Prometheus Wakens - 5. Chapter 5: Oak-2, Apricots, and Zeus

Chapter 5: Oak-2, Apricots, and Zeus

Since it had been Zeus who had sent Demeter to visit me (at least, that’s the way I understood it), I decided to send an invitation to him through Demeter. The Dryad the day after Apple was Oak-2. Since he was the only oak present at the moment, I dropped the suffix when talking to him, although I added how to name them differently to my to-do list.

“Oak? Can you contact Demeter?”

His eyes grew vacant for a moment. “Yes, Lucas. She now hears what I hear, sees what I see, and speaks with my mouth.”

It took me a second or two to grasp what he said, time enough for Demeter to speak. I recognized the inflections and intonations of her voice, and knew it was she.

“Good morning, My Lord Prometheus.”

“Good morning, My Lady Demeter. I hope I didn’t catch you at an inopportune time. I thought only that Oak could convey a message to you.”

Demeter’s laugh was comingled with Oak’s giggle. It told me not only that she was not displeased, but also that the boy was probably privy to our conversation. If he were, they all were, unless I directed otherwise. I’d have to remember that.

“My Lady, I have had an interesting and fruitful discussion with Apollo. I understand that I have a responsibility to the estate and to these boys. I believe, however, that I have found the task Prometheus intended for me when he gave me his powers. I think I should tell Zeus what it is.”

Oak nodded, and I knew it was Demeter’s gesture. “I will speak to him. You will receive a message regarding his answer as soon as I receive one.”

“Thank you, Lady Demeter.”

“You are welcome, Lord Prometheus.”

Oak smiled. “Thank you, Lucas,” he said. “I’ve not been asked to do that in hundreds of years.”

“Do you receive pleasure from it?” I asked. I was puzzled.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “To feel the power of a god as it runs through me is like sunlight on my leaves but a hundred times stronger.” He shivered.

“Well, then,” I said. “You should be charged up for what is to come.” I winked. He blushed.

“I meant the pruning,” I teased. He blushed even more.

There were still olive trees that needed pruning, so Oak and I joined the crew. I was learning what to do, but asked Oak occasionally whether a particular branch should be pruned. I saw that it made him feel good for me to ask his advice.

That evening, Oak lay on his back while I let my fingers drift gently over his body, touching him in places I knew, I felt would arouse him.

I remembered that charlatans in my reality tried to convince people that by stimulating points in their bodies, either with acupuncture, chiropractic, or other schemes involving the “chakras,” or places of power, they could cure disease, restore sexual ability, increase health, and perform other wild and improbable tasks. Their pseudoscience usually didn’t kill people, other than the ones it kept from seeking help from legitimate medicine, but it didn’t help them, either.

I found, buried in the knowledge Apollo had given me when showing me his play with Ginkgo, that I could see bright places in Oak’s body, places that when I touched them flared with energy. Oak gasped each time I touched him that way.

“Lucas! What are you doing? This is better than sunlight, better than Demeter talking through me!”

I showed him, and then asked, “Have you never done this, before?”

He shook his head, but said, “Never! May I try it, on you?”

It took a while for him to see similar energy in me. For a while, we exchanged caresses, and then I took him into my mouth where he exploded with pleasure. I think he enjoyed receiving me just as much.

The next morning, two boy dryads—who appeared to be twins—were waiting at the breakfast table. Their hair was almost orange; their eyes, gray. They were neither thin nor stocky, taller than Oak, but a bit shorter than Olive. I ran through my knowledge of trees. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you,” I said.

“We are Apricot,” one said.

“Prunus armeniaca,” the other continued.

“There are forty apricot trees just past the vineyard . . . .”

“ . . . but only thirty have dryads . . . .”

“ . . . and we share a tree,” the first completed the sentence.

“Be welcome,” I said.

“Lady Demeter sends her greetings,” Oak spoke before we could sit down. “Lord Zeus will visit you at mid-morning.”

“In that case,” I said as I sat and gestured for the boys to do so, “I would like you to remain, Oak.” I had remembered that one of the symbols of Zeus was the oak tree.

“Zeus has arrived,” Oak said. “He’s coming up the path.”

I looked at the strip of white pea gravel that led down the hill to the north, toward the village and the seaport. A figure appeared: an old man, bearded, wearing a toga or something like that. He was using a staff of some sort. When he got closer, I saw that the staff was a lightning bolt. It sizzled. A lightning bolt! Wants to impress me, I guess.

When he reached the edge of the patio he stopped, looked at the dryads, who had knelt and bowed their heads. Zeus raised an eyebrow and then nodded briefly. “My Lord Prometheus.”

I copied the nod. “My Lord Zeus. Thank you for ensuring that Demeter made me comfortable, and thank you for visiting. Please, will you sit?” I gestured to the table, on which the boys had placed a pitcher of nectar, another of ice water, and another of wine. Plates held cheese, crackers, and pastries. “After they serve us, the boys will retire.”

Zeus nodded. We sat at the same instant.

Oak poured nectar and wine for Zeus; Apricot-1 poured wine and water for me. I had found the nectar to be cloyingly sweet. I suppose it was an acquired taste. Or, I thought, something they do because only they can do it.

Zeus sipped his wine, pulled in some air through parted lips, wiggled his cheeks, and then swallowed. “This estate has always produced the best wine. The quality has fallen off since . . . some time ago. The estate needs supervision.”

I wasn't sure how to answer that. I knew he was talking about what had happened since Hebe had disappeared. Still, it didn’t escape my notice that he’d not used my name, but spoke rather naturally, as one person to another. It was as if an old-school German had said to a junior, Lass uns mit du. “Let us use the informal pronoun.” Does he see himself as my senior?

“I believe that the reason I was brought here is more significant than ensuring the quality of olive oil and wine,” I said, “although I am happy to do that. The boys say they are thousands of years old, yet they are in so many ways, children. I have some difficulty reconciling all that with their appearance and history.”

“You are not the first of the younger gods to have that problem,” Zeus said. “Although you came to grips with it much more quickly than the others.”

“Others have used the phrase, younger gods,” I said.

“I believe that you did not take offense.”

“No, they explained that it was a label, and that it wasn’t pejorative. Further, I know my limitations. I know—and presume you know—that I am a mortal, who died at age 80, and was somehow resurrected here in a young body with all the powers of an ancient titan and only sketchy memories of my own past. I do, however, have a comprehensive knowledge of that world, itself . . . the world of the reality from which I came.”

Zeus nodded, and then said, “I think it more correct that you were a mortal.”

He said nothing more, so, I kept talking. “I remember little about myself, but I do remember that I believed neither in gods nor metaphysical powers. Now, I find myself surrounded by gods and am discovering that I possess powers that cannot be explained by the science that I knew.

“I recall some of the environmental issues facing the reality from which I came, including blue algae and global climate change. I find comfort in working the olive grove with the boys, and am looking forward to working in the vineyard, and elsewhere.”

I paused and thought for a moment. “Actually, I don’t even know the extent of this estate. I do know, however, that Hebe was your daughter. I suspect that you must have mixed emotions about visiting here.”

“If you know that, you probably know about my past relationship with Prometheus and others of the titans,” Zeus said.

“I remember the stories,” I said. “I know about your eagle and Prometheus’ liver. I know about the birth of the gods, and the battles between the gods and the titans.

“I also know that things in my world are not going well; I believe that I will have some role in fixing that. I also believe that I will need your help, your experience, and your wisdom.”

I paused to give Zeus a chance to speak.

“Demeter said you had something important to say,” he said. “I take it from what you’ve said, you’ve discovered the reason Prometheus selected you?”

“I do. An evil has taken hold in my home reality. It is fed by money from trade in illegal and dangerous drugs. It is protected by corrupt governments. It is encouraged by churches, which have lost sight of what little was good in their message. It has tentacles in other evils including child prostitution, slavery, and murder.”

I hadn’t talked about those with Apollo. He had enough to deal with. I would have to, soon, however.

I described the situation much as I had to Apollo, adding detail where I thought appropriate, and including examples of the other tentacles.

Zeus took little time to digest what I’d said before he spoke. “Apollo did not tell you that I had forbidden interference in your reality.”

I was stunned, but not too stunned to say, “Perhaps he didn’t think I needed to be warned.” I possess the powers of a titan, Zeus old buddy. I don’t need your permission. On the other hand, I do want your cooperation. So, I spoke softly, and tried not to think of the big stick I held by virtue of being the avatar of Prometheus . . . or of Zeus’ big lightning bolt that was leaning against the table, and sizzling.

“Perhaps he felt that my argument was sufficient reason for you to reconsider,” I said. “In addition to the lightning bolt, you are the bearer of the aegis, the shield behind which your children are protected.”

Zeus snorted. “I will never forgive the Athenians for inventing rhetoric. Their clever way with words poisons the whole world. You assume I still have the aegis, and haven’t given it to Athena, who has often carried it. You assume that the static protection of the aegis equates to the dynamic quest you propose. You assume that I am responsible for protecting the people of your former reality. You assume that I care.”

I pounced on his last word. “I have surmised that the reason the titans and so many of the gods have left this reality is that they have been overcome with ennui, have become bored, and have lost the ability, the capacity to care.”

Zeus’s brow seemed to lower over his eyes, the sky darkened—but not with clouds—until it seemed to be night rather than nearly noon, and the lightning bolt’s sizzle increased.

Big stick time, I thought, and brightened the sky. “Please do not change the weather over my island,” I said. “I want neither my servants nor my neighbors frightened.”

Zeus rose a little from his seat, and then sat down. His jaw muscles tightened; his lips compressed; and the lightning bolt sizzled loudly.

“I will tell the others that they may participate or not. I will tell them that they may visit this other reality or not. I will tell them that they may choose.”

“They should not have to choose between you and me, however,” I said, softly.

“Nevertheless, they shall have to.” Zeus stood, gathered under his arm a bit of his toga that had fallen from a shoulder, picked up the lightning bolt, and vanished.

That didn’t go well, I thought.

Then I remembered the trees. “Oak!” I called. “Apricot! Come here, quickly.”

“The boys who live in these trees,” I gestured to those closest to the patio. “They were privy to our conversation?”

The boys nodded. I think I felt some fear.

“Please remind them—remind all the boys—that we are bound by ties of mutual loyalty. On that loyalty, I charge them to say nothing to anyone of what transpired here.”

The boys nodded. After only a second, Oak said, “It is done.”

“Thank you. Oak, you have served well for longer than usual. You may remain for the rest of this day, you may join the others in the olive grove, or you may return to your tree. Unless there’s something else you’d rather do?”

He grinned. “I will join my brothers. The work in the olive grove is complete, and they will be spending the afternoon at play. I will show them what you taught me, last night!”

Oak shared quick kisses with the Apricots, a longer and deeper one with me with a whispered, Thank you, Lucas, and he was gone.

“Apricot? Would you ask the Lady Demeter and the Lord Apollo to visit?” I asked.

Both boys nodded, then one said, “They will be here anon. Shall we clean up, and bring new refreshments?”

“Yes, and coffee, please.” I think I’ll need it!

“My argument should have convinced him,” I said, after having described the meeting with Zeus to Demeter and Apollo. “Can you think of any reason it did not?”

They both shook their heads. “Except that he’s always been a bit hot headed,” Apollo said.

“He’s your father, isn’t he?” I asked. Apollo nodded.

“And my brother,” Demeter added. “And father of my daughter.”

I remembered that Demeter’s daughter was cursed to spend half her year in Hades, and allowed only half her year on Earth with her mother. “Is she . . .?” I could not finish the question.

“No,” Demeter said. “She could no longer tolerate the stress of divided loyalties.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Demeter nodded, and then sat straight in her chair. Her eyes were clear, her voice strong.

“What you propose to do will be a reminder that all the gods once existed to bring benefits upon humanity. What you propose to do will serve to anchor those of us who remain in this reality by showing us that there is still something worthwhile for us to do. Let us plan.”

She and Apollo spent the rest of the morning telling me about the gods, especially the younger gods who were at work in this reality.

“Our powers, our sphere of influence, runs across the northern hemisphere from Greece north and west across the Mediterranean through Europe, Great Britain, North America and South, and some of the Pacific islands including Australia,” Apollo explained.

“East of the Urals through Japan, other gods, including a large Hindu pantheon rule,” Demeter said. “Africa is still ruled by animal spirits.”

“In our area of responsibility, day to day operations are managed by Dike, goddess of Justice, who sits on King’s Bench Seven, in England,” Apollo added.

He saw my eyebrows rise, and said “Most of the gods have a strong presence in the mortal world. It helps ground them in reality.”

He did not say, but I understood: I should also develop such a presence. Something else for my “to do” list. I also needed to learn more about the source of their powers—our powers, actually. Somehow, that didn't seem important, as in “if it works, don’t question it.” Still, I knew it had to be understood.

“Athena is in Philadelphia, helping the Americans write a constitution that will avoid some of the problems they’ve had in other realities, specifically yours,” Apollo said, drawing me back to the here and now.

“I’m sorry . . . writing the American constitution? What year is this?” I asked.

Demeter’s face reflected my own puzzlement. “I do not know. You’ll have to ask Clio.”

Clio, I thought. One of the muses . . . Muse of History. A good choice.

There was a rustle of displaced air, and a young woman stood beside Demeter.

When I posed the question to her, she replied, “The gods have never reckoned time as does humankind. Only they seem obsessed with dates. They also have difficulties agreeing on a Year Zero. The most commonly used calendar begins about 1,000 years before the founding of the first city of Troy. By that calendar, it is the year 5,780. By another common calendar, it is 2,533 years since the founding of Rome.”

“And the year of the Common Era?” I asked.

“I do not know that,” Clio said.

“Anno Domini, AD, after Christ?”

Clio simply shook her head. I thought furiously.

“How many years have elapsed since Isaac Newton’s death?” I asked, hoping that he had existed in this reality.

“Fifty three, My Lord.”

I added 53 and 1727, and smiled at a flash of memory from childhood: When did Sir Isaac Newton die? “1 Boeing 727.”

It’s seventeen eighty? And the American colonies have just won independence from England? And she didn’t know of the common calendar nor of Christ? What kind of world am I in?

“Thank you,” I said. “May we talk again?”

She nodded, and then she disappeared.

Demeter and Apollo continued the lesson. I resolved to ask no more questions, at least for a while. “I’m spending a lot of time in Rome, trying to hold together the Roman Republic,” Apollo said. “I think the current emperor and senate have the hang of it, now, though, and I should be free to undertake a new challenge.”

“The challenge may be broader than we’ve discussed, so far,” I said. “My memories of my old reality include an evil we’ve not yet discussed: child prostitution and sexual slavery. I’m sorry I said nothing, before, but this memory surfaced only after our first conversation.”

Apollo sat quietly for a moment, and then said, “I knew of that, but I did not say. I was afraid you’d be so appalled that you’d back away. The fault is mine.”

“There is no fault,” I said. “There is only understanding, and, in this case, the understanding that we can be completely open and honest with one another. Is that agreeable?”

Our parting was cordial. Demeter and Apollo said they would ask others to visit me, one or two at a time, to discuss the situation and the plan.

Before that could happen, however, I heard a call, a call from my former reality.