New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:
The solemn sea palaces were no comparison to Mt. Olympus’s cloud-capped spires. It wasn’t so much their underwater aesthetic—they were as lavishly appointed with marble and gold and dotted with precious jewels—but something about the atmosphere was off.
Goddesses and gods, heroines and heroes just sort of…milled about? Dulled by those around them, the partygoers had an air of perseverance, waiting to jump ship as soon as something better came along.
I could tell by the way they snuck in glances of their general vicinity for the chance of a better conversation elsewhere.
“Another glass, sir?” a cupbearer asked me as I looked on at the scene in horror. Even the serving staff had those pitiful smiles that never quite seemed to reach their eyes.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m the god of the grape harvest. I can’t be seen drinking that armpit wine.”
I waved the cupbearer back, raised my thyrsus, and tapped it to the floor. Two clicks from my fennel staff and the ivy vines that roped around my trusty party accessory fluttered to life. A call to arms as the same two beats were echoed back to me from my followers. Each person in my entourage had their own thyrsus, some covered in ribbons, others with grapes.
Let’s see, there were the maenads, my female followers who wore chic costumes that incorporated the likes of fawn skins or bull helmets. People sometimes referred to them as the “raving ones,” but I simply saw them as fellow ecstatic souls who knew how to have a damn good time. There was Pan, of course, and his entire crew of Paniskoi, mini replicas of the lovable little violator who were subsumed into my squad. Also, there were various nature spirits, nymphs, satyrs, and the like, with the satyrs, in particular, being known to race through parties with their horse-like ears and tails in a manner some could find brutish and disruptive, but I saw as a required quality for efficiently serving wine.
Speaking of, one such satyr appeared from the throngs of the retinue and had filled Pan’s cup and mine to the brim with wine from our private collection. I had trained them long ago to respond to the beats. Every time, such coordination brought a smile to my lips. Oh, how organized revelry could be! Those precious darlings even served us a sparkling wine before the feast because they knew it was fresh and fun and really only the right thing to do.
“I notice when I come to these Titan shindigs that my body tries to fall asleep,” I confessed, strolling with Pan through the lethargic crowd. “Suddenly I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my entire—”
I stopped.
Pan had stiffened visibly. “There she is.”
“Who?”
“Polydora,” he bleated.
“Oh, right.” I had nearly forgotten the purpose of mingling in this sea of monotony. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”
“I can’t.”
I took a glimpse around. “Are you busy just now?”
“No…I-I’m…nervous.”
The way love could change the god of the wild was stupefying to contemplate. This dismal creature before me, who spoke in hushed tones and practically hid behind his wine glass, was the same god I had seen in wilder, more reckless days rip apart villages that stood in the path of a rightful party succession. Crops were trampled, homes looted, all while he and his crew had a swell time riding their high spirits but causing a nightmarish mess.
“I have an idea.” I took a sip of my wine. Fruit-forward. Firm effervescence. Definitely the Hydra Sec we had bottled last season. “I’ll go talk to her while you gather the Paniskoi.”
“And then what’s the next act in this circus?”
“What you do best.” I grabbed one of his horns and twirled about him merrily. “Woo her while you play the flute and your boys do their hooved dancing. Not to mention, you need the practice for the Summit opening ceremonies if you intend to outshine Apollo this year.”
The plan didn’t seem to strike Pan.
“Don’t you like the idea?” I asked a trifle testily.
“It’s just that we always do that and leap headfirst into the frenzy. Why don’t we take it slow this time? Class it up. Put my best hoof forward and all that.”
“My dear old soul, if she’s the one, she’ll accept you. The real you. Now, I’ll send the satyrs to fill people’s glasses with proper drink and the maenads to get people grooving.”
“Fuck it. Fine,” he said and sampled a quick rustic tune on his flute that he always had on his person.
“Very good.” I clicked my thyrsus, this time three taps, and my retinue dispersed.
They filled up the cups and plucked off dance partners while I parted through the crowds to make my way to Polydora, whose eyes were fixed on the buffet.
Actually, come to think of it, I had met her at her father’s thousandth birthday hundreds and hundreds of years ago, but she was a different Oceanid back then. Nowadays, something about Polydora made almost anybody else in the same room seem malnourished and trivial by comparison.
At first, I was going to dive right in. Unfortunately, my wits failed me at the exact moment I turned toward her and truly saw how nasty that scar was that had cleaved her face in two.
I awkwardly stood there, empty plate in hand.
Grotesquely mesmerized.
“You’re quiet,” she said after I hovered around her a bit.
Made me jump. I had been intensely wondering how long Pan would take to start so that I wouldn’t have to stand there and think of something clever to say.
“Eh? Oh, umm, yes. I was just thinking…”
“About what?”
“If I wanted any salmon.” It was the first thing that surfaced.
“Go for it,” she said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it.”
I took a strained forkful of the fish and wondered what to say next.
“Fruit salad?” Polydora offered.
“Sure.”
“Serving of broccoli?”
“Uhh, no thanks.”
She helped herself to some olives. I found some potato salad which I had overlooked in my flustered state. Then I said, “I wanted to say,” right as she said, “Have you tried,” and there was a collision.
I chivalrously circled my wine glass in the air to convey that she had the floor, and she started again: “Have you tried the Brussels sprouts?”
“Not yet.”
She loaded a healthy serving on my plate. “With a suspicion of sage?”
“Why not.”
“Slice of bread?”
“No, thank you.”
“Something to drink?”
“I’ve got that covered.”
There was another loud silence as she took more olives. She seemed to like olives.
And as I was plainly shirking from talking about what I came to speak to her about, it became clear to me that the talking turns wouldn’t leave the topic of victuals without me pushing forward. Seeing how devoted she was to food and all. It was too ridiculous that a pair of divines in our position should stand around scarfing down salmon and olives in each other’s orbit without any real conversation.
Thank the gods for wine. A healthy gulp of my fruity offering later, and the ideas lubricated right out. I decided to continue the conversation by paving the way for Pan. You know, without actually mentioning him. That way, I could prepare the nymph’s fragile heart for the fact that as surprising as it may seem, there was someone who loved her from afar. Sometimes I feel like wine tapped into some future version of myself who had already gone through the motions, so I already knew his lines, and knowing what to say was already half the battle.
“It might sound silly, but there’s somebody who is dangerously in love with you.” I took another swig. I was starting to brim with sparkling charm and wit. “A friend of mine, that is.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Yes, a very dear friend.”
I didn’t hear her laugh so much as I could—swear to Zeus—almost hear a couple of her ribs part from their moorings under the strain of a giggle.
“Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”
“I said the same thing, but that’s the sort of god he is. Kind of shrinking in these scenarios while having an excess of character in others. Hasn’t got the nerve and thinks you’re the most wonderful girl he’s ever seen. Even likened you to a goddess.”
Polydora leaned forward. “How very interesting.”
I nodded. “Very. He’s not a bad chap, either. Sometimes he can be an ass, but he’s got all the good bits there too.”
Polydora finally broke out into laughter. “How funny you are!”
She had a piercing laugh that shattered right through me. Before I could inquire what she meant, the crowd shuffled backward, parting the room as the main hall opened. Oh good, that little rascal had finally started the show. And with such pomp and style emerging from the entrance like that.
I almost screamed his name, groupie that I was.
But it wasn’t Pan at all. Out strolled Oceanus and his sister-wife, Tethys, fashionably late to their own party. Normally, I would not have cared to watch such a dull procession being that Oceanus was never good at sustaining a performance. His grim face was always set in a way that conveyed he was persevering. In much the same way he had sat out the Titanomachy, the war between the Titans and the Olympians, he seemed to sit out life. And sticking around afterward for the roll call of the titan couple’s thousands and thousands of children, various river gods and Oceanids, would be a snoozefest. I just—that’s so much time spent solely heralding. There must be a way to consolidate.
Luckily, the crowd was already starting to get loose enough to find even that kind of procession fun, thanks to my retinue. The rites of a good party had started, and I felt we were all cresting toward something divine, assuming Pan would finally get this show on the road.
I was midway through imagining how else I might make his appearance even more of an orgasmic experience for those of us gathered when a flash of gold broke my concentration. Trailing out after Oceanus was Poseidon. In fact, the god of the sea upstaged both Oceanus and Tethys, his golden trident gleaming as he was paraded out on his ornate chariot. His hippocampi came close to trampling those that didn’t move out of the sea-horses’ way.
While Poseidon swished his trident about, creating dozens of water spirals that zoomed and whirled, some combining to create geometric patterns and artful symbols, his wife, Amphitrite, coordinated a series of tricks with their armada of dolphins. Her jewel-encrusted bracelets rolled up and down her arms as she pointed about, directing the creatures into various formations and flips. The power couple looked dazzling. I admit, I even got caught up in the performance and starting cheering.
When they finished, I turned to Polydora to ask, “Why is Poseidon here? He never comes to these things.”
Except not one word seemed to register on Polydora. All I heard was her lips smacking and sucking as she tried to press the weight of a kiss on me.
I tossed my food and fled.
Within the safety of the dance floor, I couldn’t recall the last time I had a nastier shock.
I downed my glass of wine to regroup. Only to turn and find that Polydora had given chase! I tried everything: hiding in plain sight within various crowds, stalking the party from behind the cover of the Doric columns, and even camping out in the bathing chambers. But there she was at every turn with a sort of hideous coolness.
In my caged condish, there was only one thing I could do. The last thing I remembered of the night was tapping my thyrsus to the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Then five.