This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(55)

I follow her into the shade of the wide-spreading oaks growing across the lower slopes of the mountain, relieved to get away from the entrance to Hephaestus’ cave before she realizes I’ve already found my way in.

She stops beside a sprawling shrub, clustered with fragrant yellow blooms. The bright petals frame her, and she looks like a forest-spirit in her soft green dress, flowers woven through her curls. “I come to Sicily to visit my daughter,” she says.

My heartbeat steadies as I try to put thoughts of Hephaestus out of my mind for now and focus on her. She must be speaking of the daughter she bore Zeus centuries ago. “This is where you hid her? On this island?”

She nods. “For so long that I think the gods have forgotten her by now.”

“But you still keep her a secret.”

“I do.” There is something measured in the way she looks at me: a blend of motherly concern and knowingness that makes me feel as though it’s my secret being exposed rather than hers. “It’s better this way.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“Because you won’t tell anyone,” she says. “If you did, you’d have to explain why you were on this island against Zeus’ explicit instruction.”

She’s so deceptively gentle; radiating warmth in every lilting syllable, enveloping me in a comforting cloud of sweet wild lavender and earthy thyme. But I sense that, underneath, she is as immovable as the ancient oaks that surround us.

“I wouldn’t anyway,” I say.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she replies. “And you won’t mention it to Ares, will you?”

“What? Why would I?” I bluster.

“Oh, Aphrodite, I know about you two.” She reads the surprise on my face. “You don’t conceal your feelings well. You never have. And he’s softened, for the first time in his existence. It was very clear.”

“Has he?” I scrabble for words, my throat suddenly dry.

“He came back to Olympus when he saw Zeus’ storm,” she says. “He knew there was danger, and he rushed to the heavens without even getting rid of Eris. Who there would he want to protect? None of us. Besides, I saw the flower in your hair. Not one that could exist anywhere else on earth but in the War God’s kingdom.”

The Goddess of the Harvest knows every growing thing in the soil. She must have seen immediately that the flower was something different, something new. She might have even felt the moment I coaxed it into existence on Ares’ mountain, the way I feel the spark of new love wherever it blooms.

Her brow furrows as she goes on. “You make your own choices; we all do. But this seems like a risky one.”

I tense. “It isn’t that simple.” My voice is colder than I intend it to be.

She nods. “Forgive me. I’d never presume to tell you what to do, any more than I’d take your advice on how to cultivate crops or when to bring the rains. I’m just surprised that you’d choose Ares. A god so bloodthirsty, so fueled by violence. It seems at odds with who you are.”

She isn’t saying anything I haven’t considered, but somehow her words needle. She doesn’t know. She can’t understand. “Is that how you see him?” I ask. “Is that all you see?”

“He’s never shown us anything else,” she answers. “From the moment he was born, he was full of fury. He has no time for any of us—except for you.” She drops her gaze, her voice gentle. “But I wonder how long that can last.”

I flinch. But I’m the expert in this situation, not her. I won’t listen to any more from her, not about Ares.

Nor will I risk confiding in her about Hephaestus. I don’t need any further judgment of my behavior. “You’re so perceptive, Demeter,” I say sweetly. “So tell me what you think about my coming here today. What should I do?”

She inclines her head, accepting that the conversation on Ares is closed. “I don’t think you should throw yourself into a volcano for Hephaestus,” she says.

“Do nothing, then? That’s your advice?”

“Wait,” she says, “for Zeus to change his mind, or Hephaestus to free himself.” In her voice, I can hear the patience of the seasons, the long-abiding calm of a slow and quiet winter and the steady faith that change will come in the end.

But then it’s easy for her to be patient about this. Nothing that she holds dear is under threat.



* * *



—

When I reach Olympus, I start with the food of the gods. To replenish the golden ichor that runs through our veins, we need to feast on nectar and ambrosia. While it’s usually served to us at the banquet table by our attendants, I know where the storerooms are.

We’re careless with our wealth. No need for guards, or anyone to keep a tally of our supplies.

When I slip inside the silent room, it’s lined with brimming jars, there for the taking.

After we overthrew the Titans, Zeus made us a fortress at the top of the world. No enemy could ever make it this far. And he must be so sure that none of us would dare to defy his order that he hasn’t put anything in place to stop me from doing exactly what I’m here to do.

I pick two of the smaller jars from a shelf, raising the lid to inhale the sweet scent. It floods my nose, the vapor as bright and sparkling as light. I think of Hephaestus, collapsed in the dark, and the relief makes me giddy. This will lift him. It will nourish him, sustain him and heal him.