Pandora Gets Heart (11 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Paris

The speed and agility with which her four new legs carried her body over the rocky terrain frightened Pandy at first. Like a rope tossed to someone drowning, Pandy held on to Hermes’ last few words that all but assured her she would be returned to her normal human shape. Then, when she passed what certainly had to be their first kilometer almost straight uphill and she realized she wasn’t even breathing hard, she began to delight in her new abilities. Stones and sharp rocks that would have hurt or tripped her human feet, even in sandals, were harmless to her padded paws. Steep ledges and large, slippery outcroppings that would have had to be skirted were now leapt over with ease. Suddenly, she was hit with a memory: Dido, running over the road to meet her after one particularly horrible day at the Athena Maiden Middle School. Running like he was being chased, or like he was a crazy dog. She’d thought then that he had sensed her mood: her frustration and her depression, and that he was running so fast to be able to comfort her. Now she realized that while, yes, Dido loved her and wanted Pandy to know that it was unconditional—no matter what kind of day she’d had— he also just loved to run! Four strong legs moving together— this was bliss!

Alcie, standing triumphantly on a large boulder, howled with joy as Pandy jumped up beside her.

“I might wanna stay like this,” Alcie said.

“I know!” Pandy said, although Homer, coming up behind them, only heard, “Rye row!”

Then they all three saw Iole even farther up the mountain, sitting on her hind legs.

“You are gallingly and inordinately sluggish!” she yelped at them.

“Oh, you are so dead!” Alcie said, and took off.

Homer had kept pace in the early going, but two-thirds of the way up, he began to falter, pausing too often.

“Hey!” he called to them. “Let’s cut it back a little, okay?”

The girls slowed only a bit to allow Homer to stay alongside. Then, after almost an hour of constant running, Pandy finally felt her lungs tighten and her stomach grow sour. The muscles in her legs were starting to cramp and there was a pinch along her rib cage.

As she stood panting on a flat patch of dirt, Alcie came loping up beside her with Iole in her mouth, hanging by the scruff of her tiny neck.

“Miss Big Words got a little tired, didn’t she?” Alcie said after she set Iole on the ground.

Iole lay breathing hard, then she raised her head, her black ears flopping at crooked angles, and looked at Alcie.

“Shut up,” she said, then put her head back down.

“Aaaaannnnndddd?” Alcie said.

“And thank you,” Iole mumbled.

“We have to be close,” Pandy barked, looking at Homer as he walked a little farther uphill to a small ridge.

“Close? I think you said close. We’re not close,” he said between breaths. “We’re there.”

Pandy padded alongside Homer and gazed down onto a shallow valley and the most beautiful meadow she’d ever seen. It was ringed with trees and had a little stream cutting neatly through the middle. Pandy envisioned the Elysian Fields in Hades and imagined that the spirits of the undead— the good undead— walked and played on grass that was just this shade of green. Only here she saw dozens of tiny, fluffy white balls just standing about, dark heads down, mouths buried in clover.

“Can I lie down in that for about ten years?” Alcie said, joining them.

“Please?” Iole harmonized, dragging herself to the edge.

“Guys,” Pandy replied, “Hermes said we would make it up here in just about the time it would take him to get Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite to Paris. We have no time to waste.”

“Five minutes,” Iole pleaded.

“Homer?”

Homer heard the vowel sounds of his name and stared hard at Pandy.

“Would you carry Iole?”

“Uh . . . yes? Yes. Yes!”

Homer picked up Iole and gently draped her around his neck. With Pandy leading and Alcie slowly bringing up the rear, they walked down the short slope and into the tall grass.

Ever since the last of his dogs had turned tail and run, Paris had taken to sleeping long hours in the middle of the day at the very moments he should have been keeping watch over his flocks. Two of his sheep had been poached in the last week alone and the youth hadn’t even noticed. He was dozing, his back slumped against the tallest fir lining the path around the meadow, and dreaming of a dance. As usual, the closest he ever got to dancing in his dreams was the closest he got when he was awake: staring at whirling youths and maidens as he stood off to the side with the other shepherds, who also smelled of . . . sheep. And there were usually only one or two festival dances held by the time he came down off the mountain with whatever remained of his flock and the cold winter months set in, so his chances of ever holding a pretty girl in his arms were slim to none.

When they found him, his arms and legs were twitching slightly as he spun in a circle in his mind. Pandy noted his dark curls and handsome face. Even dressed in humble, dirty shepherd’s rags, there was something indeed princely about the youth.

“We’re sure that’s him, right?” Alcie whined softly to Pandy.

“Look at the trees,” Pandy said. “Look at the sheep.” The tall fir, and two other trees close by, had expertly drawn, brilliantly colored faces painted onto the bark. The two sheep they could see, grazing away from the flock on the other side of the road, were dressed in short, tight-fitting tunics. One was wearing a small headband about the ears.

“That’s wrong . . . on many levels,” Alcie growled low.

“Many. But look at those faces!” Pandy said. “That takes some talent.”

“Guys. Girls . . . dogs. Pandy!” Homer said. “Let’s go back.”

Knowing that Paris might be disoriented and unsettled if he were to wake suddenly with a stranger towering over him, Homer took Pandy and Alcie a good distance back down the road. Homer set Iole on the ground and began whistling and calling to “his dogs” as he ambled again toward the sleeping prince.

As Homer reached Paris, he saw the youth now had his eyes open and was stretching broadly. Suddenly, Homer realized the next moments were entirely in his hands.

“Hello,” he said.

Paris just stared at him.

“Hello,” he said at last. “You have dogs.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I do. My name is Homer . . . of Crisa.”

“Huh. Never heard of it. I’m Paris. This is my mountain and these are my sheep.”

“Good-looking flock,” Homer said.

“I guess. Where’s yours?”

Homer panicked. He had no story. He had herding dogs but no flock . . . and no story. And just then, a tiny section of the
Iliad,
the epic poem of the Trojan War written by his many-times-great-grandfather, popped into his head: a story of the great warrior Achilles rustling a herd of cattle off of Mount Ida. Homer quickly twisted it as it flew out of his mouth.

“I stole some sheep that belonged to Apollo, and my punishment is to wander these hills with my dogs, who were my sisters . . .”

At this, Pandy, Alcie, and Iole turned to stare at Homer. “. . . never sleeping . . . or drinking . . . or eating . . . anything. Isn’t that right, Alcestis?”

Alcie grudgingly barked once.

“How come I’ve never seen you before?” asked Paris. “Just happened.”

“Rough,” Paris said.

“Very.”

“So maybe your dogs can get my flock back together?” Paris said hopefully. “If you’re not doing anything.”

Iole and Alcie both began to growl as Pandy sat quietly, thinking how unsafe it could be to leave Homer alone with Paris, even though she was almost certain Homer would give nothing away.

Suddenly, there was a deafening crack of thunder and a wide white bolt of lightning struck the path several meters away, shaking the ground. Instead of dust and dirt, a fine blue, green, and gold mist sprang from the impact. The sheep close by scattered deeper into the meadow as birds and butterflies took to the air, raining down leaves and twigs.

“Is Apollo following you?” Paris asked, frightened.

“I don’t think so,” Homer replied.

The mist evaporated, revealing Hermes standing beside a peacock, with a dove perched on one arm and an owl on the other. Slowly, the Messenger God approached the two youths, one startled and one trying to look startled.

“Greetings,” Hermes said, not looking at Homer. “I come in search of one called Paris.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Paris blubbered, then pointed to Homer. “
He
took your cattle!”

Hermes paused for a second, his mouth open.

“Yeeeess. First of all, I am not Apollo. I am Hermes. You might have guessed by the winged sandals, among other things. And this youth does not concern me. You do. You are Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Then settle yourself and prepare for the task which lies before you,” Hermes said. Instantly, a large chair with red cushions appeared, and Paris found himself seated.

“I’ll just, like, be over here,” Homer said, moving off to the side.

“Yes, you do that. Wait there, with your
sisters,
” Hermes said, glancing at Homer, his eyebrows arched slightly. Pandy, Alcie, and Iole all congregated at Homer’s feet.

“You, Paris, have been chosen to judge,” Hermes said. “You will deem the fairest of the fairest. The three brightest lights of Olympus will present themselves to you, and you will choose who among them blazes most brilliantly. And to the victor you will present the spoil. Do you understand?”

Paris stared at Hermes.

“Not really,” he said at last.

“Right. Let’s go at it this way. Three pretty women would like to know which one you think is the most beautiful. You have to tell them. And
that
one gets a prize. All right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Yeah.” Hermes sighed. “Yeah.”

As they all watched, the owl and the dove took to the sky, swirling and swooping, each flying more beautifully than the other (except at one moment when the owl tried to peck out the dove’s eyes). At the same time, the peacock spread its tail feathers in a stunning fan, each plume large and perfect. In the next moment, the owl and dove plummeted like stones toward the earth and the peacock let out a shrill, raucous call. As the dove and owl were about to hit, the peacock snapped its tail together again. Suddenly, in a flash of silver light, Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera were standing before Paris in all of their radiance . . . and precious little clothing.

Athena was wearing an incredibly short sky-colored tunic, almost transparent, that showed off her long, muscular legs and arms and her flawless, taut ivory skin. She was devoid of any jewelry except a pair of ivory and gold earrings, which dangled low, accentuating her magnificent jawline and aquiline nose. Her hair was piled on top of her head with a single ivory comb. There was no sign of armor or weaponry. Her lips and cheeks were naturally rosy, as if flushed from the heat of battle. She had only darkened her lashes slightly and was refraining from the stern, intellectual furrowing of her brow. In all, she had the appearance of a regal, impossibly tall woman of incomparable beauty.

Hera, on the other hand, was wearing so much jewelry as to be almost blinding. Fingers, toes, ankles, wrists, arms, ears, and neck were covered in gold and gems. She had on a blue tunic, which hung just below the knees to reveal a well-turned calf and was skimpy enough above the waist to give a view of tremendous voluptuousness. Her glorious red hair was high in front, but then gathered at the back to fall long and loose to her waist. Her lips and cheeks were painted a lovely red, and her eyelids were done in muted peacock colors. She was a marvelous, superb vision.

Aphrodite was—there really was no other word for it, Pandy thought— naked. No tunic. No sandals. She wore her enchanted girdle and several long strands of dramatically large pearls, which covered everything that needed to be covered, no matter which way she turned— but just barely. And her hair was long, thick, golden, and free. She wore no makeup. She needed nothing. Perfect pink lips, round cheeks, arched brows, and the most glorious smile.

The same thought was going through everyone’s mind: it would have been a daunting choice for anyone.

Pandy looked up at Homer, who was frozen in place, a small goofy grin on his face as he gazed, completely mesmerized. Then she looked at Alcie, also staring at Homer, just as Alcie was lifting her leg over Homer’s foot.

“Don’t!” Pandy yipped.

“Fine,” Alcie yipped back. “But he doesn’t look at
me
like that.”

The three goddesses slowly approached the dumbstruck shepherd.

“Wow!” said Paris.

“You understand what you are to do?” Athena said, her voice at first severe. Then, when she saw Paris was justifiably intimidated, she purred, “My handsome youth.”

“I have to pick the prettiest,” Paris answered.

“That’s correct, you charming lad,” Hera said coyly.

“And whoever you pick gets this,” said Aphrodite, placing Eris’s golden apple in the palm of his hand, Zeus’s enchantment keeping him from feeling the power of Lust. As she turned away, she whipped her hair out and around, and suddenly the air was filled with the faint scent of fresh roses. Athena frowned, inhaled sharply, and exhaled a lavender fragrance that washed over the entire meadow. Then Hera puffed up her cheeks and blew the wonderful scent of grapefruit and bergamot toward Paris. She also accidentally blew his chair over; Hermes righted him instantly.

Paris took in a deep breath, his eyes glazing. His head rolled from side to side as he tried to focus on the three beauties, and he began to shift the golden apple slowly from hand to hand.

“I . . . don’t . . . it’s hard . . . I . . . can’t. . . .”

Athena stepped forward and thrust her shoulders back, her eyes flashing.

“Let me make this terribly easy for you, dear one,” she said. “First off, know this. You, Paris, are not of low birth. You, my handsome youth, are a prince and heir to the House of Troy. Why you are tending sheep on a mountainside is a story for another time, one which shall be unfolded to you in every detail . . . let’s just say, don’t trust your father when you finally meet him.

“But for the moment, let us consider what would best befit a man of royal blood such as yourself, so long denied his birthright. When you choose me, I shall give you wisdom beyond your wildest dreams. Your prowess at the art of war, your skill on the battlefield, your ability to formulate the most ingenious strategies, your acumen against any opponent will be surpassed only by my own. No mortal man will match you. You will lead what ever army you choose on to glorious victories, and you will deal justly and fairly with those you conquer! Your name will be hailed as that of the mightiest warrior the known world has seen, sees, or ever will see!”

“Really?” Paris asked.

“Why would I lie?” Athena replied.

“Cute,” said Hera out of the corner of her mouth.

“I thought so,” Athena said softly.

Paris looked at Homer.

“I get stuff!” he cried.

Alcie turned to Pandy and rolled her eyes.

“And you’re a prince,” Hermes said. “You did hear that part, correct?”

“Oh . . . yeah!”

“Yes, well,” Hera said with a yawn. “That’s very nice if all you wanted to do was kill people.”

She sauntered toward Paris, taking his face in her hands.

“However, I will give you something that will let you do anything your
royal
heart desires, including killing people, if that sort of thing suits you, without getting yourself the least little bit dirty!”

“Ohhhh,” Paris exclaimed. “No more dirt!” He tossed the golden apple once in a low arc from right hand to left.

“When you choose me, from that moment on, you will indeed take a throne, something your family has for so long denied you. You, Paris, will rule over all the lands of Asia Minor. You alone will have utter dominion over countries, cities, people, monuments, borders, temples, roads, rivers, mountains, valleys, schools, scholars, the arts, artists, marketplaces, market prices, libraries, liberty, agriculture, any culture, inventions, armies,
money,
laws, politics, politicians, who comes, who goes, viaducts, aqueducts, tear ducts, religions, priestesses, philosophers, philosophies, progress, death, and . . .”

“Yes?” Paris cried, sitting up in the chair.

“Yes?” murmured Homer from beside the tree.

“Taxes!”

“No kidding?” Paris asked, now casually tossing the apple into the air.

“Ultimate power shall be yours,” Hera cooed, her lips only millimeters from his ear. “Nod your head and thousands shall do your bidding. King, pasha, potentate, emperor, sultan, majesty . . . how do you wish to be known? Smile and the days shall be glorious; frown and all will know your wrath. And, if I may say, it’s a big piece of land. You wouldn’t be bored.”

“We’ll take it!” Homer blurted.

“Hey!” Paris shouted. Without warning, he hurled the golden apple at Homer in a mock fury. The goddesses all inadvertently gasped, seeing their prize tossed about like so much hay. As the golden sphere hurtled through space, the noon sun glinted off its surface. Out of nowhere, Pandy had an overwhelming urge . . . but to do
what
, she couldn’t quite pinpoint. She only knew that her body jerked slightly as she watched the apple sail overhead. Just as quickly, Homer threw the apple back to Paris.

“Sorry!” Homer said, looking around. “Sorry. Sorry. Like, not here. I’m not here.”

He glanced over at Hermes, who was biting his lip and trying not to laugh.

“It’s quite an offer,” Hera said, turning her back on Paris. “You won’t get another one like it.”

Paris looked down at his feet, shaking his head listlessly from side to side, a look of abject frustration on his face, the apple clenched in one hand. Suddenly, his eyes went wide and curious as he— and everyone else— looked directly at Aphrodite. His mouth twisted into a strange grin and he tossed the apple again . . . high. Aphrodite stopped twirling the ridiculously large pearls of her necklace and looked up in the silence that followed.

“Oh?” She giggled. “Me? Is it my turn?”

She blushed and Pandy noticed Aphrodite’s nail lacquer turning exactly the same shade of lustrous pink as her cheeks.

Paris opened his mouth to speak, but Aphrodite cut him off with a big, girly shrug of her alabaster-hued shoulders.

“Well, first of all, prince, I can’t offer you wisdom. I don’t really have any to speak of and Theeny has that covered. Second, I can’t give you lands or any of those other terribly important things that Hera’s offering. I can only give you one thing. You might not think it’s much . . .”

Paris’s face quickly registered disappointment.

“. . . but if—and it’s only an ‘if,’ mind you—
if
I’m lucky enough to be chosen, I will give you the undying, unyielding, eternal, and complete love . . .”

Paris’s face showed that he had no clue as to what would come next.

“. . . of the most beautiful mortal woman in the world.”

The instant the words left Aphrodite’s lips, Paris looked like he’d been smacked by an enormous frying stone. Homer, Pandy, Alcie, and Iole couldn’t tell if his tiny mind had gone even more blank or if many thoughts were flooding in. They only saw that he’d been rendered incapable of speech or motion.

Paris, for his part, was thinking of embracing in his arms something other than a tree trunk, which made for incredibly slow dancing. The other offers were really, really . . . great, but he knew he wasn’t the sharpest sword in the arsenal. With both Athena’s and Hera’s gifts, there were so many things he could bungle. He couldn’t even keep his sheep in one place, how could he lead men into battle? How could he rule over lands and people? He’d be killed in his sleep within days, for sure. But this new feeling— something that had rushed into his body only a moment ago— this was bliss! There was nothing wrong with this; nothing horrible could come of it. Now he would not merely dream of holding the pretty flaxen-haired daughter of the village vegetable trader, but he would possess the most beautiful woman in the world . . . whoever that was.

“Her name is Helen,” Aphrodite purred, reading his thoughts. “And she resides in Sparta.”

“And?” said Athena.

“And that’s about it,” Aphrodite retorted, glaring.

“I hardly think so,” said Hera.

“Oh,
that
.” Aphrodite gave a little giggle. “All right, for Olympus’s sake. This woman happens to be . . . currently . . . involved with someone else.”

“She’s
married
!” cried Athena.

“To King Menelaus of Sparta,” Hera said.

“But that can all be fixed, if you will, by simply handing that apple to me. With it and my skill, she will willingly leave her husband.”

“And?”
yelled Athena Aphrodite pursed her lips.

“And her daughter,” she said rather sheepishly.

“A nine-year-old girl,” Hera said, seeming to plead with Paris. “Would you do that to a nine-year-old girl?”

“Rough,” Homer said involuntarily.

“Hermione,” said Athena. “Lovely girl, slightly horse faced, but she gets that from her father. And her mother would simply abandon her!”

“For
you
!” Aphrodite said, suddenly bright again. “She will sail with you back to Troy, where you will be received at the palace with all the royal splendor and honor you so richly deserve.”

“Think carefully, mortal,” said Athena. “My offer is much safer.”

“So is mine, and you get to tax everybody!” said Hera.

Without warning, Paris heard Aphrodite’s voice in his mind.

“The most beautiful woman in . . . the . . .
world
.”

Suddenly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his mouth dropped open, and, leaning back, he bellowed the most raucous laugh any of them had ever heard.
Ever.

“And won’t she be charmed,” Aphrodite murmured to herself.

“Done!” he cried.

He drew his arm down, alongside the chair, and with a great sweeping motion tossed the golden apple high into the air toward Aphrodite.