Little Mermaid: Chapter 9

Rhys and Lider went to Kloptik. Wade might have met them at the station because he wanted to impress Rhys and Lider with Wade’s achievements. Perhaps he hoped to assure himself that Rhys and Lider weren’t that “handsome couple…a love story from the Mars Space Station,” the kinds of things the news forums reported about them. Maybe Rhys was being unfair to Wade, and Wade wanted to salve his own vague regrets, ensure that Rhys was now happy.

Whatever Wade’s motivations, he would have information about genetic manipulation procedures: the clinics, the possible patients. He was a lead. He had to be handled.

They did not go in their official dress, which Wade may or may not appreciate. Having a Very Important Reunion in front of the general public was not the same as being cornered in his place of business by religious figures.  

“He was ambitious,” Rhys told Lider. “So was I. I’d already messed up two relationships—”

“You were pretty young, yes? Only slightly older than Brae is now.”

“I guess. But I get why Brae might feel shattered. I blamed myself for the relationships ending. Still do, really. You know how I want my lover, my boyfriend, husband to be my other self, my one and only in all areas of my life. Possessiveness. Not an attractive quality. As I got told.”

“You wanted a Cubus.” Lider smiled, his eyes narrowed to catch sight of the incoming train for the Jersey Shore Principat.

“I wanted to be tagged, yeah. Once you tagged me, I wanted to keep you to myself.”

“Only you didn’t. You shared my thought with others before they could see me. You invited me into the community.”

“I’d learned. With Wade, back then, I thought I’d found someone who fit my criteria. I’m not sure I loved him. Or liked him. But he accepted—seemingly accepted—me the way I was. Two guys with plans. We would excel in our workplaces, conquer the world with our power-couple act. We were alike, so that meant we would succeed. Except I wanted us to be business partners, to start a business together—”

“You wanted an actual relationship.”

Rhys paused and considered as passengers disembarked. They had already passed through customs, so once the doors cleared, they boarded immediately and slung their overnight bags onto the upper racks.

Rhys said, “I never thought about why Wade and I should sell high-end pharmaceutical products together. But I think you’re right. I wanted something stable. Or something I could possess. In any case, Wade said what everyone else had said with the addition that I didn’t appreciate his accomplishments or support his goals. I thought our separate accomplishments and goals meant our mutual venture would succeed. But he was probably right—”

He frowned and stared out the opposite long windows. He hadn’t wallowed this much in youthful regrets since that last time he was on Earth. Beyond the panes, office buildings, tunnels, and foliage flashed by as blended images. Rhys settled his shoulder against Lider’s. For once, Lider’s feet were still, his hand tucked in Rhys’s.

Lider waited for the train’s initial rush to dull to a steady hum. He said, “Having met Wade, I would say he was irritated that you formed your own path, your own ideas. You weren’t planning to be a plus-one eye candy to his shin-digs forever. He blamed you for his assumptions--”

“His story about the relationship. I guess we all have one. I understand Brae, you know. I mean, no one has ever accused me of being dreamy but that search for balance—some way to calm the feelings of inadequacy: I understand why Brae is running—”

“Except you did something concrete with your life,” Lider said. “I’m not saying you were right to blame yourself. I think Wade is a tosser. But what you perceived as failure motivated you to become a priest, to go to Mars. You adapted. This Brae—he seems to be searching for some kind of external perfection, something that will twist the kaleidoscope of his life into a unified picture, every piece in place.”

“No messy bits.”

“Geo is sometimes right about stuff.”

Yes.

If Rhys asked, Lider would go to Jupiter with him; Lider would adapt.

Lider waited to become corporeal, waited until he knew what he was getting into. Once he made the leap, he accepted the fallout. Now, he takes what comes.

But is it fair for me to ask?

* * * 

Kloptik in Jersey Shore Principat was “Nostalgia office décor,” the kind of business that sported dozens of cubicle-like meeting areas, only these cubicles had suspended walls and oversaw winding streams containing fish and the occasional water fowl. The streams were likely a nod to Siphon clients though these streams were far too shallow for total immersion. Lider rocked on his heels beside one channel while Rhys sat in a chair.

Wade came into the cubicle area, fingers in his vest pockets, eyebrows raised, mouth twisted: the image of the skeptical man. He was ready to scold: I am very busy, Rhys. What do you need?

Rhy nodded to Lider, who had turned to greet Wade, arms loose at his sides.

Lider said, “We are currently investigating the disappearance of Brae Los Nares, a Siphon.”

“I heard,” Wade said shortly.

Rhys reminded himself that Wade wasn’t necessarily being terse because he had a guilty conscience. Wade’s behavior could simply denote his sense of importance. Too important for the likes of them. (Too important to be waylaid in reverse.)  

“Brae could be exploring genetic manipulation,” Lider said in a remarkably even tone.

“Oh,” Wade said and straightened from his studied slouch. “All fish? All man? It’s a fascinating field. Klopnik supplies the involved clinics with post-op medications.”

Silence. Maybe Wade sensed Rhys and Lider’s lack of élan. He said, “I am very busy.”

Lider said, “Such clinics are legal in only a few statelets.”

“The Province of Califia and Kingdom of Ontario allow them. More clinics will follow.”

“You could discover if Brae Los Nares is at one.”

Silence. But Lider was not an ex who would fall back into a pattern of proscribed declarations and responses. Lider waited.

Wade began, “Confidentiality—”  

“Not an issue,” Rhys said. “Your company’s knowledge of a citizen’s whereabouts is simply knowledge, especially since Brae will have crossed territories. No specific laws prevent you passing on his current location.”

Neither did any laws force Wade to help them—not unless Rhys and Lider got far more heavy hitters involved—but Rhys didn’t mention that part. 

Wade looked truculent but conflicted. He was warring, Rhys guessed, with being sandbagged versus the possible prestige of assisting in an international search. Rhys understood. Those would have been his primary considerations ten years ago.

Thank God Lider came along.

Lider said gently, “We would appreciate your help. Please contact us once you have an address.”

Lider didn’t wait for Wade’s agreement or disagreement. He glanced at Rhys, and Rhys rose. Wade straightened. Everyone shook hands.

Heading out of the cubicle, Rhys turned back. He might never see Wade again. Hopefully wouldn’t. But closure mattered. And maybe Lider needed to hear what Rhys had to ask.

“Why did you meet us at Grand Central Station?”

Wade

“Why shouldn’t I?” Wade said, the underlying bluster less concealed for once.

“It wasn’t because of our investigation?”

Wade gaped at him, a notable break in his calculated persona. Then, he reddened.

I’m not being kind. Rhys didn’t flinch. There was Lider to consider.

Wade smoothed down his jacket. The red in his cheeks faded. “You obviously think much of yourself, Rhys.”

Not really. Not when I assumed you were curious about our investigation as opposed to where I’d gotten in my life.

But there was no reason to harass Wade further.

“I suppose I do,” Rhys said congenially. “Thanks for your help.”

Out on the open stretch of ground between Kloptik and Newark Bay, Lider nudged Rhys.

“Told you,” he said. “He wanted to check up on his ex. Wade is like Tad.”

Tad Avide was what Lider called a “revolving door citizen”—someone who was constantly moving to Mars, then leaving Mars, then moving to Mars again. Constantly in search of the consummate society, which meant, “a society that does what Tad wants.” Constantly dissatisfied. Constantly trying to make others dissatisfied. Consumed by how everything reflected on him.  

“Wade always wanted to be admired,” Rhys admitted. “Unlike Tad, though, he doesn’t actually want to ruin others’ lives. He wouldn’t set out to do that, at least. And maybe he actually wants me to be happy.”

“In Wade’s mind, if you’re happy, it’s because you finally managed to get what you needed, you poor thing.” Lider sounded for once entirely snarky.

“I did,” Rhys said without sounding snarky at all and had the pleasure of seeing Lider flush.

Hermes: Chapter 9

The first time Hermes encountered the god Eros, he was with Merc.

They were in Zeus and Hera’s temple in Lake Point Tower, back when Olympus was based on Chicago. Hermes had gone with Merc to watch him hand over a few offerings for Zeus and Hera that had shown up on Merc’s altar.

A blond man was leaning over the back of Zeus’s chair. To Hermes at the time, the blond man looked old, though Hermes knew now that Eros, the Eros before Kouros, had never looked older that about sixteen, despite being older than everything: Olympus, the citizens, the land.

“All this blather about history,” the blond man murmured in Zeus’s ear. “About events repeating themselves. As if this world isn’t entirely unique. You are not corrupted by power. You see truths behind the curtain. You would see them better if not for the censure of a disapproving critic.”

“Who was he talking about?” Hermes asked Merc when they departed (Zeus and Hera were disgruntled at the meager offerings, but they didn’t blame Merc; they didn’t want him to point out the nearly zero offerings on their altar in the lobby below). “Who is the critic Zeus shouldn't listen to?”

“Clio, a minor god who advises Zeus and Hera. Minor gods have a hard time keeping their positions. People forget them. Clio has no offerings; Zeus and Hera can send her away.”

“Why would the blond man want them to do that?”

“Eros? He hates Olympus.”

“Why?”

“His Psyche isn’t here.” 

Merc hesitated and looked about. They were in one of the small, strip-like parks brought over from Chicago. This was in the early months of The Chaos and there were few citizens on the paths. Merc nevertheless lowered his voice.

“Eros was the first god, the one who molded this world. Before she left, Athena told me he regrets the rules he invented, the ones that can’t be changed. He wants to go back.”

“Why get rid of Clio?” If a minor god can be sent away—

Hermes didn’t want to finish that thought.

“Clio is smart, sees the big picture. Clio might convince Zeus and Hera to get things back to normal. As normal as possible. Eros is getting rid of Zeus and Hera’s advisors.”

And Hermes learned to hate the blond god Eros.

He didn’t ask Merc why he didn’t distribute some of the unassigned goods—the ones citizens left to Merc to distribute—to the minor gods. Merc didn’t care about Olympus any more than Eros; he was simply less destructive.

Hermes never forgot minor gods, even annoying ones like Apate, who sold the equivalent of snake oil at festivals. Hermes made sure they always had offerings on their altars. He would keep his world intact.

*** 

Hermes stayed in Boston for the next two days. He wanted to go back to what he called the "real world," but it was a waste of time to go and return. And too tempting to stay on Olympus and leave the matter of hounds and Enkidu and Wild Hunts alone for six more months.

If he thought Jes-Jer would drop the matter—

He spent one day arranging for deliveries to his second office (he had seven) in Portland near St. John Street. Most of his purchases were steel rods for Hephaestus. Olympus families like the Thebleys traded sand and mined substances with the Charites who used Hermes to trade them in both worlds. Businesses in this world manufactured the finished metals cheaper and faster.

Hermes then visited the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. He went to the Ancient Near East Gallery and studied the bust of King Gudea who built canals and put through reforms. Gudea erected temples to the gods. He set up trade with other countries. Rationality and good planning existed in the place of Enkidu’s origins. If the kings had been like this—if Enkidu has been the associate of such a king—

Whatever Enkidu hunts could be symbolic.  

Hermes ignored the mental nudge that if Eros, this Eros, this Billy Stowe, did know about Enkidu, if Enkidu had been drawn to him, Enkidu might be more invested in upsetting mystical acts than reenacting rational symbolic ones.

On the third day in town, Hermes arrived to his appointment with Terry on-time. When he entered the lobby on the top floor, the receptionist leaned forward and pointed to the stairs to the right of the elevators. “They are in the solarium.”

The building’s rooftop boasted a kind of summerhouse—a long room with a glass paneled ceiling and sliding doors that opened onto a narrow walkway between the room and the rooftop’s stone balustrade. The room was filled with thin rugs and wicker chairs and small glass and wood tables. Hermes understood the room was used on occasion for company shindigs.

At the moment, Terry stood at one end studying a group of framed photographs of medium-size. A tow-headed man stood beside him. Eros had been tow-headed and about the same height, between five-nine to five-ten. Hermes paused.

Terry said, “He used to photograph animals exclusively.”

“Sure,” said the tow-headed man. “He’s kind enough to say that his new direction is my influence—luckily, the photographs are this good.”

“Not that your biased.”

“I’m entirely biased. But I haven’t lost my critical faculties.”

Terry pointed to an image of a meerkat peering through a spinning wheel that stood between a woman’s pant legs. “And he claims he doesn’t pose his models.”

“Not the animals. He waits. He is extraordinarily patient—hence, his ability to deal with me.”

Terry turned slightly, one eyebrow raised in amusement. He must have caught sight of a new shape in the summerhouse because he turned completely to face Hermes.

He said, “You found us.”

The tow-headed man also turned. Not the same features. Eros had looked like the cherub of so many paintings, despite being a holy terror. This man, Billy, had a more triangular jaw and straighter nose. He looked, at first glance, like Hollywood’s idea of a business man: James Spader in his preppy days with the same blond-white hair.

But there was the half-smile, the bright questioning eyes, and the deepish drawl—“Your celebrated guest, Terry?”—and Hermes was right back to remembering that this was the god who closed the gate, who didn’t care if Olympus died.

Careful, Hermes. Careful.

Maybe the same guy. He was older than the unaging Eros had appeared on Olympus but younger than Terry. Closer to Hermes, who looked about thirty. Yet Eros had only left Olympus five years ago.

“I’m selecting my tribute to the Fates,” Terry said to Hermes.

When Terry brought Alim to this world, they crossed through the Fates’ cavern. Kouros had gone with them—“They like Kouros,” Hades claimed—and helped them bargain passage without having to enter Olympus. But the Fates demanded payment. They always demanded payment. Terry sent an annual truckload of items he picked up here and there, whenever something caught his eye. He seemed to regard the Fates like particularly demanding and eccentric aunts.

Hermes couldn’t imagine.

Terry said, “Billy was kind enough to bring me some of Jonas West’s photographs.”

Hermes gave the photographs a longer look. Jonas West was a celebrated art photography of the Ansel Adams variety, only he focused on animals rather than landscapes. Lewis Hine without people—except recently, he’d began to include human arms and legs and eyes and lips, quarter humans, in his work.

Terry motioned to a rectangular table with Art Deco-like chairs. Terry sat at the table’s head. Hermes took a seat on one side. He never fought over precedence in situations like this.

Billy—Eros—sat opposite Hermes. He said, “Terry tells me you’re from an attached world. Olympus? Is that right?”

His tone wasn’t challenging. Not detached either. More like he was checking information obtained from Terry.

“Yes,” Hermes said.

“Sci-fi tropes come to life.”

Not Hermes’s interpretation, but Billy—Eros—went on: “Multiple dimensions. String theory. And you’re Hermes, god of thievery. Bit of a hell-raiser.”

Hermes snorted (you’re calling me a hell-raiser), then glared at Eros—Billy—for undermining Hermes’s cool. Definitely the same guy.

“And Terry has been there?”

“Indirectly. Terry met the Fates.”

“Right. And now he wants to give them pictures of animal and human detente.”

“I try to match their interests,” Terry said without defensiveness. “They would appreciate works by your soulmate. I owe them.”

“All because you wanted to bring your prodigy here, so Alim could single-handedly save our world from an environmental apocalypse.” Billy’s tone was wry.

“Alim wants to give legal advice to nature preserves,” Terry said mildly. “Upbringing tells. His country stresses service to the community.”

Billy looked skeptical. Hermes felt the same though he didn’t voice his thoughts. Hermes avoided citizens and potential gods who got idealistic about Olympus. Generic and abstract platitudes about Nature and Purpose led to mindlessness and disillusionment. Demeter spouted such stuff, but, then, she hadn’t been Hermes’s choice. And she never let platitudes get in the way of impressing her followers.

Hermes didn’t prefer Olympus to any other place because he thought it was some perfect utopia. It was simply his.

“So,” Billy said. “Did I live there? On Olympus?”

“Yes,” Hermes said.

“And I was—?”

“Who do you think you were?”

“My grandmother says I lacked a soul until I found Jonas.”

Jonas. Billy’s soulmate. Hermes snuck yet another look at the photographs that lined the solarium’s non-glass wall. Billy’s Psyche is Jonas West.

“Who’s the god who hunts for his soul?” Billy said; he leaned back in the wicker chair, hands linked behind his head.

“You assume you were a god?” Terry grinned.

“Why not?” Again that brilliant smile but less sharp-edged than Hermes remembered from before, more fond and amused.

Hermes said. “Mr. Stowe was Eros.”

Little Merman: Chapter 8

After a decade of silence, Wade unexpectedly encountered Lider and Rhys at Grand Central Station.

Rhys didn’t believe in that type of coincidence. Lider was right: Wade had known what train they were on.

Kloptik Pharmaceuticals would have spies, security personnel who could track down a Catholic priest and canon, but Rhys checked the obvious explanation first. Occam’s razor. Conspiracy or no conspiracy, people were lazy. They took the easiest route to information. Rhys called his superior at the Vatican.

Turned out, Archbishop Tennyson—or his staff—had given Rhys’s location and schedule to Wade, which was how Wade was able to intercept Rhys and Lider on their return from Schenectady.

“Mr. Purvis was on your list of authorized contacts,” Archbishop Tennyson said in sleepy bewilderment.

Rhys and Lider had returned to New Amsterdam from Northumberland on a same-day shuttle. It was a trip that Lider swore used to take as much as seven hours. It took less than an hour if one ignored the lines. The "astonishing" (Lider's word) travel efficiency didn’t alter the time difference between Vatican City and New Amsterdam. Tennyson has likely gone to bed several hours earlier.

Rhys didn’t apologize. They couldn’t complete their current investigation, couldn’t make a decision about Jupiter until he had all the facts.

He did apologize about the confusion. He had forgotten about the list. If he had remembered, he wouldn’t have done anything about it. The possibility of Wade forcing a ten-year reunion had never entered Rhys’s mind.

“I should have updated my list of contacts,” he admitted to Tennyson. “I want Mr. Purvis removed.”

“Absolutely. Done. Uh, he was unfriendly? Combative?”

“Simply unwelcome.”

“I see. He belongs to your former life, before your ordination.”

“Before Lider. Before Mars.”

Before everything that truly mattered.

“Yes. And before your side hobby. Speaking of which, how close are you to a resolution?”

“I would guess a week or so. Not much longer.”

“Have you thought about Jupiter?”

“Not yet.”

“I see, I see. Soonish—yes?”

Rhys grunted and ended the call.

He stood in the communications alcove of the apartment near St. Patrick’s Cathedral. From the closest window, he could see the church’s pointed roof, the spindly towers skewering the sky. In ancient times, it was the tallest building in the area, a stark reminder of otherworldly considerations. Now, it was one building amongst taller ones.

Was St. Patrick’s a reminder of the ethereal in a different way? One walked through the city and came upon it suddenly. As its white marble caught the light, a passerby’s thoughts flew upwards. 

That was the kind of idea Lider would ponder. Rhys was far more mundane, not a passerby comforted by the sight of lofty arches but a worker struggling to find the door.

Rhys said, “Wade got our location from the Vatican. And our schedule. That’s how he found us.”

Lider looked up from his seat on the apartment’s couch. He’d already changed out of his suit into cargo pants and a sweater. Lider had discovered a preference for hiking-type clothes when he reached full corporeality.

“You and I have been in the news forums lately,” he said. “What with a Vatican wedding and helping an Anthros prince.”

“Why didn’t Wade crash the wedding then?”

“Too many other people,” Lider said, pulling on heavy socks. “He wanted to make a singular impression.”

“His appearance didn’t upset you?” Rhys said.

Lider stilled, one boot in his hands.

Rhys said, “What about Kloptik Pharmaceutical? Brae’s hunt for a seamless solution to his life?” 

Lider put down the boot. He said carefully, “We don’t know that Wade is involved with Brae’s disappearance.”

“Kloptik Pharmaceuticals supplies drugs to experimental clinics, places that carve up sentient bodies, undo their physical inheritances. Your phrase.”

“You don’t think Wade was merely curious about you? About me? People do that—look up exes. What are their lives like now? You don’t wonder what Wade’s significant other looks like?”

“Never occurred to me,” Rhys said.

They eyed each other. Lider’s gaze dropped. Reddish-brown hair fell into his eyes. He juggled the boot between his hands.

Rhys said, “Is this jealousy? From you?”

Voice muffled, Lider said, “Why not?”

“Of Wade?” Rhys said incredulously.

Too incredulously. He heard the disdain in his voice, the implication that Lider was unreasonable, pathetic. Lider didn’t respond.

Rhys groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. “You know, this conversation would be a lot easier in my dreams.”

He wished instantly, desperately, frantically that he hadn’t said what he said, that he could go back a half-hour and stop the line of thinking that led him to suspect Wade, to call the Vatican, to march out of the communications alcove loaded for bear.

He couldn’t. And now he’d thrown doubt on his and Lider’s relationship. They’d weathered months when Lider could no long enter Rhys’s dreams yet was not corporeal enough to touch Rhys in waking life. They’d returned to Earth so Lider could complete the process. Back then, Rhys had been the level-headed one who took upsets in stride.

I had a goal to focus on, a problem to solve.

And then Lider reached corporeality. He and Rhys married. Things were good. They were good—

Except, now that he could relax, Rhys found he missed Lider in his dreams, their easy, constant communication there. The major hurdle conquered, now, Rhys had regrets.

How was he better than Brae, demanding uncomplicated, properly labeled, meet-my-needs perfection? 

Rhys dropped into an armchair and pressed a half-fist to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want us to go back. I honestly don’t. We are better now. Everything is better. I don’t think the things I said.”

Silence. And maybe this would be the moment when Lider finally got fed-up and left. He waited so long to become corporeal. Why should he settle for Rhys as his consolation prize?  

Lider set one knee on the deep cushion to Rhys’s side. He nudged Rhys over and wriggled in beside him, legs crossing with Rhys’s. Rhys sat back, taking the gift, Lider’s chin against his shoulder, Lider’s arm across his body.

“I figure some regrets are part of our story,” Lider said. “Sentient beings get used to things. We want life to go on the same. Not because it should. Not because we would want the result. Just—that’s what’s comfortable. When things change, we feel loss.”

“I should know better.”

“I don’t think adapting to change happens on a schedule. Lack of sure answers is the sentient experience.”

Rhys turned his head, close enough he could see the faint wrinkles around Lider’s eyes, the grayish circles that rimmed the lower lids like kohl. He brushed lips across Lider’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. An awkward angle but they were soon sweaty and laughing.

“My sage,” he said fondly,

Lider pressed a hand to Rhys’s chest, fingers dancing the way his feet did.

He said, “You know how long I took to embrace my corporeal form, how much I wavered and held back.”

“Observation matters. Judicious reflection. The collection of information.”

“It can’t replace actual experience. That’s what I’m jealous of—that Wade knew you, did things with you, all before I found you.”

“You found me before I left Earth for Mars. Maybe Geo is right. Maybe we were fated to meet.”

“Geo likes to be clever.” But Lider sighed. “I am upset by what we’ve learned. I hate to think Brae might have done something irretrievable, altered his body to meet the mind’s demands. And Wade is at Kloptik. Still—”

“You don’t think Wade was horning in on our investigation.”

“He’s in sales, isn’t it? Not the science side. I think he gave you up, Rhys, and he’s the kind of guy who wants to prove he didn’t make a mistake.”

Rhys shook his head and pulled Lider closer.

What a lucky man I am—to have a partner who values me so highly.  

“Wade annoys me,” Lider confessed. “Any stake he thinks he has in you. You are mine.”

“I am.”

Hermes: Chapter 8

When The Chaos worsened, Eros closed the passage between the worlds. The gods could no longer use Hermes to fetch goods to compensate for the farmers’ losses.

Eros wanted Olympus’s gods to pay for what they’d caused. He wanted them to lose followers. He wanted Olympus to collapse.

Many gods had already departed—as had many citizens. Out of the citizens that lingered, Zeus and Hera recruited their replacements. Hermes had seen to that. Over several months, he brought any reasonably suitable citizens—not the druggies or drunks (minimum standard)—to Zeus and Hera’s temple, a replica of the Lake Point Tower. He didn’t think about philosophies or administrative abilities or experience with governance. He only knew that Zeus and Hera spoke of leaving, and he didn’t want Olympus to lose its gods, didn’t want Olympus to change, to fail the way Eros wanted.

He was a child and innocent-looking. He took citizens’ hands and towed them along, and they didn’t resist. Zeus and Hera capitulated—Jes-Jer took over. Olympus survived. Eros grudgingly reopened the gate.

Merc had left before The Chaos. He was no longer a god, but he agreed to trade with Hermes the moment Hermes crossed back through to fetch food and supplies and, of course, to find more gods. Olympus was in Portland, Maine by then. Merc and Hermes used the building that housed the new Portland Public Market as a spot to meet.

And then Merc was killed by muggers, idiots who didn’t simply steal the merchandise. They beat Merc up and left him to die in a cold warehouse. Hermes had taken his revenge on the muggers years ago. He couldn’t forget the pointlessness of Merc’s death. Jes-Jer might play with the rules, but at least they acted within a framework; Olympus allowed them to work within a framework.

The “real” world with its “real” natural laws was truly random, beyond the “natural consequences” that Kouros and Hades defended. An evil place.

 * * *

Crossings to the other world occurred at specific shared locations. In present-day Olympus, the crossover points were Monument Square—a plaza in the other world; a park on Olympus—and the former Union Station on St. John Street—a strip mall in the other world; Hephaestus’s workshop on Olympus.

Hermes crossed through at Monument Square because he needed to arrange a deal for pastries with a patisserie in the area. Olympus’s most notable baker, Micah Miller, was temporarily refurnishing his café. The other-world’s pastries were a stop-gap measure. They would be delivered to Hermes’s office in one of the flat-fronted brick buildings that bordered the square. He would take them through when he returned from Boston.

Hermes also had the paving contract to sign and money from trades to deposit. He stopped by the bank, then caught the bus for the Amtrak Downeaster and boarded a train for Boston. His contact in Boston was one of very few humans who remembered Olympus, mostly because he had never been there.

Beyond Hades’s realm were underground corridors that connected to possible other worlds or to places in Olympus’s world that couldn’t be reached aboveground. Terry Nicholson had visited one of those places and returned through the Fates’ cavern. He brought a boy back with him, Alim. Hermes didn’t envy them that experience but Terry seemed content to send yearly tributes—goods, not people—to the Fates. And he was useful to Hermes.

Hermes had emailed Terry several days earlier to arrange a meeting. Now, he rode the train into Boston’s North Station. He settled his backpack on his shoulders like a salaryman. He trekked south, past Boston Common and Trinity Church. He stopped on the sidewalk near the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and looked up a side street at a three-story brick building. He took a deep breath, pulling in air and seemed to swallow car and plane and construction noises at the same time.

Noisy, noisy world.  

Hermes rolled his shoulders and walked up the street. He had visited Terry before; once inside the brick building, he walked directly into the elevator and selected the top floor button. The elevator doors opened on a lobby containing a front desk perpendicular to the elevator bank. Terry—a big wide-shouldered man with a mess of dark hair—was leaning there as he signed paperwork.

“Ah, Hermes,” he said with a quick glance sideways. His pen didn’t stop moving.  

Terry had become an adequate substitute for Merc though Terry, unlike Merc, never traded in stolen goods. Hermes supposed that meant Terry was less at risk for being murdered. He kept their relationship professional nonetheless.  

Now he said, “You've offered to trade paper for tools." 

Terry’s firm dealt in high-end museum, archival, and archaeology equipment, everything from display cases to mapping devices. Olympus wasn’t prepared to produce cameras and GPR machines but Hephaestus could make finely crafted and inexpensive picks, trowels, and sieves.

The paper would be for a possible paper mill. Currently, citizens bleached paper pulp to create homemade sheets or used the empty pages in books or journals that they brought with them from the other world—or ones that Hermes bought on request. But a paper mill might attract some of the more recent arrivals, who were somewhat nonplussed by the idea of farming. (As Kouros said, “This is my generation that doesn’t know where meat in grocery stores comes from--or their school notebooks.")

Hermes wondered sometimes how much reliance on the other world prevented Olympus from becoming entirely industrial rather than what Kouros called “steam punk agricultural.” But it wasn’t his job to advance or end or fix whatever one called Olympus’s civil order. He simply sustained it. For now, pre-paper mill, Damia and Mnemosyne wanted to stock up on stationary—Hermes would find out what was available.

He finished signing papers, asked the receptionist to overnight a contract, and motioned Hermes down the hall to a corner office. It was really more of a corner storeroom, a wide space that contained smaller items sold by the firm. The floors below held larger items, including, Hermes happened to know, suction tables and floor-to-ceiling display cases.

Terry walked to the far end of the brightly lit space to shelves of stacked and draped paper sheets, including the type that fed blueprint machines.

“You said this would be paper for civilian use,” he murmured and indicated stacks of plain newsprint. “Cheap,” he said. “Not good for printers—but you suggested that these would be for multiple uses.”

“Yes.”

“Direct trade?”

Hermes pulled a leather bag from his backpack and unwrapped it to demonstrate the tools Hephaestus had given him to show Terry. Terry made an appreciative grunt over the spoon excavator and probe.

“Your ironsmith could create dentistry tools,” he pointed out to Hermes.

In some ways (Hermes occasionally admitted to himself) Terry was better at trades than Merc. Terry thought long-range.

“I’ll mention it,” Hermes said as Terry began to fill out a form (X amount at tools at X dollars each, translated into X amount of paper).

Terry said, “You also want me to find someone. Is that right?”

“You may already know him. Billy Stowe.”

“The risk manager? Alim did a wilderness internship for one of his clients. One of those capitalistic corrupt money hoarders who use the environment to get people to forget their druggy, court-mandated probation pasts. Alim wants to do legal things for protected land.” Terry shrugged. “Taking money from compromised billionaires is a good start.”

Hermes didn’t bother to feel gratified or surprised by Terry's nows. Perhaps one-percenters always ran in each other’s orbits. Perhaps, as Humbaba suggested, those who contacted Olympus, even indirectly, were drawn together. Or—

“Alim knew about Billy,” Terry said.

Alim came from one of the other worlds or places that could be reached through Tartarus’s corridors to the east. Terry brought Alim to this world—on purpose; apparently, Alim wanted to come—but Alim sent news back to his other family through Rhadamanthus. It appeared Rhadamanthus shared selected information in return. Hermes couldn’t complain. His job became easier when other people took risks.

“I wouldn’t have thought Olympus needed Billy’s help,” Terry said. “That is, I’m sure your Zeus and Hera would love to hire their own PR team, but the place is kind of hush-hush. No?”

“Billy Stowe is—we think he came from Olympus originally.”

Terry harrumphed. Hermes was fairly sure Terry saw Olympus as a kind of island city-state without a Customs office. He might be aware of a supernatural or magical or otherworldly component, but he dealt with it as just another everyday place—one that didn’t tax him. A duty-free airport gift shop.

“I’ll reach out to Billy,” Terry said.

Little Merman: Chapter 7 Updated

The Faroe Doctrine table occupied a turret near the Constable Tower. On either side of the table, benches followed the curved wall. Between the benches, narrow openings provided a view of the beach and North Sea.

Two Anthros stood at the table. Male and female, they had the tall, narrow ears and white-rimmed eyes of dik-diks. A pair had visited the Station for a conference. Rhys assumed that this pair were also married.

Geo introduced them: “Sarai and Neo.”

Anthros used only their first names around non-kin. Lider and Rhys shook hands.

“Lider and Rhys De Santos,” Lider said.

“You are the priests from the Mars Space Station,” Sarai said.

“You recently got married in Rome,” Neo said.

“We were so pleased,” Sarai said.

“Congratulations,” Neo said.

“Thank you,” Lider said while Rhys pondered why so many people felt an investment in a marriage that was not their own.

Geo said, “They are searching for a Siphon, Brae of the RaykJanes’s clan.”

Neo and Sarai clasped hands. They made no other movement but stillness from an Anthros was like a Siphon’s lashing stem. It denoted consternation or, perhaps, ambivalence.

Sarai said, “That young man is on a quest.”

Neo said, “He expressed a desire to connect with his Siphon roots, to embrace the many selves inside him.”

Sarai said, “He wanted one self to be louder than the others.”

Lider sighed, as if he was hearing something he already expected to hear.

Geo said, “One self is louder, isn’t it? The one who speaks, who makes choices. Faroe Doctrine isn’t a Sybil type of thing.”

Lider laughed. He met Rhys’s eyes and said, “Sybil—film in America before the rise of city-states. Not as ancient as Becket. The eponymous title refers to a woman with multiple personalities.”

Lider’s sentience—if not his corporeal body—went back before Mars’s colonization. Rhys didn’t ask how Geo knew the reference. It was like Geo to tailor allusions to his audience.

Neo said, “Faroe Doctrine isn’t about competing wills. It doesn’t negate unity.”

Lider said gently, “Many people fear it does.”

“Because they want a conclusive result,” Sarai said. “But Faroe Doctrine is about living with and listening to all selves, each self’s unique reaction. Unity comes from totality.”

According to Sarai and Neo, at least. Rhys didn’t doubt there were a dozen interpretations of Faroe Doctrine, each claiming to be the “correct” version. But Sarai and Neo were here at Bamburgh Castle, the place where Lady Mairead, an official Catholic Saint, had supposedly once resided (in whatever fortress existed on the site in 500 C.E.). Sarai and Neo were the orthodox face of Faroe Doctrine.

Lider was nodding at Sarai’s explanation. Geo looked as if he was taking notes on definitions of “self” and “unity.”

Rhys said, “Did Brae want a conclusive result?”

Neo said, “Brae wanted—”

He hesitated as if searching for a word or phrase. Sarai watched him, dark eyes unblinking.

“Solid-colored fur,” Neo said finally. “To be flawless, like a single-celled organism. Anthros don’t have a word for what he wanted.”

“A streamlined and smooth self,” Geo said. “A dolphin male, all the nasty bits tucked away.”

Lider gave Geo a quick glance, silverish blue eyes glinting. His mouth set.

“Not real,” said Sarai. “A devised self.”

Rhys said, “But to be ‘one’ is the goal, isn’t it? As you two are. A couple. Two parts in sync.”

He didn’t sound convincing to himself. Lider was usually the one to make such sweet-tempered, person-to-person observations.

“But not alike,” Sarai said. “Trees are unlike. Fruits are unlike. Grass and brush are unlike. Heart and mind, physical and spiritual functions within a sentient body are unlike.”

Neo said, “We strive for oneness because we cannot achieve it.”

Lider said, “For as the body is one, and has many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body: so also is Christ.”

First Corinthians. Larger-than-life Saint Paul bellowing his thoughts about God and Christ and community while he paced a hut beside the Mediterranean.  

“But the parts of the body don’t always cooperate,” said Geo, their resident devil’s advocate. “Frustrating for anyone who desires oiled gears.”

“Sentient beings aren’t machines,” Lider snapped.

Geo raised a brow. “Not all of us get to experiment with our personas for centuries.”

Rhys shifted, prepared to intervene, but Lider rested a hand on Rhys’s upper arm. Sarai and Neo, Rhys noted, perceived the gesture and nodded in unison.

Lider touches me, so I wait before I beat Geo to a pulp. Oneness as physical interaction. Not an abstraction.

Lider said, “I signed up for a human physical body, not a theory or a manufactured flesh-and-bone vehicle.”

“Unlike Xavier.”

Everybody sighed, as people often did when Xavier was mentioned. Xavier, like Lider, was a now corporeal Cubus. Unlike Lider, Xavier became corporeal within a few years of sentience, almost as soon as he met his mate, a human scholar. Unlike most Cubi, he’d adopted a hybrid Anthros-human form rather than a strictly human form.

Lider said, “Xavier is living with his chosen body. He accepts it.”

“And Xavier isn’t the point,” Rhys said. “Lider picked his form, his self, years before he became corporeal.”

Lider nodded, but he was infinitely fair, so he said, “But, yes, I wavered; I held back. There’s a difference between the imagined and the experienced. Living with a mortal body was the point. I knew how hard it would be. Guessed,” he amended quickly because some aspects of corporeality had proved harder than he or Rhys anticipated. “I guessed how hard it would be. But without a definite form, however messy, how can any future choice be real, be mine?”

Sarai nodded while Neo hummed soft agreement.

Geo said, “You’re assuming choice exists—”

“Geo,” Lider said in a voice that indicated an end to his infinite patience.

“Okay, okay. Actions and statements exist in the here and now unless one gets metaphysical about time, but I can read a room. No metaphysics with this crowd. What about fate? You don’t think you were fated to meet Rhys?”

“Lider followed me,” Rhys said as Lider’s Puck-like face broke into a wide smile, eyes spilling light.

“I chose Rhys,” he said. “Truly.”

Sarai and Neo nodded again. Rhys eyed them and thought he understood why Brae—who came to Bamburgh Castle searching for solace from his broken engagement—left soon after.

Juwal and Phillala and Meke and even Rill described a young man at loose ends. His family described a unrealistic young man and an immature one. Based on his own experience, Rhys could believe that Brae honestly considered Phillala his soulmate. But Phillala was nobody’s soulmate—not yet anyway.

Did Sarai and Neo underscore Brae’s failure? He was young enough to perceive others’ happiness as purposefully hurtful. Faced with a seemingly perfect couple, soured on romance, did he go looking for unity within himself?  

Rhys said, “Where would Brae go if he wanted to, uh, purify his messy bits?”

He was thinking religious cults, but Geo said, “Some companies offer medical procedures, chemical genetic manipulation.”

Lider hissed—a rare demonstration of fury—while Rhys thought, Wade. Wade and Kloptik Pharmaceuticals.

Hermes: Chapter 7

Hermes was nearing twenty when he recruited Ven. Jes-Jer insisted. They were tired, they claimed, of Hermes’s “conservatism,” by which they meant Hermes selecting male humans to become male gods and female humans to become female gods.

“Such tunnel-vision,” Jes-Jer proclaimed. “So highbound by tradition.”  

Jes-Jer had recently reluctantly appointed a Demeter. Agricultural gods tended to “steal” followers and offerings (theologically, not literally since robbing altars was prohibited, one of Eros’s immutable rules). Popularity-wise, systems based on farming favored gods who blessed farmers. Since the farmers made up the bulk of Olympus citizens, Jes-Jer had to concede and get a Demeter.

They turned next to recruiting the Aphrodite/Venus. And they wanted to “make a change.” Hermes suspected they wanted to prevent a goddess of love joining forces with a goddess of soil and vegetation. They didn’t want to risk a possible Kore.

“Male. Young. Spiritual. A pacifist. Love should be inclusive and uncombative. Yes?”

Goddesses of love rarely lived up to those adjectives, but Hermes took Jes-Jer at their word. Ven, originally Val (“My mother adored Val Kilmer”), was what Ares called “Seattle stoner.” He had a mass of auburn-tinted curly hair that fell into bright dreamy eyes. He dressed in loose t-shirts and hemp sweaters over cargo pants. He didn’t smoke pot, not any more, at least. And he didn’t seem to abide by any particular philosophy. He was entirely mellow.

“You want me to—what?” he said when Hermes made his offer. “Yeah, okay.”

Of course, Ven—Val—had few ties to the other world. Hermes might be taking Jes-Jer at their word but he never made his selections idly. He knew Val’s parents were dead. He knew Val wasn’t close to his extended family. He knew Val slept with men and women, which Hermes figured would be a useful proclivity for a god of love. And he knew that Val had recently lost a friend to drugs and was looking for a way out of grunge culture. Olympus was an option.

World of misfits—that’s us.

* * * 

Ven was in his temple, the Cathedral Church of St. Luke in the other Portland. Like that church, the temple stood behind the museum, which served as a conservatory and art college for Athena and Apollo, and across from Asclepius’s hospital. When Hermes entered through the always-open double wooden doors, he glanced into the chapel at Ven’s overflowing-as-usual altar. At least three couples were whispering together in the pews.

Hermes turned to the left into a warren of dimly lit, warm, and unfrightening corridors that smelled faintly of cedar. He reached the courtyard between the church and the monk-like apartments. The apartments were less austere than historical monks’ quarters. Ven’s presence allowed visitors to relieve their pent-up sexual desires. Hermes had his own apartment there, one with a lock that Ven nicely didn’t point out was useless against Ven’s authority.

Ven and Ares sat at a picnic table underneath the courtyard’s huge oak tree. Ares was a dark-haired muscular man of average height and weight and indeterminate age. The Bruce Willis of Olympus. The kind of guy who looked good whether he was relaxed and reasonably well-dressed or beat-up and bleeding.

He was coifed at the moment, in shirtsleeves at least.  He and Ven were lovers though at the moment they were discussing Ares’s soldiers’ needs and whether spouses and significant others should accompany longer expeditions.

“Not entirely safe,” Ven said.

“And runs the risk of dividing their responsibilities,” Ares agreed.

Ven looked up and smiled as Hermes neared. Van had the unnerving gift of creating instantaneous “warm and fuzzy feelings” (as Kouros called them). But Hermes never took emotions—positive or negative—as an impetus for intelligent action. Hermes had seen citizens undone by their affections. He’d seen how close Hades and Kouros came to being undone by their relationship. Hermes would never go down that soap opera path.

Still, needs were needs and Ven helped Hermes siphon off his strongest, hormone-induced wants. Hermes tried to stay on Ven’s good side as much as he could, especially since his bargaining tended to annoy Ven in the first place.

Hermes said, “Do you know what happened to Eros, the Eros before Kouros?”

“Are you supposed to ask about gods who left?” Ares said, one leg propped on the bench.

 Jes-Jer did not encourage discussions of prior gods—a reminder of non-continuity—but Hermes figured his current mission overrode Jes-Jer’s paranoia. He was doing exactly what they asked. He shrugged.

Ven said, “You would know better than me about the previous Eros.” He cocked his head, bright eyes fixed on Hermes’s face. “Hermes visits the other world.”

“I’ve never looked for Eros,” Hermes said. “And you have your own spies.”

Every god did. No gods had access to the other world’s internet—even Apollo used Hermes to maintain his “web page”—and only Hermes could transverse the worlds’ boundary and keep his short-term and episodic memory. But information, like myths, leaked. Humans brought news when they arrived on Olympus. They shared information with the gods. The information they didn’t share, the Charites picked up with their listening devices.

Ven said, “I hear Eros works on Wall Street now. Something like that. He found his Psyche.”

“Does he remember Olympus?”

“Not exactly. Part of him was always there. Constantly reborn. Constantly waiting. Don’t ask me,” Ven said to Ares’s raised brows. “I’m not a metaphysician. Some gods are appointed. Some are gods from birth—they only have to be recognized. Eros, the previous Eros, was that type. He was the first god, the one who found this world and set up the rules.”

“The theology of a sociopath,” Ares muttered. He studied Hermes. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for hounds?”

Information didn’t just leak. It crossed Olympus in a heartbeat.

“Can’t find any. One of Hades’s pet monsters thinks I should search for Enkidu.”

“Wild man from Sumer?” Ven said.

Ven was another one whose 1980s Renaissance-Man education had included mythology.

“Enkidu was exiled to the other world,” Hermes said.

Another cocked eyebrow. Hermes knew he’d revealed himself with exile, but Ven didn’t comment.

He said, “Eons ago, I suspect, when the gods used names like Ishtar and Enki.”

“Gods can take on any names,” Ares said. “So long as the names are ones the previous Eros approved, names that existed before he left.”

“Sure, but they take the names they know.”

Hermes said, “Enkidu could have descendants.”

“And you think the previous Eros would know?”

“He would have forgotten,” Ares said. “Only the Hermes remembers.”

“He’s the only god who goes back that far.”

And the only god from Olympus still alive in the other world. Gods who went back reverted to human. The previous gods—the ones who left at the time of The Chaos—had died from illnesses and accidents since they left. 

“You said the Eros who left found his Psyche,” Hermes said. “He is still drawn to Olympian-matters.”

That idea came from Humbaba, but Hermes had no problem stealing other people’s ideas, so long as they didn’t find out. And he figured Humbaba was right. The gods connected to The Chaos—the ones who played with nature’s laws and lost followers and had to leave—died stupidly, as if the inability to understand cause and effect followed them out of Olympus. Too fast driving on ice. Too careless use of drugs. Too much indifference to train signals. 

Not Merc. Merc hadn’t been stupid.

Ven said, “Okay, I do have information. The Charites tell me that Eros goes by Billy now, works in crisis management—”

Ares snorted. “Paying off his sins.”

Ven grinned. “He knows Terry Nicholson.”

Ares whistled. “The chap who came through the tunnels and met the Fates?”

“Yeah. So, I’d say you were right, Hermes. Those from Olympus find each other.”

Like Hermes and Merc. Despite being an ex-god, Merc still knew how to make savvy trades. 

Merc died anyway. The other world was a cesspool. And now, Hermes had to go there.

Little Merman: Chapter 6

Meke settled into the space Juwel vacated, legs crossed.

He said to Lider and Rhys, “Bamburgh Castle is holding a seminar on the Faroe Islands, including Faroe Doctrine. If you go there, you’ll meet up with Geo Aslund.”

Geo Aslund was a Siphon from an exceedingly aristocratic and wealthy clan. Wealthy enough that like Meke, he could have accepted a token position in his family’s company and spent his days hanging out in the equivalent of a men’s club.

Meke became a diplomat, Geo a translator. He usually worked with Anthros, those who preferred their kin group’s language to the Common Language. Geo was highly specialized and he was greatly in demand—which was in keeping with Geo’s personality.

“Is Geo a devotee of Faroe Doctrine?” Rhys said.

He couldn’t imagine Geo believing in anything much except himself. When Geo visited the Mars Space Station over a year ago, he’d attended a few Masses. Afterwards, he’d discussed the connotations of “Lamb of God” and “resurrection” with Lider, how to make the terms clear to his clients. He would have shown the same focus—and probably did—attending a meeting on the maintenance of air ducts. Geo’s job was his focus.

Meke said, “Geo? No. But the primary proponents of Faroe Doctrine have expanded their, ah, denomination to include all sentient species.”

Lider frowned. “Not an exclusively Siphon experience then.”

“Faroe Doctrine does originate with Siphons,” Meke pointed out.

“But applying it to humans and Anthros and Cubi would water it down somewhat.”

Rhys smiled. Lider believed in things being distinctly themselves: True pluralism. Let differences exist side by side. For those differences to exist, believers had to avoid reductionist abstraction. Catholic doctrine should be Catholic doctrine. If one claimed to believe it, one should be able to recognize it.

Rhys didn’t disagree. But sentient beings were fully capable of compartmentalizing their beliefs: exclusivity alongside diverse membership; cultural celebration alongside accusations of cultural appropriation. A sentient being could applaud an act and get offended by its outcomes in the same moment without feeling hypocritical.

Nevertheless, Rhys said, “Does Brae see Anthros and humans as spiritual companions?”

“He isn’t bigoted,” Phillala said quickly.

Lider met Rhys’s eyes. Rhys nearly shrugged. Brae could want a Siphon-exclusive experience and not be a bigot. He might simply wish to “go deep,” a phrase familiar to Siphons, humans, Anthros, and even Cubi.

Would Brae admit such apparently narrow needs?

Rill muttered, “Geo’s ego would give Brae’s ego a bruising.”

He’d returned to the carpeted area and now perched on the sofa arm near Meke. Meke laughed and set his hand on Rill’s knee. Geo, Rhys remembered, had been the RaykJanes’s choice for Meke, a mate they set deliberately in Meke’s path. According to Lider, who talked to people about that type of thing, Rill had never felt threatened by Geo. One could still resent the sudden appearance of an ex in one’s lover’s life. Rhys deliberately didn’t look at Lider.

Juwel said mildly, “Geo is very accomplished. But not with numbers,” she added, and Rill flashed her one of his rare smiles. She smiled back and strode away.

Apparently, Juwel RaykJanes was confident that Rhys and Lider wouldn’t harass Phillala, not any more than Phillala harassed them.

Meke said contemplatively, “Brae isn’t confident enough to show off an ego.”

Phillala murmured agreement.

So did Rill. He said, “Geo knows where he belongs in the universe.”

 * * *

Geo was a slender man slightly taller than Lider. He was somewhere between Rhys and Lider in age and he was handsome—not in the same way as Rhys, with worldly wear, or as Lider, with that hint of otherworldliness. He was almost shocking in his good looks, the kind of good looks that sent up red flags to people wary of grifters and con men. Bright, direct eyes of cerulean blue. Tan skin that didn’t blush or pale. Styled brown hair with blond highlights. The flare of blue-green along his hairline indicated membership in the aristocratic Aslund clan.

Good looking enough to be dismissed as empty-headed until one noted the way the upper lip thinned and the eyes slightly narrowed when Geo teased someone.

Or until Geo opened his mouth. “Is Brae the Los Nares in absentia from RaykJanes’s marriage wrangling? I’ll ask around. But I just arrived at Bamburgh Castle. From Greenland.”

Greenland contained the primary political association of Anthros on Earth, an assortment of kin groups under a single queen. An Anthros prince had recently been officially presented in an international event that required a stampeding herd of diplomats and translators.

Geo said, “Meke left for New York about the same time—rushed home to his number-crunching weever fish.”

Lider said, “Aren’t weever fish dangerous?”

Geo grinned like a shark. “Sure. They bite. Have you talked to Rill?”

Which meant that Rill might be one of the few people to best Geo in an exchange of barbs.

For all Rhys’s own sardonic tendencies, needling conversations made him tired. He gave Geo a raised eyebrow. Geo’s shark smile quieted to something more neighborly.

“I can ask around about Brae,” he said. “But the castle is full-up for the conference.”

They stood in the west ward of Bamburgh Castle. Behind them loomed the clock tower. Ahead was the path that led to the restored St. Oswald’s Gate. To the right was a low wall edging an open sky, blown clear by fresh breeze from the North Sea.

Geo said, “Brae is a devotee of Saint Mairead then?” Bamburgh Castle was a jumping off point for the pilgrimage for Saint Mairead, the first Siphon Saint.

“Faroe Doctrine,” Rhys said. “Brae expressed interest in its ideas.”

“More Catholic zealousness.”

“Faroe Doctrine isn’t Catholic doctrine,” Lider said.

“Not officially,” Geo agreed. “But it has Anthros and human Catholic adherents. What people do with their personal theologies—”

He shrugged, which more or less summed up Rhys’s attitude towards religion. But he wasn’t going to bond with Geo over, well, anything. He and Lider had agreed years ago that Rhys as priest should keep his agnosticism to himself.

Geo said, “I suppose you checked out Brae’s initiation temple?”

“It’s been thoroughly scouted,” Rhys said. “We sent agents to follow up. But it seems to be the one place everyone has thought of.”

Lider said, “We’ll hear if he shows up in the Great Lakes Duchy.”

Geo nodded. “So you think he came here to drown his sorrows in philosophical meanderings?”

Drown was a pejorative with Siphons. Lider frowned.

“You use ‘philosophical meanderings’ when you translate complex doctrines to your clients?” he said, and Rhys couldn’t help a laugh.

Lider sounded much the same when he scolded a young parishioner for using “unimaginative expletives.”

Geo grinned. “Depends on what I am translating. Not everyone pulls their punches. Take separate the wheat from the chaff.  Is that like separating deep water from shallow? Or salt water from fresh? Or polluted water from good?”

“Why insist on a single analogy?”

“I thought the object was to communicate successfully to an audience. Of course, metaphors don’t work for everyone.”

Lider and Geo could go on for hours about language and meaning and intent. Rhys said, “Does the castle have a list of attendees? Siphon attendees specifically?”

Geo considered, then set off up the road to the castle wall. They passed under the arch and trekked up the road to the gatehouse; they turned abruptly to mount stairs to the walkway that was lined with people and tables.

Rhys gathered that the conference that weekend was a general celebration of the Faroe Islands. One table offered an excursion to the islands. Another sold statues of Kópakonan, a representation—some believed—of Lady Mairead. Another touted storytelling sessions of Faroe Island myths.

Faroe Doctrine had a table of its own.