TWENTY-FOUR

Jupiter loved quiet.

The open blue, the burgeoning cloud, rain-freshened dawns, and deep sunsets – these were the sky god’s great pleasures, and the everlasting chill of high places was his eternal joy.

That morning the cloud-gathering god was in his highest temple. Juno his wife had just left his presence that early hour, after arguing long and well that a favorite creature of hers deserved a boon.

Now Jupiter was glad to be alone with his own thoughts.

He loved the song of rain freshening new-plowed farmland. He liked calm and logic. Too much talk wearied him at times. He stood now at the far end of his temple and drank in the cool, sweet freshness all around.

Perfect peace was rare, even here among the divine. Mount Olympus, the dwelling place of the gods, was so often in tumult. Mars and Minerva frequently argued with each other, and the powerfully built, half-lame Vulcan was always arriving with some new device of genius – a bowl of gold as big as a lake bed, or a newly fashioned archery set for Diana, even though the weapons she possessed were already beautiful enough.

This morning violet-eyed Juno had asserted that the goose deserved more respect. The goddess had always praised the peacock, with its spreading plumes, and Jupiter could certainly understand that. But why, of all creatures, did Juno now sing the praises of that rude, long-necked fowl?

Well, what did it matter? reflected the great god with a chuckle. Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, had her own temples and honorable owl. Mars, bringer of war, had his monuments and his bright-feathered woodpecker. Jupiter admired fairness, in himself and others, and he was generous by nature. He would ask Mercury to shape a decree. A sacred flock of geese would grace the beautiful temple of Juno, and be honored as a sacred bird.

Even a god can be surprised. As Jupiter was just then, when a figure hurried across the temple grounds, and splashed so swiftly over the broad pools that the footsteps of the herald carried across the water.

The youthful-looking messenger swept the broad-brimmed hat from his head and knelt.

“Rise up, Mercury,” said the gentle-voiced Jupiter. He liked this herald very much, and always felt his heart lighten at the quick-footed immortal’s approach. “What troubles you this morning?”

If, in fact, it was morning, Jupiter thought just then. Sunny cool had turned to even colder twilight in an instant, mountain shadows stretching and then shrinking away as the sunlight came and went unsteadily.

“I cannot bring myself to tell you, lord of all,” said the herald.

The messenger’s usual lively tones were muted.

“You will,” said Jupiter simply. “Please, good Mercury,” the immortal father added, kind-hearted even then, and increasingly puzzled at the behavior of the daylight beyond the temple.

“The tidings are too grim,” said the messenger.

Jupiter nearly laughed. “Nothing can be so dreadful, herald. Unless, perhaps, an angry goose has attacked some brave warrior – and pinched him to death.”

“The children, my lord Jupiter,” Mercury began. The boys and girls of mortal men and women –”

“What of them?” interrupted the sky god with a darkening frown. He nearly felt like telling the herald to wait for a moment, for beyond the columns of the temple the sunlight was suddenly impossibly bright.

“I fear to voice my tidings,” said Mercury in the finest herald speech, “without a promise from the father of all –”

“Wise herald,” said Jupiter with some impatience, “I will not hold you responsible for your news, good or bad.”

“Earth is burning,” said the herald in a burst, anguish in his voice. “Men and women, and their children, cry to you for help.”

Jupiter looked away, and briefly weighed these tidings. “Herald,” he said, “this cannot be true.”

But Mercury’s gaze was steady, his youthful-looking features set in an expression of sorrow. And Jupiter groaned, realizing then the meaning of the distant, panicked cries of birds.

“Tell me, loyal Mercury,” Jupiter said at last, the gentleness of his tone giving the greater weight to his question. “Who has done this?”