4
Chaos, Inc.
Claire M. Johnson
“You must do something, Father,” Ares begged.
Shouts in support of Ares’ plea filled the temple, the clamor insistent and so loud that Zeus was tempted to cover his ears. He didn’t. That wasn’t very kingly. Instead, he glared at his two miscreants, Debris and Detritus, who sat in opposite corners of the room; each of their chairs was surrounded by a cage of lightning bolts to keep them in place. Anything short of lightning bolts and they’d wriggle free. There wasn’t a knot or a lock that they couldn’t unravel or pick. It was rather amazing, assuming you weren’t try to pen them in. Which he was. Hence the lightning bolts.
Their temporary incarceration didn’t stop them from using slingshots to pelt each other and those around them with fruits and vegetables. An extremely well-directed tomato splattered against the robes of Poseidon. He was not amused. Before Zeus could do anything, Poseidon aimed his trident, first in one direction and then in another, and a wave of water doused the two hooligans. Neither niece nor nephew was his favorite. Come to think of it, they weren’t anyone’s favorite, with the exception of their mother, Hera, who was blowing kisses at them.
Zeus wished he could say that the two hellions were the gods exacting their revenge on him for his infidelities, but since he was king of the gods, he really couldn’t blame himself. These two were the result of a passion-filled night that had smelled of fresh rain and roses, an orgy of two, a physical mating that was both lust and love, all in a massive effort to placate Hera after she’d discovered a particularly delicious affair he’d been having with a mortal.
Mortal women were so much easier; it was hard to resist them. Goddesses were the definition of high maintenance. Mortals, however. Ahhhh. No tremendous power that could be wielded against him. They weren’t capable of leveling curses at him that meant anything other than words uttered in rage. And he could forget for a bit—an evening or an afternoon—that he was a god. He could take simple pleasure in another. Hera could never understand that joy in not being a god; not that he didn’t want to be a god, but sometimes . . .
Hera’s tantrums were legendary and none more so than when faced with his womanizing with mortals. It was bad enough when he was caught sneaking off with a goddess or nymph or a Titaness. She didn’t appreciate it—to put it mildly—but consorting with mortals sent her through the clouds.
He’d never understand women. Never. Take, for example, her reaction to the birth of Heracles, the result of that truly wonderful night he’d had with Alcmene. He had to admit his conduct there had been shameful, impersonating her husband, the king of Thebes, while Amphitryon was away. But what is one to do when faced with such beauty, such wisdom? And she was tall. Always god catnip. No, Hera was not happy with him and tortured poor Heracles for years. Look at that twelve labors business. And then, then, after all that, she happily married him off to Hebe! At that point, Zeus threw up his hands in total confusion.
Their fights were the stuff of legends, but they usually made up fairly quickly. Well, there was that rebellion she instigated against him. He was not pleased in the least, and their relations were decidedly frosty for quite a while. But eventually, they’d mended their fences—until she’d discovered him canoodling yet again with yet another mortal. She was implacable in the face of his mortal dalliances. In order to appease her, he’d wooed her with lightning shows and rainbows. He’d sweet-talked his sister Demeter into ensuring the most magnificent harvest that year so that the mother of all would see fat, happy babies suckling on the breasts of fat, happy mothers. And then, of course, there was the lovemaking. The kisses slow and languid that said he was savoring her and cherishing her and that he did both desire and love her so much.
Which was true.
It was unfortunate that he also desired and loved a great many other women as well.
And as if to mock him, to throw all that passion in his face, she’d birthed the twins. They were hellions from the day they were born. Twin monsters of mischief. Chaos followed them wherever they went. And if it didn’t, they created it.
He felt a hand over his, the nails of that hand digging into his just slightly.
“Aren’t they marvelous, my love?” she cooed in his ear.
“Not the word I would use at the moment,” he replied. Currently, they were hanging upside-down by their knees from lightning bolts. Relieved of their slingshots, they were now spitting at each other, little bits of dirt flying across the room. Their cheeks were rosy and full from their exertions, if covered in splotches of mud. Was that a shriveled-up orange rind peeking out from behind a black curl of Detritus’s hair?
Despite being perpetually filthy, the back of every knee, the crooks of their elbows, and between their toes crusted with grime—let’s not even discuss the state of their ears—they were beautiful. Even sopping wet, obsidian-colored curls tumbled around their faces. Through some strange alchemy, they’d remained young children forever. Long-limbed and as agile as a pair of cats, they were almost impossible to tell apart but for the color of their eyes. Debris was blue-eyed, a color so true to sky that you held your breath for a second at the sheer beauty of them. Until he stomped on your toes and dragged a dirty palm across your robes. Detritus, known as the green-eyed monster, had eyes equally arresting. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, clover, and grass after a rainstorm.
Debris stuck his tongue out at his father as he tried to scramble between the bars of lightning. Zeus sighed. He couldn’t keep them caged forever.
He crooked a finger at Hypnos and pointed at the twins. “Hypnos, if you please . . . ”
Hypnos blinked twice, and the twins fell asleep. The sound of a hundred sighs of relief echoed through the chamber.
The six daughters of Themis, the goddess of eternal order, sat quietly on their thrones. If anyone could bring some sanity to this situation, it was them: Eirene (the personification of peace, and, boy, could they use some peace right now), Eunomia (the personification of law and order), Dike (personification of justice), Clotho (the Fate who was responsible for spinning the thread of life), Lachesis (the Fate who was responsible for measuring the thread of life), and Atropos (the Fate who was responsible for cutting the thread of life). Hopefully, there was to be no thread cutting; he loved these two, even as they drove him bat-shit insane. Asleep with their hands under their cheeks and the soft smile of slumber stretching from cheek to cheek, it was hard to imagine their unholy ability to create utter chaos in their wake. It was not a formal session—how could one formally invoke a punishment on a pair of seven-year-olds?—but Zeus hoped the daughters’ wisdom would prove invaluable here. Heaven knows something had to be done. The entire heavens were in near revolt.
“They are monsters. Leaving destruction in their wake wherever they go,” thundered Ares, which was a bit rich considering he was the god of War.
“Pot, kettle,” hissed Demeter, who despised Ares. The first thing soldiers did in war was to burn the fields, destroying the harvest.
“Point,” murmured Zeus, hoping that this wasn’t going to devolve into a gigantic gripe session.
“Humanity cannot love in chaos, Father,” implored Aphrodite. “A little chaos in love? That can add to passion. But not on the order that those two wreak.” Even furious, her beauty was something to behold.
“Dionysus?” Zeus asked.
Dionysus toasted the crowd and then tipped his goblet over to reveal it was empty.
“Fucked up last year’s harvest. Stomped their way through the vineyards, grabbing bunches of grapes to feed to the birds. Little bastards. If I get my hands on them—” A hiss from Hera and he stopped talking.
Zeus knew better than to ask Poseidon’s opinion. The twins were limited in what they could do to the sea, but Poseidon would use every opportunity to undermine Zeus’s authority. If he didn’t find somewhere to park his little hooligans where their gift for chaos wasn’t a factor, then Poseidon would incite another rebellion. The only reason he hadn’t profited from the current political maelstrom was that Hera would do anything to defend the twins. She was a powerful enemy, as Zeus could attest.
Zeus looked in Hades’ direction. Surely, his other brother . . .
“Absolutely not. The dead deserve some peace.”
Zeus was so frustrated that little lightning bolts began emanating from his ears. This only happened when he was super-stressed. What could he do with them? Although they hadn’t aged physically, mentally, their tricks and pranks and ability to sow disorder, confusion, pandemonium, and bedlam in their wake had increased in sophistication. And he had no doubt that their power would only grow as the years passed.
Interestingly, a little chaos in this world was beneficial. It demanded that people look to their better selves. To rise out of chaos was a powerful inducement for peace. But this? With these two, it was anarchy all the time: the harvest was destroyed, love thwarted, the hunter never catching the hunt, beauty denied, the slovenly triumphant. It would spiral down into madness if he didn’t stop them.
He turned to the daughters of Themis. Falling on his knees, he beseeched them for guidance. “Please, my wise nieces, with all the wisdom that you possess, what should I do?”
They huddled together, six gray heads bowed toward each other, their voices so low that the sound couldn’t even be described as a whisper.
Minutes and hours went by. Zeus stayed on his knees, waiting for their decision, knowing that he must be bound by it, given his plea.
Finally, they stood up. He always marveled at how their hair showed the burden of their tasks, but their faces were as unlined as if they were still girls.
“Rise, my uncle and father,” they spoke in unison. “We have come to a solution to your dilemma.”
Zeus stood up and stifled a groan. His knees were killing him.
Bringing himself up to his full height, he beckoned Hera to stand next to him. She must abide by their decision as well. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Debris and Detritus must be exiled to someplace where their mischief will not be disruptive and destructive. Someplace where no one will even know they are there.”
“There is not such a place on this Earth,” cried Hera.
“There is,” they sing-songed. “The U.S. Congress.”
Gods save him, Zeus said to himself. Would she never stop weeping? The twins had been in exile for two weeks, and except for the occasional nap now and then, Hera had been crying the entire time. The fields were flooded and the harvest threatened. Demeter wasn’t speaking to him, and Poseidon was grumpy, as the rain was playing havoc with the seas. Boats were torn from their moorings, and beaches were being washed away. Zeus could hear him muttering things like, “Damn fool woman.” That was his bailiwick, and he was a possessive sort of god.
Fortunately, his mutterings were just out of earshot. Poseidon wouldn’t openly tell Hera to stop her infernal caterwauling—because he might be irritated, but he wasn’t stupid, and Hera’s weeping might be annoying, but her temper was terrifying.
If Zeus had thought that the twins in exile would restore harmony amongst them, he was mistaken. Without the twins to distract them with their high jinks, the other gods began to turn on one another. After two days of bliss, the petty jealousies and spats that were always in the background came to the fore. Who got the better power? Who was prettier? Who was wiser? That these issues were even under debate was ridiculous. Not even the daughters of Themis had any words of wisdom. They threw up their hands and announced that they were taking a three-week vacation to a place called the Bahamas.
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” they said in unison and disappeared. Great. Just when he needed them most.
And then there was Hera. As exasperating as her grief was, it was a reminder of how strong the bond was between mother and child. Or mother and hellions. Whatevs. He went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. She rested her head against his shoulder. He dried her tears with the sleeve of his robe.
“It’s not better without them,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. This he had to admit. “Please bring them back. Please.”
A bunch of grapes went sailing over his head. Food fights now occurred several times a day.
“I’ll check on them,” he promised. “And if things aren’t okay, I’ll bring them back.” That was vague enough. “Okay” could encompass quite a bit of territory.
“Thank you,” she said. She bracketed his cheeks in her two hands and gave him a kiss. It wasn’t a sexual kiss but more the type of kiss a man and a woman who have been through much together give to each other. It was an acknowledgment of history, both good and bad, and love.
Zeus wasn’t sure what to expect when he swooped in to observe the U.S. Congress. He avoided that part of the world. Too busy. Too much smog. Too many cars. He hated cars. Although he was loath to admit it, some things were out of his control, and carbon dioxide was one of them. These mortals would rue their foolishness. All the warnings by Poseidon and Demeter were being ignored. Some days, mortals were really dumb.
The twins were sitting in a corner, their arms wrapped around their legs, their faces woeful. Had he ever seen them unhappy? No, he had not! Zounds, what was going on here? When they saw him, they rushed up to him and gave his legs a heartfelt hug. This was also unheard of. Unbridled affection? He ran a hand through their curly mops. The world might be coming to an end. Their hair was clean. He stood back. So were their robes!
He knelt down to face them. “Whatever in the seven hells of Hades is going on here?”
Debris gestured toward the mortals fighting and screaming at one another. Detritus rolled her eyes in scorn.
“It’s utter chaos,” she said. “We can’t do anything that is even remotely disruptive that they don’t manage to do on a daily basis.’
“Hourly basis,” Debris muttered.
Detritus nodded in agreement.
“Take us home. We hate it here,” they said in unison. “Please, Papa.”
They hadn’t called him that in years. It was probably deliberate, but even so, it worked. He grabbed their hands and took one last look. The anger, vitriol, mendacity, and greed in this chamber was appalling. He could smell the lies, the ignorance, and the ambition. What an unholy stench. He couldn’t leave his children here.
No one was happy to see them except for Hera, but no one protested either. All faces were resigned; this was the twins’ home. It was far preferable to vent their frustrations against the two than turn on each other. As they discovered much to their chagrin.
As Zeus watched his wife gather her children into her arms, her face glowing with happiness, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d done the right thing. A little fun was all right. Manageable. Perhaps even desirable. Some of these gods were so glum. So serious. A wee prank now and then? What was the harm? And maybe their brief sojourn had, somehow, matured them. Given them some perspective on how destructive chaos can be.
As Detritus pulled away from her mother, she flicked a booger into Debris’ hair.
Maybe not.
About the Story
I’ve always told myself that I couldn’t write short stories. That I needed too much backstory, too much dialogue to provide the handle that I need to develop a “voice” for a story. When I read a story or a novel, voice trumps everything. I can read what is essentially a mediocre book, but if it has a killer voice, then I’m willing to look over myriad sins. This was a personal test. Can I do this? I have to admit there were a number of fits and starts and a sense of looming failure. Most authors I know have faced writer’s block at some point in their career, and its genesis is a fear of criticism and failure. Of course, if you don’t write it, then you don’t fail. But if you don’t write it, then there is nothing to edit, fix, stretch, mold, massage, or craft. *Cracks knuckles.* Write one sentence. Just one. Then write a second one. Two sentences. Then . . .