Another one of my illustrious duties!” said the god. “Every time someone steps on an asp or gets it into his head that’s he’s Heracles and tries to wrestle a lion, I get to take the parts that are still intact down to their eternal slightly-chilled fate.”

Phlipp let a sad half-smile work its way onto his face. The past was rising up in his mind.

“Don’t get me started on that creepy boatman, either.” Hermes shuddered.

“My father’s dead,” said Philipp quietly to no one in particular.

Hermes stared at him—his top lip clamping down on the other.

“He died in the war,” the boy continued—hopefully speaking more would end the awkwardness. “Mother and I held it all in when we heard the news. It was like a bad dream. She woke me up that night—we came down to the river and dug ourselves both a hole. We let our tears and cries fall in there. When we were done, we covered it up—and it was over. She said our grief was buried.”

The god was staring at him blankly.

The boy shook his head as if coming back from some faraway place and smiled timidly.

Hermes’ face had worked its way into disgust. “Well, that was depressing,” Hermes said.

Philipp was stunned.

“I was getting into a better mood—then you told me that story,” the god snorted. “You’re not going to be doing that all the time are you? If you are, I’m not so sure that I want to steal you.”

Philipp had to bite back tears. “I’m not too sure I want to be stolen if you’re going to be like that,” he cried angrily. “Why do you even want to steal me anyway?”

“I was told to,” Hermes said non-chalantly, “and that’s all I can tell you. But I do have to admit—I was expecting a bit more…”

“More what?” asked the boy—his anger still mounting.

”From you.” The god coughed. “The oracle said you were young—but I expected at least someone—taller—maybe a bit more intimidating—“

“Fine! I won’t let you steal me! I’m sorry that I’m so disappointing!”

“Don’t be sorry. You can’t help that you’re disappointing.” The god waved the thought away with his hand. “But you must come. You’re very clever for someone your age, you know—especially for a sheep boy—most of your kind just stand around and drool.”

“What were you even going to do with me after you had stolen me?” Philipp asked—somewhat surprised by the sudden compliment.

“Take you with me,” the god said, “to whatever place I might possibly be going.”

“Well, you didn’t even ask! That’s the rudest part. You were going to steal me whether I wanted to or not! What if I would have gone with you voluntarily?”

“What?” Hermes scratched his head. “I don’t know. That’s never happened before.”

“I wonder why,” said Philipp dryly and sighed. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

“You mean it?” Hermes’s eyes lit up, and his cap flew up from the ground and fluttered down atop his head.

“Mean what?” The boy’s head was starting to hurt.

“You’re coming with me?” The god laughed—and started muttering happily to himself. “I didn’t even have to stick him in a sack or anything.”

“No, no, no.” Philipp laughed nervously. “I didn’t actually say I was coming—“

“You said, ‘You’ve got a lot to learn’,” said Hermes beaming at the shepherd boy. “If you’d said, ‘You have to learn a lot’ or ‘There’s a lot you need to know’, that would be different. But you said, ‘You’ve got a lot to learn’. Sounds like you want to teach me.”

“I—no—that’s not it at all.” His mind was reeling. “Plus, you’re a god. What could I teach you?”

Hermes shrugged. “I don’t know. You said it.”

“Besides, I—I can’t go. I have a mother.” He had almost forgotten about her.

“You mentioned that, but so do I—doesn’t stop me,” said the god.

“Yeah, but mine’s blind—and—and she’ll be worried if I don’t come home—she can take care of herself all right, but I earn—“
“Well, she sure can’t come with us!” Hermes interrupted. “If it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s adult mortals! They take themselves so seriously!”

“I don’t want her to come with us—“

“Good.” Hermes continued undaunted. “There’s an easy solution to your situation—take a look at this.”

He pulled something forth from under his robe—most people would have calledl it a staff. In fact, if most people had seen it, they would have said it was a golden staff. But as Philipp quickly realized, its surface could not actually be seen.

Instead, the thing in Hermes’ hand looked more like light formed into the shape of a rod—from the base two snakes curled their way up the handle—and the wings of an eagle spread majestically at its head.

Hermes threw it lightly up and caught it. “Impressive, huh?”

“What is it?” said Philipp breathlessly. He had a sudden desire to go wherever this beautiful thing before him went.

“This,” the god said proudly, “is our ticket anywhere—any place, any time. The Kerykeion. This is why we don’t have to worry about your mother.”

“I—I don’t understand…”

“We’ll be back before we left,” said Hermes pointedly. “Time and space? They’re nothing to this guy. How did you think I made an entire trip to the Underworld in a minute?”

“You’re fast?” ”Not that fast,” Hermes spun the rod around and slipped back up under the folds of his cloak. “So let’s go—time is no object, but it’s still a terrible shame to waste it.”

“I would at least like to say goodbye to my mother.” Philipp’s mind had already agreed to go and forgot that his lips had not confirmed it.”Bad idea, Bad idea,” the god blurted out. He fumbled for a moment. “I mean—why? She’ll never know you’re gone.”

“But I will.”

“Look,” Hermes said—hovering irritably close to Philipp. “I’m not supposed to be telling you this—but we’re going on a secret trip here. If you go telling your mother where we’re going—it ceases to be a secret.”

“Okay,” said Philipp grudgingly. “But somebody needs to check on my lambs—“

The Messenger God had already pulled the glowing staff from under his garment.

The shepherd boy tried to stammer out some protest, but it died on his tongue.

He thrust the Kerykeion into Philipp’s face, and the shine from it filled his vision.

It could have been a trick of the eye, but he thought he saw the two snakes upon it begin to writhe and wriggle and the eagle wings start to flap. The whole thing began to spin slowly—then faster and faster.

He felt his knees grow weak. Popping came from all around.

The last thing he heard was Hermes cough and comment wryly: “I hope you don’t get sick easily.”

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Philipp had never been in the presence of immortality before. He didn’t quite know how to act.

“I’ve never been able to get rid of this initial awkwardness,” said Hermes. “You don’t just walk up and say, ‘Hi, I’m a god’ without expecting a bit of downtime, but—“

“What are you a god of?” asked Philipp.

Hermes blinked—hovering silently.

“Was that a bad question?”

The god scowled. “You tell me—if you were a god, and your sole purpose was to inspire the awe out of a bunch of empty-head mortals, what would you say?”

“I—I—don’t guess—“

“Exactly! I am made of the fabric of the cosmos! I set the laws of the world—and break them!” Hermes’ voice rose frantically, and he waved a wild finger at the Heavens. “I am one of the deathless gods!”

“I’m sorry,” stammered Philipp.

“Ah, don’t be,” said the god suddenly cooling as if nothing had happened. “I just get a bit jealous. Everyone knows Athena! Everyone knows Apollo! Where would they be without Wisdom and Light? But, me—nah, nobody needs me.”Philipp was almost afraid to ask it again, but he did. ”Well, what is it that you do?”

Hermes grumbled something in a voice too small to hear.

“What?”

“I said,” Hermes said pointedly, “I deliver messages.”

“Er…That’s not all bad,” said Philipp helpfully—struggling quickly to find a reason why. “At least they’re messages of gloom and doom, right?””No.”

“Threats of death and destruction?”

“No.”

“Strongly-worded requests?”

“No,” Hermes sighed. “Mainly they’re just, ‘Hey, how are you?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘How’s Hades this time of year?’ ‘Ah, can’t complain’—Boring.” The god slumped dejectedly almost touching the ground.

“You can fly,” said Philipp finally. “That’s got to count for something.”

“Well, I guess that is something.” Hermes stuck out his legs and tapped his toes together. “I do have these things.”

For the first time, Philipp noticed what fluttered on the edge of Hermes’ otherwise plain-looking sandals: two tiny wings.

The boy cried out for joy. “See! That’s something to be proud of!”

“Eh,” The god said—still unsure. “I have them on my cap too.” Releasing the tangle of brown hair from beneath it—he removed his floppy cap. Sure enough, two tiny wings twitched on either side of it as well. “It’s a unwritten rule—all clothes must maintain the same air-speed as you do—otherwise, you might end up surprising the people at the other end a bit more than you intended.”

The god laughed and so did Philipp.

Hermes put his cap back on. He sighed. “I still don’t suppose you recognize me now?”

“Sorry,” said Philipp good-naturedly. “But then again, I don’t know much about the Olympians. My mother was never one to me about the gods. I don’t think she likes you all very much.”

Hermes snorted. “Who can blame her? I don’t like us very much. Oh well. There’s always time to learn.”

“Learn?”

“Most definitely,” said Hermes—his original joyfulness returning. “For you see, my young Sheepboy, I am also a master thief.”

“A thief? You don’t seem like a thief,” the boy said. “I thought most thieves would seem more like—more like those shepherds back there.”

“Perhaps—but not I—I am a good thief. I mean, I’m good at what I do—I mean, I’m not a bad thief—oh, you get the idea…anyway, I’ve come here on an express mission.”

“To do what?” said Philipp breathlessly.

“To steal something, of course.”

It hit him. At once, it all made sense to the young shepherd boy. The lambs—the ones that he had forgotten all about—out in the open. He had been such a fool. Then the anger flooded in.

“You! You’ve come to steal my sheep!” Philipp cried out—raising himself from the rock.

“Your sheep?” Hermes laughed. “Haven’t you been listening? Why would I want to steal your sheep—“ He stopped mid-laugh. “Not that I couldn’t if I wanted to—you know.”

“Then what?”

Hermes chuckled and rubbed his forehead. “Isn’t it terribly obvious? I lured you down here for a purpose.””Lured me?”

“You counted four sheep, right?”

Then it hit Philipp again. “You were the lamb! You made yourself look like Achilles!”

“Achilles? Oooh, bad choice for a name,” the god furrowed his brow. “But, yes, that was I.”

"But the wolf! You could have been eaten!”

“Please! That was me as well. I’m sort of a visual ventiroloquist. I had to be. You were taking forever getting down that cliff.”

“I could have been killed!”

“Very probable, but have you guessed it yet? Think,Sheepboy, what is the item that I’ve come to steal?”

The answer flashed into Philipp’s mind, and it caused a gulp to form in his throat.

“You’ve come to steal me,” he said weakly.

“Pre-cisely,” said Hermes with a sideways smile.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Suddenly light was flooding back into Philipp’s eyes, and they weren’t liking it much. Had he died? No—too bright for the Underworld.

Remembering why he had taken such a jump, the boy quickly sat up and scanned the gorge floor. No sign of the wolf. No sign of the lamb.

“No, no, no!” he cried angrily. Grabbing a rock that lay near his hand, he hurled it at the far wall. It fell helplessly into the brook.

Sinking down into himself—he ran his hands roughly into his hair and felt hot tears boiling up behind his eyes.

Then he heard it—an inquisitive bleat.

His head jerked up. There—out from behind a scraggly bush—on the far side of the water bounded Achilles—a dance of victory in his step.

“Achilles!” cried Philipp. He jumped up, barely noticing that his legs were still functioning.

“How did you do it, boy? How did you get away?” The lamb had stopped now and cocked its head. Philipp plunged knee-deep into the stream.

“Wait a minute, Achilles,” the boy stopped confused midway. “How did you get over there?”
The lamb looked at him coyly as if it were about to answer.

“Well, it’s very simple, Sheepboy,” said Achilles. “I simply jumped onto those two rather slippery rocks over there and came across.”

Somewhere far away a frog croaked.

It took Philipp’s somewhat-jolted mind a second to process what had just happened.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Achilles stared at him dumbly. “Bah?”

Philipp laughed at himself. “I must have hit my head,” he thought and shaking it, continued his wade.

As he began up the far bank, he suddenly remembered the other two wards that he had left in the patch above. He glanced over his shoulder. There on the summit of the cliff he saw three sheepish heads peering down at him—wagging in recognition.

“Three?” he said breathlessly to himself. He spun around to face Achilles.

The lamb was gone.

It’s hard to say what happened next.

From the empty air around him, Philipp heard popping coming from every direction—popping, like the sound of old joints—only happier—popping for joy. Immediately, it was turned into a sort of twanging—as if invisible lyre strings were snapping in a musical circle about him—some louder, some further away.

Phantom candles began to appear in the edges of his sight—all flame and no tapir—swinging to and fro like tiny drunken suns.

Then all of the brightness of the world was constricted—pushed down, down, down into the tiniest point of light imaginable—floating in midair.

Philipp stared at it transfixed—all around him the world had become dark, but the ball of light glowed brighter and brighter and began to move toward him—inch by inch.

In a second, it was so close that he could have reached out his tongue and caught it there—but he did not get the chance. It exploded.

Philipp was knocked from his feet.

There he lay for several minutes stunned in silence. The placid blue sky filled his vision.

Someone close by was coughing violently.

“Oh Dear,” a strange voice said to itself.

Then—without warning—the strange face that went with the strange voice snapped into view—too close for comfort.

It was the oddest face he had ever seen. Two huge green eyes filled up most of it—some strands of brown hair peeked out from beneath an orange cap—a nervous smile was almost invisible beneath an overbearing nose.

Phillip suddenly came to the realization that he might need to be scared.

“The shepherds!” he cried frantically, rolling away from the encroaching face. “The shepherds are near!”

The strange face, which he could see now was attached to a somewhat normal body, was giving him a confused look.

“No, they’re not,” the man said incredulously. “That’s why I brought you down here. We don’t want those beastly shepherds interfering.”Philipp had heard stories about people like this. This stranger had him hemmed in.

“If there’s one person who knows about shepherds it’s me,” said the man absentmindedly. “Disgusting people really—they’re always nudging at you—winking at you like you should know what they’re talking about—getting at something—something…”

“Dirty,” said Philipp to his own surprise.

The strange man beamed. “Exactly! Dirty! Beastly people…” He shuddered.

“Wh-What are you going to do to me?” stammered Philipp, but the man hadn’t noticed.

“Y’know, they’re almost as bad as those things they keep—what are they called?” The strange man groaned and started knocking himself in the head with his palm. “Work! Work!”

“Sheep?” the boy volunteered once again. He brought his hand to his mouth in surprise. Why was he talking to this man?

“Yeah,” said the stranger with another genuinely happy smile. “Sheep! Vile things! Running around—breathing fire—eating men alive and not even apologizing for it…”“Sheep don’t eat men!” shouted Philipp, almost offended. “They eat grass!”

The man snorted. “That’s what they want you to think—but they’re man-eaters. Doubt me if you want, my friend, but don’t be surprised if you wake up with a pair of lamby fangs in your neck.”

“Sheep don’t have fangs!” This stranger was obviously insane. Man-eating sheep?

“Cheeky thing, aren’t you?” The man stared at him intently as if expecting some response—then laughed and turned away.

This was his chance. Philipp bolted past him—tearing through the stream.

But even though the boy saw the yellow of the man’s traveling cloak flash by, the stranger was now seated in front of him—resting neatly on the lip of the ravine path—ten feet up. He was plucking at something that looked like a tortoise shell.

“I can tell you one thing,” he said cheerfully. “Their guts make an excellent string. Do you hear that?” He picked at something within the shell. “Not even the guts of the Chimaera could produce such a nosie!”

The man glanced down at Philipp. “You look like you’re going to be sick, Sheepboy. Haven’t you ever seen one of these things before?”

“My father’s a soldier!” the boy violently shouted. “He’ll be here any minute!”

The man did not seem to hear him. “A Lyre!”

Philipp felt his insides crush together. He knew—somehow he knew. It was hopeless now.

“I prefer the four strings, but certain snootier people say they absolutely cannot play without ten.”

The boy knelt down in the grass and began to cry softly. “Goodbye, Mother.”

The stranger looked up from his work and cried out—jumping down and kneeling beside the child.

“What are you doing?” the man asked—shocked and confused. “You’re getting the ground all wet!”

“I—can’t—help—it…” said Philipp between stifled sobs. “You’re—going—to—kill me…”

“Kill you?” The man laughed nervously and coughed. “Gods alive, boy, I’m not going to kill you! I’ve never killed anything in my life!” He suddenly noticed the hollowed turtle shell still cradled in his arm and hastily threw it aside.

“You’re not?” asked Philipp timidly—wiping his eyes with the edge of his tunic.

“You certainly have a high opinion of yourself if you think I have nothing better to do than to kill you.”

“But—but—why would you—“

“I hate to be rude,” the man said hurriedly, “but if we wait around here for you to ask the right question—or any question for that matter—we’ll never get done. So, why don’t you pull up a rock and try to keep from doing that salt thing with your eyes.”

Phillip grudgingly raised himself from the ground—keeping his gaze fixed on the newcomer. “It’s called crying. Don’t you cry?”

“No,” said the man dryly. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve been sad, sure—but never cried or whatever you call it. I don’t take my frustrations out on others.”

“What do you mean?”

“You killed a cubit of grass back there—grass that never did anything to you—now, what did I tell you about asking questions?” The man coughed irritably.

Philipp grimaced and crossed his arms.

The stranger swept himself up, straightened his cap, cleared his throat, and grandly said, “Now, mortal, I shall reveal myself to you!”

“I think I need to be going—“ the boy began worriedly.

But the booming voice held him in place—or perhaps another power. The figure before him began to emit a strange inner light. “Behold! Before you stands Hermes, the fearsome Messenger of the Gods!”

That’s when Philipp noticed the other’s feet. There was six inches of daylight between them and the ground.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The shepherd boy had named his three little lambs in a fit of patriotism: Agamemnon, Ajax, and Achilles. While they were not as fierce as their warrior counterparts, they made up for it with an annoying knack for getting into trouble.

In the hills of Arcadia, it was a simple feat to lose a sheep. It was easy enough to lose yourself. You only had to wander for half an hour before realizing that every scrubby hillside and steep embankment you just passed had looked exactly the same. By then, you were gone—hopelessly lost.

Even though they were the last people he would ever envy, Philipp often wondered how the shepherds did it. They managed a whole flock of sheep in these hills—hills that were kind to none.

Luckily, he only had his three—they looked innocent enough—but he sometimes suspected a conspiracy.

It was on an especially hot day, when the sun was bearing down into his drowsy eyes, that he lost Achilles.

The lamb had been in the corner of his sight a second before—nibbling on his root—but the time it took Philipp to give the position of the sun a look had given him time to vanish. The two others, Ajax and Agamemnon,still grazed peacefully at Philipp’s feet.

Quickly, the young boy weighed the consequences in his mind.

A rogue wolf had been in the countryside recently. He had heard the shepherds cursing it and its currish mother. Should he risk two for one? If he came back with these, he wouldn’t receive the amount of wool his mother counted on—there would be less weaving—less food. But with only one—he might receive no payment at all. He also could feel in their nature that the shepherds were not above beating an ignorant child—if the need arose.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was moving forward—running toward the rocky lip where he had last seen the lamb.

He peered into the narrow gorge that delved down there, and he saw Achilles far below—his white fleece stood out against the ruddy rock—trotting non-chalantly down the narrow path that terminated at the base. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the lamb turn his head upwards, lock eyes with his own, and give some kind of mischievious smirk.

“Curse you, Achilles,” he hissed through his teeth.

He looked back at Ajax and Agamemnon. They were munching merrily—oblivious to their keeper’s absence.

Suddenly determined—he lowered himself down to first tier of the thin ledge that slanted haphazardly down. Loose rock rolled forth from under his feet. While the back of his sandals remained planted firmly on the ledge, his toes were suspended out over the thirty feet of open air. He sucked in a hot breath.

He pressed himself back against the wall and began inching down the slope. Without dropping his head, he could see Achilles far below. The trip had proved much easier for his deft hooves—he had already reached the bottom.

As he continued his snail advance, Philipp realized that he had to move faster—at this rate, his descent would take all day. Then all would be lost.

He saw the winding path switchback below him—the next level was too far below to lower himself safely—he would have to fall—and hope that his feet could catch in time.

He knelt down carefully and gripped the ledge firmly with his right hand and swung his body out over the lip. He quickly brought his left hand up to hold as well—but he had not been quick enough—the fingers slipped, and he clumsily slid several feet down the rock wall. He dug in with his nails, but he did not slow.

With a jerk, his feet hit the outcropping rock, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Looking over his shoulder—he saw he was much closer now—but not close enough to jump to the floor.

Achilles was still there. The lamb was sniffing the water at the edge of the brook that ran through the slender gorge. As if sensing a look, his woolly face turned and bobbed.

“Laugh it up,” Philipp muttered grimly. “Dumb sheep! If you live through this—or me, for that matter—you’ll wish you’d never—“

His words turned to cold lead in his mouth—ten feet above the brook on a far ledge, the black form of a wolf slinked into view. It was gazing hungrily down on the unsuspecting Achilles—still fascinated by his drink.

It was then—before his mind had time to think—that Philipp felt himself jumping. He knew that it was too high—too far to fall—but he was airborne nevertheless. His arms flailed helplessly for something to grasp—but found nothing. He saw the ground rushing up to meet him—at the same time, he saw the wolf lunge, and he cried out. But then the ground was there—hard and un-giving—and a blanket of blackness shrouded him, and he knew no more.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Philipp was a shepherd boy.

He lived in Arcadia, the Hills of a Thousand Flocks. Philipp thought that this was a fitting name for a place that had two features: rocks and sheep.

He wasn’t related to the older shepherds he worked with—luckily. Shepherds, for the most part, are hairy and dirty-minded, and these spent most of their time telling Philipp dirty jokes that he was pretty sure he shouldn’t be hearing.

Mostly, they kept to themselves, which was good for the boy. They gave him a few lambs to tend. In his young mind, he knew that he was perfectly capable of keeping more than that—full grown ones even—but his three little whities kept him occupied. Whenever he wasn’t looking, quick as a flash they would be across the stream—staring at him triumphantly—or into a thicket—bleating for help.

At night, he slept apart from the others. The shepherds always crowded around the campfire and, waiving their hairy arms around, told obscene stories and chortled to themselves.

Every once in a while, they would call Philipp over just to poke fun at him:

“Come over, Lambchips, and tell us about the time you saw the Sphinx.”

One of them would almost choke with laughter on whatever vile thing he was drinking.

Philipp would come as he was told but give them the driest expression he could.

“Tell me! Did she ask you a riddle?” This one would almost be too drunk to speak.

“Here you are. If you happen to see her again, ask her if she’s ever heard this one!”
Then they’d tell the boy a riddle that if repeated in the presence of his mother, would have gotten him beaten several times over.

You could easily say that Philipp wasn’t too fond of shepherds.

That’s why when he was back to himself on those starry nights with nothing above him but black and stars, he would try to come up with a better job description for himself.
Anything was better than being associated with shepherds.

“Lambherds?” he would say quietly and then crinkle his nose. “Sheepgatherer? Rammer?”

But before too long the cool grass would begin its moonlit dance, and his task would be lost to sleep.

At the end of the long week, he would return home. The shepherds didn’t pay him in coins, but in wool, and he would take the two meager sacks over his shoulder and begin the winding trek back down to the abode that he and his mother shared.

His mother was a weaver, and she was blind.

A great wooden frame took up almost half of their tiny dwelling—it was a treasure really for ones as poor as they. His mother made tunics, theirs and for others as well—and with them traded for meal, oil, and dye.

She spent her days washing the long wooden fibers with the tips of her fingers—soaking them in her small pots of color—and rolling them between her palms into long, straight threads. She would then feed them one by one into the teeth of the frame. She had done this, day after day, as far back as Philipp could remember.

“Mother, how can you see what you are making?” he used to ask when he was much younger.

She would draw back her lips and reveal a smile. “I cannot see, Little One—with my eyes. But hands know, and they see for me.”

This answer always seemed to satisfy him.

When a job was done and there was plenty of wool left over, his mother would take a smaller frame from the corner and set it upon her lap. It was a tapestry—formless as of yet—one she had begun many years ago—the day his father had left for Troy.

“Tell me about the war, Mother,” Philipp would say. “Tell me about the heroes! About Achilles!”

She wouldn’t hesitate for a moment at this question—her fingers moving in and out. “Those are not stories for little boys—they are stories for men—to see their own foolishness.”

“But Father is a hero, isn’t he?” he would ask eagerly. It was here that she would falter.

“Your father had no choice, Philipp. He did not choose his fate. It was chosen for him.”

“By the gods, right, Mother? Tell me about the gods!”

“No, Philipp,” she would say softly. “Let us not put them into our minds—for we are never in theirs.”

And then she would say no more.

Glossary of Gods and Goddesses

This project will be strictly Greek, meaning that none of the Roman names for the gods and goddesses will be used.

Zeus:

Lord of the Sky, The Rain-Bringer, Ruler of the Gods, Defeated his father (Cronus) to receive the throne. Married Hera, making her his queen. Weilds the mighty thunderbolt (Hephaestus-Made tm). He is the all-father (meaning that almost everyone important can claim that Zeus is their father). That being said, he's an insufferable womanizer and spends most of his time avoiding the wrath of his shrewish wife, Hera. He is fair ruler, but has been known to be a big selfish and hot-headed. He is not omnipotent--you can trick him. The Eagle is his bird.

Hera:

Queen of Heaven and the sister of Zeus. She is the mother of three of his children: Hebe, Ares, and Hephaestus. She is the protector of marriage and spends most of her time trying to protect her own. Instead of punishing her husband for his infidelity, she typically takes it out on the poor mortal or nymph with whom he has been fornicating. She is extremely jealous and vindictive but is not evil. Her bird is the peacock.

Hades:

Brother of Zeus, Lord of the Underworld, Keeper of the Dead. He has been portrayed as evil but is mostly lonely and misunderstood. Once he ruled alone in the bleakness of the Underworld, but when he beheld Persephone, the beautiful Goddess of Spring, he kidnapped her and took her into the Underworld to be his queen. Many horrible things reside in his realm, and he is the master of them all. He possesses a helmet of invisibility that he was given after helping Zeus defeat their father, Cronus.

Poseidon:

Brother of Zeus, Ruler of the Sea. He is married to the daughter of Ocean, the Titan whose watery form surrounds the known world. He carries a three-pronged spear called a Trident. In the division of the world between his brothers and him, Poseidon chose the sea to be his home, and he is the lord of all within it. As a gift to Man, Poseidon is responsible for creating the horse.

Demeter:

Sister of Zeus, Goddess of Agriculture. It is she that makes the flowers bloom and the crops grown. She is also the mother of Persephone by Zeus. When her daughter was taken into the Underworld, she went into mourning. Because of this, the world wilted and almost died. After Zeus's urging, Hades and Demeter made a deal. Persephone would divide her time between Earth and the Underworld. When the Goddess of Spring is with her mother, Demeter is happy and everything is in bloom. When she must leave, the world lies dormant for four months.

Aphrodite:

Goddess of Love and Beauty. Aphrodite was not born as the other gods were. When Uranus, the great God of the Sky, was slain by his son Cronus, a bit of his blood fell into the sea. There it mingled with the glorious foam and produced from its waves, Aphrodite. She was married to Hephaestus. Her mischevious son is Eros.

Hestia:

Goddess of the Home, Sister to Zeus. She is one of the three virgin goddesses. Prayers were often said to Hestia before mealtime to bless the home and protect it.

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The Children of Zeus

Ares:

The cruel God of War. On one side, he is merciless and malicious. On the other, he is a sniveling coward. He had no temples in Ancient Greece. He is the lover of Aphrodite, but disliked by all other gods. Even his mother, Hera, does not care for her blood-thirsty son.

Athena:

Goddess of Wisdom. She is the protector of the city, a battle-maiden, and the leader of the Virign Goddesses. She had no mother but she sprang from the head of Zeus, fully-formed. As a gift to man, she created the bridle so that he might tame the horse. Her bird is the owl.

Hephaestus:

God of the Forge. While all other gods and goddesses are fair, he was born ugly and mis-shapen. When his mother, Hera, beheld him, she was disgusted and threw him down from Mt. Olympus. Striking the ground, he was lamed but was allowed to return to his home by Zeus, who made it his duty to forge his mighty thunderbolts. He was also given Aphrodite as his wife.

Hebe:

The Goddess of Youth, the Cupbearer of the Gods. She was later married to Heracles.

Apollo:

The God of Truth and Light. Son of Leto. He is the most Greek of all the gods. He is the twin brother to Artemis, Goddess of the Moon. He accels at playing the lyre, singing, and writing poetry. As the God of Truth, his oracle at Delphi is revered above all others. He carries a silver bow, fitted with silvery arrows. His creature is the dolphin.

Artemis:

The Goddess of the Moon and Wild Things. Daughter of Leto. She is the Olympian huntress. She is also the twin to Apollo. Because she is one of the virgin goddesses, she is also the protector of young maidens. Like her twin brother, she carried a silver bow with silver arrows.

Persephone:

The Goddess of Spring. Daughter of Demeter. Queen of the Underworld. She was kidnapped by Hades and later married to him. She was tricked into eating the fruit of the Underworld and is forced to return there for half of the year.

Hermes:

The Messenger God. Son of Maia. The most clever god and among the youngest. On the first day of his life, he stole the cattle of his brother, Apollo. Therefore, he is the god of thieves and sheep. He carries the messages of the gods to the mortal world. On his feet are winged sandals and on his head a winged cap. He carries a staff with magical properties. It is also his duty to take soulds recently dead to their resting place in the Underworld.

The Premise

About Me

Hello, my name is Zachary Parker, and I started this little project for fun. I teach a mythology class at the local high school, and in my spare time, I draw a webcomic called Flatwood. Although artwork has always been an avenue I have used to get my work across, I also enjoy writing, and since I have started teaching a class on Greek mythology, I have fallen in love with it.

The Idea

It's hard to explain how or more importantly why I get ideas, but one in particular has been kicked around in my head for a while. Now, I have plenty on my plate with working a full-time job and drawing a webcomic every week--but on the same token, I also need a way to switch gears and try out my hand at writing.

The question behind this online novel-in-progress (that's the best way to describe it, I guess) is a simple one: What if you had Hermes as your personal tour guide through mythical Greece?

I don't know why I like Hermes so much. I think it's because he strikes me as the one god or goddess on Olympus who seems to know what's going on. Zeus is a hothead, Hera is an evil fiend, Aphrodite is a twit, Ares is borish and cowardly...I mean, they all act like a bunch of two-year-olds. And who's always there to do their dirty work? That's right--Hermes. Who saves Odysseus? Who forwards the voyage of Aeneas? Who does everything?

And, to me, it seems that Hermes is the most youthful of the gods as well--Dionysus being the lone exception. And who better to give us a Generation X view of Olympus than the illustrious Messenger God himself.

The Problem with Mythology

There are thousands of wonderful stories in Mythology--stories that can take you places you've never been, meet people you've never met, and see things you could never see in the mundane world. But, the sad fact remains, most mythological stories read like a dicitonary entry.

At our school, the textbook used in class is Edith Hamilton's Mythology. Now, my apologizes to Ms. Hamilton. She did do us a wonderful service by translating these classcals, which otherwise would remain "Greek to us", but, seriously, reading the woman's writing is like driving a salad fork into your leg.

This is an attempt to give Greek mythology a life of its own, and hopefully, it will be successful.

The Audience

I can't rightly say if this will be more of children's book or a book for an adult. The main character will be a young man, but that will not dictate the style of the book. I think there will be quite a bit of stuffy-sounding things like "whimsy" and "fantastical sights" in it, but they will all have a meaning. My aim is to make it as un-classifiable as possible. As for profantiy or explicit content, it will contain none.

The Manner

I will be writing this story piece by piece, and while I did post it in this manner to receive comments, the reader must understand that it's not a finished peice. Posting in a blog site merely helps me see my progress and give me some motivation. The fact that you get to see it and comment on it is great, but it's not the primary reasoning.

It won't have any regular update schedule, but if you subscribe to this blog, the latest chapter will always be emailed to you.

I will frequently go back and republish certain parts of this--mainly to keep everything consistent, so subscribing would also keep you abreast of those changes as well.

Thank you for reading.

ZP