She checked on her barely conscious husband in the earliest part of the day, when the bright glare of Helios would disturb him the least. And – with no one to talk to and a disquieting sense that she should be doing something she was not – she did not know what else to do with her time. Hera found herself returning each day to the forge to talk to her son. He was always happy to see her, always quick to offer her the curved chair he had made for her. He would listen to her for as long as she could talk. He made her little models of birds and animals, which she didn’t need but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by refusing them. And anyway, who else was giving her presents?
One day, she wept as she told him her fears: that mortals would stop their sacrifices, that Zeus would never recover, that the Olympian gods were scattered to the winds. Her son could not bear to see her in pain.
‘Let me come with you,’ he said. ‘I will talk to him. Perhaps I can help.’
Hera looked at the lame little blacksmith and did not have the heart to tell him that the king of the gods was not an automaton made of metal or wood. At least Hephaestus wanted to try, unlike the other gods who had made themselves scarce. She would still have refused his offer had she not realized in that moment that she wasn’t even plotting revenge against the gods who were avoiding Olympus and abandoning her. What had things come to?
*
Hera and Hephaestus made slow, painful progress uphill from the forge. The uneven mountain paths were hard going for her son; Hera shortened her stride so he could keep up.
‘Did you need to bring your axe?’ she asked. Hephaestus flushed.
‘I feel better if I have it,’ he said. ‘Or a hammer. In case someone needs something.’
Hera nodded, choosing not to embarrass him further. She led him past bright porticos and huge open halls. He was so used to the small forge, she thought. He looked uncomfortable in these larger spaces. But eventually they made their way to the chamber where Zeus lay. Hera reached out to pull the curtain aside and Hephaestus grabbed her arm in panic.
‘You need to ask him if I can come in,’ he said. ‘I can’t just walk into his room.’
‘I doubt he’ll even notice you’re here,’ Hera replied. Saying the words aloud made her feel more alone than when she had kept them to herself.
‘Husband,’ she murmured as the two of them entered. ‘Husband, I have brought our son to see you.’ Now seemed as good a time as any to amend the precise origins of the blacksmith god. Zeus let out a mighty howl.
‘Good!’ he said. ‘Has he brought his tools?’
‘I have,’ said Hephaestus.
‘Finally, some sense.’ Zeus leaned forward and opened his eyes slightly.
‘If you had asked for tools,’ Hera began. But looking at the state of her husband, she decided not to continue.
‘Where does it hurt?’ asked Hephaestus.
Zeus pointed to the centre of his forehead. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It hurts as though my brain were at war with my skull.’
‘That sounds agonizing,’ Hephaestus said. ‘Has it been getting worse?’
‘Yes,’ Zeus replied. ‘At first it felt as though my jaw wanted to be rid of my teeth, and the pain spread from there through my whole head. But now, it has moved up and focused just here, above and between my eyes. My skull cannot contain whatever it is a moment longer.’
‘I could take my axe,’ said the blacksmith, ‘and swing it right at that spot.’
‘How would that help?’ Hera asked.
‘It might relieve the pressure of whatever is fighting to get out,’ her son replied.
‘You think there is something there?’ Zeus raised his hand slowly, tracing his fingers across the crucial place. He could feel nothing. But that didn’t mean there was nothing.
‘I don’t know,’ Hephaestus said. ‘Could you come into the light a bit more?’
‘The light makes the pain worse,’ Hera replied.
But Zeus closed his eyes and the blacksmith, who had moved so cautiously as they walked through the halls, bent down with a quick, efficient motion and lifted the couch – king of the gods and all – then carried it outside into the wide corridor. He moved in close and seemed to be examining each hair on the god’s head.
‘I think I can see something,’ he said.
‘I can’t see anything,’ his mother replied.
‘What can you see?’ Zeus asked him, eyes still closed tight.
‘I don’t know how to describe it. It’s as though I can make out the shadow of something which is pacing about behind your eyes. It’s angry and it won’t stop moving,’ he said.
‘That is what it is,’ Zeus agreed. ‘Use your axe, set it free.’
‘Are you absolutely sure you want to be hit in the head with an axe?’ Hera asked. ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea,’ she said to her son, before turning back to her husband. ‘But I’m not completely certain I think it would make your head hurt less.’
‘I have tried everything else,’ Zeus said. ‘Use the axe.’
Medusa
She had imagined her mother so many different ways. Medusa sat on her favourite rock: smooth, shaded from the brightest sun by a small outcrop above, an easier climb now her legs had grown so long. She perched up here every day, waving to her sisters if they glanced her way, so they knew she was safe. She wasn’t avoiding them exactly, but sometimes she found she wanted to be on her own, so she could consider things without having to explain what she was thinking, or why.
Occasionally she thought about her father too, but she knew more about him and anyway, she only had to look at Euryale’s flock to see that mothers were all that mattered to their offspring, and the lambs were everything to their mothers in return. If they became separated because one of the lambs lost its footing, their distress was mutual. Euryale would fly to help the trapped lamb, reunite them so the frantic bleating would stop.
And that was what Medusa thought about as she sat high over the waves, gazing out over the darkening sea. If a sheep could be so devoted to its young, where was her mother? Did she not know where Medusa was, or did she not care? Would she perhaps see her daughter if Medusa came to this high rock each day and sat there for a while?
The Gorgon girl looked out across the vast ocean and believed she could be seen in return. And she could, but not by her mother.
Amphitrite
Amphitrite, queen of the sea, swam among the dolphins in the cerulean shallows thinking about how her husband had wooed her. He had fallen in love with her voice, he said, which reminded him of water lapping at the shore. And she enjoyed his pursuit, the compliments and the gifts. But there was something about him that made her uncomfortable, so she did not succumb to his undeniable charms. If anyone had thought to ask her why, she might have said that the pleasure she took in his attention was always slightly tainted by the feeling she had that in addition to his charm, which was always on show to her, he was capable of devastating cruelty. She had heard faint rumours: never a whole story, but partial echoes of many, as though she were trying to hear them by pressing a seashell to her ear.
Eventually, her disquiet had exceeded her delight in the gifts and the attention and she fled from the god, and from the sea that was his domain. She hid herself away, picking a defender who she believed could keep her safe. Even the Earthshaker would think twice about taking on Atlas. The Titan had protected her from Poseidon’s rage, but he could do little to keep her from Poseidon’s continuing attention. Messengers were sent, every day, to beg her to return to the deep. If she swam, the fish would murmur that he loved her. If she stayed on the shore, the wind would whip the sand into patterns of waves. There was never a threat, save in the relentlessness of his pursuit. The dolphins, which Poseidon knew to be her favourite, were the next to come and plead his case.