Prometheus Wakens - 2. Chapter 2: Day 2, Olive

Chapter 2 Day 2, Olive

Sex with Ginkgo the next morning was reciprocal, passionate, and quite satisfactory. Then, after a brief morning shower, Ginkgo bade farewell. “Another of my brothers will greet you at breakfast,” he said. He touched my lips in a light kiss. “Thank you,” he said, and scampered away.

Again, I found the bed made and a tunic and sandals ready for me. When I reached the table on the patio, another beautiful boy greeted me. He looked Mediterranean: a mass of curly black hair and brownish skin. His limbs were thin, but appeared strong with muscle. His tunic was black. His eyes? His eyes were darker than his tunic.

When I stepped onto the patio, he bowed. I took the remaining three steps to reach him, took his hands, and asked, “Are you a dryad?”

The boy was obviously puzzled, but he stood upright, looked me in the eye, and answered.

“My Lord, I am Olive, your companion-guide for today. If I do not please you . . . .”

I would have laughed except that I sensed his trepidation. “You please me very much, Olive,” I said. “I am, however, new to this place, and it helps me understand if I know who everyone is.”

“I am indeed a dryad,” he said. “My tree is the olive. There are few like me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because the olive is slow to mature, and we can inhabit only mature trees,” the boy said.

“And how long can you stay with me?”

“As long as you wish,” he said. “However, there are others . . . it would not be fair to them, it would not be right, for me to stay longer than a day.”

Demeter. I thought. She swore friendship with me. So, she’s not scheduling these boys for nefarious reasons—if, indeed, she’s doing the scheduling, herself. I had no reason, at this point, to distrust Demeter or the boys, so that is what I thought.

I don’t know how long it’s going to take to meet all the dryads. Didn’t Ginkgo say there were seven of him? And there must be a hundred oak trees around this house.

I nodded, and looked for safety in routine. “Breakfast,” I said. “I’ve decided I like breakfast, and not just because there will be a beautiful boy beside me at the table.”

Olive blushed. It was hard to see under his complexion, but I was looking for it, and saw.

“What is the plan?” I asked after we’d helped ourselves from the plates of fruit and a bowl of grits. Yes, grits. Swimming in butter. I remembered not being allowed butter at the nursing home, but pushed aside that memory.

Olive giggled. “Same as every day: work until quitting time,” he said.

“What are our tasks?” I asked, and remembered I’d asked Demeter what I was supposed to do, but hadn’t gotten an answer. “And will there be time for you to show me your tree? and Maple’s, and Ginkgo’s? I asked Ginkgo but, well, other things came up.”

“Yes, of course, although they will be at work, too. Perhaps . . . ?”

I knew his question, and nodded. We’d find time for Maple and Ginkgo to show me their own trees. “What kind of work?”

“We will be pruning olive trees,” he said. “They must be pruned before they flower, which will be in a few weeks.”

“How do you know what to prune—how much to remove?”

“They must be pruned so that a swallow can fly through them,” he said. He giggled again. “So that light and air can reach the center of the tree. We also prune away suckers.”

I nodded. I knew what suckers were—odd growths trying to become branches that grew from the base of a tree and from joints where branches grew from the trunk—or branched.

After breakfast and a quick but thorough brushing of teeth, Olive led me to the olive grove. We walked along a path of brilliant white pea gravel. As we approached, I saw other boys already at work. I thought I glimpsed Maple’s red hair and green tunic, and Ginkgo’s yellow hair and brown tunic. I looked closer, and saw several more red/green and yellow/brown combinations, as well as many others. Maple had said there were others, and that I’d meet them. I must not have been blocking well, because Olive giggled.

The sun had reached the zenith when Olive tugged at my hand. “Come, your lunch is ready.”

I guessed he knew that because he was in touch with whatever Dryads were taking care of my home. I saw, however, that the other boys were not pausing in their tasks.

“What about the others?” I asked.

“They will be nourished tonight, when they join their trees,” he said. I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “We all draw nourishment from our tree,” he said. “To enjoy a meal with you is a special treat, but it is not nourishing.”

A thought came, unbidden. “And in the winter? When you have lost your leaves?”

“Then, we sleep,” he said. “But do not worry, there is a huge forest of conifers of many species and varieties on the other side of the hill. They will be awake, and will serve you, then.”

That hadn’t been what I was thinking, but at some level I was glad to hear it. I had been alone for . . . how long? I couldn’t remember how long; I just remembered being alone. Now, I was beginning to make connections, albeit briefly, with others: Maple, Ginkgo, Demeter, and today, Olive. Something in me didn’t want to lose that.

Lunch was fruit and sandwiches of smoky cheese and sliced tomatoes on a multi-grain bread. “Olive? Where does the cheese come from? The tomatoes? For that matter, where does the bread come from? And the meat, last night?”

He told me that the meat came from sheep, the cheese from goats’ milk. The sheep and goats were tended by mortals—which Olive called mundanes—who lived between my home and the sea. They traded meat and cheese for olive oil, wine, and coffee that were produced on the estate. The bread was baked daily in my own kitchen by Dryads, and the tomatoes were grown in a kitchen garden, just down the hill from the patio.

“Wine? Coffee?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. On the south slope of the hills,” he gestured, “are vineyards. The coffee bushes grow over that ridge.” He pointed. “After we prune the olives, we will work, there.”

“And these mortals,” I asked. “What is our relationship with them?”

Olive thought for a moment. “They know that the gods inhabit Mount Olympus and once inhabited this island. They don’t know about you, specifically, but they’ll probably learn about you, soon.

“They know that the wine and olive oil and coffee from your estate are the finest in Greece . . . maybe in the world. They trade for meat, cheese, gold, cloth, and other things that are not produced on your estate.”

“My estate? This house, the olive groves, the vineyard, they’ve been here for some time. Whose was it? Why is it mine?”

Olive dithered. “I do not know why it is yours,” he said. “But it was the estate of Hebe.”

He would not meet my eye, but looked down at his plate, and whispered. “It was the estate of Hebe, before she left.”

I felt his sense of loss, of sorrow. “She was your mistress?” I asked.

Olive nodded, but said nothing. He was still looking at his plate.

“Olive, please look at me.”

When the boy lifted his head I saw tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. As I watched, one rolled down his cheek.

“Olive, will you speak to all the dryads on the estate? Will you tell them that I know I cannot replace Hebe in their hearts and that I do not wish to do so, but that I will do everything I can to protect them and to nurture them?”

Olive smiled. “Yes, my Lord Prometheus. I have told them, and they are glad. Maple and Ginkgo have also spoken to the others and . . . .” He blushed.

The afternoon was like the morning except that as the day grew warmer we paused more often for water. I saw that the other boys did, as well. Apparently they didn’t get all of their nourishment from their trees.

Before it got too late, I reminded Olive of my desire to see his tree, and those of Maple and Ginkgo. He took my hand, and led me to a tree we had pruned earlier in the day. “This is my tree,” he said, and put his hand on its bark. There was a blur, and he was no longer standing beside the tree, yet I knew that he was still nearby. Another blur, and he was once again a boy at my side.

“Way cool!” I said. We both grinned, then he led me to where Ginkgo was standing by his tree.

Ginkgo’s six brothers were waiting with him. I was relieved to find that they were not septuplets, but unique individuals. There was, however, a familial resemblance beyond the bright yellow-gold hair. They ranged in apparent age from perhaps 10 to 16. It struck me: where do little boy dryads come from? Surely not from under a cabbage leaf. It was something I’d have to find out.

When I offered Ginkgo-1 a kiss, the others demanded one, as well. I was enveloped in boy pheromones, a cloud that seemed to follow me when Olive took me to Maple’s tree.

Maple stood alone at the crest of a grassy knoll. As soon as he saw us, he ran toward me, arms outstretched. I got a big hug. So did Olive. After I admired his tree, Maple vanished. As before, I sensed that he was near, and stroked his bark before taking Olive’s hand for the walk home.

That evening in the bath Olive lathered my body, and ran his hands along my inner thighs, my abdomen, and the length of my penis. Then, he clasped our bodies together. I bent my knees; he raised himself on his toes. Our penises rubbed together between our tummies. Slowly, gracefully despite bent knees and straining toes, we brought each other to climax. My mouth found his; our tongues clashed. I heard, and then felt him gasp. His arms tightened, pulling us even more closely together. I felt him pulsing between us as the heat of his seed rose to my chest. I felt my own orgasm building, and pulled him close, lifting him from the floor as I straightened my knees. He sucked my tongue into his mouth and wrapped his legs around me and I came, pulsing, spurting between us.

“Olive, are all the boy dryads gay?”

We had bathed a second time, dunked ourselves in the hot tub and the cold plunge, briefly, and were at supper.

“All are gay, or at least bi. All of the Ginkgoes are gay. There are boy and girl Ginkgo trees, you know? But only boys on this estate. One olive tree in ten is male; the others are female. On the estate, however, all are male. There are female ginkgos, olives, and others elsewhere on the island when we need to create a new tree.”

He giggled, and then continued. “Actually, there are olive trees that are hermaphroditic. Perhaps one in a hundred. You know about hermaphrodites, right?”

“Yes. From Hermes and Aphrodite. Both sexes. Doubles their chance of getting a date on Friday nights.”

Olive’s blank stare and furrowed eyebrows told me he had no idea what I was talking about, so I asked, “Are there any hermaphrodites on this estate?”

He thought for a moment. “No, there are not.”

I felt a sense of relief. I wasn’t entirely sure I would be comfortable being intimate with a hermaphrodite, although if they lived on this estate, I would probably have had to.

Olive had told me a lot; still, I didn’t know what my role was to be. I could not believe it was only to have sex with a gaggle of boys who lived in trees.