This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(7)
I don’t mention Athena’s tapestry; she doesn’t care. Never mind—it’s pleasant to be back here amid the treasures of the gods. I’ve been gone longer than I’d realized.
They beckon me into the throne room, keeping up a brisk march through the high-vaulted hall and out through another corridor, winding further into the palace. I lift a hand in greeting to Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth, and she smiles back at me, but we don’t stop, descending into the courtyard, where the snow-tinged chill makes the skin of my bare arms tingle, and moving on to a more modest building that lies behind the showy grandeur of Zeus’ palace. The workshop of Hephaestus.
The smoky warmth of the forge is the first thing I register, along with the noise. The clang of metal against metal, hammer on anvil and the hiss of bellows create a cacophony of sound that’s almost overwhelming. Sparks erupt in fiery dazzles through the haze, and there are so many figures bustling back and forth, wheeling golden tripods and pouring sheets of molten metal, that I think at first Hephaestus has a small army of gods working for him. But, once I’ve drawn near, I laugh, startled, to see the blank gold face of an automaton, gliding brisk and expressionless from one station to another. It’s so different to the languid, lazy peace of the halls we’ve just walked through.
“Hephaestus!” Zeus calls out, his voice thundering above the noise, and the god emerges, hurrying toward us.
His heavy brow is beaded with sweat, his arms smeared with ash and soot and his chiton stained. When he sees me standing with his father and sister, he nods, awkward and uncertain, as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself when he’s not wielding a hammer or carving a block of stone. I’m not entirely sure of the process by which he transforms lumps of metal or rock into his creations; I’ve always been more captivated by the result. I smile at him, and he looks down at the floor.
“Show Aphrodite what we’ve been working on,” Athena urges him, touching his arm, her fingers delicate against the brawny muscles that shift as he turns to lead the way. Her own quarters house a magnificent loom, baskets overflowing with yarn and walls hung with tapestries, but her hands remain uncallused and perfect, never touched by any sign of her toil. Hephaestus, meanwhile, is shaped by his labor—his thick shoulders bunched and curved with muscle that makes him ungainly when he’s not at his anvil, heavy and lumbering when he’s moving among gods as sleek and swift as sharks.
He guides us out of the forge and into a lighter hall, where the air is clear. In the center, stands a statue, draped over with a thin cloth, a shaft of sunlight falling through the opening in the roof above.
A silver vase shimmers on a table, and I know I’m supposed to be interested in the motionless draped figure, but I can’t help but stop and look at it. Its slender stem rises from the circular base, widening into a graceful curve, two handles arching from the sides. It’s carved with a twisting vine, the leaves glossy, the clusters of grapes ripe and vibrant, as though you could pluck them, and I’m charmed by how alive this cold metal looks.
Zeus clears his throat, and I look up. Athena and Hephaestus flank the statue, and clearly my attention is expected.
“Well, show me,” I say. I can feel a laugh bubbling up in my throat, an eager anticipation of whatever is going to happen.
Hephaestus yanks the cloth away to reveal a female figure, amazingly lifelike. I move closer, looking at the fall of her hair around her shoulders and the bloom on her skin. She looks so soft, so touchable and beautiful, that it takes my breath away.
“You made this?” I glance at Hephaestus, noticing how pride suffuses his features, lightening his worries into an easy smile. “It’s lovely.”
“She is.” It’s Zeus who interjects, his voice almost a purr of satisfaction.
“She’s no statue.” Now I’m here, Athena wants to get to the point. “She’s a mortal woman. Hephaestus sculpted her from clay and Zeus gave her life. I can give her all the skills she needs, every accomplishment she’ll require, but we need a gift that only you can bestow.”
“Why spend so much time and care on one mortal?” I’m looking from one to the other, laughter escaping me now. There’s something odd about how intent they are on this, and I’m waiting for the final piece of the puzzle so it will make sense.
“You’ll see,” Zeus says.
I look at his smug expression and then back at the woman’s face: the delicate skin of her closed eyelids, the plumpness of her lips, the smoothness of her shoulders and the curves of her body.
“Well, if that’s what you want.” I can’t resist the urge to puncture his complacency just a little by not begging him to share his plans.
I trace a finger down the woman’s cheek, to her throat and over her collarbones to rest over her heart, and I close my eyes. Now that I listen, I can feel the vitality thrumming deep inside, a faint but perceptible stirring of life within her still and silent form.
It’s always easier in mortals than in gods. In her, brand-new and freshly carved from clay, I find it at once. We all came from Gaia’s earth, but she has only just risen from it. I find the flame inside her, the one that burns to be reunited with all its disparate parts, the yearning that once brought all the elements of the universe together now surging at my touch. A longing heat that I barely need to brush before it pulses toward me, a craving bright and strong that will call to others and make them desperate to answer.