It takes me a while to realize I am having a deep conversation about appearances, masks, expectations, and roles with the naked six-year-old boy with a golden sheen to his skin, sitting on a boulder so that we can face each other. His golden curled locks bounce when he nods to emphasize a point, and his soprano child’s voice carries a strange adult’s tenor harmony when he laughs. He is binding strong sticks to an empty turtle shell as he talks in the shade of an olive tree, creating something that tickles my memory but I can’t quite recognize it yet.
I stand beside the boulder in a simple dress. A shawl is tied over one shoulder and around the waist. Our conversation continues into my tasks as a Courier, and how such duties have diminished of late. He states that it is only my human consciousness that assumes so. There is much more to me than mere humanity, after all.
I want to mock him, but his appearance stops me from being cruel. Sometimes I think so, I tell him. But most of the time, I think those feelings are dysphoria in action. While there is a portion of me that will escape when Keri dies, for the most part, Keri is human.
“You say that, because you’re talking to a baby. Would you say that if you were talking to an adult?” I blink in preparation to answer, and the naked six-year-old boy becomes a naked 20-year-old man. He holds the completed turtle shell lyre in his hands, and by that item, I recognize him.
“Do you know how humans are like marble? The sculptor looks at a block of ugly stone and sees the beautiful statue within. I look at your species the same way. What you call ‘human’ is merely unworked potential. There is so much more to you, to your species, but where the stone can not help but yield to the sculptor, you humans can flee from the pain of changing, of revealing.”
I give the god stinkeye. He laughs at the impudent gesture. “Yea, well, you’re not the first to hammer on my soul, and not the first to lose tools in the process.” He shouted in laughter. I couldn’t help but smile in arrogance. He always makes it so easy for me to stick my foot in my mouth. I never can tell where the boundary between respect and hubris is with him.
He strums on the lyre. I note it makes a noise I did not expect, and yet felt perfect for the materials that made it. “Speaking of tools, didn’t you get an invitation earlier?” He plucked on the lyre in seemingly absent movements as I thought through the day’s events.
Finally, I remember my private tarot reading that morning. Certain cards in a certain order spelled out the potential for an audience with Jupiter. “Yea, but… That Jupiter refers to my Silent Harlequin Jupiter, not Jove, or Zeus.”
“Close enough for me to be involved.” He lifted the completed and tested lyre into the air above me. It was swallowed by a sunbeam. A second sunbeam illumined his hand and turned into a golden caduceus. As the suddenly thirty-five-year-old god pulled his prize down, the snakes coiled around the rod in constant action. “I’m your escort.”
I blinked at him in confusion. “But… you’re Greek. And…” He didn’t let me finish, but drowned me with his laughter. He held the head of the staff to my lips, but I tightened my lips and shook my head. «The last time I let your snakes bite my tongue, the Ravens gave me no small shit about it.» I focused my thoughts with deliberate intent for him to hear.
He lowered the staff, laughing even more. “Those bird-brains don’t appreciate well earned gifts.” He pulled one of the snakes off the staff and quickly flung it around my arm. It became a golden arm cuff that tightened itself quite snug. “There. So I don’t lose you when you run off.”
“Wait. Seriously?” His silent stare indicated the time for mocking mirth was over. “Okay. Seriously. I take it you’re my Mercury, then, as well.”
“In time. Not yet. Right now, you have a summons to answer. Shall we be off?” He held out his hand in an open gesture. I noted that in the end, it still becomes my choice to move forward or not.
“Yes. Let’s shall.” I placed my hand in his. His hand was light as feathers, but his grip had the potential to crush iron.
And we were off.
But what happened after, is not for public sight.