Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 02 (2 page)

"Hey!"

"What now?" Sana snapped.

He pointed as he turned to them. "Look!"

Cire, who seemed to have caught his alarm, crawled quickly to his side, her shoulder touching his. '

'What, Holix?"

"There," he said. "See out there?"

She raised a hand to cut the wind from her eyes, and shook her head. "I don't see anything."

Slowly Holix lowered his arm.

She was right.

The boat was gone.

It should have been a perfect moment, a dream moment. Cire beside him, the tickling of her breeze-touched hair against his cheek, the feel of her shoulder against his, the smell of her skin ... it should have been perfect.

But the boat was gone.

And
something
was out there.

The wall was not nearly finished, but the man who was building it was in no real hurry. It would be nice when it was done, the protection it offered complete, but the digging, the hauling, the fitting of the stones, all this gave him a chance to be alone, to think without distraction, to let his mind wander and dream of things that might have been, or that might yet be.

This particular section reached just to his thighs, and while it wasn't high enough yet, it suited him for now. He didn't have to bend over so far, and the lifting was still quite easy. Another advantage—he didn't have far to sink when he wanted to sit down.

A large rock balanced on the broad top, bridging a gap. He closed one eye and tilted his head, measuring. When he was sure he was right, he raised a hand over his head, stared at the rock, and slowed his breathing. Concentrated. Pushed up on his toes, and suddenly brought his arm down more swiftly than lightning.

The side of his hand struck the rock squarely, sparks darted into the afternoon sunlight, and the rock split. The larger portion fell neatly into the gap; the smaller flew into the trees on the other side of the wall.

He grinned his satisfaction, looked around to see if anyone had observed him, then grimaced, sagged a little, grabbed his wrist with his free hand, and groaned, "Damn, but that hurts."

"I heard that," a woman's voice sang.

Great, he thought; great.

"Sorry, Mother."

A woman stepped out of the trees behind him, a basket of fresh flowers tucked under one arm. She was slender and fair-haired, with hints of gray that appeared only when the light touched her head a certain way. Her face was slightly rounded and unlined, with flushed cheeks and a sheen of perspiration across her high brow.

"You know, you could use a hammer like ordinary people, Hercules," she scolded with a smile.

Hercules smiled back. "That would be too easy." He leaned over and stuck his hand into a wood bucket filled with water. He sighed, exaggerating his relief so she would laugh aloud.

She did.

"You look warm," he said when the stinging finally stopped. "Sit for a while."

Even as the protest began to form on her lips his hands were around her waist and she was up and seated on the wall.

"Well," she said, setting the basket beside her and smoothing her dress primly. "Showing off again?"

"Since when do I have to show off for you?"

He sat at her feet, his back to her legs, knees up and hands clasped loosely around his shins, grateful for the opportunity to take a break, half closing his eyes when he felt her hand brush across his hair.

They remained silent for several minutes, listening to the birdsong in the woods, the drone of bees in the meadow, the almost inaudible whisper of a fitful breeze in the branches.

"You realize, of course," said Alcmena quietly, "that you're driving me crazy."

He frowned. "What are you talking about? Don't you like me to come around?"

Her hand slapped the top of his head lightly. "Of course I do, you know that. I don't see you often enough."

"Then what's the problem?"

She gestured left and right. "The wall."

He remembered her original reaction to his project—that she didn't need a wall to protect the house and land—and his response, which was that she shouldn't refuse the protection it would offer, not when she lived alone.

Not having to add that it would make him feel a lot better to know she was secure while he was away.

"What about it?"

"Stop pouting. It doesn't become you." She cuffed him again.

"I'm not," he complained, even as he heard the pout in his voice. He laughed easily, and tilted his head back to butt her legs gently. "Okay. I am. But what about the wall? I thought you decided it was all right."

"It is, Hercules," she said patiently. "It is. But whenever you come home, you work on it a little, sit with me a lot, we talk, we go into the village, and the days pass." A pause that held a silent sigh. "Too quickly sometimes. Too quickly."

"So?"

"Hush." Another cuff. "So sooner or later you're out here most of the day—"

"Mother—"

"—thinking."

Immediately, he realized the truth of her words, and lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

Her voice was tender. "Hercules, you're my son. I know you too well. Either you have a problem you won't tell me about, or you're getting restless." Melancholy replaced the tenderness. "You're getting ready to move on."

He twisted around so he could look up at her face. "You're right."

"I know."

"I hate it when you're right."

"I know that, too."

He squeezed her ankle. "Sort of."

Her eyebrow lifted. "Sort of?"

"I'm not really restless, and I don't have a problem." He stared at the grass at the base of the wall. "This time it's just a feeling. I don't know. A premonition, maybe."

She waggled her fingers, a signal to let her climb down. When he complied, they strolled through the sparse woods toward her house. The shade was cool, the sun warm, and wildflowers grew in profusion here and in the meadow after two days of light but steady rain.

"You're worried about Hera," she said.

He was about to contradict her when, abruptly, he realized that, once again and maddeningly, she was right. Yet it wasn't precisely worry. It was more like anticipation. It had been so long since his vindictive stepmother had tried to kill him that it was making him nervous. Unless, of course, that was the reason why she was waiting so long to try to kill him again— to make him nervous. In which case, he ought to become more alert, not more ill at ease. Unless, of course, making him ill at ease was the reason why she was waiting so long to try again to kill him. . . .

Alcmena laughed softly and hooked her hand around his arm. "Don't think about it so much. You'll make yourself dizzy."

"Too late," he muttered as they stepped out of the trees.

The house was modest, appearing smaller than it was because of the trees that rose about it, protecting it from winds hot and cold, and from sun and storms. In a garden that was set to one side, Alcmena grew her own vegetables, as well as flowers whose exotic beauty rivaled those developed by the professionals around Corinth and Sparta.

A place of comfort.

A place of serenity.

As they approached the entrance Alcmena grunted softly and nudged him toward a long and low marble bench near the garden. "You go sit. I'll have Pleophy fetch you when dinner's ready."

"What?" He feigned insult. "Don't you want me to cook tonight?"

"Sit," she ordered, and waited until he did. "You cooked last night, as I remember."

So he had, and the memory made him wince. So did the words Pleophy, his mother's handmaiden, used when she had seen the fruits of his labor in the kitchen. A young woman, he had thought, shouldn't know words that only soldiers used.

He surrendered with an apologetic smile. "All right. I'll wait."

Alcmena leaned over and kissed his brow. "And stop worrying about Hera. She'll do what she does when she does it. No sooner. Your fretting isn't going to rush her." She kissed him again and went inside, but not before he caught the concern in her eyes.

She knew full well that Hera would not rest until he was with Hades; she also knew that he would not rest until, somehow, he had exacted full revenge on the goddess who had murdered his wife and three children.

A revenge that would take him the rest of his life to accomplish.

Even then it would not be enough to repay the goddess for her crimes.

All right, all right, he scolded himself harshly; that's enough. You're home, and Mother doesn't need this burden.

That was certainly the truth. Every time he arrived, she nearly wept with joy at the sight of him, and with relief that he was still alive; and every time he left, she did her best to hide her fears and the tears they caused her to shed. She also did her best to live a normal life during his absences, but he understood from his friends in the village that she worried constantly.

He knew from listening to her talk that she was aware of what he was doing most of the time, because Zeus, his father, made it a point to inform her about his welfare.

That should have been comforting.

It wasn't; not really.

He hadn't spoken to his father since his family had been taken from him, because Zeus had been too busy with a woman either to stop Hera from the killing or to warn Hercules' family about her plans.

Alcmena had told him more than once that Zeus was heartbroken and shamed by Hera's acts. But Hercules didn't care. Zeus couldn't possibly be as heartbroken as he, and he doubted his father even knew what real shame was.

He had loved his father once.

Perhaps he still did, but that love was clouded now with something very close to hate.

Hercules stared at the flowers, teeth clenched, hands folded into fists, until he realized what he was doing. He closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and this time
saw
the flowers, with their vivid blossoms, and smelled their soothing scent. He breathed deeply and relaxed.

Wondering if maybe it wasn't time to get back on the road.

Let the cycle begin anew.

Or maybe there was still time before dinner to work a little on the wall.

He stood.

He looked at the house.

He looked past the house to the empty road.

He felt a twinge in his hand and checked it, shaking his head at the bruise and the slight swelling. Oh sure, he thought; don't use a hammer, chop it with your bare hand. Bloody show-off.

He examined the hand again.

Bloody show-off, in more ways than one.

A moment later he heard someone singing boisterously, and saw a figure striding jauntily up the road, pack slung over one shoulder, left hand on a scabbard at his hip.

"Mother," he called, "we're having company for dinner."

He heard her response, and sat again, straddling the bench. Waiting. Hoping against hope that the singing would soon stop. He had heard sows with better voices, and they weren't even trying to sing.

The figure waved as it vanished behind the house.

Hercules sensed someone watching. When he turned, he saw Alcmena in the arched doorway, leaning a little too casually against the wall. He shook his head. "You knew?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I had a feeling." She grinned. "Just like you." And she was gone again.

Seconds later Iolaus bounded around the corner of the house, dropped his pack, and sat opposite him.

"You're looking well, Hercules."

"You don't look so bad yourself."

Iolaus was a full head shorter than Hercules, his hair wavy and long and touched by the sun. He didn't look all that strong, but he was; he did appear quick and agile, and he was. Although he could wield the sword, and the dagger tucked in his belt, like Hercules he preferred a good thumping to a killing.

After a moment's silence he rubbed his hands briskly. "I was just passing through, thought I'd stop by to check on your mother."

"Sure you were."

"A wonderful coincidence, don't you think?"

"Sure it is."

Iolaus leaned away. "Hercules," he said, sounding indignant. "Hercules, don't you believe me?"

Hercules smiled. "Should I?"

His best friend shook his head sadly. "I don't understand. A man comes to visit, and all he gets is suspicion."

"Suspicion? You haven't even said hello yet."

"Oh." Iolaus offered his hand. "Hello."

"Hello yourself." Hercules took the hand, shook it, then suddenly yanked Iolaus into a back-pounding embrace that soon had them both laughing. When they sobered, he said, "So tell me all about this coincidence, Iolaus."

"There. See? Suspicion."

"No," he said. "I just know you, that's all."

"I'm hurt."

"You're a fraud."