‘SO WHAT DOES that mean, exactly?’ said Eros, glancing apprehensively around his father’s workshop. As one of the few gods unused to workplace sex—or indeed casual sex of any description—he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to ignore, embrace or coolly acknowledge past lovers, especially those with an affinity for incineration. At least his anxiety over Briquette potentially showing up and/or setting him on fire was keeping his mind off Violet. Which, in turn, was keeping his blue mood at bay.
Hephaestus rolled a golden arrow shaft back and forth between his palms. ‘It means,’ he said, peering closely at the heart-shaped arrowhead, ‘that the usual laws we rely on to make sure that the arrows aren’t…um…’ he paused, searching for the right word. ‘Aren’t more…ah…’
‘More fatal?’ suggested Eros.
‘I was going to say ‘mortally incongruous’, but yes, that’s essentially correct.’ Lowering the arrow, he handed it back to Eros. ‘Physically, there’s nothing wrong with this arrow. From a technical point of view, it’s perfect.’
‘Thanks,’ said Eros. He had to admit, he was becoming quite proud of his handiwork. After a month of practice, he was now only twice as slow as Hephaestus and almost—almost—as accurate. But what he lacked in speed and precision, he made up for with a surprising artistic sensibility, which imbued his arrows with a uniquely pleasing aesthetic. This was all the more surprising because he had been led to believe by Aphrodite, pretty much since birth, that despite his musical talents, he was little more than a pretty-boy beefcake; no more intellectually appealing than a fire hydrant or a third-rung Hero of ignoble IQ.
‘That wasn’t a compliment,’ said Hephaestus, ‘merely an observation. Although of course,’ he added hastily, noticing his son’s crestfallen expression, ‘I am extremely pleased with your work.’
Eros felt a warm glow in his stomach. ‘So the usual laws…?’ he prompted.
‘The usual laws that ensure the safety of the humans appear to be in flux. Most of the time, they hold, but occasionally, they don’t.’
Eros frowned. This made about as much sense to him as Clotho’s ‘unspecified’ directive but he couldn’t help feeling that the two things were somehow connected. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘How do we know what?’ said Hephaestus evasively, beckoning to a fire nymph who was retrieving a molten bucket of gold from the furnace.
‘With the arrows. How do you know that the laws aren’t holding?’ Self-consciously, he looked away from the fire nymph as she approached. Without moving her facial features in any way, she appeared to smirk.
‘Thank you Zippo,’ said Hephaestus, taking the pot of gold and placing it on the workbench. Eros started to say something, then thought better of it.
‘You’re welcome,’ purred Zippo, in the titillating twang common to all fire nymphs. Two parts pack-a-day smoker, one part Marilyn Monroe, it conjured up all kinds of erotic images. ‘Will that be all?’ Slyly, she glanced at Eros, who was concentrating hard on the swirling patterns in the gold.
‘Yes, for now,’ said Hephaestus, ‘unless Eros needs something. Eros?’
‘Huh?’ Eros looked up with all the innocence he could muster, given that his thoughts were a confused amalgam of water slides, volcanoes and—his saving grace—the screeching disapproval of his mother.
‘Do you need anything from Zippo?’
Like a golden fawn in a snowstorm, Eros froze. Two sets of eyes waited expectantly for his response. Was there something he was supposed to do, to say, something that would suavely bookend his encounter with Briquette? Desperately, he racked his brains for any guidance he might have inadvertently absorbed from his cousin or perhaps a James Bond movie; a line of enquiry that proved profoundly unhelpful, because what Hermes or indeed 007 would undoubtedly have done was to arrange to have his testicles delightfully singed by this new nymph—surely her name wasn’t really Zippo?
‘Eros?’ Hephaestus drummed his fingers lightly against the bench.
‘Um, no,’ said Eros, feeling deeply incompetent. ‘Er, thanks.’ He nodded at Zippo, who again appeared to somehow smirk in a featureless way. Eros let out a long, slow breath as she walked away, which caught in his throat a moment later when she glanced back over her shoulder and with a little wink, said, ‘Oh by the way, Briquette says ‘hi’.’
Hephaestus sighed a deep, fatherly sigh, rubbing his beard as she disappeared from view. ‘Far be it from me to intrude,’ he said, ‘but I must warn you that my workers seem to specialize in being distracting. And now would seem to be a time when distractions were best kept to a minimum.’
Eros flushed the color of the furnace. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh don’t be sorry,’ said Hephaestus. ‘The gods only know you need your fun, and fire nymphs most certainly are that. Plus, they really are fantastic workers. Hades must rue the day he let them go.’
‘Hades has fire nymphs?’ said Eros, mentally recalibrating his idea of the underworld. Any place with fire nymphs couldn’t be that bad.
‘Had,’ said Hephaestus. ‘In the early days, they played a vital role in the development of the underworld infrastructure, but they were taken away from him as punishment.’
‘Punishment for what?’ asked Eros, intrigued. ‘I thought you said he let them go?’
Hephaestus muttered something under his breath as he picked up a heavy set of tongs. Plunging them into the liquid gold, he stirred vigorously. ‘You must realize something, Eros. Back then things were different. There wasn’t the same commitment to the principles of natural justice.’
‘And there is now?’ said Eros, his voice rising. If his virtual castration was ‘natural justice’, then he would take arbitrary punishment any day.
‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Hephaestus. ‘But that’s just child’s play compared to what used to go on. And I also know…’ he added hastily, picking up on Eros’ body language, ‘…that such a comparison is cold comfort to a young god with censored genitals.’
Eros shifted uncomfortably in his sandals, suddenly anxious to change the subject. ‘The arrows…?’ he prompted.
Hephaestus smiled. ‘Hold onto this,’ he said, handing Eros two granite molds. Eros recognized the shape immediately - two perfect imprints of the multi-faceted heart shape normally affixed to the end of a golden arrow. ‘When we’re testing the gold, we don’t need the entire arrow. Saves on materials,’ said Hephaestus. Picking up what looked like a giant hypodermic syringe made of bluish crystal, he dipped it into the gold and withdrew several inches of liquid, which he then squirted carefully into the molds. A moment later, using yet another implement, this one resembling an old fashioned perfume bottle, he squirted a puff of orange gas over the surface of the molds. ‘Quickly now,’ he said to Eros, placing his hands over Eros’ and guiding the lower edges of the mold together until it gave a little click. ‘Now flip the halves together.’
‘Won’t the gold pour out?’ said Eros.
‘Not if you do it in the next 2.3 seconds,’ said Hephaestus.
Eros flipped. With a soft ‘ping’, the two halves of the arrowhead seemed to meld into a physical and spiritual oneness. A warm sensation flowed from the molds into Eros’ hands, spreading along his arms and across his shoulders, finally pooling at the center of his chest. It was almost exactly the same sensation he felt when one of his arrows pierced the heart of an unsuspecting mortal. ‘Ohhh,’ he said softly.
‘Excellent,’ said Hephaestus, taking the molds from Eros and gently prizing them apart. From the center of the mold he carefully removed the golden arrowhead. Although its surface was unfinished, it was unmistakably an instrument of love.
‘That was quick,’ said Eros.
‘Oh yes, it’s instantaneous,’ said Hephaestus. Taking the heart in a smaller set of tongs, he picked up a delicate hammer and prepared to perfect the shape.
‘Can I do it?’ asked Eros.
‘It will be more efficient if I complete the task,’ said Hephaestus, somewhat formally.
‘Please?’ said Eros. For some reason, the arrowhead was calling to him, like a glistening crystal of pure desire. ‘I find it therapeutic,’ he added, which was true.
Hephaestus laughed. ‘Very well’, he said, handing over the tongs.
With his brow creased in concentration, Eros set about perfecting the pointed heart. Conscious of holding up his father’s apparently urgent schedule, he felt the pressure of performing the task swiftly and efficiency. But there was no rushing these things. The softness of the gold under his tools contrasted with the sharpness of its edges. Delicately, meticulously, he brought the shape to life. Then, having perfected the form, he ran a polishing file over its many facets until it gleamed like a tiger’s eye. It was done.
‘Very nice,’ said Hephaestus, taking the arrowhead and placing it in some kind of leather man-bag. Eros thought he detected a note of impatience in his father’s voice, but he was too caught up in his own artisanal afterglow to care.
Slinging the man-bag over his shoulder, Hephaestus started towards the wooden door at the back of the workshop, gateway to the golden laboratory. Eros paused. If he went through that door, he would be thrust back in the world of libidinous fire nymphs and X-rated theme park rides; a world he didn’t necessarily care to enter.
‘Please hurry up Eros,’ said Hephaestus. This time, his impatience was clear.
Eros jogged to the back of the workshop where Hephaestus waited, his thick fingers tapping against the doorframe.
‘So what am I doing now?’ Eros asked, stepping through the door and onto the first of the stone steps.
‘Now,’ said Hephaestus, closing the door behind them, ‘you are going to learn.’