This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(27)

I know how much she’ll enjoy being the object of his worship once she realizes what’s happening.

“Galatea,” he’s saying to her. He points to her and says it again. Her name.

I close my eyes and listen to the fluttering in her breast, an anxious flurry of fear.

I reach out to her, unseen by either of them. She doesn’t feel the brush of my fingers, only the calm that settles over her. She lifts her eyes to his, and, in that beating heart that was empty stone a moment ago, I spark a tiny flame. She holds his gaze and breathes out, her shoulders relaxing, and he smiles, encouraging.

This is what I can do. Zeus and Eris toy with mortals and toss them away. I bring them to life in a loving embrace. Galatea will be happy here, safe and cherished by her adoring protector. Far more fortunate than the warriors slaughtered in the name of Ares.

I was hasty, perhaps, to awaken her in his arms. I remember now how Athena kept Pandora in the heavens, teaching her the skills she’d need for mortal life before delivering her to Epimetheus. It was far more sudden for Galatea; that’s why she was afraid.

That’s all it is. She just needs time to become accustomed to a world so new to her.

I imagine her offering flowers on my altar herself, when she comes to understand.



* * *



—

After I leave Pygmalion’s house, I wander through Paphos. I pass simple mud-brick houses with their wooden shutters closed against the bright sun, a potter’s workshop, a blacksmith’s forge—the last of which I stop at, my notice caught by the ringing of hammer on anvil.

The wide doors have been flung open, and smoke billows from the furnace at the back. It’s plain and humble compared with the forge on Olympus, cluttered with tools propped against bare stone walls. In the center, the smith raises his hammer, bringing it down with a crash onto metal, and I linger, watching him for a moment. There are none of the dazzling examples of workmanship here that I’m used to seeing from Hephaestus, but he looks just as intent and his powerful arms ripple with strength just the same. A curl of dark hair hangs over his forehead, sticking to his damp skin. A trickle of sweat traces its way down his neck, sliding toward his chest. I follow its journey, captivated by this pleasing sight.

I’m about to send a little puff of divine breath to blow the stray lock of hair out of his face, when a large bird swoops down at my feet, startling me. It tilts its head on its curved and slender neck, peering up at me with inquisitive eyes, and I smile.

“Hephaestus!”

The crane spreads its wings out wide, standing tall on its narrow legs, before morphing into the shape of the god. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says, smiling warmly back at me. “I’m just visiting forges.” He glances at the smith, who carries on oblivious to the hidden presence of two Olympian gods. Hephaestus purses his lips and blows, and the rogue hair flutters away from the mortal’s face. He sighs with relief, swinging back the hammer for another blow. “Where have you been?” Hephaestus asks.

“Come on,” I invite him. “Walk with me.”

I lead him away from the mortal village, toward the rolling vineyards and olive groves that lie between us and the sea. As we stroll, I tell him how I rewarded Pygmalion.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

The breeze is fresh with the earthy scent of leaves and tree bark. I breathe it in, noticing how it mingles with the smoky aroma that always hangs around Hephaestus, pleasantly autumnal.

“How do you know?” I ask.

He squints at me. “You sound a little subdued. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

I take a breath. “It was,” I say. “I was so sure. You know, with Phaon, I didn’t stop to listen to what he wanted at the end. He wanted to fight, and he might have succeeded. He might not have died if I hadn’t tried to pull him out of that battle. I did listen to what Pygmalion wanted, and I gave it to him.”

“So?” he prompts. “What’s the problem?”

“She was just a statue. And then at once she was more than that.”

“Because of you,” Hephaestus says. “What are you worried about?”

“What if it’s not what she wants?” I ask.

He shakes his head, thoughtful. “This isn’t like Phaon,” he reasons. “She would never have lived at all without you. She was stone; now she’s flesh and blood. You gave her a husband and a charmed existence, blessed by you.”

“I knew you’d do that,” I say.

“What?”

“That you’d make me feel better. Make it sound so perfect.”

“Isn’t it?”

I twist my fingers together. “I hate the way that Zeus treats mortal women, like they’re a feast spread out on the earth beneath him, existing for his pleasure. But now I’ve done the same, giving Galatea to Pygmalion.”

He pauses in the shade of a spreading olive tree, gnarled branches twisting and curving behind him. “But she loves him.”

I laugh. “You know Zeus is always accusing me of meddling and manipulating. And I’m not saying that I never do it,” I say, reminded of Poseidon and my own former lover. “But, really, I prefer to fan an existing flame—to draw out a person’s true desires. Or a god’s,” I add. “I like it when I can make someone’s love blossom and flourish, when I can find that hidden craving and draw it into the light, or reignite a love that’s fading away. It’s not the same as forcing someone to feel something they never would otherwise. I’m not sure that’s love, not really.”