The Trial of Love

By James B. Owen

Love in its many manifestations is the focus of this imaginative, satirical fable. It combines the personalities of Greek mythology and the peculiarities of modern social customs such as celebrity litigation to put love in the spotlight. The story imagines the gods and goddesses of Greek myth attempting to re-establish their relevance through a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyckham Cove Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777887605

James B. Owen

James B. Owen has devoted his life to the imaginative consideration of the conflicts between creativity and order, ambition and ethics, and identity and origin. He has had extensive experience in conflict resolution in both institutional and personal theaters and has frequently served as an expert witness in court proceedings. He has spent considerable time in both the United States and Canada and considers himself a North American. He currently resides on the shores of Lake Huron.

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The Trial of Love

Copyright © 2020 by James B. Owen

All rights reserved

Published by Wyckham Cove Press

wyckhamcovepress.com

P.O. Box 81, Kincardine ON Canada N2Z 2X6

First Edition

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.

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

Cover image: Bronze statue of Eros sleeping, 3rd century BC–early 1st century AD, Greek or Roman; Hellenistic or Augustan period. L. 33 9/16 in., Rogers Fund, 1943 43.11.4

Image copyright © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Image source: Art Resource, NY

Image used with grateful permission.

ISBNs: 978-1-7778876-0-5 (ebook), 978-1-7778876-2-9 (paperback), 978-1-7778876-1-2 (hardcover)

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data available on request to the publisher

Interior design by Keata Brewer/E.T. Lowe

Cover design by David Drummond/Salamander Hill

Amor vincit omnia, et nos cedamus amori.

Love conquers all things, so we too shall yield to love.

—Virgil

Thus began the priesthood:

choosing forms of worship from poetic tales.

And at length they pronounced that the gods had ordered such things.

Thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.

—William Blake, Proverbs of Hell

Chapter 1

Ye gods, what have I done?" Peter Allman lifted the large book from his lap and, squinting down the spine, compared the thickness of the pages read to those remaining. It was midnight, he was less than a quarter of the way through, and in eighteen hours he had to discuss the book in an on-air interview with its author.

So much for making a commitment without knowing its magnitude, which turned out to be reviewing a five-hundred-page tome on the Greek and Roman gods and their relevance to modern life. Despite the book’s popularity, its contents were dense. Half the words appeared to be in ancient Greek and were beyond his comprehension. Several he had looked up in a dictionary: etiology, the investigation or attribution of the cause or reason for something, often expressed in terms of historical or mythical explanation; motifemes, in the study of folk tales: a story element, as a character, event, incident, circumstance, etc., usually one common to tales from many different sources; chthonian, relating to or inhabiting the underworld. These were just a choice few of those he had noted. He felt like he was competing in one of those spelling bees stocked with overachieving twelve-year-olds. Were ordinary mortals supposed to know this stuff?

To add to this, the book kept going on about some animus and anima traits: everyone supposedly had both of these, even though he was pretty sure he was all animus. Consequently, in addition to being profoundly behind in the number of pages he had to read, he was also profoundly confused about what he was reading. Hence the harsh judgment of his decision to do the interview.

He quickly reviewed his notes on the pages he had read so far. They were quite sparse:

Zeus: lord of the gods; womanizer; CEO type w/anger issues

Hera: his wife/sister, queen of the gods, victim; vindictive?

Athena: Zeus’s daughter; smart, warrior

Aphrodite (Roman Venus): goddess of love; super hot

Ares (like the Roman name better—Mars): god of war; typical military

Apollo: god of music and medicine; smart; artsy, or?

Hermes: messenger of the gods; bit of a trickster

Artemis: goddess of birth; a fem?

Eros/Cupid: Venus’s son; seems?

The illustrations that accompanied the text were also initially interesting but, like the text, became progressively esoteric. Everyone who was anyone in the art world had something to say or, rather, had lent a hand to the topic. While Grecian urns and the familiar statues he understood, it was not clear to him what the likes of Titian, Rembrandt, and Chagall were doing with all those animals chasing naked women and nobody seeming to have much fun.

And he was only on page ninety-nine. How would he ever complete the whole book in time? He had never had the time or interest to study mythology, particularly the Greek and Roman kind. As far as he could tell, these gods and goddesses had about as much significance to his life as the planets that were named after them. Twinkles of light on a starry night. Other than that, was he really missing much?

From the pages he had read so far, he admitted, it was kind of interesting how the gods seemed so human. At the same time, they seemed so . . . distant. The gods appeared to be human in form but inhuman in behavior. They never seemed to laugh or cry or swear or lie. He saw little that would connect his world with theirs. It was not obvious how he was going to connect with this author who had probably devoted his life to these gods and little else.

With a sigh, he reminded himself that he was a professional, he had made a commitment, and he would get the job done, even if it took all night. He adjusted his body to a slightly more comfortable position, put the book back on his lap, and started to read some more.

A sidebar in the text about the Odyssey caught his attention. Reading the plot summary, it seemed to be a bit of a rambling tale, and the point of the story was not clear. Aren’t there other modern authors who told this story? Who was it? Keats? Tennyson? Joyce? Maybe there’s something there I can use as a hook, he thought. Something modern to help me through these ancient tales. Oh, for a muse who could sing this book to me! She could tell me the story, she could start at the beginning, she could start anywhere . . .

Chapter 2

Zeus was at a crossroads, unsure of which way to turn. The deep canyons blocked his view of the sun, although he could tell from his map he was facing east. His plan had been simple: get an understanding of the way things were, then make the adjustments needed to keep things in line. This was not the first time he had been required to fine-tune things. His efforts during the Renaissance had resulted in depictions of his almighty glory that he had thought would preserve his preeminence for posterity.

Hermes had nonetheless told him that the time was ripe for another visit, and there he was, in New York City, staying in a hotel that Hermes had recommended—the perfect place for a man with your tastes and habits—on 44th Street. He was wearing clothes provided by Hermes, who had sworn they were appropriate fashion, but why the blue pants had rips in them he could not fathom. Hermes had also given him his own shoes—they had his name written on them—and a pink shirt and blue jacket with brass buttons to complete the look. The deferential nod he received from the doorman suggested the look was right.

His plan had been to casually explore the city and get a sense of how things had changed since his last terrestrial visit. This plan was frustrated from the start. He had tried to consult the map supposedly provided on the cell phone Hermes had given him, but Hermes had provided incomprehensible instructions on its use. After pressing all the buttons on the phone, the only thing Zeus could get the screen to show was a square of dots he could not decipher. In its place he was using a street map in a guidebook provided by the hotel. The uneven pavement made it impossible to walk and look at the map at the same time. Having arrived at the corner of 45th Street and Fifth Avenue, he stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change, sharing the corner with a man in a blue uniform with a shoulder patch that read Police Department, City of New York.

How’s it going, Pops? the uniform inquired. On second thought, maybe the Hermes outfit wasn’t working.

I was looking for a place where I could understand what’s going on. Let’s just say I’ve been out of town for a while and want to catch up on what’s new, get some perspective on things . . .

Well, if you go over to Times Square, you can see the news scroll right by. That’s about as up to date as you can get. Then, after a little pause, Hey, did anyone ever say you look like Charlton Heston?

Can’t say that I’ve ever been told that.

"You know, the guy who played God or Moses or whoever in The Ten Commandments?"

Zeus shook his head, indicating he didn’t know the guy.

Well, if they ever do a remake, you should try out for the part. You’d make big bucks playing God, I’m sure.

There’s big bucks in playing God?

Well, probably, but don’t get me wrong. You won’t be making the big, big bucks, like Drake or Beyoncé. Now those guys are real gods.

Maybe, thought Zeus, things really hadn’t changed that much if there’s still a pantheon of gods. It sounded like the threat of mono­theist Christianity had cooled off, as he had suspected it would. So, Jesus Christ is no longer the only god?

Jeez, I don’t know if I’m allowed to answer that on the job. The cathedral up on 51st Street may give you some idea, he said, pointing up the street.

Zeus nodded. He had no further interest in theology, but being respectful of authority, he put his guidebook in his pocket and began to go up the avenue. A parade of shop windows displayed a variety of products: money for sale through small TV screens, fashions that produced abdominal segmentation, torrents of trinkets memorializing the New York City experience. These were occasionally interrupted by clothing stores displaying variations of Zeus’s outfit.

Soon he came upon an open sunlit place his guidebook identified as Rockefeller Center. He turned into the plaza and was delighted to find some very recognizable statues. Walking between the buildings, he realized why Hermes had such a fondness for the city. A golden bas-relief rendition of Hermes was very flattering, although the wings on his back were an unnecessary artistic embellishment. Farther along, over what appeared to be an amphitheater, he was impressed by the rendering of Prometheus in gold. He had not appeared quite as stylish the last time Zeus had checked on his condition. In Zeus’s experience, the price of glory was always underestimated.

Feeling a little bit of the pride of creation, he decided he would share a little insight on the statue’s background and his role in it with the other tourists. He turned to the person next to him, who appeared to be impressed with what he saw. Pointing at the statue, whose outstretched arm held the forbidden fire, Zeus asked his fellow visitor, Do you know the story behind that statue? Know who he is?

The visitor glanced at the golden statue and gave a tentative answer. Isn’t that Rockefeller? That flame thing he’s holding—isn’t that the Standard Oil Company logo?

Zeus’s sidelong glance at the visitor was his only reply. Prometheus’s gift to man had been transformed into a corporate logo. He decided to move along.

The magnificent rendering of Atlas in the next plaza up the street was equally idealistic. Zeus stood a little off to the side, revisiting the stormy events that had led him to inflict that object lesson in command and control. Sure, it hurt to endlessly hold up the sky, but no one had since challenged his authority on matters terrestrial. Feeling another wave of the pride of creation, he decided to attract a little recognition for his role as the prime mover of the circumstances depicted by the statue. A random tourist invaded his personal space, angling with his cell phone for a shot of a woman and two children standing in front of the statue.

Zeus waved in the direction of the statue. Do you know who that is? Do you think it’s an appropriate rendition of his fate?

The tourist looked at him oddly. I dunno. I think it’s nice and all, although I am not sure what the oversize beach ball thing on his back is all about. Who is it?

It’s Atlas. Holding up the sky. At my command. A note of self-satisfaction had crept into Zeus’s voice, and he was expecting at least a little obeisance in return.

The man examined the statue for a hint of comprehension of this explanation. After a slight pause, his face lit up in recognition. Oh yeah, Atlas! Charles Atlas! I should have known. Those abs and pecs are righteous. I always wanted to get one of those weight sets, but—the man motioned to his rather substantial midriff—you know, the kids, the wife, the job, the beer . . . He sure does look good, though, doesn’t he? I always thought he was the best, even better than Arnold.

Zeus contemplated the man’s praise and the comparison to the unknown Arnold, wondering what could possibly compare to Atlas’s burden. In the meantime, the man had focused his phone on his family, touched the screen, waved to the woman and children, and then waved at Zeus as he rejoined his family. Once there, he pointed at Zeus and at the statue as he undoubtedly conveyed his newly acquired insight to them. The woman’s questioning gaze at the statue betrayed her uncertain appreciation of its significance. With a slight sigh and one last look, Zeus returned to his route up Fifth Avenue.

Much to his surprise, he soon found himself looking at a door in a storefront displaying a very familiar name in bold letters: Nike.

His heart raced a little as he thought of the prospect of meeting one of his favorite goddesses right here in New York. Why hadn’t Hermes told him this? The slender goddess had always been a delightful presence as well as an invaluable ally. They had never had one of those silly fallings-out that often plagued his relationships with the others.

Inside the store he was surprised to find racks of clothes and shoes and what looked like a miniature temple dedicated to the worship of a god at whom devotees lobbed spherical contributions. There was a reception desk but no sign of the goddess. He approached a person wearing a name tag whom he presumed was an employee. He had noticed in the hotel that only those in servitude advertised their names, a practice designed to keep them conscious of their diminished status, he guessed.

Do you know where I can find her? he asked. He thought it would be obvious he would be referring to the woman whose name was embroidered on every visible object in the store, along with some image that reminded him of a bad knife wound.

The person looked momentarily confused. You mean ‘Hers’? Women’s wear is on the third floor, sir, he said, pointing to a bank of elevators.

No, I mean Nike. Is she here? This is her store, right?

The look of confusion returned, redoubled. Uh, yes, this is a Nike store, but I don’t think there’s anyone here by that name. Everything here is a Nike product, though. If you’re looking for something specific, I’ll be happy to help.

You don’t know Nike herself? Surely if you work here, you at least know what she looks like.

Zeus saw him look around at his fellow employees before responding, as if to ensure that no one had somehow turned into Nike without him noticing. I can’t say that I would, sir. I can ask my supervisor if you’d like, but I don’t think there’s anyone named Nike here. As far as I know, the store is named after a shoe.

Zeus sensed a misunderstanding that was not going to be resolved by a supervisor. I assure you, he said, Nike is the last person you’d mistake for a shoe, and gave up on the anticipated delight that had led him in the door.

Zeus continued his journey up Fifth Avenue. Hermes had told him the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a must-see. Wait until you see how they portray us and you in particular was all he had said. Climbing the entrance stairs of the low-rise granite building, Zeus had the feeling he was going to be institutionalized rather than memorialized. This feeling was reinforced at the entrance to the front hall when he had to empty his pockets and pass through a body scanner and was asked if he carried any weapons.

He approached the admissions booth, behind which he could see a sign pointing to Greek and Roman art and, in the distance, the unmistakable shape of a Doric column. The person staffing the admissions booth politely asked, Do you live here or are you just visiting?

Feeling a little effervescent at the sight of the familiar column far from home, he decided he would have a little fun with the question. Well, I think I could say yes to both. The questioner’s unchanged gaze indicated that he was still waiting for an answer. You see, while I am out here right now, I’m already in there—in fact, several times. The continued gaze compelled Zeus to elaborate. Being both out here and in there means I’m both. Does that help?

It was soon apparent that the answer had not in fact helped, as the admissions person’s gaze shifted to Zeus’s right, and he made a come-hither motion to an unseen person. Almost immediately, a stout woman of an indeterminate age wearing a blazer materialized at his side. Zeus realized that blazers must recognize some form of rank, and he straightened his shoulders to better demonstrate his membership in the elite.

What seems to be the matter, Justin? she inquired of the admissions person while assessing Zeus from head to toe.

I think this gentleman here, he said, pointing to Zeus, is a little confused as to his location. And perhaps needs some assistance.

I see, said the woman. Do you know where you are and what you are doing right now, sir?

I am in a museum, trying to obtain access to see myself and my family, Zeus replied, thinking that the family connection should have some positive effect on the situation.

Your family is already inside? she inquired.

And have been for over a hundred years, Zeus replied, deciding that it was time to trot out the pedigree. He pointed to a paragraph in a guidebook he had acquired that had a brief discussion of the provenance of the museum’s major items.

Oh, I see. And is this your first visit?

To see them here, it is indeed. Of course, I see them most evenings back at the palace. He had not intended to mention the palace, but it slipped out as he visualized dinner beneath the portico.

Ah, I see, said the woman, gathering Zeus’s right arm and giving it a pat. Is it a large family? Do they visit you often? Her left bosom was gently pushing Zeus’s arm from behind as she began to walk slowly toward the exit doors. Zeus was enjoying the sensation and did not resist the implied direction.

I’d say it’s average size. Of course, if you count the half brothers and half sisters and all their distant relatives, it sometimes seems every­one on Earth is family somehow.

It’s a small world, is it not? she replied as they moved out the doors. The pressure of her bosom continued to steer him down the steps. Zeus had the definite impression that this woman knew how to control men and make them enjoy it.

As they proceeded down the steps, she kept up the small talk. Are you staying in the palace while you are here or staying somewhere else? He looked at her to see if she was joking, but her smile was totally sincere.

No, the palace is a little far for one day’s travel. I’m staying at a hotel down on Forty-Fourth. He fished his room pass out of his pocket and showed it to her.

"Nice place. Good food. I hope you