12 • Snow
Ganymede saw a great arrangement of dishes, more than anyone could eat, except perhaps a god. The food was alive with heat and aromas. Standing near the banquet, Ganymede could smell the sour yogurt, the amber sweet honey, and the tickling pepper on the meats. It smelled like Hephaestus’ food. His cooking was divine, but…
Silence.
The silence gave it away. Never mind how such banquets were infrequent. Human or god, fingers always plucked taught strings, a bird twittered somewhere, a creature always moved beside one’s elbow—a satyr, a child—but here, silence dined.
I don’t know this room.
The space could not be for a god. Too small. Too dark. A human’s, it must be. Even Hephaestus in his caverns kept fires and kilns aglow with metals and embers.
Ganymede turned toward the teal curtains over the glassless window, the stain diluted and weak; the fibers loosely woven to allow diamonds of light to spark through.
I think he missed your presence among us.
He turned back to the table. Then why isn’t anyone eating?
Circling the table, Ganymede felt the air move around him like a god’s influence. But where they moved as swiftly as an idea, the blur around him slowed his thoughts like wine.
Dion? He needed to find Dionysus. The longer he stood in this room, the more wrong it felt. He did not want to be here. He did not know the humans who lived here, or which gods they worshipped.
Other gods? Why do I fear…other gods…?
Something fringed his senses. An aroma, a sensation. The golden fire of an afternoon with the dusky salt of the sea. Ganymede looked down at a dish of red peppers stuffed with…what? Did Hephaestus make this all for him?
Hephaestus. Dionysus. His gods. I want my gods—
He could not see any doors. Feeling soft, packed dirt underfoot, Ganymede went to another window, but a new thought stayed his hand: Mind the nails.
Ganymede looked down at the wooden planks set into the earthen floor: a fence between the brown and red clay dusting his feet, and the tiles making up the center of the floor. In a human home, such things would have to be made with practiced hands, the strength of a spine and focused eyes…
How nice it must be, to have a skill you can use to show you like someone.
Then, I don’t know how to do anything.
How would he show Zeus he loved him? That he continues to love him… How will the gods know? Without the actors singing on Dion’s stage, how will the gods know he is happy for the time they’ve given him? The stories he has been a part of and had shared with him?
You don’t sing anymore.
The light began to grow beyond the window curtains.
I want to.
Dion and Eros would sing with him. He had to find them. The earth was large—easy to hide. But Ganymede did not hide from the sky.
His fingertips brushed the curtains. His lips parted over furrowed brows. The rough fabric felt familiar in a jarring way. Suddenly he could not see the prickly fibers so much as remember the way they were so sharp against his palm… The way his eyes watered and his chest ached from the pain.
Something like anger tore through his chest as he gripped the curtains, ripping them off the wall—
He opened his eyes, staring dumbly at the honey-glazed fig almost dripping yogurt in front of his face. “Incredible,” a familiar voice chuckled.
Ganymede struggled to pull himself out of the dream. When he closed his eyes, he was there—wondering why such food was untouched, why there was no one there at all, just numbing silence—but his open gaze revealed Zeus’s smile as he waited for Ganymede to rise from the pillow.
A cup appeared before him, further inspiring his climb. Cool nectar flowed down his throat, invigorating his senses and clearing the fog. It soon changed into creamy tea, sweeter than milk and warm as if fresh from a hammered, metal pot.
“How do you feel?”
Ganymede’s lashes swept up, his eyes finding Zeus’s face and the gentle smile there. “Lonely.”
The word left him before he meant for it to, but the result was not confusion or sadness, nor even disappointment. Zeus’s head tilted with interest, and he broke soft bread to carry the molten egg yolk as he asked, “What did Morpheus send you?”
Ganymede accepted the morsel, asking around the mouthful, “Morpheus?”
“The weaver of dreams. His workings are unique and cunning.”
He ate his own half of the bread while Ganymede chewed slowly. “He was inside my head?”
“No, he does not need to go so far as that. In fact, I often wonder if he is ignorant of where his patterns wander off to, but then again, I do not understand his work. Do you dream often?”
He had to think about it. “No… I think I like not having dreams.”
Zeus’s gaze perked up from where his face pointed down at their breakfast. But Ganymede continued, “You don’t understand his power?”
“I am not good at sleeping, remember?” He handed over another piece of bread. “Morpheus and I do not interact often, but I have always found the dreams we have with our eyes open to be far more dangerous than the ones with our eyes closed. What did you dream? What imaginings did his power and your mind craft together?”
Ganymede swallowed and drank again before he answered, “A banquet table…but no one was eating. I’m not sure anyone was even there.”
Zeus chuckled, “Dion would consider such an event a crime of utmost catastrophe,” and then he lifted Ganymede’s hand to touch his face. “You’re awake now. Let the dream fade. I plan to take you far away from loneliness, anyhow.”
Ganymede felt salt on his tongue while his curiosity caught up with that. “We’re going somewhere?”
Dionysus himself interrupted then, plopping himself on the bed so that Ganymede and the dishes bounced. “You summoned?”
Zeus planted a hand on his son’s chest and shoved him right off the bed. Dionysus landed with a cough. “We didn’t. Today I would break my fast with Ganymede alone.”
“That’s cute,” Dionysus lifted high enough to achieve one of the soft-boiled eggs and a spoon.
“It means leave.”
“No it doesn’t. Where are we going?”
“You shortened your hair,” Ganymede intercepted. The dark curls were closely trimmed in the back and the front hung no longer than his brows.
Dionysus stroked a hand over his nape. “I love the cycle of summer. In winter, nature sheds itself so it may redecorate for Persephone’s return, but in summer, humanity sheds its fabrics, its long hairstyles. Summer is playtime in so, so many ways.”
“Indeed!”
Ganymede’s head turned to find Apollo, who sat on the foot of the bed, a hand finding his ankle over the silk cover. “It is always interesting to see how the humans’ cultures evolve with the seasons. Our poor aunt might disagree, but—”
“FOR THE LOVE OF HELL, that reminds me—”
Apollo cut off, “Hush, Hell doesn’t exist yet.”
Ganymede covered the ear nearest to Dionysus, dazed by the sudden volume. On his other side, he heard Zeus exhale a measured sigh.
“Hel does! You know the northerners think Hades is a woman?” Dion commented as he sifted through his robe. Ganymede caught flashes of peppers, grape branches, and heard the suspicious sloshing and clattering of glass and clay bottles.
“Well technically—” Apollo began.
“We are not talking about genitals at breakfast,” Ganymede declared.
The brothers exchanged glances before Dionysus found what he was looking for: a small, covered dish and a pair of tapered sticks. With the utensils, he handed over a deep fried slice of something to Ganymede. “What is it?” he asked, pinching it between his fingers.
“My fellows of the east have wonderful talent at pickling things. But you had the wonderful idea to take it further and fry it—”
“I did? When?”
“Never mind. Eat!”
Puzzled but willing, Ganymede bit into the fried pickle, ruminated on it, and then dipped the other half in the yogurt. “It’s good!”
Dionysus stared at him. Then he took his morsels, the bowl of yogurt, and marched out of the room. Ganymede twisted to watch him go. “Did I do something wrong?”
Zeus was rubbing his scarred temple. “He puts far more effort into food than his skills entail.”
“What was he holding? I’ve never seen dishes like that.”
“Wonderful place to start,” Zeus recovered. “Apollo, how fares the east?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The islands that make art for yours and Helios’s work.”
“Oh!” Apollo chimed. “The north is due for a frozen drizzle, but the south is already aromatic with oncoming monsoon rain.”
Ganymede blinked. “Frozen…? Snow?”
Apollo smiled while Zeus gazed at him. “You remember snow?”
Ganymede felt as if he were remembering a much older dream. “No…and yes. I think so.”
“You do,” Apollo grinned. “I’ll ready the attire for you.”
And with that, he was gone. Ganymede sent a puzzled look to the god beside him.
Zeus chuckled, “You wanted to go beyond our little sea.”
* * * * * * *
Ganymede opened his eyes to a soft, yet restricted sensation around his body. He had a moment to look down at himself and know he was wearing many layers before the climate sank through the fabric to his skin. The first words out of his lips were, “I want to sleep in the palace, though.”
Zeus wore a surprised frown while he adjusted the many robes around himself. All Ganymede was able to see were the edges of a white silk robe around his throat, a yellow one overtop it, and then a black, and finally a lush, dark green. The same golden thread embroidered the path of cranes on the green landscape. Ganymede looked over his own russet kimono with silver fish while Zeus exclaimed, “We just arrived and you’re thinking of leaving?”
“I just mean…it’s home. I said I wanted to stay there a while before extended stays elsewhere—why is it so cold? What are on my feet?”
He felt fabric between his first two toes and stuck a leg out to examine himself before Zeus encompassed him in a wool blanket. “Tread lightly. The floor isn’t marble.”
He peered at the organic mats around him; the woven fibers reminded him of wicker or dried wheat. Ganymede’s eyes had a moment to observe the light wooden beams making up the small room—smaller, at least, than the palace’s rooms. On the right it opened to a narrow hallway, but Zeus turned him left. He slid open a section of the wall to reveal a courtyard, around which dark floorboards held them above ground.
Zeus frowned at Dionysus roasting skewers over a bed of coals. “I said you were not invited.”
Without looking up, he drawled, “You’re really going to wander this continent or its islands without me? This is where I endured my youth. And you’re welcome. Apollo insisted on grey, but I thought the green was better.”
“It does not matter what I wear. What matters is that Ganymede is warm.”
“It matters that he likes what you wear. Can you believe Apollo wanted to house you in one of the monasteries? Excellent views but terrible exercise. So many stairs….”
Ganymede was not listening. The fluffiest yet tiniest white pieces were drifting from the sky. They landed on his hanging sleeves, where he could see the points and facets of each piece. Carved like the most intricate of gemstones. The courtyard had already been dusted white; statues of foxes poised around the pond wore white piles for helms.
Descending the curt stairs, his feet pressed uncertainly over the rocks, smooth as river stones, paving the courtyard. Where Zeus’s gardens were as lush and unruly as Dionysus’ whimsy, this one catered to a singular pair of small trees that wound their way toward the sky like wizened fingers. The only suggestion that it was truly Dionysus’ dwelling came from the dark wooded fence being overgrown by greenery despite the weather.
Ganymede crouched over the pond. Large-mouthed fish like the ones on his garment surfaced to gobble up the flakes as they fell—
“It’s a little insensitive, perhaps, but delicious regardless.”
Ganymede looked at the silver fish and its charred edges on the skewer. It was quite smaller and narrower than its swimming counterparts. The skin had a delicate crunch while the meat was juicy and succulent from salt and oil.
“Come back near the fire so you won’t be soaked through.”
He stood, and Ganymede properly saw the house. Where the inside looked almost fragile and minimal, the outside stood dark, thatched, and rustic. It rested above the ground on thick beams while a terrace branched from the courtyard to wrap around the house. Dionysus peeked backward to see what was taking him so long and likewise peered upward. “Ah, yes. I’ve been trying to get a new style to catch on. Lovely corners that stretch up like the tips of wings, but people are resistant to change.”
He placed a steaming cup of curiously chartreuse liquid in his hand while an arm ushered Ganymede back up the stairs. Apollo remarked, “That is not your design, and you will not take credit for it.”
“It’s my idea to change the architecture of the place.”
Apollo did not grace that with a response. He instead observed Ganymede’s experimental sip of tea while they settled beside the skewers standing in the dish of coals. “The tea is special, because even once dried, the leaves’ essence remains green. The water is steeped with the youngest of leaves for that color.”
“The color of urine, you mean?” said Dion. Apollo looked thoroughly put out. “What? I’m not saying it is. Just what goes in will come out looking none the worse for wear.”
“Why are you allowed at festivals?” his brother complained.
Dionysus looked smug. “There would be no festivals without me. I’m full of good ideas.”
For his part, Zeus was looking tranquilly bored until he captured Ganymede’s eyes. “Owl.”
Ganymede had a mouthful of fish. “Whmm? MM!”
Either the warning or his utter helplessness kept him in place when the talons bit into his shoulder. The small, silver owl stretched for a nibble. He relinquished the fishtail while his heart relaxed. Athena reached past him for a skewer, but his gaze caught on the different robes she wore. Where his and Zeus’s garments stressed color and stories told in thread, hers seemed minimal in design and belted differently.
“You don’t like them?”
His eyes widened, snapping up to her smirk. “I do, my Lady. I was just wondering why they are different.”
“My garments are for the athletic sort,” she crooned. By Dionysus’ grimace, Ganymede could only guess the comment to be aimed at him.
“Don’t inquire further, Gany, hers and Apollo’s bushi are bores.”
“What does that mean?”
“Respected warriors,” Athena picked up.
“Glorified mercenaries,” Dionysus reiterated.
Athena wore a hard expression. “There is immense honor in their class.”
“Class,” her brother elongated. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll sign along for the job with privileges, as I already have, but honor is a fancy veil for obedience.”
“You wouldn’t know obedience if it were sprinkled on your wine,” she scoffed.
“And yet I know real honor isn’t in taking orders. It’s a wonder I hang around you lot so much. Perhaps I just like you too much.”
He smiled while she finished flatly, “We’re all blessed.”
Ganymede intercepted, “Then you are the gods of this land too?”
Apollo sounded relieved by his inquiry. “In a way, yes, but also no. The people here do not know us by the same names as you, Trojans, and Greeks do. The gods here have their own names, their own stories, their own relations entirely. Albeit with some similarities.”
Ganymede blinked softly while listening to the snowfall; like the tiniest bells landing on the ground. “Does that mean you aren’t?”
Athena smiled enigmatically. “Asking what a god is leads to a rather difficult philosophical question.”
“But are we intruding on someone else’s land?” he worried.
Zeus answered, “We are not unwelcome, beloved. Rest easy.”
Apollo supplied while Dionysus began dropping things into Ganymede’s ceramic cup, “We have certainly sowed influence here, but humans are just as good at the conception of gods as we are.”
Ganymede wanted to understand, and in part, he did. But when his mind sifted through Apollo and Athena’s words, he found questions. “There are fake gods?”
The company around him shifted, readying for a long discussion. Athena soothed, “The validity of gods has put humanity at odds countless times—”
“Don’t invite Ares here,” Dionysus barked.
His sister lifted a brow but continued, “You are used to seeing us in these forms, with these names. We are not any less, nor any more than the faces and names of the gods worshipped here.”
Ganymede frowned. “Then why do you let people fight over you?”
Dionysus sighed, “Humans fight because they want to fight. Bringing gods into it isn’t ever about validating us, it’s about justifying their desire to fight. Ares loves it, even though when you truly analyze the bloody conundrum, it has very little to do with us at all.”
Apollo cut in, “Let’s deviate from that path. We have the ability to be many things, to be in many places so quickly it seems we are there simultaneously… It is easiest to boil our abilities down into a simple list, because humans live on such a linear lens. I am music and medicine. Athena is wisdom and the strategy of war. There was yesterday, now today, and then tomorrow will slide into place. But really, we are so much more that those things. Just as you are more—”
“Nothing,” he curtailed quietly. The three of them gazed at him while Dionysus otherwise put more intent on dressing Ganymede’s tea with citrus juice, some sort of fragrant herb shaped like grass, and sugar. “I don’t have any skills as you do.”
“That can’t be true,” Apollo voiced. “You’re a prince of Troy. My—”
“I can’t paint well,” he argued with a flick of his eyes toward Zeus. “I can’t play music. I’ve never sparred. I can only run and swim, but not for very long. I can read and write, but not neatly. I…I can barely follow this subject of existence. I’m not intelligent enough.”
Zeus’s soft voice intercepted, “Do you remember Ares’ debate with Poseidon over sharks and bears?” Ganymede nodded. “You knew then how it was a moot point from either side. The bear does not hold its breath to fight the shark, nor would the fish ever walk over land to find the bear. We are each as we are, and that is more than enough.”
Apollo inhaled as if to add to it, but he let the air pass out of him while blinking gently. Ganymede remained contemplative, his appetite dwindling in the soundscape of the coals crackling.
“I can teach you calligraphy,” Dionysus offered, his tone contrasting the others’ silence as he dropped something else into his cup with a wink. “Or find someone else to teach you. The people here love writing.” Then he gasped, “And noodles! You’ll be grand with noodles. All that time spent carrying things, you have the muscles of a cook.”
Ganymede was deadpan before a spark of hope lifted his voice, “Really?”
“So long as Dion’s not the one teaching you,” Athena confirmed while Ganymede drank his tea without thinking about it. To his surprise, the spark of sweet and earthy refreshment warmed him through.
Not long afterward, he found himself in a kitchen, and gazed around with interest. “Are all kitchens like Hephaestus’s workshop?”
It indeed looked like the smithy, but not nearly as hot, dark, or occupied by tools, tables, or furnaces. It was a room open to the outside like it had been added to the house in afterthought.
“Why is there a wall missing?”
Dionysus pulled pieces of herbs hanging from beams to roll in his hands and to inhale their aroma. “The easier to haul in larger carcasses.”
Ganymede blinked. “Oh.”
Apollo voiced, “The poetry of cuisine does require a fair amount of labor—”
“Thus why you are not the god of cooking,” came Dion’s croon.
“You’re a hazard. Get out.”
“I put in the effort!”
“Of making a soup melt the pot.”
Athena sighed and moaned to herself as she left the room entirely. Zeus caught Ganymede’s waist from behind, his voice warm in his ear. “I had planned other things, but if you’re comfortable, I will see to some occupational matters.”
Ganymede felt an ache inside his torso. “Am I being selfish?”
Zeus kissed his hairline. “I will complain, but be as selfish as you wish. I want you happy. I will never limit your happiness…as I already have. Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way?”
Ganymede swallowed. “I didn’t know I did. I was…”
He shrugged, but Zeus finished for him, “Too busy being a servant.” His chin rested on Ganymede’s shoulder while he sighed. “I’ve stolen lifetimes from you in which you could have been exploring all of your interests.”
“It doesn’t take a lifetime to learn how to cook, does it?” he balked.
Zeus laughed, “No, no, but there are some who would say you never stop learning. But this may be true of anything.”
“Then it is my turn to learn.”
Zeus smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “It certainly is.”
Ganymede was turning in his arms to better see him. He had not meant it to be wounding. He felt cornered by the confrontation and sought to alleviate its severity. “I didn’t mean…I don’t want you to be sad.”
Zeus shook his head, but his eyes looked bruised. He planted a soft kiss on Ganymede’s cheekbone, which drifted to his temple. “Just don’t burn yourself.”
“But—” he hastened. “This—I…I don’t—this isn’t what I mean. This is happening too fast.”
Zeus pulled him from the room so they were alone across the hall. Ganymede could not say what the room was meant for, with so little furniture. “Let’s slow down. What would you like me to understand?”
Ganymede’s mouth could not find the words. He felt rushed to find an answer in a mind that had gotten lost in a thick fog. “I don’t want my interests to be boring or inconvenient to you. I’m sorry.”
His hands were taken in both of Zeus’s while the god frowned. “Apologizing? Your interests have never bored me. And inconvenient? How many occasions have I forced you into my painting pigments?”
“But you’re actually good with them. You can show me things and…I can’t do anything for you.”
His eyes sank to the floor, until Zeus’s body pressing against him shut them. “Where have these thoughts come from? You mustn’t think your value to somebody is equivalent to what you can do for them. I never meant…to breed inferiority…”
His hand buried in Ganymede’s hair, massaging his neck. “I want you to be happy in something that you enjoy. It needn’t involve me at all. If the time is now for you to find such a thing, then I will give you as much time as you need. My involvement merely comes from sharing your happiness, but I would have great enjoyment cooking with you in the future.”
The young man’s face lifted. “You’re not staying? The thing about almost being in two places at once… Am I asking too much? I’ve never interfered with your work. I don’t mean to.”
“I know you don’t.” Zeus kissed his forehead. “I could stay, but the best person to teach you cooking—as well as tempering Dion’s energy—is more comfortable if I’m not present.”
Ganymede frowned, on the verge of asking what he meant, with whom was he trusting him, when a rough baritone resonated through the walls.
“Back, you cat. Stop your pacing, or I’ll throw you out.”
“Cat?” Dionysus exclaimed. “You know, it’s hard to catch a—not that hard—NOT THAT HARD.”
Ganymede went to the doorway and saw Hephaestus’s form taking the majority of the space. He held Dionysus’ ear pinched in his fingers, who cringed as something forcibly pierced through it. An expression of utter befuddlement widened his gaze when something twinkled.
“They’re for your mum. I missed her birthday. Now leave.”
Dionysus withdrew an ovular mirror from his sleeve to scrutinize the bells, like bleeding heart flowers, hanging from his ear. “Oh I can’t give her these. She’ll never let me borrow them.”
Hephaestus slapped the other earring in his hand with enough force to shock him. “Alright! I’ll deliver it…” he complained like he had been scolded.
Ganymede looked back at Zeus kissing his hand in a silent farewell, and then met Hephaestus barking, “You coming in, or not? It’s cold and bloody damp here.”