Pandora Gets Lazy (7 page)

Hera stuck out her lower lip and pouted for about ten seconds.

“Oh . . . fine!”

With a squeal, Dido dropped to the floor. In a flash, Demeter caused a large patch of soft grass to grow a full meter high right underneath, so Dido fell onto a cushy green pillow. He lay there stunned for a moment.

Hera made a move toward him.

“Hera . . . darling . . . back away from the dog,” Demeter said softly but firmly.

“Oh, pooh!”

Demeter went to check on Dido as Hera, with a flick of her wrist, tore the glass shards out of the ceiling and reconstructed the perfume bottle on her dressing table.

As Demeter approached, Dido gave a growl; then, seeing it was not his tormentor, licked her hand in gratitude. Quickly he leapt up and slunk into a far corner.

“I'm sure he was only playing.” Demeter turned to see Hera, now standing out in the hallway, arms spread wide, blowing mightily back into the room. Above Demeter's head, the escaped perfume was collecting into an amber mist, which condensed into a dense cloud and floated over the perfume bottle. After a moment, the cloud began to rain, drop by drop, into the bottle until all the perfume was replenished.

“No, he was not playing,” Hera said, approaching Demeter. “He plays with you, remember? He doesn't play with me.”

“Well, you stole him from his mistress. You can't be surprised that he's not overly fond of you.”

“I think I can, yes.” Hera sulked. “I take excellent care of him.”

“You feed him scraps, you don't let him exercise, and he's lonely. How is that taking excellent care?”

“I haven't
killed
him, okay?”

“Pardon me, your generosity is boundless.”

“I just wanted to sprinkle a little perfume on him. He's begun smelling up my fragrant rooms and I'll be a mortal slave before I give him a bath. So I just tried to do something nice . . . and he bit me.”

“Yes.” Demeter sighed. “You said. Well, it's over now.”

“He's still stinky.”

“When all are asleep, I shall give him a bath in my rooms. All right? Will that make you feel better?”

“Hmmm . . . I think it will.”

“Now, dearest Hera, why did you summon me?”

“What news?”

“Everyone's keeping rather quiet, you know.”

“Are you telling me you've found out
nothing
in the last few days?” Hera spat.

“Well, as I told you, when Pandy fell from the chariot, Dionysus actually sobered up and sequestered himself away for a bit, no bacchanals, no revelry, and he canceled his wine delivery. The only thing I can tell you is that I saw him talking to a large squirrel the other day.”

“Squirrel . . . hmm, I see.”

“And,” Demeter continued, “I know Hephaestus has been talking with the spirit of Cassandra—”

“Cassandra?”

“She was the maiden that Apollo gave the gift of prophecy to, but when she refused his love, he cursed her so that no one would believe her predictions. Sort of messed up the Trojan War . . .”

Hera glared at Demeter.

“
I know who she is!
I'm just wondering why he would be talking to her spirit.”

“Apparently, she contacted him. Something's happening with the other three on the
Syracusa
and she told him to be prepared. He just can't decide whether to believe her or not. Look, darling . . . light of all our lives . . . there's nothing you can do about it anyway. Not without all of them knowing that you
know
something and then they'll rat you out to your husband and he'll make a rare visit to your rooms, see the dog, and fly into a teeny-tiny rage. Let it go for now. You
know
what Pandora has coming up. Five days of it. If that doesn't kill her, well, then nothing will. Now, I must get a moment's rest before I give Dido his bath. I shall see you presently.”

With a kiss blown to Hera, she was gone.

“Let it go . . . ,” mused Hera. “Hmmm . . . I suppose she's right. Huh?”

Hera whipped around, suddenly possessed with the sensation that she was not alone.

No one was there. Nothing was amiss. Everything was in its place: the reclining couch, the dressing table, the silver candelabra, the hairbrushes, the knickknacks, Dido on the floor in the corner.

All was as it should be.

She did not notice as the eyes on the small bust of her husband, Zeus, on the table next to her magnificent sleeping pallet, stopped following her movements and returned to their original black marble.

She pondered for a moment and then shook her magnificent red hair.

“Oh . . . silly.”

Feeling a little better, slightly more certain of her position and, therefore, a touch more benevolent, she turned her attention again to the rebuilt perfume bottle and then to the cowering dog.

“Let's try it again, shall we? Here, doggy!”

CHAPTER EIGHT
Minor Operation

Two days of walking had taken Pandy and the boys just slightly less than twenty kilometers westward. “Not far at all,” Pandy thought.

Aware that the filmy black wall was slowly nearing with each step, they skirted to the side of the main road through the pass to Jbel Toubkal and the home of her uncle Atlas, hiding from kidnappers with a heavy complement of prisoners heading back into the mountains one moment; the next, fleeing from a raiding party on its way out to pillage. They traveled at night, dusk, or dawn, never nearing the campfires or only getting close enough to eavesdrop on the kidnappers' conversation.

The first night on the road, Pandy decided to tell the boys all about the shells.

“Okay,” she said, running her finger down the lip of her shell, “now listen.”

On the other end, she heard her father's voice clearly, and Pandy held the conch up to Ismailil.

“Say ‘Hello, Prometheus,' ” she whispered.

When Prometheus answered, Ismailil's eyes grew huge.

“Magic! Magic!” he said, smiling broadly.

“Yeah, kinda, but good magic,” she said, taking the shell back.

Pandy told her father about the black wall, the prisoners, and Jbel Toubkal.

“I think we can hide from the kidnappers, but I have no idea what I am gonna do when I get to, like, wherever it is. But Daddy, I'm certain it's where Uncle Atlas lives. I've never met him, so he probably won't recognize me—”

The line began to crackle, then went dead.

“Daddy . . . ?”

Pandy shook the shell.

“Daddy?”

She tried using the shell again. Nothing.

“It's probably the mountains,” she said to the boys. “I'll try again tomorrow.”

They spent a great deal of time in hiding, which was the only time Pandy could check Amri's wound. His leg was now so bad that Pandy didn't know how the little boy stood, let alone trudged the steep inclines. Ismailil tried to carry his brother, but that got all of them nowhere fast. Pandy did a little better but needed to rest often with his extra weight on her back. For his part, Amri made not a sound, trying to be very brave; it was only when Pandy saw a single tear slide down his cheek did she realize the pain he must be in. The wound was deeper than she first thought, and now the leg was turning a slight green. Maybe it's just days and days of dirt, Pandy tried to reassure herself, hoping that underneath, Amri's leg wasn't
that
bad, but she'd seen the color before: playing behind the Athens Free Clinic one day, she'd seen a hulky assistant healer carry out a single greenish leg that had been freshly severed from its owner and toss it onto the garbage pile. Pandy knew she simply didn't have it in her to remove a little boy's leg. That was asking too much.

Clambering up the side of the hill in the late afternoon, hidden behind a large cedar tree, the boys watched another group of passing prisoners for anyone they recognized while Pandy thought only of the Eye of Horus, desperately wishing she had it with her. That led to thoughts of Alcie, Iole, and Homer: what had happened to them? Were they alive? Where was Dido? Was Hera even
feeding
him? And then the realization that always ended these thoughts: none of this would have happened if not for her.

Everything was her fault.

Suddenly, Amri cried out. Not very loud, but loud enough that Ismailil put his hand over his brother's mouth and everyone froze—almost. Several large red fire ants had crawled up Amri's leg and into his wound. The little boy tried to squirm but Ismailil held him fast.

The line of prisoners was almost out of sight, but a single slaver, bringing up the rear of the line, stopped short and turned around, his head cocked to one side.

At this, Amri became still, his breath coming through Ismailil's fingers in short bursts, tears streaming down his small face.

The slaver stood for a long time just staring at the hillside, scanning the bushes and rocks for any movement, listening for any sound—focusing particularly on the large cedar trees high to the right. Only a shout from far up at the head of the line caused him to turn around and move ahead, running to catch up with the others.

When the group had rounded a curve in the road, Pandy crawled over to Amri, now frantically beating at his wound, and poured some water from her skin over his leg, washing the ants away. Reaching down for her cloak to dry him off, her hand brushed against her carrying pouch and she felt something oddly shaped and hard.

The bust of Athena. The miniature replica of the goddess, a gift from the Wise One herself. When Pandy was in trouble, or completely dumbfounded like she was now, she could seek help by questioning the bust and Athena would answer through it.

“Now, don't be afraid, okay,” she said to the boys as she brought out the bust. “I think this will help.”

Remembering Athena's warning that she could only ask a question once and that the statue's tiny tongue would stick a little, she thought carefully before she spoke, switching to her native Greek.

“Great Athena—”

The bust's lids flew open, revealing again Athena's beautiful green eyes.

“How can I heal this little boy's leg?”

Immediately, the mouth began to move, the little tongue clicking and clacking as if it were glued with honey. But Pandy caught every word, every herb—“fenu-
click
-greek, stinging nettle.” To her surprise, she knew all of them. Then came the instructions—“gather”—
click
— “mix a dry poult-
click
-ice.” Although, the last one made no sense: “Sew.”

Sew
what
?

The wound—had to be.

With
what?

When the bust stopped speaking, she stowed it away, told the boys to stay put, and began checking the hillside. The nettles and the knit-bone she found right off. But she couldn't locate the fenugreek, charcoal, or the Ulmus rubra.

“Come on, come on,” Pandy began mumbling. The bust wouldn't have said it if she wouldn't be able to find it. The gods
couldn't
be that cruel. Not with a little boy's leg at stake.

Suddenly, a bush ten meters up the hillside began to glow with a bright red halo. Pandy hiked up and picked some of the light green fenugreek leaves. Then a pile of black stones much farther up began to glow, and Pandy, with a great deal of difficulty, panted her way up the hillside and gathered up a handful of black charcoal. She needed one last ingredient:
Ulmus rubra.
She looked for something glowing. Nothing. But she was learning the ways of the gods: they
were
helping, most definitely, but more often than not she would have to work for every bit of aid they gave, especially from Athena, who, Pandy sensed, expected just a little bit more out of her than everyone else.

Fine.

Pandy searched higher and farther. Finally, she spotted a small red glow way above her on the very top of the mountain, surrounding a small tree that hadn't been there a second ago, she was sure of it.

“Okay, just watch me!” she huffed.

Picking and clawing her way past thinning brush, she found herself on a steep incline of loose stones, overhanging rock ledges, and—she bit her tongue, not saying a word and not even
thinking
anything—snow. Icy patches covered the ground precisely where she needed to climb. She dug her hands and feet into the snow, moving like an animal ever higher. Twice she slipped and slid back, once coming so close to the edge of a sheer drop, she actually
did
bite her tongue. She scraped her knees and bruised her shins. She stubbed three toes, hit her head on an overhang, scratched her hands, and broke two nails down to the quick. At last, out of breath, she reached the top of the mountain and the tree, a beautiful spring green underneath the red glow. Plucking several of the largest leaves, she turned and realized that she would have had a view of almost the entire Atlas Mountain range.

Except that now most of it was cloaked by the filmy black wall.

And Jbel Toubkal was nowhere to be seen.

She did notice that the wall, again, didn't seem to actually touch the earth, and the ground underneath (what she could see in the fading light) was pale, growing whiter as it stretched away.

“More snow,” she sighed, looking at the kilometers of ground before her, knowing their destination was at least a week's walk away, if not more. But, more importantly, she saw the campfires burning dully far below and realized that the slavers were closer than she thought—and their numbers were massive. She turned to face the deadly descent back down and found the rock now cut through by a smooth path that wound its way in a serpentine back and forth across the mountain.

“Thank you, thank you,” she whispered as she hurried back to the boys. Then, as she was almost upon them, it hit her. She knew what she could use to sew the wound.

“I've said it before and I'll say it again. Thank you,” she practically sang.

She brought out the blue marble map Hera had given her at the beginning of her quest. Using it as an ordinary bowl (knowing that it wouldn't begin spinning without her tears), Pandy mixed all the herbs into a dry poultice, following Athena's instructions exactly. She prayed earnestly and fervently to Apollo in Greek. Then she cleaned Amri's wound of the dried blood and pus, telling him in Kabyle what a really good patient he was being and asking his brother to tell him a joke. Ismailil just looked at Pandy as if she were insane.