Prometheus Wakens - 6. Chapter 6: Whittaker’s Life and Death, and Birch

Chapter 6: Whittaker’s Life and Death, and Birch

Earth Analogue VII

The hammer of the 9-mm pistol struck the cartridge, but the primer, the fulminate of mercury that was designed to set off the propellant of the main charge and send the steel-jacketed slug through the boy’s brain, didn’t explode. I used the powers of Chronos and Apollo, both of which were mine as a titan, and touched the boy. Then, he and I—but not the gun—were on the patio of my home.

“Whittaker? We have some time before the gun fires and the back of your head splatters onto the wall of your bedroom.”

The boy stared at me, looked around, and then stared at me, again.

“Since you have elected to kill yourself, your life is no longer yours. I claim it,” I said.

That seemed to register somewhere in his still-intact brain.

“Who are you . . . and where am I?”

Interesting, that. Most humans are in such need of a sense of place that their first question would have been, Where am I? I guessed his first need was to know who I was. Perhaps that wasn’t fair or correct. Still, I was somehow flattered.

“You may call me Lucas,” I said. “And you are standing on my patio.”

“I was alone. I was in Chicago. It was snowing,” the boy said. I wondered, then, if his sense of connectedness outweighed his sense of place. “This is not Chicago,” he added, rather needlessly.

“You were in your bedroom with a 9-mm pistol in your mouth. Yes, it was snowing. In July, in Chicago,” I said. “Here, where we’ve not destroyed Earth’s climate, it snows only in the deepest winter, and that has ended. The month is, however, July.”

“Why would it not be July?” the boy asked. “What has happened that you would say that?”

He spoke at a normal pace, and with normal inflection. There was no squeaky panic or shaking fear in his voice. Thus encouraged, I told him the truth as I knew it.

“You tried to kill yourself. I brought you here before the bullet could leave the chamber of the gun.” I did not tell him that in Chicago, the powder had not yet ignited or that I could take him back before it did. Yes, one can lie by telling only part of the truth; however, if I were lying, it was because it was the best course of action, now.

“Why?”

Interesting. I expected him to ask, how?

“Because I thought you might be making a mistake,” I said. “Because you might not have been as ready to die as you thought you were. Because it would have been unjust for you to have died at that moment, and I have a small role to play in justice.”

A cough caught our attention. Birch had approached, unseen and unheard. “Would you like refreshment? Whittaker? I am Birch, and I have an espresso machine, and make the best latte, ever! With caramel,” he added.

“How did you know . . . .” At that moment, Whittaker twigged to what Birch was wearing. The question of how the boy knew that Whittaker liked latte with caramel must have been forgotten. Whittaker’s eyes glazed. I could feel the sexual tension. Whittaker shook his head. “Uh, yes. Latte. Yes.” There was a pause, and then. “Thank you.”

Birch winked, Whittaker flushed, and Birch turned toward the house. Espresso machine? I didn’t know we had an espresso machine. And how? There’s no electricity. I buried that thought for later. “Cute, isn’t he?” I asked.

Whittaker’s voice was a whisper. “If he’s cute, I think I would die if I saw beautiful.”

“Oh, then I’ll have to tell Maple and Ginkgo and Oak and the others not to visit while you’re here,” I said.

“Maple? Ginkgo? Oak? Birch? They’re trees. Please, Lucas, what’s happening! What’s . . . .” He couldn't finish the sentence, but put his hands over his face and cried. I was glad for that. It meant he was starting to feel rather than just react.

I crossed the distance between us in n0-time, and hugged him.

“Shh, Whittaker,” I said. “It may be all right. For now, come, sit. Birch is back with your latte.”

I, of course, credit my hug and words, although it may have been the normalcy and routine of the latte that stopped Whittaker’s tears. He sat, thanked Birch politely, took a sip, and challenged me.

“May be all right?” His voice held the question. I was glad for that, too. It meant his mind was still working.

“Um, hmm,” I said around my own drink: a demitasse espresso. “All right or maybe is going to be up to you, mostly. And the boys are named for their trees. They’re boy dryads. Once, dryads were all girls, and were associated only with oak trees which are sacred to Zeus. Nowadays, there are girl and boy dryads, and they can inhabit any tree. Well, any tree that’s mature enough. Ten to twelve years is usually the minimum.”

“Am I dead?”

“No, Whittaker. I told you. I took you away before the bullet left the chamber of the gun. You’re at my home, on my patio, drinking a latte that was prepared and brought to you by a boy who lives in a tree. Now, how is that so much harder to believe than that you are still alive?”

“Lucas—you said your name was Lucas—please don’t play with me! I’m not some damn fish you caught on your lure! I’m a boy and I’m scared!” He stood. His arms were at his side, although his hands were balled into fists. He was shaking.

I put down my cup. “Whittaker, I’m sorry. I’m not playing with you. Not deliberately, anyway. I thought, perhaps, you would understand, would accept, if I spoke this way, in jest, lightly. I was wrong. Please, sit down.”

When Whittaker sat, I continued. “My name is Lucas. Until recently, I lived in Chicago—not too far from where you live, I think. Now, I have the Attributes and Authorities—the powers—of Prometheus, a titan who was one of the great powers which existed before the Greek gods—Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, Hades, Dike, and that lot. Possessing the powers of a progenitor of these gods, I have access to all their powers, including the power of Chronos, which I used to stop time in Chicago, and the power of Apollo, which I used to bring you here.

“We are on an island off the coast of Greece. The mountain you see over my shoulder is Olympus. It’s the home of the gods.

“They don’t quite know what to make of me.” I chuckled. “I’ve assured them I’ve not come to take away their power. I’ve met Demeter and Apollo and they believe me. I hope to meet others, and convince them. I’ve met Zeus, too. Him, I’m not too sure of.

“I’ve taken up residence in the abandoned home of one of the lesser gods—Hebe, the daughter of Zeus, the goddess of youth. That I would live here, and not demand a palace on Olympus, puzzles some of them even more.”

I watched the boy’s eyes. They hadn’t glazed over, so I continued.

“I consider it my responsibility to help them care for humanity. When I discovered that you were going to kill yourself, I decided that I should take responsibility for you. That’s why you are here, now.

“Let’s see. You know that Birch is a boy-tree and that there are others. You’ll meet more of them—perhaps Maple, who is a redhead, and Ginkgo, who is a yellow-gold blond. And yes, they’re all beautiful. And in many cases, there is more than one of them. There’s a whole grove of boy Ginkgo trees down that hill, and seven of them have dryads.

“All the boy-dryads are gay, like you.”

I waited for Whittaker’s face to drain of color, but it didn’t. Thank the Powers, I thought.

When Whittaker spoke, each word was separated from the next by several seconds. “Oh . . . my . . . god.”

“Whittaker? Please remember where you are. You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that,” I said. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and then broke out in laughter. It was happy laughter, and I felt that we’d crossed an important hurdle.

Whittaker gasped. Then, “Who is the god of Laughter?” he asked.

“Gelos,” I said. “But he’s . . . missing.”

“Uh, missing? How do you lose a god?”

“In the 50,000 or so years since humankind created various gods and gave them powers, some have grown tired or disillusioned. Some have lost worshipers and some have been destroyed by more powerful gods. Gelos was so disgusted by television sit-coms that he left this reality for another. His place among the pantheon is open.”

I didn’t say that this reality didn’t have television, and that Gelos had been visiting Whittaker’s reality to watch television. That could be saved for later.

“So I can’t thank him for letting me laugh for the first time in . . . in six years?” the boy asked.

“You can and you may, and perhaps he will hear you,” I said.

“Then, thank you, Gelos, for helping me to laugh.

“I hope he heard that.”

So do I, I thought.

Birch brought fresh drinks and a fruit drink for himself. He didn’t ask my permission to sit at the table with us. And he didn’t speak to me, but to Whittaker.

“Whittaker?” Birch began. “The boys, the dryads, we’re a part of this place. Anything that we don't know, we will find out. We are loving, caring, and nurturing. You may feel easier talking to me than to Lucas. Ultimately, it won’t make any difference, because we share all we know. And we do it only because we care for you.”

“You’re starting the psychoanalysis, right?” Whittaker retorted. “You want to know if I had sex thoughts about my mother, or was fucked by my father.” Whittaker’s lip had curled in what was not quite a sneer, but which wanted to be one.

“No, Whittaker. It’s something more immediate and recent.” I opened the folder on the table and took out the first photo. It was Whittaker, naked, standing in the doorway of an old barn. He was tumescent. His body was smooth, clean, and beautiful. Golden hair fell nearly to his shoulders. But what had captivated us was the expression on his face, where sadness fought ennui for supremacy. Fear was hidden behind need. I handed the photo to Whittaker.

“What is this?” was followed by “Where did you get this? That picture was just taken yesterday. The film can’t have been developed, yet. And what’s . . .” He picked up the folder. Another photo fell out. Whittaker, his tummy spattered with his seed, his hand wrapped around his penis, his face mirroring emotions of both lust and disgust.

“What is this! How . . . ?”

“When were these pictures taken, Whittaker?” Birch’s voice seemed to calm the older boy.

“Yesterday,” Whittaker said.

“I mean, what date?”

“Yesterday! July 14th.”

“What year, Whittaker?”

“What year? What year? This year, 2004!”

Birch looked at Whittaker, and then said, “Lucas saw the bullet, and was rewinding through your life when he found the pictures. They were taken on July 14, 2004. Today is July 15, in the Year 5,780.”

I think what Birch said overwhelmed Whittaker more than anything else.

“You said you used the power of Chronos. He would be the god of time, right?”

I nodded.

“So you’re in my future? And now, we’re all there? . . . here?”

I chuckled. “Whittaker, time has no meaning, here. You’re still in Chicago, the day after this photo shoot. You’re also here, in Greece, in 5,780. Oh, and it’s not the Greece of your world. Sorry, I forgot to mention that.”

Birch giggled. I shot a thank you to him, because I had seen Whittaker tense and then relax at the giggle.

“Lucas? What do you want from me?”

Whittaker’s question showed more maturity and understanding than I was expecting.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing immediately, that is. If you stay with us long enough, you will see that we lack nothing of importance that is material. If you stay with us long enough, you will see that we can be completely fulfilled among ourselves. If you stay with us a little longer, you may, however, discover that we have a deep reason to help humanity. If you stay long enough, you may find a place in which you can contribute. But what we want or need? Only what you offer and give willingly.”

I sat, silently, while Whittaker thought. The moment was interrupted when Birch spoke. “It’s nearing dusk,” he said. “Your supper is laid. I must go.”

He came to me for a kiss. Afterwards, he looked at Whittaker. I do not know what passed between them, but after a smile for Whittaker, Birch skipped down the path toward his tree.

After supper, I took Whittaker to the bath. “I usually bathe before bed, and shower briefly in the morning,” I said. “Would you . . . ?”

Whittaker nodded. He was almost certainly exhausted—if not physically, at least emotionally—so I kept our shower short, helping him wash his back where he could not reach, but not asking him to do the same for me.

After we’d toweled ourselves dry, I handed him a pair of pajama pants, and donned a similar pair, myself.

“Come,” I said. “Remember that this is the house of a vanished minor god? There’s only one bedroom.”

“Lucas? You saw the photographs. You know what I am,” Whittaker whispered in the darkness.

“I know what someone tried to make you,” I said.

“No one made me,” Whittaker said. “I am what you saw.”

“But the expression on your face . . . .” I said.

“Besides being a whore, I am an actor,” Whittaker said. His voice was calm, the inflection flat. “That is one of the reasons I was paid so well. Do you find it so hard to believe that I might have liked what I did? That I would like to have sex with you?”

Whittaker

I had managed to convince Lucas that I wanted him. But, his interpretation of that message wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Lucas drew his mouth down my stomach, past my belly button, and onto my pubic mound. I was eighteen, but there was no hair anywhere on my chest or below it. Permanent removal had been one of the many lesser costs of my profession.

Lucas seemed to draw power from my penis. He didn’t use his hands—only his mouth—when he brought me to full erection.

For someone who had the power of a bunch of gods, he seemed a little dense. So, I told him what I wanted.

“Lucas? Will you fuck me?”

His answer was at first muffled by the presence of my dick in his mouth. He raised his head.

“You don’t like this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “But I want to cum with you inside me.” I probably blushed, but by this time, and in the dim light, I didn’t care.

Lucas knelt between my legs and then leaned forward. As if guided by providence, his dick slipped into me. Guided . . . not by providence. Not in this world . . . perhaps not in any world. But guided. I gasped, and shuddered as Lucas’s dick plumbed my depths.

As he moved in and out, I knew this was what I had been wanting for so long. Yes, I’d had a boy’s dick in my butt, but only just that. I had never felt a boy’s penis rake repeatedly across my prostate, tease my anus, and pour its heat into me. Lucas did that, and more, and he seemed to know how he was affecting me, for just before he came, he pressed hard against me so that I came at the same instant, pouring out my own heat to squirt between our tummies.

I slept with Lucas’s arms around me. I had never before liked people touching me, but there was something about Lucas that made me feel safe. And I needed to feel safe. I remembered putting the gun into my mouth and pulling the trigger. And I remembered why I had done it. I had overheard the men talking. They had sold me to one of the Middle-Eastern Emirs. I would be sent to his kingdom to become a sex toy for him, and others. When I lost my looks, I would almost certainly be killed.

I woke slowly, but as soon as I opened my eyes, I was instantly alert. Red-gold curls were in front of me, and my arm was around someone . . . someone warm and beautiful.

Red. The October Maple that Lucas had described? I wondered.

“Maple?” I whispered, conscious that Lucas was behind me and that I was spooned into him.

“Um, hum,” a sleepy voice responded.

“How did you get here?”

“I thought Lucas told you about us. Dryads are demi-gods, with powers. Besides, Lucas never locks his doors.” He wiggled his butt into my crotch.

“Jeez, Louise! Don’t do that!” I said. And woke up Lucas.

I didn’t know quite how to deal with it all. Lucas seemed to know what was happening, and left Maple and me alone. Maple kept pressing his buttocks into my crotch. It was clear what he wanted. I gave it to him.

Afterwards, he kissed me, thanked me, and . . . disappeared. Yes, vanished. I was not surprised, actually.

I am afraid that the night before I had seduced Lucas. After I came to know him better, I realized that I hadn’t had to work as hard as I did, but I was—and still am—glad that I did. I think that Lucas didn’t believe me when I said I was acting when those pictures were taken, that my expression of ennui, disgust, and so on were faked. They weren’t. I had been fooling myself. Eventually I told him. I cried; he hugged me. I felt his tears and his love. It took a great burden from my heart.

After a few days of doing nothing, I asked Lucas if I could help in the groves. I think he knew I wanted to see Maple, again, because he called to him—even though he wasn’t anywhere around—and he just appeared on the patio. I got a kiss from him, but so did Lucas, and I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing until Lucas spoke.

“Maple? You made quite an impression on Whittaker. He’d like to work with you today and spend the night with you. I know you would like that, too. Oh, and who should I ask about getting a couple more rooms added onto the house? If Whittaker is going to be having sleep-overs—”

“I can’t do a sleepover every night!” Maple interrupted. “Whittaker’s going to have to . . . I mean, if Whittaker wants, he can spend the night with me in my tree, sometimes?”

Lucas

Before I could say anything, Whittaker burst out with, “Way cool! May I?” He looked at me.

“Maple? Is it safe?” I asked.

“You mean if he eats or drinks anything will he have to stay in fairyland forever?” He asked, and then giggled. “Yes, Lucas, it’s safe. Oh, and Hestia will be here in a few minutes to talk about adding to the house.”

“Hestia? Goddess of the hearth and of childbirth?” I said.

“And architecture,” Maple said. He took Whittaker’s hand. “Come on, we have work to do!”

Hestia appeared as a middle-aged woman who wore a gray skirt, white blouse, and flat shoes. Her attitude was as no-nonsense as her clothes. I explained that I wanted three more bedrooms with individual baths, and a large meeting room. I followed her as she walked once around the outside of the house, and then said she could do it without harming any of the trees. When I asked whom I should see about furnishings, she almost seemed offended. “I will take care of it all, so that it will be in harmony with what I built for Hebe nearly 2,000 years ago.”

“How may I thank you for your talents,” I asked. I thought that was a clever way of asking what this would cost.

“Just continue doing that which you have decided to do,” she said. “You are providing a home for the dryads, and that is important to me. You will find homes . . .” She stopped talking and then said, “I can say no more.”

I understood: the words of the gods can create reality and she, despite her appearance, was a powerful god, worshipped in homes throughout my old reality. Well, the people in that reality didn’t really worship her, but they paid her homage in magazines such as Architecture Digest, Home and Garden, Best Homes, and others as well as several cable TV channels. I wondered if that was her source of power.

I wondered even more when Whittaker and Maple came from the fields in time for a shower—in their “own” bathroom! Hestia had completed her work in less than two hours, and I hadn’t realized it.

Whittaker and Maple became inseparable. After their first night together, Whittaker no longer slept at the house. After the third night, he no longer came to meals. I assumed he was getting nourishment from Maple’s tree, and no longer needed nourishment from food. I summoned the two boys.

After enthusiastic kisses from both, I said, “Whittaker, you’re spending all your nights with Maple . . . and your days, too?”

Although Maple was smaller than Whittaker, and of an apparent younger age, he moved to stand between Whittaker and me, and clenched his jaw—and his fists. His posture made it clear he was prepared to defend Whittaker. I felt Maple’s fear.

“Maple! What’s wrong? You know I would never harm one of you boys!”

“But Whittaker isn’t one of us! And you haven’t sworn to him.”

Things came together in my mind. There was only one possible interpretation. “Whittaker, do you want to live as a dryad? Maple? Is that possible?”

“I told you he would understand!” Whittaker said to Maple. “Yes, please, Lucas?”

“Maple?”

“Yes! And I know just the tree. It’s Acer platanoides, called Princeton Gold. In the fall, its leaves will be just the color of Whittaker’s hair. There’s one on the next hill from mine.”

“Whittaker? Do you know what this means?” I asked. “Do you truly understand? I think that there would be no going back. Is that right, Maple?”

“Yes, Lucas. It is easy for a boy to become one of us, but I have never heard of any Dryad becoming human. And I believe Whittaker does understand.”

“Whittaker?”

“Please let me do this, Lucas. There’s nothing back there for me except a bullet that’s about to . . . ” He could not finish the sentence. Tears gathered in his eyes. I held out my arms and he came to me for a hug.

“Actually, Whittaker,” I said softly, “I went back and destroyed the bullet and the gun. I knew that you no longer needed them. And if you want to stay in this reality, and if you want to become a Dryad, you have my blessing.

“There’s one condition, however.”

Whittaker didn’t flinch or act as if he were afraid. I took that as a sign of trust, and spoke quickly so not to abuse it.

“You must come visit me sometimes. I think the eldest Ginkgo is in charge of the scheduling. Will you do that, please, Whittaker?”

I was gratified when Whittaker’s smile broadened. “Yes, Lucas. Thank you. I will. And will you come see my tree, sometime? It’s beautiful!”

“Yes, Whittaker, I will do that. Maple, do we need to notify Demeter or something? Oh, and . . . ” I grinned. “Did you feed him magical cookies so that he has to stay in fairyland?”

Whittaker blushed furiously when Maple said, “I fed him something, but it wasn’t cookies!”