HEPHAESTUS UNEXPECTED
by Alexis Walker 

          

Olympus, 2010

CHAPTER 1

            His muscles rigid with tension, Hephaestus pushed his hand through the tear in the clear flexible barrier that imprisoned the gods of Olympus. Cool air on the other side brushed his palm and released hope from its dark cell within his chest. Though he could see nothing but a cloud-like opaqueness, it had to be the first opening to the human world in centuries. It had to be.

            A feminine hand touched his shoulder and he turned. His Aunt Hestia’s smile rivaled that of Dawn herself. “Shall we cross to the other world, Heph?”

            He pulled his arm back through the shimmering slit of their see-through prison. The “rip,” as he named the jagged line in the thin but impenetrable film, lay in the deep cavern wall of his subterranean workshop and here, where his forge fires created wonders that awed his fellow gods, it would remain protected. No others knew of its existence . . . nor would they.

He looked down at his aunt.  Her gentle features and pale locks radiated kindness and his heart softened. “I know you long for a family, but we know not what gods rule man now.”

Hestia shivered.  “So long as we go together, I know we will be fine. Would you let pass such an opportunity? You may not be forbidden a wife, but the idiot goddesses here cannot see beyond your limp.”

Heph chuckled to see his tiny Aunt riled up on his behalf.

She frowned. “It is not funny.  I am tired of our family members making you the brunt of their jokes because you are not physically perfect.  You are worth ten of them combined!”

His stomach twisted at her steadfast defense. Deep down he knew she had kept him from a life of bitterness. He owed her so much. “Then I must find a wife exactly like you to stand with me against the others’ ridicule.  That would make me truly happy.”

Hestia blushed at the compliment. “Enough, you are already my favorite god. I wonder what it will be like, to walk among man again.”

Heph strapped his shield onto his back and reached for her.  “We will not know what awaits us by standing here. Are you ready?”

            She nodded, her apprehension apparent as she squeezed his hand.

He tightened his grip. “Very well, hold on as I step through.”

Heph pushed his arm into the tight slit and the transparent barrier separated, sucking at him, letting no additional air past as he brought his torso forward into an opaque cloud. Pulling his damaged leg forward, he stepped through and relaxed at the solidness beneath his feet. He gently pulled Hestia toward him, but as their clasped hands cleared the opening an icy shock pulsed against him and he let go.

“Aunt Hestia?” Uneasy now, he spoke to the barrier.

            “It will not let me through, Heph.”

Her petulant voice made him grin. He pushed back through the rip to find her pouting and he put his arm around her shoulders. “Now Aunt, we do not know what happened. It may have been no more than a shift in the barrier or that we tried to go together.” He turned her to look at him. “Come, follow me.”  

At her nod, he eased himself through and waited on the other side.

Though she strained against the clear film, the shimmering slit would not separate.            

Hestia groaned. “Heph, it will only allow one of us at a time. She waved him on. You go. Find a woman to give you the children you desire. I will wait until you return.”

            “But you have already waited far longer than I.”

She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Hephaestus, I said you should go.  I have not watched man as you have. I did not have faith this day would come.  This will give me time to prepare, learn, and . . . find my courage.”

He knew that tone of voice well. “As you wish, I will come back soon.”

            “Do not be gone too long or the others will miss you,” she warned.

            Heph rolled his eyes. He could be gone a hundred years and they would never notice his absence, but she would. “I promise. Do not tell anyone where I am.”

            At her agreement, he turned away and limped into the thickening cloud. But the realization that he was free sent his heart pumping and his senses reaching out to discover where he would arrive. He missed mankind, the struggle for life, the creativity, the gentle women. He would find the wife he sought and bring her home. If he could find his way there. The muted grayness surrounding him slowed his progress and moistened his skin.

What was this strange substance? Back when the gods roamed freely over Gaia, or Mother Earth as man called it, there had been no cloudy intermediary, simply the thought of where one wanted to be. After the transparent barrier had enveloped Olympus, he had tried for centuries to break through using everything from his own inner fires to deadly sharp swords he forged himself. But all attempts had failed. This seemed almost too easy. How had the opening come to be?

The air around him lightened and the mist thinned. Stepping forward, a piercing light struck him like lightning and pushed him back. He shaded his eyes with his arm. Zeus had found the breach! He could not allow his father to descend upon man again. Yanking up his shield, he cocked his arm ready to hurl his inner fire when he slammed into a curved cement wall.

He stumbled then steadied himself as he studied the constant beam. The light was no more than a reflection of the sun. He had arrived on Gaia! Lifting both arms above his head, he released his joy in the golden glow of his god essence, but his core manifestation unexpectedly dimmed and extinguished.

He brought his hands down and stared at them. A different time obviously meant different rules for his power. He would have to tread carefully this visit and test each ability as needed.

Looking about, he discovered the space he occupied consisted of round walls, a high conical metal roof and a cement floor. He grinned. It had to be a corn silo.  

Pleased to find he had not arrived in a city like Paris where man was too busy to appreciate the gifts of Gaia, he listened to his surroundings. He heard mice burying themselves in the hay, the flapping wings of crows flying overhead, vehicles in the far distance, and someone feeding chickens directly outside the silo. The ichor in his veins raced at the thought of meeting his new hosts.

He stepped toward the metal door in the curved wall and turned the knob. It resisted. Placing his hand near the locking mechanism, he reconstructed the metal into the shape he wished, unlocked. His ability to create from existing matter was still with him, otherwise he would have had to rip the door from its hinges or . . . . Curious, he put both hands on the door. Nothing happened. If he couldn’t obliterate matter, then he may not be able to bring matter into existence either. The rules had changed, but he could accept his new limitations for such a short stay.

Turning the knob a second time, he opened the silo door, bent low, and stepped into the dimly lit barn.

                                                                        ###

Grace Wokowski grabbed a green scrunchie from the bathroom drawer and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She couldn’t stand it when her long hair dangled in her face, but she loved the Clairol Nonstop Chocolate color. She was probably the only woman in Iowa with blonde roots, but then again, most women in Iowa weren’t trying to hide their past modeling careers.

Wiping the drops from her new nickel brushed faucet, she left her bathroom and breezed downstairs into the living room.  Where were her work gloves? She checked the bench by her bay window and found them buried beneath a stack of Freshman English papers waiting to be graded.  Those papers would have to wait a bit longer.

Grace opened the door of the old farmhouse, stepped out onto the front porch and stopped to take a deep breath. She loved Sundays in the spring when the newly tilled earth gave up its rich scent to the brisk morning air.

Jogging down the porch steps, she crossed the dirt packed front yard and entered the barn. She turned into the first stall where she kept the chicken feed. If she had cooked last night instead of going out with Wendy, she would have had scraps for her feathered friends, but as it was, they would have to make do with their pellets. Finding the feed can by the light filtering through the slats of the barn walls, she scooped some of the contents into a bucket then strode outside to the fenced area.

The chickens huddled as she walked through the gate and stopped to count: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve chickens outside and . . . she stepped to the doorway of the chicken coop. Ten in the coop. Twenty-two. Perfect. She couldn’t help counting her chickens, now that she’d been told there were foxes in the area. She had her foreman, Frank, to thank for that little compulsion.

Where was her stupid rooster? Looking around, she found the macho Bantam on a fence pole staring her down. She smirked. “I’m not even coming close, so you can just forget it.” She turned her back on him and poured the feed into the pan.  As the chickens converged upon it, she stepped into the coop and inspected the nests, delighted with the bounty. With ginger fingers, she lifted each egg and placed it in the bucket. Maybe she’d have an omelet for breakfast or she could try making crepes. Who was she kidding? Her last attempt at crepes had ended in the compost heap.

Satisfied with her chore, she turned to leave, but found her pain-in-the-neck Banty on the doorstep. Using the bucket as a shield, she shooed him out ahead of her.

            Once outside the pen, she scanned the distant fields. In a few weeks she’d be on summer break. Thinking of the freedom she’d have made her want to break into song. Something from Oklahoma would be appropriate even if she did live in Iowa. Humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” she stepped into the barn.

Grace gasped. “What the . . . .” She squinted at the giant Greek Warrior standing against the hay bales at the back wall before understanding dawned. How dumb could she be? Her breathing returned to its normal pace. It had to be one of those cardboard cut-outs they put in movie theaters. It was too supersized to be a real person. “Very funny, Wendy,” she muttered, blaming her friend for the joke.

She took another step closer. He looked like a character from the movie 300, complete with gold arm bands and shield, only a lot larger than life. He was at least a head taller than her six foot five brother and a heck of a lot better looking. Maybe this was an advertisement for the fighters from the Mixed Martial Arts circuit. She didn’t know any of them, but from the looks of this guy with his bulging biceps and forearms, she’d like to. He had black curly hair that touched his neck and a beard to match. Only Wendy knew how much she liked facial hair, so it had to be from her. Grace stood still admiring him.

            “Greetings.”

            She shrieked. The bucket crashed to the floor. He was real!

With adrenaline pouring through her limbs, she rushed to the side wall and grabbed the pitchfork hanging there. Brandishing her weapon in front of her, she faced the giant in the back of her barn. “Who are you?”

            He smiled as if she were a rabbit he might inadvertently scare away. “My friends call me Heph.” 

Shifting her weight to better hold her weapon, she kept her eyes fixed on him. Okay, so his name was Heph, he was huge, and he was dressed in a Greek toga of sorts. “What are you doing in my barn, Heph?”

            He turned his palms up and to the side. “That would be difficult for me to explain.”

            She hefted the pitchfork again, anger now edging out fear by a hair. “I suggest you try or I’ll call the police right now.” Shit, she left her cell phone in the house and her rifle lay tucked beneath her bed.

            He shrugged his massive shoulders and looked at the farm tool. “I am not sure how I got here. I was at the home of a friend last night. I think perhaps I had a bit too much wine.”

Wine? He looked more like a manly beer drinker to her. Then again, maybe the wine explained his lack of a beer gut. She’d bet the farm he had a six-pack under that toga. “And?”

            “And next I know I am in your barn.”

            “Humph.” Not much of a story and even that much she doubted. He could be a criminal, but would a criminal stoop so far as to wear a toga? Though it did fit him perfectly. What was she thinking? “You need to leave right now.”

            He had the nerve to look affronted. “I may be crippled, but you should feel honored by my presence.”

            Grace stared. This giant was a cripple? Sarcasm permeated her voice. “Yeah, and I’m Cleopatra.”

            “No, you have much softer features than she did.”

            Huh? She shook her head. Could this get any crazier? “Where do you live?”

            “Here now.”

            Wait a minute. This handsome mountain of a man wanted to live on her farm? For all she knew he had escaped from an insane asylum. She tamped down her rising panic. Frank and Eve lived in the foreman’s house which was within yelling distance.  She could always scream if she had to.  She may live on a two hundred acre farm, but there were people right here if she needed them.

Regaining her calm, she looked Heph over. His bicep was as large as her head and he had a slight accent that gave him a foreign air, but she couldn’t place it despite having traveled around the world. Maybe he was a professional fighter. “Are you saying you’re homeless?”

“Yes.”

He had to be kidding if he thought she would believe that. He wore gold after all. At least it appeared to be gold.

            He shrugged. “I recently became divorced, so I cohabitated with my friend, but I wish to work.  I will help your husband with the farm. I may be crippled, but I know much about working the earth.”

            Grace shook her head. She had just posted the job for a farmhand in the Student Center on Friday, but he didn’t look like a student.  Could he be an international graduate student? And since when did people “become” divorced? She gestured with the pitchfork, her grip firm. “Come outside where I can see you better.”

            Slowly, she backed into the front yard. He moved forward limping significantly, favoring his right leg. Guess he didn’t lie about that, though she had never seen a man swagger with a limp. It was the strangest thing to watch. Once he cleared the barn entrance, he stopped and stared at her. She didn’t like it. Oh God, did he recognize her? “Why are you looking at me like that?”

            “I do not know your name.”

            His speech was deliberate, intelligent and had a slow smoothness to it that was lulling. She resisted her growing trust. She wasn’t a dumb blonde anymore and she wouldn’t be fooled. At least he hadn’t recognized her. “My name is Grace.”

            “Grace. Yes, that is right.”

            Right? Nothing about this morning was right. Oh shoot, why hadn’t she given him a fake name? She needed to call the police, get her gun, treat this man like the threat he was, not play into his hands.  But to do that, she had to get into the house. “Are you thirsty?”

            “Yes, I am.”

            She gestured with the pitchfork. “Then why don’t you sit at that picnic table over there under the tree and I’ll go in and get us some water. Then we can chat about what to do with you.”  There, two could play at being friendly.

            He lowered his head in a kind of regal nod and she backed up the stairs to the front porch. Pulling the screen door open, she ducked inside, locked the heavy oak door behind her and set the pitchfork against the wall. Then she ran into her room for the rifle.

Her need to gain control of the situation started a panic growing in her chest. What if he really was a threat? She just didn’t trust her own instincts anymore, not after Scott. Where were the cartridges? Her hands began to shake. She had to think . . . the nightstand drawer. She dumped the box out onto her bed and the two-toned metallic rounds clinked together as they rolled into the valleys of the down comforter. She fumbled to pick one up. Sliding the bolt open, she pushed a cartridge inside. Before she could close the chamber, the rifle was lifted out of her hands.

She spun around to find the mammoth man from her barn not an inch away, irritation glittering in the dark depths of his eyes. Her legs shook even as she caught her breath. A scream built in the back of her throat as he lifted his massive hand.  She tried to breathe, but her body wouldn’t respond. And then her world went black.