Hermes: Chapter 9

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

They were in Zeus and Hera’s temple in the 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 pundit.”

“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 was the blond man criticizing?”

“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, so Zeus and Hera can send her away.”

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

“Eros? He hates Olympus.”

Hermes stumbled against the climbing wall brought over from one of the other Chicago’s parks. “Why?”

“His Psyche isn’t here.” Merc hesitated and looked about. But this was in the early months of The Chaos and there were few citizens on the park’s 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 that 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—

He 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 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 thoughts Jes-Jer would drop the matter—

He spent one day arranging for deliveries to his second office (of 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. He 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 an 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, the receptionist leaned forward and pointed to the stairs. “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 narrow walkways 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.

Currently, 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 photographed 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 as good as they are.”

“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.

“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, so twenty-six or twenty-seven. 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 going through Olympus. But the Fates demanded payment. They always demanded payment. Annually, but Terry told Hermes once that he sent along items 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.

Hermes had considered investing in art and then decided that the field was too contentious. It would require far too many trips between the two worlds. He settled for selling off Apollo’s productions.

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. He set “myth” squarely in the “fantasy” realm (according to this world’s rules) 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 still 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.”

“And all because he wanted to bring his prodigy, Alim, 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 opinion. 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 perfect. 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.

“You assume you were a god?” Terry was grinning.

“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.”