Today, he was Hermes, right-hand man of Zeus. Winged messenger. A god so cunning he was still in diapers when he stole his big brother Apollo’s prized cattle.
Hermes was Dom’s favorite. He was one of those sticky gods, no saint but not one hundred percent sinner. He stole, cheated, lied, and even killed when his mission demanded, but he did it with style.
Dom had memorized all of Hermes’s roles. He was the deliverer of dreams, the world’s first Sandman—choosing which men slept in peace and which tossed and turned. He was the escort of the newly dead to the Underworld and the protector of youths. He was the patron of sports, especially fighters like Dom’s WWF wrestlers. Worshipped by shepherds and travelers, merchants and gamblers, and even military men like the Colonel. Dom had read about ancient generals, on the night before battle, sacrificing lambs, honey, pigs, incense, and cake at the feet of mighty statues carved in Hermes’s likeness—each topped with his winged hat.
Dom had combed the beach and found two white-and-gray seagull feathers. They weren’t the same size but good enough. He’d cut a hole on each side of the soft gray brimmed hat he’d found in his grandfather’s closet. The feather ends fit perfectly—one on each side of Dom’s head.
As he tramped through the woods, he saw the webs thick as Halloween decorations in the crooks and bends of branches. The moths were dead. Now their eggs sat, waiting for spring. He waved away clouds of no-see-ums shuddering in the still and wet August heat, trying not to smudge the makeup he’d spread over his face—a tube of mercury-colored lipstick Maddie had worn one Halloween when she went as the Tin Man. Sweat beaded over the greasy cream and his hair was already soaked under the too-big hat. But he told himself to man up—he bet Hermes hadn’t ever complained about any of his missions.
By the time Dom reached the Castle, his T-shirt was stuck to his sweating back and he could already feel the itch of the mosquito bites swelling up and down his legs. His left foot stung where Maddie’s sandals, a size too big, had rubbed. He’d used silver model-plane paint to transform the sandals into a sterling Arcadian pair fit for the god of trickery. It was magical sandals that had saved Hermes from Apollo’s wrath over the stolen herd, Dom remembered, hiding Hermes’s footprints, and his identity.
Maddie’s journal mentioned two codes to get through the maze, and Dom had memorized both, but now he couldn’t remember which code went to the center and which to the cottage. He stepped into the maze—the scent of fresh-cut wood reminding him of the first day he met Jules and how gently the man had wiped Dom’s clay-covered face.
He was lost after only a few turns. Was it left, left, right, left? He tried to circle back to the entrance. Start over. After two rights, a left, and another right, he was still lost.
More turns and he found the hedge-walled room at the center. He imagined he could see the impression in the grass where Maddie and Brooks had lain.
It seemed a hundred lefts and rights later he was still trapped. He fell against the leafy wall and hugged his knees to his chest. He’d have to yell for help. Hope that Brooks found him. If it came to that, he’d abort his mission and go back home. Dig out the bottle of vodka he’d hidden behind the Drāno and crap-caked toilet plunger in the bathroom upstairs and drink it all. Maybe chase the vodka with the Drāno.
His father was right. And those scumbags at school, MJ and Victor, all of them had been right when they called him names, told him just go ahead and kill yourself, why don’tcha? He was blubbering like a goddamn baby now and the greasy lip paint came off on his fingers, got in his eyes and stung, made the tears come faster. He knew what the Colonel would say. Shape up or ship out. Don’t be soft. That was the problem with the world today. The world in peacetime. People got comfortable, started feeling safe, and instead of worrying about life and death, they worried about how much everyone liked them, and whether they were pretty, and what if they weren’t special.
He stood. He’d give himself one more try and surrender if he failed, shout for help like a child lost in a supermarket. Mommy! Mommy! He held his breath and listened. The jingling call of a dark-eyed junco overhead. Or was it a pine warbler? He never could tell the difference. Something scampered in the woods. A crow cawed. He blew snot from his nose and it landed in a glob on the trampled grass. Then he heard the long rip of what sounded like packing tape. Like a sign, it lured him forward. Showed him the way. Left, right—no, that wasn’t it—the sound of the tape ripping, cardboard scraping told him so. Left, right, left, and the sounds grew louder and he knew he was moving in the right direction. He was Hermes again, returned to his mission. He saw the light of the cottage burning through the last hedged wall, heard the music playing, picked out the saxophone wail, the hum of the upright bass.
He was the god of games and omens, of diplomacy and guard dogs. He was the protector of homes. He remembered what the Colonel had said: Sometimes, you’re the mouth. Sometimes, you’re the meal. Dom didn’t want to be the meal—never again.