Prometheus Wakens - 7. Chapter 7: Mars Visits

Chapter 7: The Best Laid Plans of Gods and Men
(Mars Visits)

I had my arms around Birch when I kissed him awake. I looked deeply into his eyes. They were nearly black, like his hair, and had the epicanthic fold to be expected in a var. japonica. His tree was the Asian White Birch, Betula platyphylla of which there were a dozen in a copse near the farm of Galen and Ariane. Three were var. japonica. He smiled at the attention I was paying him, and wriggled a little in my hug in a way that clearly communicated that he was up for something, but not that he was trying to escape.

I validated his desire with a kiss that moved from his lips down his belly to his penis. What a wonderful way to start the day! So much better than what little I remembered from the nursing home: someone filling my “tippy cup” with ice at 5:00 AM; medications delivered at 6:00 AM; neighbors wakened by Gunga Din or the nurse but who didn’t trust the call button (or couldn’t push it) calling for pain pills; the constant ping of medical devices. Why do I remember these things? How is it decided what I will remember? I put those thoughts away, and focused on bringing Birch to climax.

Afterwards, we shared a shower in which Birch’s hands did for me what my mouth had done for him. Only then did we go to the patio to find out who the dryad of the day would be. I saw a tall, sturdy boy with hair in short, red-brown dreadlocks. They reminded me of something. Ah! The retiform bark of the mature chestnut. “Are you Chestnut?” I asked.

“Yes, Lucas. I am the American Chestnut, Castanea dentate,” he said.

Ha! I was getting better at recognizing them. And they were getting better at the informality I asked of them when the gods were not present. Then, I remembered that this was the late eighteenth century in this reality and I thought of the Chestnut blight that had killed so many of that magnificent tree in my old reality.

“You know I am from another reality,” I said. “In that reality, a blight attacked many chestnuts throughout the world. I think it was caused by a fungus, perhaps a fungal parasite. I could find out. I do not want to lose you and . . . how many others are on the island?”

“Thank you for your concern, Lucas,” he said. “We know . . . Demeter told us, and showed us what to do to stop the fungus from hurting us. There are a dozen chestnut dryads on the estate, and more than one hundred fifty chestnut trees on the island.”

“She learned from my old reality?”

“I do not know, Lucas, but she did learn.”

Hmmm. Something else for my ‘to do’ list.

That afternoon, Chestnut and I walked though the vineyards while he told me about the different varietals we grew. He stopped, looked glassy eyed for a moment, and announced that Mars would be visiting in the late afternoon, if that were convenient. I told him it was, and asked that he be prepared to serve supper on the patio, should Mars stay that long. I had high hopes of learning a great deal from the god of War.

Using my newfound ability, I translocated to the house and took a quick shower. I dithered about what aspect I should wear—the cute sixteen-year-old in a short tunic that Prometheus had given me, or something a bit older, more mature—and with a tunic a bit longer. I asked Chestnut, who thought for a minute (and probably relayed the question to all the dryads—I’d forgotten to ask him not to, so he would have done it as a matter of course).

“The one Prometheus gave you.”

“Why do you think so?” I asked.

“Because Mars is in the aspect of a teen, and he’s almost here!”

Hmmm I thought. So much for collective wisdom, although I suppose a collective early warning system is almost as good.

I should not have been surprised that Mars’ hair was red, although it was short and lay close to his scalp and was on the “fire engine” side of red, not like Maple’s golden-red curls. Mars wore a tunic, white like mine, and a sword that hung from a leather belt. The sword looked like the short sword of Greek hoplites or Roman legionnaires. Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. He carried in his left hand a spear a few feet longer than he was tall and which thrummed with power very much like Zeus’ lightning bolt.

When he reached the edge of the patio he halted. Not “stopped walking,” but “halted.” Big difference. He raised his right hand, palm facing me, and spoke. “Hail, Prometheus.”

He’s showing me that he is friendly, I think. I think that’s what the open palm means. He called me Prometheus, even though he must know I am not that titan, but only have his powers. He’s being very formal.

“Hail Mars, Noble god of War,” I said as solemnly as I could. I held my hands out at waist level, palms up, briefly, to show that they were empty, and then added, “Will you be seated, and will you take refreshment?”

He nodded, but waited until I was seated before pulling out a chair and joining me at the table. Chestnut and another dryad, younger but with the same dreadlocks, appeared instantly with nectar, wine, water, and—hard, round biscuits? I understood when Chestnut disappeared and came back with a tray of cheese and fruit.

When the boys had left, and Mars and I each had a sip of wine and a biscuit with cheese, I spoke. “I am very happy that you chose to visit. I have had very productive meetings with Demeter and Apollo about what my role is to be. I would like your opinion on that.”

Mars nodded. “Apollo told me as much, but he was vague—no, reluctant—to say what you had talked about.”

His lips drew tight for a moment. Then, he said, “You also met with Zeus.”

“Yes, although that meeting was not very productive. He said that the gods would have to make a choice if they were to ally with me. Were you made aware of that?”

“Made aware?” Mars chuckled. “Didn’t you see the thunderstorm over Olympus three nights ago? Oh, yes, we were made aware.”

I’m sure my heart skipped a beat. “Zeus is that angry?”

“Angry? No, I think it is fear. He’s afraid—afraid that you want to take over. You know the legend isn’t true, don’t you?”

“You mean the eagle and Prometheus’s liver?”

Mars nodded. “No truth in it. At the time, Zeus was pissed, all right, but there was nothing he could do. He wrote the story after Prometheus left this reality. Zeus’ enmity is for Prometheus, but he’s spending it on you.”

Mars chuckled. “Good story, though. Actually, I don’t know who first told it. The Babylonians told a similar story; so did the Persians. Some of the Jews were inspired by it to write the fictions about their messiah.”

His face lost its smile. “The whole death and rebirth thing—it’s an allegory, it’s a lesson, and it’s a warning. It has more in common with Pandora and her box than with any of the Babylonian, Persian, Jewish, or Christian myths. It’s a warning that good deeds may not always be rewarded. Your rescue—sorry, Prometheus’ rescue—by Hercules is a lesson that good deeds likely will be rewarded if gods or men know of them. It’s an allegory of the forever war between light and dark—between people who are good and people who are evil. In this case, Prometheus was light and knowledge, and Zeus was cast as darkness and ignorance. Not completely unfairly, actually; but, he has mellowed a lot since then.”

“I mentioned the eagle and liver to Zeus,” I said. “He said nothing to disabuse me of its truth. More important, however, he said the gods would have to choose sides. I’m not sure—”

“I am!” Mars interrupted. He leaned forward and sat on the edge of his chair. His knuckles were white where they gripped the wine glass. I thought he might snap the stem.

“I am sure that if the gods are not shaken out of the doldrums of our lives, we shall cease to exist, and this world will be thrown into chaos worse than exists in yours. I think Prometheus selected you to save not just your world, but the very existence of the gods.”

He relaxed, and I no longer feared for the wine glass, but for what he had said. If true, I had a great and grave responsibility. And I’d learned that the words of the gods created reality. Did Mars just do that? If so, why? Could there be nefarious motives? What Mars said next not only embarrassed me and relieved me, but also suggested that his motives were not froward.

“I don’t mean you, alone. I don’t think of you as a power and perhaps not even as the leader, but as a catalyst. You will walk through this reality and stir others to action, while remaining untouched. Not so in your reality, where you will be intimately involved and—”

“Are you creating reality?” I interrupted. “I’ve been warned—”

“No!” Mars said. He paused. “Well, I don’t think so. And even if I were, it’s a reality that needs to be. Demeter isn’t the only one who is older than Zeus, you know. And age does bring wisdom. Your caution is justified, however. I will say no more not associated with tactical planning.”

Now I was puzzled. “Tactical planning? What about strategic planning?”

“I am the god of the battlefield,” Mars said. “My servants are soldiers, not emperors, presidents, or generals, although some generals make a show of worship in order to impress their troops, and there’s a fine statue of me on the Palatine Hill in Rome erected by some emperor I’ve quite forgotten. No, strategy is not my forte.”

“Nor fame, I gather.”

“Demeter said you were perceptive. No, I don’t need fame, nor do I want worship and sacrifice. A few words murmured before going into battle, when wounded, or when faced with death are more than sufficient to obligate me to serve.”

Obligate to serve echoed in my mind.

“What are your powers, your authorities?” I asked.

Mars did not hesitate, and the matter-of-fact way he spoke convinced me that he was being both candid and truthful. “Like all the gods, I can translocate, and am immortal, although I suspect you could kill me. As—”

“What? Wait! You think I could . . . Stupid question, I guess, but do you really think I’m that strong?”

“Probably. I will not let it worry me, though.” He continued his recitation. “As Mithras—one of my aspects—I can grant a painless death on the battlefield, or at the end of an old soldier’s life. When not prohibited by the Fates, I can save a life. I can save from injury someone who isn’t fated to die. I am known as the model for Cincinnatus, the farmer turned warrior turned farmer, and in the off-season, I work with Demeter to answer requests to help the fertility of crops and drive off bad weather. Of course,” he winked. “I’m also the god of male virility. That’s pretty much passé in your reality since Viagra^® was invented.”

He frowned, and added, “I am not a warmonger, as was my predecessor, Ares. I might push for war, but only to achieve peace or some greater good.”

I was stunned. “I guess I only knew the ancient and bellicose version of your personality. Wait a minute! Aren’t we in ancient Greece?”

Mars chuckled. “Careful, Pilgrim,” he drawled in imitation of a man’s voice I remembered but could not name. “Who do you think you’re calling ancient?”

He laughed, and his voice returned to normal. “No, we’re in an amalgam of your reality with its myths and another reality where some of those myths have life, but perhaps a different life from that you know.”

“Or, you’re the life that created the myths in my reality,” I said.

Mars nodded. “Ouroborus—the world-worm that swallows its own tail. We may never know.”

Before we could explore that, Chestnut and the other boy appeared. “May we serve supper?” Chestnut asked. The sun was about to slip below the horizon.

“Mars? Will you join me and the boys?” I asked.

He accepted, and I asked Chestnut who his partner was. “He’s my little brother, Chinquapin, Lucas. I asked him to help. I hope it’s okay.”

“Of course it is. Both of you will join us, if you please.”

“Oh, yes, My Lord—I mean Lucas,” Chestnut said.

When they’d left, Mars said, “You grant them liberties that some of the old gods would not understand.” It was a simple, neutral statement of fact, and in it I saw neither acceptance nor opprobrium.

“They are my boys, my responsibility, and my lovers, although Chinquapin may be too young for that. If it comes to pass that we will declare war on the evil that is seething in my reality, they may risk their lives in my service and at my behest. While we are at peace, I will treat them kindly. The time for discipline will come later. And, if they die in war, they will have happy memories of their life to take with them.”

Where will they go? Something else for my ‘to-do’—

“Sun Tzu, Maxim 9-43,” Mars said, interrupting my thought.

I was stunned, for a moment, and then laughed. “I’d forgotten the chapter and verse—in fact, I’d forgotten I’d read Sun Tzu until Apollo and I spoke. I wonder if I can get a copy to refresh my memory.”

Before Mars could respond, Chestnut and Chinquapin arrived with trays. Supper was fire-grilled bacon cheeseburgers topped with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise served with both potato salad and coleslaw. There was watermelon for after. At first, I was afraid Mars might find the picnic-like informality a bit off-putting, but he enjoyed both the food and banter with the boys, and joined in the watermelon-seed-spitting contest that Chinquapin instigated. I wasn’t sure if the objective of the contest was distance or accuracy, but eventually decided it didn’t matter. It was at its heart a bonding ritual among four boys—two of them immortal gods, and two of them immortal dryads—and I think it worked.

After supper, and while the boys cleared the table, Mars announced that he would send someone to talk strategy with me. That’s what he said: “talk strategy.” He kissed both Chestnut and Chinquapin. He looked at me with raised eyebrow. I took his hands and accepted a kiss from him. Then, he vanished.

When Mars had gone, the table cleared, and Chinquapin had left—after getting a kiss and a thank you from me—I gestured to the seat beside me, and invited Chestnut to sit. The night air was soft. Fireflies flickered beyond the patio. I wondered only for a moment why there were no mosquitoes or no-see-ums to bother us, and decided that was probably a stupid question.

“Chestnut? You heard all we said. Well, the oaks that surround the patio did, and they surely have told all the boys, since then. What do you think? Is he on our side?

“Or am I being presumptuous? What do the other boys think about being part of a war in another reality?”

Chestnut responded quickly. “None of us has ever seen Mars in that aspect. He’s always been an adult, in armor, with skin as red as his hair. He was really cute, today.”

He’d not answered either of my questions. Should I have invited Mars to stay the night? I wondered. No, his kiss was chaste. I think.

“Any idea what that might mean?” Chestnut shook his head.

“Do you think he was sincere?”

Chestnut shrugged. “I . . . we cannot know the minds of the gods,” he said. “I’m sorry, My Lord . . . ”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I asked you questions that I, myself, could not answer. That was unfair. And remember, I am Lucas.”

You are probably thousands of years old, I thought, and have seen that much history . . . or perhaps not. The boys may never have left the island; some may never have left the estate. They’ve not been to school. I should have realized their limitations. I was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“What do the boys think about being soldiers in a war in another reality?”

Chestnut brightened. He smiled; his eyes grew wider; his body was animated by gestures and, unless I was mistaken, a little bouncing in his chair. “They’re all excited, Lucas. They’re talking about what their uniforms and armor might look like, and whether their swords and spears—”

“Oh.” I interrupted. I’ve unleashed something unintentionally. “Chestnut, I think it is time for a bath and bed.” I would have to address the rest of it, tomorrow.

Chestnut was nearly as tall as I was. His approach to sex was languid. We kissed, lightly at first and then more deeply as time passed. We touched and stroked. We explored one another’s bodies with fingers, lips, and tongues. Slowly, deliberately, we brought one another to climax and, when that occurred, we found ourselves in position to receive one another’s essence. Afterwards, we exchanged kisses, tasting ourselves in the other’s mouth.