“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.
* * *
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.
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.
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.
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