The Immortal (9 page)

I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF WATER GURGLING OVER POL-

ished stones. My eyes popped open and I sat up in an instant. I thought I might find myself in my bed, having survived nothing more than a terrifying dream.

But I was still in the boat, soaking wet. Something major had changed in the life-and-death struggle of Josie, though. I was not lost in the middle of the ocean. I had come aground on an island. I peered back across the water, the way I had come, and believed I saw the western tip of Mykonos, twinkling with the yellow lights of civilization across the silver sheen of the silent sea.

"Delos," I whispered. "She saved me." I was ninety percent sure I had come aground on the sacred island. I'd know in a few minutes. I climbed out of the boat, glad to have solid earth beneath me.

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Delos was small, and I had walked around half of it not that many hours before. In the moonlight I would easily be able to spot the ruins, once I got to higher ground.

I reasoned that I had come ashore on the southeastern end of the island, "the back" of it relative to where we had stepped ashore earlier that morning. A tall hill loomed overhead as I walked on rubbery legs along the rocky shore. Probably the pinnacle of Kynthos, I thought. Well, I had no intention of climbing it in the shape I was in, especially not just to get my bearings. A few hundred yards north, I thought, and the hills would be lower. Then I would be able to climb over to the ruins and knock at the door of the archaeologists. The pamphlet said no one lived on the island, but I had seen houses near the museum for the archaeological staff. I was anxious to call my father. He may have begun searching for me already.

My watch had fallen off, and I had no idea what time it was.

For Tom, I held out little hope. But it was possible —just possible, I told myself—that he had been able to swim to shore. I clung to the hope to warm my shivering body.

The hill above me eventually dropped down and I turned inland. Miraculously—it was a night of miracles—I still had my sandals on. Nevertheless, I moved cautiously between shadows on the stony ground. Here there were tumbleweeds, sometimes rows of them that were difficult to circumvent, and soon my legs were scratched. Yet I almost welcomed the touch of the weeds because—

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They belonged to Delos.

Yes, the farther I walked, the more I left behind the sea that had almost killed me, the more love I felt for the island. People would laugh if I told them
she
had saved me—Delos, the wandering star that shone in the night. I fantasized that Delos had moved while I slept in my tiny boat, a few feet, maybe a few hundred yards, to be sure to catch me before I drifted out to sea. Earlier, on my first visit to Delos, I had felt the unspoken welcome of the island. Now I experienced its actual embrace.

I crested the hill and looked down at the ruins in the moonlight.

The city was new.

I blinked. Nothing changed, although everything already had.

The city was alive.

People, beautiful creatures in long colored robes, walked among pillared walkways and sat upon marble chairs. Their long hair, gold and black and red, hung like shawls over their shoulders. They moved as if in a dream, or perhaps it was because I was in a dreamlike state. For I could not say how I felt at that moment. I should have been in shock. But I didn't register what I saw as real because I no longer felt human. I moved forward, toward them, wanting to be a part of them. Yet it was as if my feet no longer touched the ground. They floated and I drifted. I could vanish into space in an instant. It was good. I was in the right place at the right time. I was coming home to a place beyond space and time. A portion of my mind

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Jeft me then, and a larger part of my soul entered the void.

I was whole again.

I was who I was.

I stepped into the city. The light was all around, the life of another time, the ancient Greeks, older even, much older, than the historians realized. The city was intoxicated. There was celebration; there was worship. There was an understanding that the gods were real, and could be pleased and give great fortune. I considered it my great fortune to enter the star of Delos.

I sat down on a smooth white seat.

Someone noticed me. Then another. They smiled joyfully, hopefully.

I closed my eyes and waited for them to come to me.

To serve me.

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Sryope was the daughter of Thalia, muse of Apollo, but her father was unknown. When Sryope was young she would inquire of her mother how she came to be without a father, and Thalia would only answer, "It's a mystery." As Sryope grew, she quickly gained reknown as Thalia's equal in composing prose and poetry. Often Sryope was invited to Olympus to entertain the immortals. But by the time she came of age, Olympus was already in decline. Zeus, Hera, Athena, and Ares had departed for places unknown. It was Apollo who now ruled, but he was seldom ever seen, and no one knew where he spent his time. Yet when Sryope came to Olympus, it sometimes happened that Apollo would appear to listen to her enchanted tales. She had a lovely, mesmerizing voice.

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Sryope's best friend was Phthia, daughter of Tyche, who was the daughter of Zeus. Phthia often spoke of her relationship to Zeus with pride, although she could not say who
her
own father was. In that way Sryope and Phthia were the same. Many said they had been born on the same day at the same time, although Thalia, Sryope's mother, said this was not so. In either case Sryope and Phthia grew up together and were best friends. Sryope would tell stories and Phthia would play her flute, which had been a gift to her from Pan, the only immortal who was known to have been killed.

It came to pass that a child was born to Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty. The child was called Aeneas, and his father was known to have been a mortal, much to Aphrodite's shame. It seemed that Aphrodite was not immune to her own magic girdle, which could cause anyone to fall in love. But Aeneas grew up well and was prized by the gods because of his extreme beauty and exquisite manners.

Phthia was the first female to capture Aeneas's attention as he entered manhood. Aeneas was fond of swimming the rivers that flowed behind the temples of Olympus, and Phthia knew of this habit and made it a point to be in the rivers at the same time, but naked, so that Aeneas would lust for her and make her his wife. Now, Phthia was well known for her many lovers, but she had never wanted a god as much as she wanted Aeneas. This she told to Sryope, who could understand Phthia's infatuation because she, too, found Aeneas attractive. But Sryope didn't speak a

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word of this attraction to Phthia, who was known to have a temper.

Now Aeneas, when he spied Phthia naked in the waters beside him, was consumed with lust, for she was very beautiful. Aeneas was unaware of her reputation as a seducer, and he gave himself over to her, and she to him, after she first made him promise that he would love her, and no other, as long as Olympus stood. This Aeneas readily agreed to because he was dizzy with passion. So Aeneas and Phthia were together for some time.

But it came to pass that Phthia soon tired of loving Aeneas exclusively and began to entertain other suitors. This Aeneas learned from Sryope, who told Aeneas that Phthia had always been this way and always would be. Sryope told Aeneas to leave Phthia and come with her, for by this time Sryope was much in love with Aeneas, having watched from afar as he pleased Phthia with his amorous ways. But Aeneas was heartbroken that Phthia had lied to him about her fidelity. He explained to Sryope that he could not leave Phthia, no matter what she did, because of the vow he had sworn to her. Sryope was not easily put off.

"It is Phthia who made you swear the vow," Sryope said. "It is Phthia who can release you from the vow."

"But she will never do so," Aeneas said. "Her jealousy is well known."

"I know it well myself," Sryope said. "Nevertheless, Phthia must release you from your vow, and I will force her to do so."

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Sryope thought about the matter and eventually came up with a plan that she told to Aeneas, who was by this time eager to be free of Phthia.

At the heart of Sryope's scheme was her knowledge of who Phthia's father was. It had come to Sryope in a vision while she worshiped Apollo. Visions were common with Sryope. Indeed, her greatest stories came from trances she entered while she was in the rapture of worship. It was Sryope's belief that the sun itself, the life-giver of all the realms, human and divine, sometimes spoke through her. But this was a secret she kept from everyone, lest she invoke the wrath of the other gods. For the gods as a group were notoriously jealous of one another, with few exceptions. It was a disease of character that had spread through Olympus as the centuries passed.

Phthia's father, Sryope knew, was Alecto, of the realm of Hades, one of the three Furies who was responsible for listening to the complaints brought by mortals against one another and who was also responsible for punishing mortals. The three Furies were horrible. They usually were shaped as crones, with snakes for hair, dog's heads, coal-black bodies, bat's wings, and bloodshot eyes. But because they were older than Zeus, their powers were a mystery. It was also said they could assume beautiful forms when it suited them.

It happened long ago that Alecto, whom some said was the strongest of the Furies, had become angered by Zeus because he had lightened the punishment of mortals Alecto had decreed should suffer horrible 106

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deaths. As a means of revenge, Alecto changed herself into a handsome warrior and stole into the bed of Tyche, Zeus's daughter, while she lay sleeping. Feeling the touch of a warrior on her naked limbs, Tyche awoke and made passionate love to the Fury. When they were done Alecto cast off her disguise and told Tyche that she was now pregnant with the daughter of a Fury.

"Now there is no telling what will happen," Alecto said. "You being, O Tyche, the goddess of fortune for all mortals everywhere. This child will not leave you for a long time, and her life will constantly affect your judgment of what mortals should receive and what they should be denied."

Horrified by the prophecy, Tyche fled to her father, Zeus, to explain to him what had happened. At the news Zeus was angered, and even though he was then king of Olympus, he was loath to try to directly challenge the curse of a Fury. But he did decide to try to postpone the effect of the curse by lengthening the gestation period of Tyche's child, from nine months to ninety thousand.

"That way," Zeus explained, "the child will not arrive until Olympus and the Earth are much changed."

But Tyche was still fearful. "But my child will still be the daughter of a Fury and will most likely be hideous."

Zeus shook his head. "I can make it so that the child is born beautiful and talented. Indeed, even of a pleasant disposition and manner. Is this what you

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wish, Daughter? Then the true nature of the child will be harder for others to detect. As a goddess of beauty, the child might cause even more trouble."

But Tyche wanted it so, and she made Zeus promise that no one should know who was the father of the child. To this Zeus reluctantly agreed.

So in her vision, which even Zeus could not shield, Sryope saw the full tale of Phthia's origin, and it made her laugh and cry at the same time. Because Phthia was her friend, they had spent much of their lives together. But the pride Phthia took in being Zeus's granddaughter had always annoyed Sryope, and now that they were rivals for the love of Aeneas, it annoyed her even more.

Sryope went to Phthia and confronted her with the truth, which made Phthia laugh at her. But Sryope said, "Go to your mother and ask her if I don't speak the truth. As you know, your mother can never lie."

So Phthia went to her mother and asked her to condemn Sryope's vicious gossip, but Tyche did not respond. Tyche could not lie, but she could remain silent when the truth was too painful to reveal. This Phthia knew, and she realized with horror that what Sryope said was true, that she was the daughter of a Fury. Phthia hurried back to Sryope and asked her to swear that she would never reveal this fact to anyone. Sryope agreed, but on one condition.

"You have to challenge me to a contest on Mt. Olympus," Sryope said. "A contest to see who can tell the best story. If you win, I swear to keep the truth of your father secret. But if I win you must give up all 109

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claim to Aeneas, and free him from the vow of fidelity that he swore to you."

To these terms Phthia happily agreed because she secretly thought that Sryope could have forced her to give up Aeneas without a contest. Sryope was a reknowned storyteller, but Phthia, displaying the inflated ego inherent in being the descendant of a Fury, actually believed that she could defeat Sryope. She said this aloud to herself.

"I will tell a tale that shames her finest story," Phthia said. "Then all the fair gods of Olympus will long for my love. And I will keep Aeneas bound to his vow to repay him for wanting to consort with Sryope behind my back."

Word of the contest spread throughout the realm, and on the appointed day all the gods gathered on Olympus to hear who would weave the more captivating story. Apollo himself consented to come. He sat on the throne that had once belonged to Zeus and nodded that the contest should begin. Sryope asked to go first, and this also pleased Phthia, because she thought it easier to make the stronger impression after her childhood friend had spoken.

But Sryope did not intend to give Phthia a chance to speak. She had promised Phthia that, whether she won or lost the contest, she would tell no one of how the Fury had seduced Tyche and given life to Phthia. But Sryope had not promised not to retell the actual story by changing the names and a few of the details so that the unenlightened would not know it was based on truth.

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This was what Sryope did. She told the assembly of gods the tale of Phthia's heritage, but she did it in such a way that she could never be accused of breaking her promise to Phthia.

At first the gods didn't know that Sryope's story was anything but a product of her wonderful imagination. But as Sryope continued, and Phthia began to tremble, and then to weep, a stir went through the crowd. Phthia was her own worst enemy that day. If she had managed to keep silent, the gods would have assumed she was upset because Sryope's story was so wonderful it was unbeatable. But Phthia mistakenly believed everyone must know the story was about her. Also, her hatred for Sryope in that moment was so great that she could not control herself. A Fury's anger could never be reined in once it was let loose.

Phthia leapt up when Sryope was almost finished. She swore at her childhood friend. "You promised you would not talk about me!"

Sryope feigned innocence. "Am I talking about you, Phthia? The goddess in my story is named Dene.

How could you be connected to a Fury? Surely you are confused. You cannot be the daughter of one of those demons."

At that Phthia stepped close to Sryope and spoke so that only she could hear. "You know that I am descended from a demon. But you don't know what kind of demon I am. You will know and soon, Sryope, that I promise you. You will loath the day you ever met me."

With that Phthia fled from Mt. Olympus and was

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not seen ever again. The assembly of gods scattered, and for a long time there was much talk of the contest between the two old friends, Sryope and Phthia. But no one knew what Phthia had said to Sryope just before she vanished, and no one was ever sure that Phthia was the daughter of a Fury. It didn't seem likely, most of the gods said. The Furies were awful beyond measure and Phthia had been a good goddess, although extremely promiscuous. That in itself was not considered a fault for a goddess, most believed.

Aeneas came to be Sryope's husband, and the two lived in peace for many years. Sryope continued to entertain the gods with her stories, but she soon began to spend more time on Earth, giving stories to human writers and poets in dreams and visions. This she did gladly, for it seemed to her mortals appreciated the tales even more than her fellow gods, and they learned from them to be brave and generous, and kind and noble. But Sryope had trouble conveying stories that embodied truth because she herself had deceived Phthia, although in a clever way.

The gods did not appreciate her giving so many of her talents to mortals. They were jealous of her gifts, which they considered belonged to them alone. But to this feeling Sryope paid no heed and lengthened her stays on Earth, where things were changing fast, as Zeus had long ago predicted they would.

Sryope was on Earth, walking the shore of one of the mortals' vast oceans at night, when the three Furies came for her with their whips and chains. They

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appeared before her as a whirling cloud of blood and dirt. Before she could flee, a thorny noose was thrown over her neck and she was thrown to the ground. Tisiphone, Megaera, and terrible Alecto stood over her, feverish, as if in anticipation of a human sacrifice —their greatest joy. Though frightened, Sryope swore that Apollo would have their heads for attacking her in this fashion. At this Alecto laughed and stepped forward.

"It is Apollo," Alecto said, "who sent us to arrest you and bring you to trial on Mt. Olympus."

"I am to be brought to trial?" Sryope asked, confused. "But I have done nothing wrong."

Alecto stopped laughing and spit on Sryope, the saliva the color of a human's blood. "You have murdered Phthia. Don't deny it. You have hated her since you were young. Her lifeless body has been found floating in the River Styx."

"But the Styx runs through the Underworld," Sryope protested. "Only mortals go that way when they die, not gods. Phthia was an immortal and could not die anyway."

Alecto pulled Sryope to her feet by her hair and chained her arms and legs. "That is true," the crone said.

"But nevertheless she did die, and it is you who sent her that way. For that crime, proud muse of the mortals, you will pay dearly."

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