This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(3)

Eros flutters away, and I’m about to follow when I hear my own name.

Aphrodite.

I look from side to side. There is no one there.

Aphrodite.

It drifts toward me on a wave of yearning, and I realize the source. The boatman may not have caught sight of me, but he’s thinking of me so fervently that I can hear it like a prayer.

In a split-second I transform, this time into a human woman, aged and gray-haired, swathed in a long, dark dress.

His vessel draws nearer—a modest rowboat with a worn sail—and I see him more clearly. His weatherbeaten skin, browned by the sun and crinkling into pleats around his eyes. His beard, threaded with silver, like the thin strands of hair remaining on his head. A dog sits expectantly at his feet, gazing up, waiting for his command.

He jumps into the shallows, hauling the boat up behind him. He’s well-practiced at the movement and still sinewy with strength, but I can see that his bones are weary with age. It pains him more than it used to; a dull ache in his back that never quite relents, old injuries that remind him they’ve never quite healed. The dog follows, plunging gleefully into the water, splashing toward me on the beach, tail wagging. It gives itself a vigorous shake, water droplets flying everywhere.

The man notices me for the first time and startles in horror. “Come back!” he reprimands the dog.

Unrepentant, it ignores him, looking at me with eagerness. I laugh and ruffle the fur on the top of its head, and it jumps up with delight, paws on my knees.

“No!” he calls, hurrying toward us. “Down! Away! Get back!”

But I’m scratching its ears and the creature is in raptures. It’s not a particularly handsome animal—its fur is patchy and brindled, dull gray and dirty white—but its eyes are bright and alert and full of curious mischief.

“I’m so sorry, miss—missus—lady,” the boatman says, flustered, finally seizing the dog and pulling him back. “Your dress.”

“My dress is fine,” I tell him. “Just a little damp.”

The dog nuzzles his hand, then wanders off down the beach. He stands, awkward and uncertain. “Forgive me for intruding,” he says.

“You aren’t,” I say.

He glances from side to side. “You’re here alone?” he asks, his eyes warm and shrewd.

I nod.

“I mean you no harm,” he hurries to add. He thinks I’m a mortal woman, and that the power in this situation is his. “I stopped here to rest,” he says. Again, he looks up and down the small bay, and I realize he’s staring at the steep rocks behind me. No wonder he anticipated solitude here; it’s only accessible by sea or sky.

“Please,” I say, “don’t let me stop you.”

He squints. “But how…?” he begins, and then catches himself. “May I offer you something to eat?” he asks. “I have only a little with me, but let me share it with you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He unwraps a package of vine leaves, and the salty tang of brine wafts on the breeze. Crumbling cheese, a dense hunk of bread and a handful of olives. Not enough for him to share and still satisfy his own hunger, but he urges me to take it nonetheless. He eats hungrily, with satisfaction, then brushes the crumbs from his beard and speaks again. “I’m sailing on to the port at Paphos,” he says. “Can I take you there?” His face is creased with concern, and I can see he fears for me here alone with the treacherous rocks at my back and the wide swathe of sea before me.

“What business do you have in Paphos?” I ask him. “Or are you returning home?”

“I’m visiting the sanctuary of the goddess,” he answers. He dips his gaze to the ground, humility cloaking his yearning. But the longing emanates from him, just like it did from my priestess, stirring my soul. “I want to make offerings to her.”

I smile. “Yes,” I answer. “Please take me with you. And,” I say, extending my hand so that he can help me to his boat, “on the way, you can tell me what you would ask of Aphrodite.”

His name is Phaon, he tells me. It’s clear he’s starting to suspect I am not what I seem. It’s often the sailors and the fishermen, out on the water for long days at a time, at the mercy of Poseidon’s whims, who share stories like this: how they rescued a stranded goddess in disguise and won her favor. The mortals know by now when you come across a lonely old crone, extend the hand of hospitality and you might find yourself the recipient of divine gratitude. Insult her, and pay a price greater than you can ever imagine.

I’m not interested in wrath and punishment. I’m no Zeus or Athena, intent on tricking and testing the piety of humans as an entertaining diversion. My questions are sincere, and it doesn’t take much to coax his secrets from him. He’s unused to conversation, he says, as there is rarely anyone for him to talk to.

“No wife?” I ask him. “There’s no one waiting for you at home?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I never…”

I widen my eyes. “You never married?”

He sighs, looking out at the distant blue horizon, leaning back as he pulls the oars in regular strokes through the water. “No,” he says.

“But how can that be?”

He shrugs. “I was shy as a young man.”