Herald

By N.F. Houck

Herald is the story of Hermes, divine messenger of classical mythology and son of mighty Zeus, ruler of the Olympian gods. Born secretly in an ancient mountain cave, and possessing abilities that make the young god a friend to both the living and the dead, Hermes becomes a valuable aid in Zeus' efforts to bring the final Olympians to power. Told from Hermes' unique perspective are many beloved tales from ancient Greece, including those of Orpheus, Persephone, and Perseus, interwoven with Hermes' own attempts to forge a place for himself among mortal and immortal beings. Herald pulls the reader into ancient Greece and into the mind of a legendary mythological figure as he struggles with power, death, and the carnal treachery of a goddess.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 24, 2010
• ISBN: 9781329004894

Book preview

Herald

Herald

by N.F. Houck

Copyright 2006 by N.F. Houck

eBook edition 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this text shall be reproduced without permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This eBook is edited from the original print edition to accommodate the digital conversion process. Edits include but are not limited to removal of graphics and parts pages, and removal and/or conversion of Greek text.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-329-00489-4

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Chapter 1: Middle

Must I follow custom and tradition? Among storytellers, custom and tradition demand pleading to a Muse before telling a tale. I suppose I should follow tradition and seek a Muse’s aid, but I’m not certain I trust the Muses. These beings in question — these goddesses who inspire creativity — happen to be my sisters. Their views of my life are not without opinion or criticism.

Also, which Muse do I consult? Thalia, the Muse of comedy? Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy? Perhaps Calliope, the Muse of epics, should help me in my task. My life, epic? That’s an arrogant and uncomfortable thought. I’m merely sharing my memories, partly from boredom, partly from curiosity. Men make much of passing on history and knowledge, and perhaps I’ve some to pass on as well. Ah, but that in itself is an arrogant thought.

I do have at least one specific reason for sharing my thoughts. Others tell tales of me, and in these tales the details my life are so mangled that I scarcely recognize myself in them. My very existence is absurd enough without rude embellishments. Then again, perhaps I’m being unkind to the poor creatures who tell stories of me. After all, anyone who says it’s simple to weave tales is either ignorant or lying.

I’ve already disappointed the Muses by abandoning verse traditions, so beloved among their human poets. Straightforward words are for merchant lists, the Muse Erato told me scornfully. As I’m often called the god of merchants, I fail to see Erato’s disdain for how I’ve chosen to tell my story (though anyone who prefers merchant lists would no doubt scoff at a story like mine). I will, however, appease my sisters by adopting a semblance of delicacy. The customary language of poets is ill-suited to my rather coarse nature, but I’ll keep my rudeness curbed.

I’ll also accept aid from Mnemosyne, goddess of memory and mother of the Muses. My memory is rather poor at times, and many names and events lie before me. With Mnemosyne’s help, I’ll attempt to remember the details that have merit.

The Muses have also told me that storytellers must begin their stories with the births of their subjects. I hardly feel that my birth is very interesting. So, purely for the sake of being irksome, I’ll begin my story in the middle, which in and of itself is actually a beginning, and an end, of sorts. Or, because I’m starting in the middle, doesn’t that make the middle the beginning?

The middle of my story depicts my nature rather swiftly, which I think makes it an ideal beginning. Before plays, actors courteously describe the settings and main players, so audience members can decide whether to commit themselves to the story. I’m certain my sisters approve of that courtesy, at least. Storytellers begin by saying that Odysseus was a clever man, or that Herakles was strong and brave though ill-tempered. Know, then, that the hero of this story is a rather irreverent and absurd god.

Know also that for ease of storytelling, I will tell this tale as if the beings and events in it are long past and long gone, though this isn’t true, at least for me. I will tell how twelve gods came together as Olympians to rule over the inhabitants of earth, and I will tell not only how I became one of these gods, but helped others attain their stations. I must approach this story with some patience, for the world changed a great deal from the time of my birth to the time the final twelve Olympians came to power.

So, to the middle of my tale. For those who like to make much of such things, the setting may seem rather astonishing. I must confess, the setting is actually quite ordinary to me. What is ordinary to one is often wondrous to another.

The setting, simply enough, is atop a mountain. Whereas most mountaintops are bare of civilization, this one served as both a home and a seat of council. Concealed by clouds were splendid columns and walls that contained luxurious chambers of gilt and marble, vast porticos and halls, beautiful gardens without equal, and one large structure in particular where a certain group of beings held council. All were within a city, a polis built with as much hard work as any mortal city, but this one was revered solely because it was built by gods.

Formal councils were relatively rare events in Olympus, which is yet another reason I’m beginning my story here. The Olympian council held a trial on the day from which my entire life pivoted. The subject of the trial itself was relatively unremarkable, except in how it displayed my audacity and provided yet another tale for poets to embellish.

The trial was held within the great bouleuterion, the throne room of Olympus. The seats within the room were as varied in appearance as their owners, and the vast stone hearth at the center of the room also served as a throne (of sorts) for humble Hestia, beloved goddess of homes and fires. The thrones were rarely occupied except when council was called, and during trials the room was often crowded with immortal beings of all sorts. The leaders of these beings, holding the thrones of council, were the Olympians. The other immortals present were humbler or otherwise unremarkable in talent or stature. Gods and their elders, the Titans, all dressed in fine, flowing wools and linens bedecked with sparkling gems, crowded the room in anticipation, their attentions upon the lone figure standing before them.

The figure in question was rather ordinary, humble in appearance, and even somewhat comical compared to the other, more regal beings in the bouleuterion — and I didn’t much care what others thought of my appearance. Then, and forever, I resembled a human male somewhere between youth and man, garbed in a humble wool chiton and a rather worn leather belt. I had a light frame with the flat, lean muscles of a shepherd, short brown hair that was as unruly and filled with curls as a ram’s, and eyes too blue, really, to belong to a mortal. In addition to my belt and tunic, I wore a rather strange, battered hat — a petasos bearing two small, white wings, one on either side of the crown. My sandals also, absurdly, bore small wings, a pair flanking each ankle. In addition to my attire, I wore a curious expression on my face: a mixture of amusement and bemusement at the scene surrounding me. The expression has been on my face through most of my existence, I’m afraid.

Actually, I should have been afraid as I stood there before the hearth, facing the two largest thrones in the room. The other seats lined the walls on either side of me, all surrounded by the murmuring crowd and all but two occupied. One of the empty thrones, a massive seat carved from ebony, was owned by a god almost never seen in Olympus, one that would someday come to abandon his seat of council. The other unoccupied throne was mine, a small, wooden seat at the farthest end of the row to my right — the farthest seat from the two large, gleaming thrones in front of me.

The two largest thrones belonged to the two Olympians who commanded the most respect from me. One was my accuser, the other was my father. There was naught my father could do to help me then — or rather, there was, but I didn’t want his help. It would have undone the task I’d completed for him.

No, I wasn’t afraid. I needed my wits to preserve my freedom, and I couldn’t permit emotions to interfere.

The beings in the room became silent as a commanding female voice broke through the chatter.

I accuse the herald of murdering the giant Argus, my servant. For this cold and treasonous act, the herald deserves to be cast into Tartarus. Any beings present who disagree with the accusation should step forward and present their claims now.

No one stepped forward, of course, which wasn’t surprising. I had very few enemies among the assemblage, but the details of what really happened were fully known by only two beings present. I was one, the other was my father; but as I stated before, he couldn’t step forward to defend me without condemning himself. I didn’t resent him for this.

The congregation of beings shifted uncomfortably and some individuals murmured to each other. My gaze darted along the mass of faces and hands, taking in the nuances of gesture and expression. My father looked at no one but me, his face stern yet calm. I longed to tell him to not worry.

My accuser stood next to him before the other magnificent throne, tall, beautiful and terrifying, as Hera always was. I’ve known no other being as vengeful as she.

She didn’t hold most of my attention, however. That honor belonged to the golden-haired god seated on the other side of my father. To my amusement, the eyes of my half-brother Apollo never wavered from my face. From his eager expression, I think he was trying to anticipate what I was going to do. Apollo needn’t have bothered. No one has ever been able to predict my behavior, not even myself. I fought the urge to make rude faces at him.

However, the prospect of being cast into the deep, black pit of Tartarus was not to be faced idly. When one entered Tartarus, one usually stayed there forever.

I stepped forward and looked straight into Hera’s eyes.

No one else can come forward, my queen, for it’s true that Argus died because of me, I said calmly.

There were outbursts of disbelief and anger from the circle of beings. My father’s expression, however, never changed, and neither did Apollo’s.

I heard weeping coming from my left and did hazard a glance at the source. So beautiful that she seemed to glow with golden light, Aphrodite, called the goddess of love, sat on her throne between two more of my half brothers — her lover, the war god Ares, and her husband, Hephaestos, the gentle god of smiths and toil. Hephaestos reached out to lay a consoling hand upon Aphrodite’s arm, but she shrugged it away. Perhaps other gods would’ve felt honored to be wept over by Aphrodite, the most beautiful of beings, but I found her behavior annoying.

Behind her, against the chamber wall, stood another being tearfully regarding my plight — Maia, my mother, as lovely and gentle as spring. Don’t weep, Mother, I thought. There’s no need…

He died because of you, herald! Hera’s voice rang out triumphantly, and my gaze shifted back to her. You admit to this murder!

I admit to no murder, I replied in a tone of surprise. What I said was, Argus died because of me.

Hera’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The assemblage was quiet for a moment before renewed murmuring broke out. Apollo sat straighter on his throne, his eagerness to hear more all too apparent. My father’s reaction was more subtle. I was certain he was smiling, but his brown beard hid his mouth.

Hera swept her eyes over the crowd briefly before she regarded me again. She didn’t trust me. She had reason not to.

What did Argus die from if not murder? she asked, her voice admirably calm.

Boredom, I replied simply.

In the wake of my statement, there was a long silence in the chamber. Then someone tittered, and someone else snickered, and soon the entire assemblage rippled with muffled laughter and giggles. I raised my eyebrows at Hera, but I kept my expression solemn.

Hera glared back at me. Explain, she snarled impatiently.

I spent the day as a shepherd, as I often do… (Various beings present nodded to each other, smiling. I usually dressed as a shepherd, anyway, so my claim came as no surprise.) …and I was still in shepherd garb when I happened by your western gardens. I saw an astonishing creature there. I’d heard of Argus, of course, but I’d never met him, and there was no mistaking a giant with eyes covering every bit of his body! Well, the poor giant was very bored, as his only companion was a white calf tethered to a tree. I sought to give him company and entertain him, but I failed miserably. He fell asleep in the middle of the story I was telling. Every one of his eyes closed, if you can believe that, and then he died, poor creature. I didn’t think my story was so boring, but—

Enough prattle! Hera shouted, managing to be heard above the crowd, which was now roaring with laughter. She was so furious (whether at me or at the crowd’s reaction, I don’t know) that she trembled as she pointed at me and said, You are responsible for Argus’ death, murderer!

I apologize, my queen, I said. I deeply regret the giant’s death, but I didn’t know boring someone to death was considered murder.

What of the calf he was guarding, then? Hera cried as her hands bunched into fists. Do you deny that you freed the calf?

Forgive me, but what else was I to do? I retorted gently. The calf’s caretaker was dead, I had to leave the gardens, and I saw no one else close by to tend the calf, so I set it free. I wasn’t going to let the poor beast remain tied there, not knowing when someone would arrive to—

You had to leave? Hera interrupted, narrowing her eyes again. Why?

The question was genuinely surprising and (I thought) astonishingly stupid. I frowned at her and in complete seriousness answered, I had to escort Argus’ soul to the Underworld. It resides there now, in the Elysian Fields.

The throne room immediately became silent. Of all the Olympians, my powers were the weakest, but I had an ability that only one other being shared, an ability that even gods found unnerving — I could enter and leave all portions of the Underworld completely at will. Only the powerful elder god Hades, lord of the Underworld, could do the same.

All creatures fear death, but immortals fear it most, for the very idea of death is strange to them. I liked to think then that death didn’t frighten me. After all, one of my tasks was to escort the souls of deceased mortals to the Underworld, a task I’m certain no one else would have willingly shared with me.

Hera cleared her throat in the quiet chamber and looked at me sadly. At least his soul made it to the Elysian Fields, she said. He should be happy there.

Yes, my queen, I replied with a bow of my head.

Angry though she was with me, I knew my words comforted Hera somewhat. She was extremely fond of Argus, and the Elysian Fields rivaled the beauty of Olympus itself, despite being contained underground. The fields contained the souls of heroes both great and modest, who dwelt there in complete joy and bliss.

Hera gave me one last, searching look, and then she sighed with apparent acceptance.

All beings present are now to let their preferences known, she said. Those in favor of releasing the herald, cast your pebbles at his feet. Those in favor of condemning the herald should cast their pebbles at mine.

Not a single pebble touched the ivory toes of the goddess. My own feet were soon so covered with pebbles that I was in danger of tripping and toppling over. My winged hat and sandals carried me into the air as laughter and chatter again filled the room. Hovering, I swept a grateful salute to my fellow immortals, who met me with applause. I bowed slightly to excuse myself from the attention and then flew to my mother’s side.

Maia laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek softly, her eyes filled with grateful tears. I didn’t have an opportunity to speak to her, however, because two strong hands suddenly grabbed my other shoulder from behind and spun me about.

Ha! yelled Apollo, throwing his arms around me in a brotherly hug. I knew you’d talk your way out of it, Hermes! How could you not, being the most clever of gods?

I grinned back at my half brother and gently pushed him away. Peace, brother, I chuckled in a low voice. Not so loud, else Hera will have her vengeance!

I turned back to my mother, but she’d gone. I wasn’t surprised.

Most gods and Titans had already left the chamber and returned to the duties they’d briefly abandoned for Hera’s council. Hera herself was gone as well, but my father was still there. He stood before his seat and gestured for me to remain.

We’ll talk later, brother, I whispered to Apollo.

I rose into the air and flew across the room to land before my father. The bouleuterion was soon empty of everyone but the two of us, allowing Zeus his own private council. The walls had almost seemed alive with gods during Hera’s trial, but now that everyone else was gone, the still, brightly-painted marble seemed rather dull to me.

Zeus sat himself on his large, gilded throne and wearily rubbed a hand across his eyes. I remained standing with my hands clasped behind my back in a posture of respect.

A near thing, Hermes, Zeus sighed finally, smiling at me.

I wasn’t worried, Father, I shrugged. Hera’s emotions always cloud her actions. I regret the harm done to her servant, but I knew I’d have no trouble defending myself.

It was still a near thing, said Zeus. I appreciate the help you’ve given me, but I’ve no wish to see you imprisoned in Tartarus. I’ll not ask you to intervene in any more of my affairs.

I shrugged again, not quite believing him because he swore no oath. My father’s appetites and infidelity were already legendary, and as patriarch of the gods, he was free to indulge himself however he pleased. Most of the time, Hera’s jealousy curbed Zeus’ behavior. If it didn’t, his offspring would have completely populated the world in very short order.

I aided my father in some of his amorous pursuits when he asked for my help, partly because I loved my father and would do almost anything for him, and partly because it amused me to do so. Despite her vengeful nature, I was fond of Hera as well, or at least I was at that time. However, I couldn’t resist an opportunity to outwit her, if only to see her rage over her inability to completely stop my father.

Because of his unpredictable lust, Father’s promise meant nothing to me. I knew I’d soon be asked to hide or disguise another woman who’d found his favor, or guard another bastard child of his.

What of Io, the white calf? I asked, curious about the fate of Zeus’ latest lover. Zeus had magically changed the human girl into a lovely white calf to disguise her from Hera. Hera, of course, hadn’t been fooled. She had claimed the calf as her own and imprisoned it in her gardens with the multi-eyed giant Argus watching over it. Zeus had asked me to rescue the poor girl, as he usually did when his love affairs went awry. Argus’ ever-watchful eyes presented a challenge that Zeus thought would be a match for my peculiar talents. Yes, I’d freed Io from her predicament, but did poor Argus have to die?

Io now resides south across the sea, along the Nile, Zeus said sadly. I helped the white calf flee there once you freed her. I was then able to restore Io discreetly to her human form. She will live out her days as a queen, worshipped by the Nile people. I owe her that for the suffering I brought her.

I nodded and looked down at the polished marble floor, frowning to myself. I wasn’t thinking of Io, really.

Tell me what troubles you, said Zeus.

I didn’t intend to kill Argus, I said, shaking my head slightly in bewilderment. I merely wanted to lull him to sleep and then slip the calf away. He was so quick and powerful, and his senses were so sharp… I had to trick him into sleeping. But when all of his eyes closed… I faltered, confused, and kept my own eyes fixed on the floor.

You had no way of knowing Argus was so vulnerable, Zeus sighed. His constant alertness was a condition of his existence, else his body wouldn’t have been covered with eyes. If all the eyes were to close at once and Argus were to fall asleep, he would die.

You deliberately didn’t tell me, then? I replied, looking up at Zeus. It wasn’t an accusation, merely an observation.

I didn’t know how you planned to free Io, so I didn’t think to tell you, Zeus replied. I didn’t wish Argus dead, either, but his death is not your fault. I assume he wasn’t resentful when you led him to the Underworld?

No, I said, and it was true. Argus’ soul, in fact, was overjoyed when I brought him to the Elysian Fields, to dwell forever in the company of heroes. I never hoped to be honored this way! the giant exclaimed. To be brought here! The mighty spirit then cuffed me gratefully and left me to my amazement and relief.

You’re guiltless, son, so worry not, said Zeus, smiling. It was naught but an unfortunate accident. I thank you again for your help and your loyalty, Hermes. I don’t foresee having tasks for you for quite some time, so please take leave to enjoy your freedom.

I smiled back at him and bowed, acknowledging his dismissal. I turned to walk from the room and leave him in peace.

The huge metal doors of the bouleuterion opened as I walked toward them, and the elder goddess Hestia quietly slipped into the room and hurried to her hearth at its center. She sat down beside the fire and smiled up at me as I walked past.

Congratulations, nephew, Hestia said in her soft, warm voice. She then turned her attention to her fire, not seeking a reply.

Hestia never really expected acknowledgement of any sort, quiet and humble being that she was. I replied anyway: Many thanks, aunt.

I left the throne room and walked through the surrounding gardens into the mountain polis. It gleamed in the late sunlight, as the sun god Helios had not yet completed his daily path across the sky. Even so, the gate that led into Olympus proper was shrouded in a mist that shafts of sunlight couldn’t penetrate, at least not completely. The mist came from dense, magical clouds that obscured the gate from those who would cause the gods harm.

Olympus truly was beautiful, but I could never bear to stay there long. My presence was no longer required, so I could leave.

Just before the gate, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was a young, dark-haired goddess frowning at a heap of spun flax in her lap. She was one of the three Horae, goddesses that guarded the entrance to Olympus. Like most goddesses, the Horae were lovely and young in appearance. They were my half sisters, but I never called them by name as (though it shames me to admit it) I could never tell them apart.

Trouble with your spinning, sister? I asked as I approached the Horae. I grinned at her exasperated frown as she looked up from her work.

As ever, Hermes, she replied. I have no gift for spinning, yet I keep trying. She stood up and impatiently kicked her work aside.

You’re stubborn, I said. That means you’ll succeed eventually.

Eventually, she sighed. I assume you’re to leave us now?

Do I ever stay? I asked teasingly.

No, never, she smiled back. I wish you would stay, especially after your triumph in Hera’s council. No desire to celebrate, brother? One would think you have no love for your family.

Love, yes, but I’m also fond of the outer world. There I can see both the world and my family. So, if you’d please…?

The Horae sighed again and waved an arm. Instantly, a gentle breeze blew the clouds aside to reveal the elaborate and ornate bronze gate, one of Hephaestos’ proudest creations. I nodded my thanks to the Horae, who waved my gesture aside with impatient good humor as she sat back down on the ground to resume her battle with the flax. As I stepped through the gate, the clouds instantly closed back over it behind me, making my surroundings appear as unremarkable as any cloud-shrouded mountaintop.

Before I could take flight, slim golden arms slipped around my middle from behind me, and perfect fingers slid upward to caress my chest.

I would have another son from you, Hermes, a voice as lovely as a lyre’s purred into my ear.

I grasped the hands with my own and drew them away as I turned to face their owner. Aphrodite, of course. She must have been waiting for me outside the gate, staying invisible until I emerged. I’ve been called the merriest of gods, but the sight of the beautiful goddess leached all the joy from my heart. It didn’t use to.

No, Aphrodite, I said to her, managing a slight smile. You’ll have no more children from me. Forgive me, goddess, but I’ve no wish to touch you again.

I released the goddess’ hands and stepped back from her to regard her calmly. The loveliest of frowns crossed her face. Aphrodite wasn’t used to being rebuffed. Indeed, I may have been the first being to ever do so.

"Why, Hermes?" she asked in an angry whisper.

You do have a husband—

Hephaestos cannot give me children, she snapped.

—and your lover Ares rarely leaves your side.

His daughter through me shows me neither respect nor devotion!

"Less than the devotion you’ve shown our youngest child? I retorted angrily. A child conceived in lust, not love, and so loathsome to himself that he longs for death?"

A child like Eros! pleaded Aphrodite. Please, Hermes, like Eros. I long to have another son like him or better. A child with beauty to rival Apollo’s.

Join with Apollo then, goddess, I replied. "I swear by the Styx, you’ll not have me again."

I flew off, leaving Aphrodite with my oath. She remained standing at the edge of the mountain, cursing at me, and I little suspected how much I would come to regret that oath.

Chapter 2: Beginning

My sister Clio, the Muse of history, insists that before I continue my tale, I really must tell of my early life, prior to Hera’s trial. I suppose there’s no real harm in humoring the Muses. After all, they know more about the storytelling art than I do.

My oldest memory is of cave walls reflecting firelight. The walls were within a mountain, where my mother, the Titaness Maia, had immersed herself to hide from prying eyes and from Hera’s wrath.

Maia’s father was Atlas, one of the oldest and mightiest of the Titans. Centuries before, Atlas had opposed Zeus in a war between the gods, a war that lasted for many years and devastated many portions of the earth. When the Titans lost the war, as punishment for Atlas’ treachery, Zeus condemned him to support a portion of the heavy, awkward sky for as long as the sky existed.

Atlas and his wife, the Titaness Pleione, had seven daughters who mortals called the Pleiades, goddesses of the stars. Though they were born on the earth, the goddesses were rarely seen here, as they were most at home in the heavens, tending to the stars in their own mysterious ways. However, despite this, and despite mighty Zeus’ condemnation of her father, the eldest of the Pleiades, Maia, fell in love with Zeus. She left her sisters to walk the earth and was soon carrying Zeus’ child.

Maia was more crafty and prudent than most of Zeus’ other lovers, and she was determined to protect herself and her child from Hera’s jealousy. She traveled by herself, in secret, to her birthplace on Cyllene, a mountain that overlooked the northern lands of the Peloponnese. Maia and her sisters had been born in a hidden sanctuary deep within the mountain; a sanctuary even Zeus didn’t know existed. Alone in that humble cave, Maia brought me forth.

It isn’t unusual for gods to grow extremely fast. I was not a half day old when I first noticed my surroundings, when I first noticed my mother sleeping peacefully beside me, exhausted from birthing and nursing her child. Immortals, after all, do become weary and do need to rest and sleep, though not as often as mortals do.

I thought my mother was very beautiful, with her fair skin and black, curled hair. I watched her for a long time, as her eyelashes flickered in her sleep and the woolen blankets that covered her rose and fell with her gentle breath. Then my gaze wandered for a while over the small, clean cave; over the meager possessions my mother had collected there; and over the magical, smokeless fire that burned in a far corner.

I was already weaned and capable of walking, and my mind was filling with knowledge of the world and my place in it. I quickly grew bored with the bland walls of the cave and the light of the fire. Not wishing to disturb my mother, I tied a small, woolen blanket around myself as a rough himation and crept out of the cave. I hurried through the smooth, stone tunnel toward a blinding whiteness that I knew led to the outside world.

Stepping out of the cave, I entered a wondrous land of light and color. When I first saw the land of Arcadia stretched out far below me, I loved it instantly. Even my mother’s beauty seemed unremarkable compared to the beautiful earth — the gleaming stones of the mountains and foothills, the greenery that seemed to go on forever from the mountain’s base, and the brilliantly blue sky filled with shifting clouds and warm sunlight.

Surrounded by such heady sights, I couldn’t stop myself from making my way down the mountain to explore the beautiful, exciting world. I rather shamefully admit that I completely forgot about my poor mother resting in her cave and how she might worry about me.

I made my way down in a roundabout fashion and circled around Mount Cyllene to see if the land was the same on all sides. To my delight, in the distance on the northern side, the stone and greenery were interrupted by a narrow, shimmering island of deep blue, as if the sky itself had cut into the land. This was my first glimpse of water, the Gulf of Corinth, which separated the lands of the Peloponnese from their northern neighbors. Farther around the mountain, I saw that the Peloponnese was in fact connected to the northlands by only a narrow tongue of stone and dirt. I had to get to those northern lands somehow, though I really didn’t know why.

Climbing down a mountain is, of course, great work for a small child, even a godling. However, my strength never failed me, and I never needed to stop. I hardly felt the relentless sunlight of the day or the chill air of the night, and I never grew hungry or thirsty. The constantly changing sky was endlessly entertaining to me. I often squinted up at the bright sun or marveled at the moon, wishing I could reach them somehow.

It took days for me to climb down the mountain, and I did suffer a fair number of cuts and bruises in the attempt. My fingers bled tiny droplets of amber-colored ichor. My cuts soon healed, causing me no pain, so I didn’t worry about them.

Finally, as I reached the bottom of Mount Cyllene, the rocky terrain gave way to shrubs, grasses, and trees. I’d made it to the greenery at last, and the wilderness was even more exciting now that it surrounded me. It was dense and alive with the rustling leaves of trees, the buzzing of insects, the curious squeaks of birds, and the distant sounds of wind and water. My curiosity overwhelmed any tiredness I might have felt, and I pressed on, heading northeast to the bit of land that parted the blue water.

During my journey, I came upon a slow, clear river that ran across my path. It was mostly dried up by drought, so the water was shallow and narrow enough for a child to cross. I stopped at the water’s edge when I noticed it reflected my image back at me. Getting down on all fours, I leaned over the stream and gazed intently into my own eyes. I wondered if they were indeed as blue as the distant water I’d seen, as blue as the clear, brilliant sky. It was hard to tell from the image, in which my entire skin was tinged greenish blue. My hair was even curlier than my mother’s, but I could tell it was light brown instead of black. Though I was only days old, I resembled a human child of five years. I’d grown fast indeed, and I wasn’t dissatisfied with my appearance.

I got up and crossed the stream, careful to not get my makeshift himation wet. On the other side of the stream, my attention was drawn to an odd sight.

A strangely-shaped object, slightly larger than my head, lay several strides away from me. It appeared to have four limbs and a head, just as I did; otherwise, it didn’t resemble me at all. It was a wrinkled, withered thing, its brown limbs and head protruding from a large, mottled shell of some sort, its eyes closed and sunken, its sharp, dry mouth gaping open.

I sat down on the ground next to the thing and cautiously reached out a hand to touch its head — and then jerked my hand away in shock at the feel of it. It had skin, as I did, but the skin was missing a vital element that I couldn’t explain. It lacked movement and breath. My first encounter with another creature, sadly, was with a dead tortoise.

I sat and stared at the tortoise for a long time, not understanding why its condition troubled me. How could it not be living, protected by such a splendid, sturdy shell? I had no such protection, and I was living. I knew then, somehow, that I could never be as this tortoise was. Such a condition was impossible for me.

As I gazed at the tortoise and pondered the riddle of its nonlife, my long days of travel finally overcame me, and I fell asleep.

I don’t know how long I slept, but when I finally awoke, it was to another troubling sight. The tortoise was no longer whole. It had been stripped of flesh and frame by something that had clearly wanted it but had had no interest in me. Only the top of the tortoise’s shell was intact, clean except for a line of vertebrae still attached to the inside. Cautiously, I reached out my hands and grabbed the shell to pick it up and shake it. It was surprisingly light and smooth to the touch.

I carried the shell to the stream and washed it, marveling at the rich, marbled hues of earthy color that the clean water exposed. As I held up the shell to let the sun dry it, it occurred to me that it was just about the right size for my head. I therefore placed the shell on my head, pleased to have such a handsome hat. I must have looked rather comical, but I was happy with my new hat and somewhat relieved that the turtle’s body had produced something useful. There had to be a purpose to the turtle’s lost life, I thought, even if only to provide me with a serviceable hat.

The rest of my journey was relatively uneventful, but I noticed that I did attract attention during my long walk. Birds and animals found me as fascinating as I found them, and I occasionally heard what sounded like muffled speech or laughter around me, though I never saw the source. The inhabitants of the woods and fields seemed content to leave me alone, which rather disappointed me. I would’ve been glad to meet a fellow creature.

When I at last reached the sliver of land bridging the Peloponnese with the northlands, it became obvious to me that crossing wasn’t going to be a simple matter. The isthmus was as rocky as the land I’d journeyed across, and though I wasn’t really tired, I was weary of walking. It had become immensely boring. Fortunately, I was close to something that promised some relief and entertainment during my journey.

Unbeknownst to me, I’d wandered into the land of Argolis, between the great states of Corinth and Mycenae, and for the first time, I saw homes and people. I kept walking, however, caught by a compulsion that made me want to continue northward, to reach a land that I somehow knew was called Thessalia, a land containing another mountain that was very important.

I passed by the first home I ever saw, which was a humble wooden hut isolated by wide expanses of tilled earth. A human in the distance spotted me. It waved and yelled at me, but I hurried on, no longer interested in meeting anyone or anything, not wanting to be delayed. I passed several people in this fashion, walking through their lands and quickening my pace when they showed too much interest. I was more concerned about staying on my path, wherever it led.

The sun had sunk below the mountains and hills behind me when the land finally ended, at the top of a sharp cliff. Smells of mist and salt and the sounds of gulls and crashing waves told me I’d made it to the sea, though I’d never before heard or smelled the sea.

When I reached the top of the cliff, below it was something else I’d never before witnessed. I stared with excitement at the short expanse of beach, which was populated by a group of men and a modest sailing craft. The men were settling down for an evening meal, gathering around a large fire burning in a pit deep in the sand. The air in the little cove was filled with talk and laughter, the music of flutes, and the smell of cooking mutton. The darkening, seemingly-endless sea filled the world beyond and taunted the sailors with its constantly shifting waves.

Smiling to myself, I climbed quietly and carefully down the cliff to the beach, trusting the darkness to conceal me from the men. Then, alternately running and hiding behind piles of wood, bundles of cloth, and clay jars, I made my way to the boat, wanting to see it up close.

The small ship was open and narrow with a black-painted hull made of poplar and fir. She was light enough that her men could easily haul her onto land at night for camping ashore. She had oars on both sides, enough for twenty men, and a worn sail wrapped in rest around a tall mast. Though a light craft, she appeared hard constructed and more than capable of standing up to the blows of huge waves.

As I stood examining the boat, it was inevitable that I’d be spotted, though I would’ve preferred being spotted in a way that didn’t startle me. When I stepped closer to the bow and looked for a way to climb into the boat, a man’s head suddenly appeared over the gunnel. His brown eyes looked straight into mine, and his face, long darkened and cracked by the sun, was so close that I could smell his fishy breath. I couldn’t help jumping a bit in fright at his quick appearance and intense scrutiny. I was proud of myself for not running away, but I did step backward two paces.

This boat’ll not help you escape, little slave, the man said to me, smiling slightly. There’s no place for you to hide here. I can return you to your master, though. Perhaps he’ll reward me, eh? Your name?

I’m Hermes Cylleneios. I said those first words to the man proudly, ignorant of how I knew my own name.

That’s a large name for such a small slave, said the man, smiling more broadly.

I’m not a runaway slave, I said reasonably, I need to go to Thessalia. There’s a mountain I must reach.

Thessalia? said the man, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. That’s a fair ways, little traveler. It’s treacherous on foot. The Isthmus of Corinth is not a light path.

I know. Can you help? I replied wistfully as I looked at the mast.

The man chuckled. Indeed, lad. You’re fortunate to meet a merchant ship. We plan to sail up the coast and through the islands to deliver wares, and you’re welcome to accompany us if you wish.

I should have been wary of the man, wary that his generosity wasn’t completely honorable; but (child that I was), I trusted him anyway. I knew, somehow, that he couldn’t harm me even if he wished it, and I was too curious to find out how I knew the things I knew. Thessalia held my answers, of that I was certain, and reaching it was all that mattered.

My name isn’t as grand as yours, the man continued as he slipped his hands beneath my arms and lifted me into the boat. I’m not so important as to be named for a mountain. I’m called Nicios, and this is my ship, the Cyprio. She’s not large, but she’s fast. She means to call the beaches of Thessalia her next home. Stay out from underfoot and we’ll take you even farther than that, if you wish.

I nodded vaguely and looked around at the innards of the ship. I was relieved that I’d found an easier way to continue northward. The steady, rhythmic sounds and salty smells of the waves lulled my senses into dullness. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep. Forgetting all about Nicios, and completely unconcerned about my safety, I crawled under the small vestigial deck at the Cyprio’s stern. Laying my head upon a coil of rope, I fell into slumber.

When I awoke, it was to the curious sensation of rocking and swaying movement. It was as if the entire earth was being blown about by wind. From my place beneath the stern, I saw bright sunlight and the feet of many men moving about. The sounds of the waves were punctuated by water slapping the hull, and the men’s voices were pleasant, filled with laughter and friendly conversation. Eagerly, I crawled out of my makeshift bedchamber and smiled with delight at the busy sailors around me. They smiled back and regarded me with amusement as I clung to a gunnel and gazed out over the beautiful sea, which was even bluer than the sky. Hilly land was visible on the west side of the boat, and islands peeked above the water on the right. We were clearly sailing northward along the coast toward Thessalia, as Nicios had promised.

While the other men took turns rowing the Cyprio, Nicios remained at the rear of the ship, manning the steering diaki and watching me intently. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, but he didn’t beckon me to him or attempt to speak to me. This didn’t concern me. There were so many other things to occupy my attention.

Not a rich or ornamental craft, but I’d been right to think the Cyprio was well made. Speed and maneuverability were her true beauties, and she responded easily to the care and direction of her men. The sailors tolerated me well enough as I wandered the ship and examined her make. Nicios must have mentioned my precocious nature to the men, for they didn’t treat me as a naive child at all. In fact, they delighted in describing the Cyprio’s assets for my benefit. I listened with fascination as the sailors told me how the crossbeams and throughbeams were fastened with treenails, how the tendon joints were formed from the best-cured poplar, and how the thole pins were held in place with the strongest leather straps to be found. No doubt, most people would’ve found the information dull, but I was enthralled, having never before listened to the speech of men. Even if I had thought the talk boring, the men shared their knowledge with such pride that I couldn’t bring myself to discourage them.

The sailors had stored their belongings and the Cyprio’s cargo in various areas around the ship, mostly at the stem. I assured the men that it wouldn’t disturb me to share room with supplies under the stern, so they shifted cargo there as well. I then watched as two men untwisted the sail from the mast, which was held in place by forestays above the keel. The loose-footed square sail was made up of patches of brightly-colored linen. As it unfurled in the wind, the image formed by the bright colors held my attention. It was of a muscular and bearded man wielding a three-pronged fishing spear — a trident — seemingly ready to cast it into the sea at unknown prey. This image, I knew, represented one of the unnamed reasons I needed to get to Thessalia.

Reviews for Herald

[pensivecat · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Houck retells well-known stories of Greek mythology through the eyes of Hermes, messenger of the gods. It is styled as Hermes' autobiography, from his unusual childhood to his tumultuous relationship with Aphrodite, as well as his tragic marriage to a human. The novel also focuses on his somewhat uncomfortable ability to see the dead, and his responsibilities to them as a result. Good for anyone who is into mythology/fantasy.