Pantheon – Volume 2

By Gary Devore

Pantheon– a novel of the ancient Greek gods (e-pub version). The gods came to earth when humans stopped believing in them as divine. Powerless but immortal, they have lived among us, witnessing and shaping history. Now the god that supplanted them has found a way they can reclaim their status and worship. He asks only one thing in return for this knowledge– They must destroy every religion in the world.

In this volume, two female deities- the former goddesses of women and that of wisdom, try to navigate the modern world. Hera has to find a way to say goodbye to her (non-divine) son, and Athena has to solve a murder mystery with disturbing echoes of her own immortal life.

Pantheon is available as six compact volumes, or one omnibus edition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329733961

Book preview

Pantheon – Volume 2

PANTHEON

A Novel of the Greek Gods

Volume II

Hera • Athena

By Gary Devore

Copyright

Original copyright © 2011 Gary Devore, revision copyright © 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead or divine is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Brief chapter head quotes not by long dead Greeks and Romans used through Fair Use attribution.

PANTHEON – Volume II

ISBN-13:  978-1-329-73396-1

garydevore.com/pantheon

Image Credits: Cover- Madonna with the Christ Child by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato (Public Domain);  The Pensive Athena- www.flickr.com/photos/rosemania (Creative Commons);  Frontispiece- The Course of Empire: Consummation by Thomas Cole (Public Domain); Hera- www.flickr.com/photos/tirch (Creative Commons);  Athena- www.flickr.com/photos/hslo (Creative Commons);  Back Cover- www.flickr.com/photos/jjcbaron (Creative Commons).

Preface

In this second volume of the novel Pantheon, two female deities– the former goddesses of women and that of wisdom– try to navigate the modern world. 

Hera seeks to find a way to say goodbye to her (non-divine) son, as she faces the challenges of never having to die. 

Athena teams with a Scotland Yard detective to solve a sinister murder mystery with disturbing echoes of her own immortal life.

For more volumes, and the full, epic story of Pantheon, visit garydevore.com/pantheon.

h e r a

great goddess of women

"But my son was born the weakest of all the gods,

Hephaistos with crippled feet, who I bore by myself.

I seized him and threw him into the wide sea.

But Nereus’ daughter, silver-shod Thetis,

Rescued and cared for him with her sisters."

–The Homeric Hymn to Apollo

"Miracle of miracles

Look what the night dragged in

It’s a pocket full of misery

And trouble on the wind

You spoiled the best years of your life

You took them all in vain

Now you think that you’re forgiven

But you can’t be born again."

–The Eurythmics, Don’t Ask Me Why

Hera gazed out the window of the airplane.  Below her stretched swelling white clouds in an infinite expanse– a silent, unmoving sea of carded cotton.  The tips of these crested waves sat frozen and unmoving.  Sometimes, thinning holes allowed her to glimpse the land below, as if offering a secret view of Atlantis hidden down on the sea floor.  The sun was rising far in the distance.  It ignited the horizon in a blaze of cream and red.  Hera squinted.  She could make out a faint rainbow curving above, extending upward forever.

Inside the plane, the speaker system crackled.  The pilot informed the passengers that they were about to start their final descent to Kennedy Airport, and that all seatbelts should be fastÍened.  The co-pilot then took the microphone and repeated the same announcement in Spanish.  Hera continued to stare through two oval layers of scratched plastic.  The cabin pressure shifted as the plane began to sink into the clouds.  Hera imagined herself a true goddess, her gaze penetrating this woolly stratum to fall upon her worshippers clustered below on the lonely earth.  Soon, immaterial white was everywhere as the cotton ocean swallowed the plane whole.

Invisible forces set upon the plane, rocking it gently back and forth.  The cabin squeaked as joints and hinges shook.  Hera could feel vibrations pulsating up from under her seat.  Immediately her mind offered an innocent question:  would she survive if the plane suddenly went down?  If it was sent spinning toward the solid ground by the rascal hands that were now rattling the aircraft back and forth like a giant sistrum, bursting into a raging fireball upon impact, would her charred and seared immortal flesh eventually congeal itself back into her original form?  A tinge of dread floated through her frame.  She was not ready to die, if indeed she could, although that was the exact reason she was arriving in New York a week early.

Like the others who had been made material with her, Hera still had some of the cosmic dust left in her divine atoms.  Their bodies functioned much like human bodies in many respects.  They sweated, and spit, and flinched, and cried.  There were both advantages and deficiencies, however.  They never needed to eat, and they could not digest either food or liquids.  Sleep was never needed, and they only had to rest to regain their strength after exertion.  They feared no disease or virus.  And they were sterile.  None could produce offspring, either with each other or with a human.

They had no real godly powers, but did smell, hear, see, taste, feel and perceive more than the average human.  When Hera concentrated, she could hear a sleeping man moan next door.  She could distinguish identical twins by their distinct scents.  She could recognize a coming storm by a drop in air pressure, and could literally taste early-morning dew on a lawn.  Her senses often told her when a human she was talking to was sad, or happy, or lying, or in pain.  If she closed her eyes, and stretched his senses out like arms radiating from her body, pushing away the continuous grumble of the world, she could focus on a source and find mouse hiding under a nearby thicket.  Like everything else, it took effort.  But these were hardly the powers of a goddess. 

The plane finally broke through the underside of the clouds, and the turbulence stopped.  Far below sat the great clustering of this New Atlantis.  Buildings were crowded together in varying patterns.  A complex network of roads and highways crisscrossed its surface.  Patches of snow glistened in the early morning sunlight.  Twisting rivers looked like arteries pumping bright blue fluid under the pale skin of a giant.  The plane glided toward a large bay.  Hera could see the airport.

Señora, a red-haired stewardess said, leaning across the empty seat beside Hera. 

The immortal turned to her. 

"Your seat belt, por favor."

Hera nodded and fastened the metal buckle across her waist and the stewardess moved on.  Hera lifted a black purse into her lap and unlatched its snap.  Inside, she gently delved past her ticket stub, a small burgundy address book, and various cosmetics.  Extracting a pocket compact, she flipped it open, and looked at her reflection in the small mirror.  Her make-up was still fresh.  She reached up and adjusted her brown hair, which had been gathered up like a crown and pulled towards the back of her head.  Her features belonged to the quietly beautiful face of a delicate woman in her prime of life.  Where there should be wrinkles, however, there was only soft material.  Where age and experience should have worn lines and creases into pliable skin, there was the perfect product of an expert artist’s hand.  Hera grinned slightly into the mirror and wondered how anyone could ever mistake her for a human. 

Replacing the compact in her purse, Hera gathered up a light blue scarf from the empty seat beside her.  She draped it across the back of her head threw one end over her shoulder.  Then she sat back in her seat, placing both arms on the broad rests, and waited patiently for the plane to land.

Finally, there was a sharp bounce as the wheels hit the runway.  The engines roared.  The whirling tires rumbled against the cement.  The broken yellow lines on the pavement flashed back past the window like hundreds of accelerating electric impulses.  Eventually, the plane’s speed decreased and came under control.  In the cabin, a few passengers began to applaud the pilot for his successful landing.  Hera smiled.  They were grateful to him for not delivering them unto death.  She was grateful he had kept them safe as well. 

When the signal had been given, Hera unbuckled her seat belt.  She stood with the others, and smoothed out the folds in her brown, silk dress.  The interior of the plane then became a flurry of activity and commotion.  Hera simply slid into her blue lambs’ wool coat, picked up her purse, tucked it neatly under one arm, and glided toward the exit. 

Inside the airport, she made her way with the other passengers through an immigration checkpoint.  She handed the haggard control officer her passport with a small grin.  The document was authentic.  She had actually been able to apply for one in Spain without a birth certificate.  This, however, would be the last time that she would use it. 

The officer opened the booklet and glanced at the information.  He raised his tired eyes and asked Señora Everard how long she had lived in Barcelona.  Hera replied ten years, proud that she had even adopted an accent during that time.  He inquired about her business in New York and she answered politely, but evenly, I have come to see my son.

On the other side of passport control, Hera found a porter.  He was a tall and lean man with graying hair tucked under a wide cap.  His uniform was a bit too long in the sleeves and legs, and he kept pulling his pants back up to nestle on his thin hips.  She handed him her luggage receipt and sent him off to wait in the long, crowded line for her suitcases.  While he was gone, Hera watched the people around her with interest.  A middle-age man with glasses and a garment bag thrown over one shoulder tiredly waited for his luggage to appear on the belt.  A young mother, sitting with a sleeping baby, rocked it gently back and forth in one hand while filling in a crossword puzzle with the other.  A burly marine stood reading a flowery Romance novel. 

Hera loved humans.  They were fascinating to her.  She had learned how to masquerade as one by studying them with the loving gaze of an outsider.  Her immortality gave her the perspective.  Her curiosity gave her energy.  Her patience gave her joy.

When the porter returned with her luggage, Hera opened her purse and extracted two crisp American twenty-dollar bills from a white envelope.  She handed them to the man and asked him to accompany her.  He tipped his cap and followed her up an escalator, through customs, and outside to the taxi curb.

Señora Everard, she heard a sweet voice call. 

A short woman in a gray suit hurried up to her. 

Good morning. the woman said in Spanish, smiling broadly.  My name’s Jacqueline Ithaldo.  Welcome to New York. 

Thank you, Hera replied in English.

Your car’s over here, if you’d like to go this way, she said, extending her arm towards a large, ivory-colored sedan parked across the street. 

They walked over to it and Jacqueline opened the trunk.  I hope the plane was on time.

Yes.  It was a pleasant flight.  Long, but pleasant.

The porter placed the suitcases inside as a light snow began to fall.  He hoisted his pants up again and asked, Will there be anything else, Miss?

No.  Hera pulled out two more twenty-dollar bills and gave them to him.  Your service has been exceptional.  Have a very good holiday.

The porter was happy.  Thank you, Miss.  You have a Merry Christmas too.  A very Merry Christmas.

Jacqueline closed the trunk and opened one of the sedan’s doors.  Hera slipped into the back seat as the porter shuffled off with a wave.

The human climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine.  

Has the hotel room been secured? Hera asked her.

Yes, Señora.  Shall I take you there now?

Hera settled into her seat and relaxed.  Yes.  After I drop off my luggage and register, I would like you to drive me to Pennsylvania Station.  Is it far from the hotel?

Jacqueline pulled away from the curb.  No.  Not very far at all.

Splendid.  Hera removed her scarf from around her head and sat it on her lap.  After a few minutes, she added, I must take a short trip today.  Will you be available when I return to the city later this evening?

Certainly, Señora, Jacqueline replied, switching on the car’s heating system.  I’m completely at your disposal.

Hera looked out of the window, as the car merged into early morning expressway traffic.  The land on either side of the highway was stagnant and uniform.  Bare trees and evergreens burdened with snow crowded together like a dull wall, but Hera knew that to the northwest, the majestic sight of New York City was waiting.  She imagined strolling down some of the famous streets she had not seen in over a century.  She would delight in shopping in the lavish American department stores.  To her they would probably eclipse even the most fashionable boutiques she loved in Madrid and Barcelona.  Art Galleries would beckon her too, as would the opera, for which she was currently regaining her appreciation.  As Hera found herself eagerly anticipating immersion into that great cosmopolitan metropolis, she tried to retain a sense of caution.  Her first duty still lay two hours south of the city.

Jacqueline switched on the stereo.  A CD of Vivaldi’s La Primavera gently rose to life, as the car’s wipers swept loose snow from the windshield. 

Has the winter been bad in the city? Hera asked.

Oh yes, Jacqueline answered.  It’s been a very bad winter.  Worse than ’96 or 2010.  She adjusted the car’s heater.  They’re running out of places to put all the snow.

Hera watched a few flakes melt on the warm window next to her.  I’ve missed winter.  Real winter.  The Mediterranean breezes only brought rain.  There was the occasional snowfall, but not this...  She shook her head in amazement.  It shows you how human beings can adapt to anything.

Jacqueline smiled widely.  Every year I ask myself why I don’t just pack my bags and move to Florida.  Leave the cold behind.

Oh, don’t do that.  Hera put her hand up to her cheek.  Florida is monstrous.  I was on my way to the Caribbean once and landed there.  Horrible.  Everyone had guns and Bibles.  Flying insects the size of your head.  And alligators.  A blizzard is preferable.

Jacqueline was amused.  Anywhere south will do, really.

Cozumel.  Sometimes there are too many tourists, but the beaches are breathtaking.  Hera could see Jacqueline’s face reflected in the front window.  She studied its shape.  The woman’s brown hair hid most of her features.  Her lips were full, and the eyes that were busily scanning the road were outlined in dark eyeliner.  Have you always lived in the city? Hera asked.

Jacqueline nodded.  Since I was five.  I was born on a boat on the Mississippi River.

Hera raised her eyebrows.  A boat?

My mother was taking a ferry between St. Louis and Cahokia.  She went into labor right as they set sail.  Before they reached the other shore, I was out.

Was it a long trip or an experienced mother?

Experienced mother.  I was the last of seven.

Seven is a lot.

Are you an only child?

Hera felt a grin slide across her lips.  No.  I am from a large family as well.

More than seven?

More than seven.  Twelve to be exact.

Jacqueline whistled.  Your mother deserves a medal.  Where do you fall in line?

Second.  That was mostly true.

You have ten younger siblings?

More or less.  Then she added, It is a complicated family tree.  Do your parents live in the city as well?

My mom lives with me.  My father died when I was in college.

I am very sorry.  And your brothers and sisters?

Scattered from here to Portland.  And one black sheep in Canada.

With large families, it can be difficult to stay in touch.  I do not see my family often.  Hera let her gaze float out the window.  We have to set aside a special time to meet.  That is one of the reasons I have come to New York.  To see my family.

Wow.  Are all 12 coming?

Hera sighed.  As far as I know.  The date and place were picked many months ago.  We are all supposed to come.  I will have to see who remembers.

Do you get along with them all?  Jacqueline looked in her rear-view mirror and changed lanes.

Hera thought for a minute.  Zeus’ mind was most like hers.  They both loved to watch humanity.  He wanted to study them.  She wanted to take care of them.  In the minds of men they had been spouses, and their close association continued on earth. 

Demeter and Hera had never gotten along well, however.  Hera feared that the former goddess of grain and abundance had never discovered how to live in a human world.  Any discussion between the two of them quickly degenerated into an argument, with Demeter trying to bully Hera into rejecting this situation. 

Hera was secretly frightened of both Hades and Poseidon.  Hades never spoke to her, but kept all his thoughts buried deep inside, an imposing specter.  And once, in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, Poseidon had tried, unsuccessfully, to force himself on her.  They had never spoken of it afterwards, but Hera would never trust the deceptive smile of the former god of the sea again. 

Hermes was as devious.  In fact, he prided himself on his innocent trickery, but he had a good heart. 

Dionysus and Hera had traveled together for a while, and it had been an adventure.  But she soon found herself relegated to the position of a scolding matron.  He was a golden truffle, best enjoyed in small, sweet sums. 

For all the frantic emotions Apollo tossed about, he and Hera had never had a meaningful conversation.  Instead, he preferred to thrash about blindly, confiding only in those who were destined to die, and take his flaws with them into death. 

She had run with Artemis through hidden forests, beneath trees no humans had ever touched.  She loved that wild immortal’s spirit, and the abundance of her passions, but Hera missed the company of humans too much to stay away long under the spreading branches. 

There were also times she enjoyed the sedate company of stoic Athena, and the carnal adventures of reckless Aphrodite.  But it was with Ares