This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(96)
I keep my vow, and I don’t let my heartbreak drag the world into misery, not this time. If anything, it feels more urgent and vital to me than ever before that gods and mortals love fiercely, tenderly and wholeheartedly. Hurt and grief are not the price of love; they are testaments to its strength.
In the meadow of Adonis, his flowers still bloom, a heartbeat of time for us but more than a mortal decade since his death.
28
Passion calls to me as always; a siren song I can never resist. Whether it’s the Dionysian rites on Naxos or my own festivals at Paphos, wherever desire peaks, head-spinning and limb-loosening, I am there stoking the fires. But, while I feed the fervor and frenzy of ardor, I remember watching Hephaestus on Lemnos: the slow and patient way that he moved among his worshippers. I find myself listening more closely to the prayers that come my way, taking my time to come to a solution.
Mortal lives, after all, are too short to bear the mistakes of the gods.
When I hear the despondency of a young man on Crete, his hopelessness is at odds with his situation. He loves and is loved by the most beautiful girl in his village; the two are set to marry and I don’t understand his sadness until I watch him in the quiet solitude of his chamber. He unwraps his cloak, loosening his tunic with his back turned to the glass on the wall. The slender delicacy of his shoulders reminds me of Dionysus.
The tunic falls to the floor, and I understand as he unwinds a strip of tightly wound cloth, revealing the curve of breasts.
“His name is Iphis,” I tell Hera later. “His father told his mother that if she bore a daughter, the infant must be killed. So she raised her child as a boy.”
Hera shrugs dismissively. “And?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, “Iphis will be married to Ianthe. She’s the only one apart from Iphis’ mother who knows the truth.” I take a breath. Coming to Hera for advice is something I never thought I’d do. But, in listening to Iphis, I realized it isn’t my help that he needs. “They love each other deeply and he fears you won’t bless the wedding. He can deceive his father and the rest of the world, but not you.”
“I’ve blessed far more troubling weddings. As you know.” She sounds impatient.
“I do know,” I say, reaching out to touch her forearm. It’s a natural impulse for me, but Hera recoils. “I’ve come to you because the problem isn’t love. Iphis wants to be the husband he has always dreamed of being. He wants Ianthe to bear his children. They want their marriage to be like any other.” Sanctified by Hera, true in the eyes of the gods and, more importantly, in his own heart.
Her eyes stay cold. “I’ll consider what you’ve told me. Tell Iphis to pray in my temple before the wedding.” Her command is sharp and terse, not inviting any further conversation. I don’t know if I’ve managed to soften her in the slightest, until I watch over her Cretan temple to see him emerge in the dawn light the next day. His strides lengthen as he walks, his shoulders broadening beneath his cloak and, as I look more closely, I see the shadow of beard on his jawline.
“Another problem solved,” Eros remarks when the two of us watch the wedding, disguised to blend in with the crowd of well-wishers. “Her flowers,” he says, peering at Ianthe’s hair. “Your gift?”
I nod. Woven through her curls are delicate white blooms with that distinctive crimson-ringed black center.
“Very nice.”
I watch Iphis take his bride’s face between his hands and kiss her. His mother looks on, her eyes brimming with happy tears. Her son has a future, one that she feared for so long would never come to fruition.
“Come on,” I say, gently pulling Eros’ arm, guiding him away. “There are more lovers out there who need our help.”
* * *
—
I don’t have to wait long for the next problem to present itself. It’s only weeks after Iphis and Ianthe’s wedding when, from somewhere beyond the scope of my most far-flung temples, comes a howl of frustrated love.
It isn’t a summons or a prayer. It doesn’t even address me by name. Rather, it catches my attention, not just because of the distance but because of the ardency of its appeal. It rings through the skies, a single note of yearning and despair.
Such anguish can’t be ignored. It stirs my most protective instinct, jarring against everything I hold sacred.
I harness my doves. It was a single cry, one that died away to silence, but I can feel it still—a pulse in the emptiness beyond the reaches of my world. I follow it, urging the birds to fly on as land and sea unroll beneath us, the familiar places that I love receding behind me and giving way to something much stranger.
The territories of Olympus are encircled by the coiling river of Oceanus. Gods don’t go where we aren’t worshipped and I would never fly my chariot such distances into the unknown, not ordinarily. Whoever calls so desperately may never have heard the name Aphrodite. I might reap no rewards by answering them—no gifts on an altar, no smoke sent to the heavens in my honor.
But I have heard it, and I can’t ignore it.
When the chariot wheels roll to a halt, I don’t recognize my surroundings. It’s a seemingly endless swathe of rippling grass and distant hills merging into the horizon. The doves fluff out their wings, tucking their beaks down into their pure-white breasts. They’ve flown such a great distance that even their enchanted bodies need to rest. This place seems vast; it will be easy enough to go unnoticed until I’ve satisfied my intrigue and coaxed the birds to fly us home again.