(web administrator's note: the following is a selection from some of Dave's creative writings)

THE GODS AMONG US 

by  

D. C. Belton 
 
 
 
   
“The Past is Prologue.”

William Shakespeare                     circa 1600: Earth Standard 
 
 

BOOK ONE 
 

PEASANT 
 
 
   
 
 
 

PROLOGUE: A Dozen Disciples 
 

  “There we are!” she laughed aloud, tossing the rat into the cage. Gnashing his vicious teeth, he brawled against his motley fellows. “Twelve of you! A dozen Disciples of Poseida.”

      “Awesome!” clamored her best and only friend. The two were prowling the sewers, intent upon another devious prank. “This’ll be loads better than when we burned the monthly tithe. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Pallas knowingly replied.

      “But - you sure you want to get Poseida again? I mean - we did her last time. Why not Vulcana, or Terra, or…”

      “You know why.”

      “I know, but - I just thought - maybe just this once, you know,” she giggled, “don’t want the other Gods to feel left out - they might get jealous, and…”

      “No! It has to be Poseida.”

      Cindy sighed. “Fine. Don’t have to bite my head off. Why do you have to make everything so - personal?”

      Pallas bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said - in a whisper quite different from the defiance she knew just a moment ago. “I - I don’t know why.”

      Cindy shaped her face into a naughty grin. “Come on. We gotta hurry if we want to interrupt that Festival!”

      “You are soooo bad.” That’s what I love about her. Pallas absolutely adored her father, but Cindy was the only one who could tease her from her moody grief.

      They journeyed through the bowels of the tiny village, hauling their treasure through the smelly maze. They dropped the cage when they were beneath the temple, bathing their captives in a river of filth.

      “Wanna make sure they’re good and smelly.”

      “As smelly as your boyfriend, Rufus?” Cindy wickedly replied. 

      “Rufus? Don’t make me sick.”

      “Don’t be so picky – he’s the best you’ll ever find…”

      Pallas guffawed, savoring Cindy’s jibes. But she didn’t want to jaw about boys when perched upon the pinnacle of her notorious career. “Leads right to the Holy Urn!” she gestured up to a drain. Marked by a sliver of light, it was graced with a chorus of sad and somber music. “You know, where they bless the Water - in the very middle of the sanctuary.”

      “Excellent! But - how are we gonna get ‘em up there?” The ceiling was quite high. “There’s no way we’re gonna lift this thing over our heads.”

      “Way ahead of ya, sister.” Producing a fistful of rope, she strung it from a pair of pulleys that were hanging from the rafters.

      “Wow. That was smart.”

      “Thanks. Rigged the pulleys yesterday - been planning this for weeks.” They hoisted up the cage until it was firmly against the drain.

      “Old mullet-head’s gonna freak…”

      “Let’s hope he spills the water…”

      “Ready?” Cindy asked, poised to release the rats.

      “Not yet! Wait for the blessing.”

      “Oh, yeah,” she sniggered, listening to the solemn proceedings. The music died a grateful death, replaced by the voice of a wizened cleric.

      “We ask you Mighty Poseida, Queen of the Unquenchable Sea, to bless this holy Water...”

      “Unquenchable Sea,” spat Pallas, “that is sooooo stupid.”

      “Shhhh!” chortled her blissful friend.

      “We pour this life-giving Water, into this, your Holy Urn. Give us the gift of your sacred bounty, that we might sanctify your beloved Disciples…”

      “I’ve got your beloved Disciples,” she leered, nodding to her friend. Cindy squealed with delight as she opened the tiny door. The twelve pilgrims scurried up the drain.

      “Come, then, and drink of the Cup which She alone can give. Drink, drink, ye Disciples of Poseida…”

      “Eeeek!!!” someone cried.

      “Holy Poseida!”

  “Save the Urn!”

  “Don’t let it fall!”

  But the priceless Urn crashed upon the floor, sending its holy contents down the dingy pipe. Cindy was soaked by the sacred cascade.

  “Look!” she laughed. “It’s a shower from heaven!”

      But Pallas ignored her giddy friend, mulling over her meaningless triumph. She relished the torment of the anguished worshipers, mourning the loss of their stricken relic.

  “Take that, Poseida, you stupid old sow.” 
 
 
 
 

Chapter One 

The Raft 
 

Lo, a girl-child hath been given unto us

Alone, among the fishes of the Sea

for she shall bring forth a wondrous Age,

and loose the seals of the Catastrophe… 

            - from “Lay of the Deluge”

                        Proteus V 

The lonely peasant hurried down the street, trapped by the wealth she was clothed in.

“How did a blacksmith afford that dress?” said an old woman.

      “Colors are expensive,” said her jealous friend.

      “And it’s dyed in purple,” carped a cleric. “Wearing purple is a deliberate affront to the Gods.”

      “Not to mention Lord Joculo.”

  Pallas fled from the angry whispers, ruing her many-colored dress. A birthday gift from her doting father, it was made from a fabulous fabric no one had ever seen before.

  Yesterday she was ecstatic with her shimmering prize. Today it seemed to imprison her.

  “Are you for real?” Cindy asked. “I am so jealous.”

      “Don’t be,” she bitterly complained. Everyone liked the dress before. They said so anyways, even the pretty girls who normally never spoke to her. Their rare praise had given her an odd sense of pleasure. For an entire day, people pretended to like her…

      Today was different. Now the dress was pretentious and crass.

  “Nice dress,” crowed Derrick IX.

      She turned to him and scowled.

  Pallas didn’t like Derrick. The son of a butcher, the pudgy boy was always quick to taunt her. A butcher in the poor village of Kelly Tree was considered a man of some wealth. Derrick seemed to want everyone to know just how some-what wealthy he was.

      “Your father steal that too?”

      In one blow, he was crouching with pain; in another, he was writhing on the ground.

      A crowd of jaded peasants gathered around, hoping to be entertained by a spectacle of violence. But Pallas bullied her way through the eager throng – fleeing to the solace of the deserted shore.

      Cindy followed. “Nice one. Plan on beating up every guy in town?”

      “He deserved it.”

      “He deserves to marry a shrew, have snot-nosed children and die a short and miserable life. But punching him in the nose…”

      “Maybe I broke it…it’d be an improvement.”

      Cindy huffed. “How are you going to find a husband if you keep getting into fights?”

      “I - I don’t know.” Maybe I don’t want a husband. “I hate this place.”

      “Get used to it, girlfriend, ‘cause you ain’t never gonna leave…” But suddenly she stopped, placing a hand over her heart…

  The handsome young men casually sauntered by, the tallest wearing a look of disdain.

  “Did you see that?!” she simpered. “Did you see the ‘DG’ he just gave me?” 
 “DG?” Pallas asked, having no idea what she meant.

      “Definite Glance,” she giggled.

      “He’s a sissy,” Pallas said, annoyed. She didn’t think much of Charles after he lost the wrestling match in the Games last year.

      “You’re just saying that because he didn’t notice you.”

      Pallas didn’t answer. But he did notice me - all too well. He actually invited her to the Festival of the Catch. Pallas, of course, refused. She had no use for guys, and no patience for a jerk like Charles.

      “So,” Cindy scowled, “anyone asked you to the Festival?”

      “No,” she lied. She didn’t like to lie, and she wasn’t good at it. But - she didn’t want to alienate her only friend over a stupid boy. “How ‘bout you?”

      “Only that nervous Tommy-brat.”

      Pallas sighed. Cindy used to be a rebel with a crazy zest for fun: impish and irreverent, sassy and bold. Now her friend thought of nothing but boys - martyring her spirit in a quest for popularity. Squashing herself into a tired cookie-cutter pattern, she’d buried her passion alongside her soul.

  Bewildered, Pallas mourned the slow death of her only friend. Yet she refused to join her crowded path to stale mediocrity. Pallas was too smart to let anyone mold her into something she wasn’t.

      “So,” Cindy asked, “whatcha do last night?”

      “Oh, you know. Father and I went walking.”

      “Again?”

      “Yeah. It was great. We talked about a paradox.”

      “A what?”

      “Well - he said something funny. If all the rivers run into the sea, why isn’t it full?” It was a quote from King Solomon, an ancient philosopher from a nameless, distant world.

      “Why isn’t what full?”

      “The sea.”

      “How should I know?”

      “That’s what I said. So he told me that water from the ocean actually floats into the sky.”

      Cindy snorted.

      “Yeah. Then the water collects into clouds,” she said, pointing towards the Three Titans, the towering volcanoes that dominated her tiny world. Fluffy white cotton decorated their jagged features like a wedding gown on a giantess of stone. “When the clouds get too full, it rains, there in the mountains. The rain becomes the streams and then the streams become the rivers which run into the sea.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      “No, it’s not. How else could water fall from the sky?”

      “Who knows? Who cares?”

  Pallas cared. Her father played a trick on her - he taught her how to think.

  Pallas’ teachers didn’t want her to think. They all admitted she was very bright; yet they scolded anyways, telling her to concentrate on useful things. Churning butter, planting corn, sewing garments: these were the lessons a girl needed to become a wife.

      But her father wanted more for his precious, only child. “Humans differ from the animals only by a little. And most people throw that away…” It was a doctrine taught by ancient Taoists – or, so he had said. Pallas marveled at his imagination, wondering where he came up such wild and dangerous tales.

      “What did you do last night?” Pallas asked.

  “Washed my hair.” 

*** 

      When Pallas was sad she went to the shore. Somehow, the roar of the ocean made her feel closer to her long dead mother…

      Don’t even think about that!

  A sand crab darted out its tiny black hole. It ran a few yards before freezing like a miniature statue. A year ago she’d have had fun chasing the illusive creature. Today, however, the crustacean was quite safe.

      Why? she thought as she strolled through the surf. Why did she have to die? Of all the souls the gods deigned to claim, of all the lives they chose to steal, why did you take my mother?

  She peered at the rolling, infinite sea. The breakers raged in glory in their monstrous march to the beach. Pallas felt a voyeur amongst these wet companions, lonely amongst the ripples that curled around her feet. She wondered at the power of their mindless devotion – jealous of the master to whom the waves obeyed.

  And though she didn’t believe in the gods - she cursed one of them anyways.

  “I hate you!” she spat at the gentle waves. “Poseida - queen of the stupid sea! Why did you take her? Why did you take my mother?”

      A tender breeze whistled in her ear, answering in a penitent reply. But she was far too angry to listen. Instead, she watched the sand crab make its escape, scampering down another hole.

      “I wish I could hide,” she griped, envious of the witless creature, “escape from all my troubles…”

      But the ghostly crab ignored her, safe within its powdery cocoon.

      The sacred beach was long and wide, stretching as far as the eye could see. Pallas gazed along the turquoise horizon, bounded by an endless ribbon of sugar-white sand. The sea-foam was a careful seamstress, cutting an exquisite border of delicate lace. It reminded her of a burial shroud as she cried a tear of grief.

      For it was on this beach that she lost her mother.

      The solitary tear fell into the sea, joining its compatriots in the vastness of the deep. She sullenly turned to leave - when she saw the strangest thing she’d ever seen. Far away was a small orange boat. Only it didn’t have sails - and one end was bulbous and round - like a bizarre, orange-colored egg. It sported a tiny flag and a flickering light.

      Pallas snorted. That’s dumb. Why would anyone make an egg-shaped boat? She cocked her head and bit her lip, peevishly angry at the silly thing. Maybe Poseida laid an egg, she sniped, a big, fat, ugly…

      But soon her ridicule turned to wonder. For the more she stared, the more alien the boat became.

      A younger Pallas would have been delighted. But the moody teen was merely irked. Deciding to let it drift out of her life, she turned to walk away.

  Yet the surf had a magic of its own, baiting her inquisitive spirit. All at once, without really knowing why, she decided to swim out and fetch it.

      Doubt dampened her enthusiasm as she hid her colored dress.

  “It’s really far,” she said aloud, “farther than I’ve swam before…”

  But the enchantment of the flashing tempted her - luring her naked body to plunge into waves.

      She changed strokes often, pacing herself for the grueling swim. She was nearly halfway when she realized the boat was heading toward the mouth of the mighty river. The current will force it back out to sea! With renewed effort, she took larger, aggressive strokes. She felt the cold of the mountain river dragging her – not towards the shore – but the perils of the restless deep.

  She turned around and gasped. Her village seemed miles away.

  Yet the mysterious egg beckoned her, rolling on the cresting waves.

      “Curiosity killed the cat,” she quoted her father, indulging in a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe…” she flipped onto her back, “…maybe this time he was right.”

      The current dragged her prize away, farther and farther from her wearied reach. Completely exhausted she stopped altogether, trying hard to think.

  “Maybe a fisherman will pick me up,” she said, turning hopefully toward the east.

  But the sun was a fiery red, drowning itself in the lilac sea.

      “Stupid!” All the fishermen were back in the harbor. “No one sails at night. No one except the Commodore of the Three...”

      That’s when she saw it - a mammoth, towering fin - slicing towards her from beneath the troubled waves…

      Shark!

  The dorsal fin climbed higher and higher, the predator was a mere dozen yards away. Panic rippled through her entire body - yet she refused to let it overwhelm her. Stay completely still - and the shark might pass.

      But the shark did not pass. It gaped its maw ravenously open, promising an evil end to her short and miserable life.

      Pallas whispered a prayer to Poseida - hoping she’d forget about the rats - when suddenly a maelstrom erupted out of the sea! Massive jaws snapped at empty air as the brute leapt up and out of the angry brine. 

      The water crashed and thrashed about her, giants swirling with hideous intent. Another monster surfaced beneath her. She screamed as she clung to the fiend. I’d rather be on its back, than in its mouth! Only its hide wasn’t slimy and scaly, but soft and warm and smooth...

      “A dolphin!”

  Too stunned to be happy, too jubilant to be afraid, she grasped her charger with frightened legs. Water boiled around her knees as she marveled at the impossible event, why, it’s nothing short of a miracle!

      Remembering her fear, she glanced back at the horrible man-eater. To her astonishment, a dozen dolphins were driving it away. She faced forward again and found herself headed for the strange, egg-like boat. 

      Except it wasn’t a boat, and it wasn’t an egg.

  It’s a raft, made of some sort – some sort of – cloth?

      She squinted her eyes at the garish color. At least - I think it’s a raft. The craft was short and stubby with impossibly rounded sides. Its ugly exterior looked more like a hide than a hull. It had no keel, or sail - just a little red flag. The sorcerer responsible for the spellbinding flashes was a small rectangular mirror.

      The dolphins raced ahead of her steed, jumping playfully in the windborne air. Pallas laughed aloud, absolutely thrilled, when her gallant champion plunged beneath the waves.

      She choked on a mouthful of water and brine, petulantly scowling at her rescuing hero. “Thanks a lot,” she snapped, “can’t you give a girl a warning?”

      The dolphin nodded her head and cackled aloud, oblivious to the teenager’s ingratitude.

  Wiping the sting of the salt from her eyes she found she was floating next to the raft. A short ladder was sewn into its supple side. Pallas grabbed a rung, hauling herself out of the water. She couldn’t believe it, but the whole raft, the ladder, even the roof was made from the same unworldly cloth. There were no openings - only the strange, alien material.

  She pressed her hand against the knobby fabric, hoping to find a door. Fascinated, she traced her finger along a thin black line. Shaped like a crescent moon, it was made of hundreds of interlocking teeth.

      “Maybe this will open it,” she said as she pulled the clasp. It made a “zzzz” noise, revealing the insides of the mystic craft.

      “Whoa,” she mused, aghast yet impressed. She stood there, amazed – gawking with wonder – when a wave tossed her unexpectedly forward. Uttering a shriek of surprise, she tumbled inside.

      She bounced upon a soft, cushioned floor. She felt that someone was watching her, instantly filled with dread. Splayed upon all fours she looked fearfully around – for that same vile villain that would suddenly gobble her up. But the only other occupant was a beautiful white cat. Starved and weak, he raised his head to greet her.

      “Poor kitty,” she soothed. Panic melted into pity as she reached to pet the creature. “How long have you been here, all alone?”

      “Thirteen days!” he tersely replied.

Chapter Two 

The Naming of Cats 
 

Poseida was of course immediately informed. For nothing escaped Her purview within the vast Realm of Water. Yet it is said She was greatly disturbed by the dolphin’s extraordinary rescue. For they recognized the dramatic significance of the cursed child - while She did not.  

            - from “Compendium, Chronicles of the Pentathanon Gods”

                              Ovid XII 

      Pallas couldn’t believe her ears. Of all the bizarre things that had happened, this surprised her the most.

      “You can talk?”

      “Well, of course I can talk,” said the cat, offended. “And aren’t you a mess? And you’re wet. Do you mind dripping somewhere else?”

      “Uh, sorry,” she nervously replied. Resting herself on her knees, she scooted a foot or two back.

  “Quite a comedic performance, I dare say. Falling in like an imbecile, limbs absolutely everywhere, splayed upon your belly like a drooling dog. Haven’t you ever learned how to land on your feet?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Hmmph,” smirked the cat. “Oh, that they were wise – that they would consider their end.” He raised his brow with obvious conceit, as if gloating over a private joke. “Listen, I’ve been afloat nearly a fortnight, and I haven’t had a thing to eat.” He nodded toward a bag. “Be a good dear and open a can of tuna.”

  “A can?”

  “Jupiter’s Moons, you are going to be difficult. What completely amazes me is that your species has survived at all.” He alighted upon his paws and cantered to the bag, nuzzling it with his eager face.

      Gawking at the cat, she nervously crawled toward the bag. On its sides were hundreds of unrecognizable symbols. Like the door to the raft, the bag had a line of interlocking teeth. She pulled the tag, revealing a cornucopia of things she’d never seen before. She picked up a small black box, marveling at its sleek construction.

  “What’s this?” 
 “Well, its not tuna, I can tell you. Yes, and did I mention I haven’t eaten in thirteen days? Though man can not live by bread alone, we cats like to have something in our bellies.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she apologized. “Poor kitty, we’ll get something for you.”

  “My name isn’t Kitty,” he mocked with disdain, pointing his paw at a metal cylinder. “Here, that’s it.”

  Pallas examined the cylinder, with the same awesome wonder she had for the box. “It’s so perfect and round,” she muttered, “my father could never make something like this.”

  “Well, he didn’t have to, now did he?”

  “Why would anyone put food in something so - so beautiful?”

  “Just open it.” 

  “How?” she asked, feeling stupid.

  “My, but you’re clever. See the little key? Put it in the hole. That’s it. Now, turn it round and round...”

  The lid tore off like magic, leaving a jagged perimeter. The can was filled with tuna in musty smelling oil.

  “I’ll take that,” said the cat, “you can get your own.”

  But Pallas was too enchanted to think about eating. Instead, she pulled out every single piece of gear. Some things she recognized: a long knife, four short paddles, and a small mirror. But most things she had no idea about. “What’s your name?”

  The cat didn’t answer, devouring his tuna. Pallas picked up a tiny orange case. One end had a thin, glass-like cover. On the opposite end was a black protrusion. She pressed it.

  The case erupted in a blinding light! Pallas dropped it with a frightened squeal. But the light kept flashing, panicking her.

  “Turn it off,” drawled the cat. “You’ll run the batteries down.”

  “I – I – I don’t know how!”

  “Jupiter’s Moons, you are dense. The same way you turned it on.”

  “What’s ‘ON?’”

  Pacing to the flashing light, he pointed at the black button. “Here, press this.”

  Pallas did what she was told. The flashing stopped, much to her relief.

  “That’s OFF,” he sarcastically explained. “Now, press it again.” The flashing light returned as if by magic. “That’s ON. ON and OFF. Now turn it off, and leave it off.”

  “OK.” She nervously replied. She didn’t think he liked her.

  The peasant looked around her, bewildered by strangeness. She felt encased in a monstrous cocoon, bathed in a dull, orange light. The source of the light was attached to the ceiling, fixed upon the curve of the egg-shaped bulge. Like the blinking case, it was encased with a thin transparent shell. But how could light come from such a thing? There was no fire in the case; indeed the shell was only slightly warm. It’s as if the gods took a piece of the sun and put it in this sheath. Yet it wasn’t like the sun, for the sun was bright and yellow while the light was sober and orange.

  In fact, everything was orange; an alien glow that surprised and annoyed her. She rubbed her hand against the buoyant floor. Why, it isn’t cloth at all! It had a rough, leathery feel, like the hide of the dolphin…

  “The dolphins!” she cried, bolting out the crescent door. To her surprise the entire pod was swimming dutifully along.

  It was now quite dark, the two moons hanging low over the pencil-thin horizon. Selene was full, while Selena was just a sliver of a crescent. The clerics warned that if both moons were ever full at the same time, a catastrophe would occur that would bring about the end of the world. Pallas, of course, didn’t believe such nonsense.

  But - why are the dolphins following me? According to the clerics, dolphins were minions of Poseida. Yeah, like I believe that…

  Yet there they were, flanking her like an honor guard, causing her moody cynicism to quake.

  They saved my life – I can’t deny it. Almost like – a miracle.

  “Why did you save me?” she said to the rescuers who gracefully cut through the salty brine. “Who sent you? Was it - was it Poseida?”

  But the only answers she received were her own confusing thoughts. Come on, she reasoned, just because a bunch of animals saved me from a shark - and are following me in this really weird raft - that doesn’t mean…

  But how could she explain the light, or the can?

  Or that cat?

  “But Poseida isn’t real!” she shouted. “And even she was - why did she drown my mother?” For even if she’d had been rescued a hundred times - by a thousand gallant dolphins - this mythical godhead, whoever she may be, could never repay that heinous act…

  “Because I hate you!” she riled at the queen of the sea. “I hate you and I always will!”

  She was peevishly angry at her emotional display, and even a little ashamed. Wonder what that cat would think? For a bitter moment she didn’t care. But her soon bitterness turned to sadness and her sadness into grief, wishing – wishing…

  Yet even if she couldn’t forgive the waves - the ones that had drowned her mother - she at least paid homage to her brave rescuers. For they had saved her from that horrible maw. So she spoke to her saviors, not as a rider who speaks to her steed - but as a simple, grateful peasant…

  “I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know if you can understand me. But – I want you to know – how absolutely beautiful you are.” Indeed, watching the dolphins play in the light of the lazy moons, she knew it was the loveliest thing she’d ever seen.

  To her surprise, one of the pups swam close enough to touch her. Pallas couldn’t help but grin.

  “Can you talk too?” she said as she stroked her head.

  The happy pup cackled with bursting delight, tossing her head with an adorable grin. Instantly, an older dolphin chirped a high-pitched squeal. Admonished, the younger whistled a wistful reply, before slipping beneath the waves.

  Did I imagine it?

  For the next half hour Pallas called to the dolphins, begging them to speak. But her guardians were as silent as monks, making her wonder if she was going crazy.

  Finally, she climbed back into the raft to find the cat fast asleep. As much as she wanted to wake him - ask him all sorts of questions, she didn’t want to make him any angrier than he already was. Besides, she was dead tired after her grueling swim.

  Instead, she thought about her father. What will he think when I don’t come home? I should start paddling to shore this very minute.

  But exhaustion hit her like a sudden wave. She laid her head down, just for a minute - just a minute - to rest, just for a minute...

  She fell asleep to the rocking waves, drifting further and further away... 

  *** 

  Pallas was alone on the solemn beach, thinking about her mother. She thought of the goddess that had taken her from her when four huge dolphins rose beneath the surf. Harnessed with silver too delicate to be believed, they pulled an elaborate chariot crafted from a single, enormous shell. Surrounding the chariot was a score of mermen, with rugged good-looks that gave her heart a lurch.

  But if the mermen were handsome, the driver was absolutely gorgeous. The sea breeze tossed her stunning hair as if destined to this holy purpose. The woman had a proud, beautiful face with dreamy eyes of green. She opened her mouth to speak…

  “Meooooooow!”

  She woke with a violent jolt. Her young, strong heart pounded against her chest as she cowered at the alien surroundings.

  “I’m hungry!”

  The air was hot, pungent with the smell of fish. The guilty culprit was the empty can.

  “Yes, and you should throw that out, as you’ve made quite a mess. How untidy you creatures are! But first, open another can of fish.”

  Pallas picked up another cylinder. The cat frowned in disgust.

  “Not that one! I hate corned beef.”

  “How do you tell the difference?” The cylinder looked exactly like the others.

  “Look on the side. Can’t you read?”

  “What’s - read?”

  It wasn’t a stupid question.

  She’d learned in school how to add and subtract; how to mend nets and plant seeds. She’d learned how to tithe. This was important, as it was the mortal’s duty to provide for the gods. But no one on her world could read. No one but the gods.

  “I can’t believe it!” he loudly complained. “I’m a pet, and I know how to read!” But then he chuckled, sporting an evil smile. “Aaahhh - but I forget. Sub-standard breeding. Of course. I can’t expect much from a creature of your exceedingly limited intelligence…”

  Pallas felt angry and confused. Is he insulting me? His words were so unfamiliar she couldn’t even tell.

  Rummaging through the bag, the cat found a cylinder more to his liking. A sneer commanded her to open it. Pallas quickly picked it up, staring at the markings on its side.

  “I’m waiting!”

  She nervously put the key in the hole – when she came upon a thought – a thought that changed her forever.

  “Wait a minute.” She furrowed her brow. “I saved your life last night, didn’t I?”

  He squinted emerald eyes, annoyed.

  “You’ve had all this food, and - and you couldn’t open any of it. You were surrounded by food, and yet you were hungry,” she added, stumbling on the paradox of their strange first meeting. “You would have starved to death if I hadn’t come along.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Well, you owe me. As a matter of fact, you need me. There’s no telling how long it’ll take to get to shore. And even when we do, I bet you don’t know how to hunt or fend for yourself. Even if I can’t - read - I can do a lot of things you can’t.” Pallas was proud of herself for getting that out. She normally didn’t think that clearly this early in the morning.

  The cat tilted his head, scrutinizing her as if surveying a famous painting. The peasant watched in silent dread. Maybe I offended him - maybe I made him mad. Part of her wanted to gush out an apology. But the street-fighter held her ground.

  “Excellent, most excellent!” purred the cat. “Yes, I do believe there’s a brain inside that over-sized head of yours. One can’t be sure with drones, you know. Your species does have its geniuses of course, but you also have your...” But the cat didn’t want to say.

  “Well, I’m not a genius. But I’m not an air-head either. And I’m not going to be bossed around by anyone, not even a cat.”

  This drew a chuckle from the smarmy cat. “Behold, the tongue is a little member, but yet it boasteth many great things…”

  Pallas scowled in reply.

  “You have been of some use,” he admitted, churlishly rolling his eyes, “I can hardly deny it. And I’m rather fond of people who feed me…” With this, he twittered his feathery tail. “Very well,” he said to great effect, “my name is…Othello.”

  “I’m Pallas, daughter of Gerard VII.” She thought to shake his paw, but - didn’t know if that was proper when being introduced to a cat.

  “Pallas?” He leered with envy. “Quite an interesting name. Not one of the standard names, I dare say.”

  “No.”

  Long ago, the gods decreed that children should be named after their parents. Thus her father, Gerard VII, was the seventh generation of Gerards. But Pallas’ parents bucked this tradition, much to the cleric’s displeasure. For they warned them such sacrilege was sure to incur the wrath of the jealous gods. Inwardly, Pallas thought the clerics were right. Though she adored her name - loved its individuality - deep down, she knew it had killed her mother.

  “Quite right,” he studied her with inquisitive eyes, “very interesting indeed.”

  “What’s so interesting about a name?” she brandished, defensive and cross. For though she was certain her name had doomed her mother, she had fistfights with anyone who drew the same conclusion.

  “Dear girl,” he said, twitching his whiskers with arrogant satisfaction, “your name is written in heaven. It’s the vessel by which creatures know you. A creature grows into his name, becomes his name. Cats have three different names, of course, and all the important gods have at least two.” He paused again, studying her with a look of curiosity. “But you, my dear, have a very interesting name - very interesting indeed.”

  “Thanks,” she sulked, deciding to change the subject. Her name wasn’t something she liked to talk about. Opening the correct cylinder, she set it before the cat. “You call this a can?”

  “Precisely,” he said with his mouth full. “It says fish on the side. F-I-S-H.”

  Pallas examined the markings, which she supposed must say F-I-S-H. “Can you teach me how to read?”

  “Why?”

  She picked a strange item out of the bag. Millions of the same markings were plastered over its many leaves. “I want to know what these say. I want to know how to use these things.”

  Othello interrupted his ravenous meal, giving her that same “pictures at an exhibition” look. “How shall a young woman cleanse her way? By taking heed according to thy word. My, my, but you are a clever girl. Yes, of course, that is a survival manual, and it does indeed tell you how to use everything in that bag. How did you know?”

  Pallas shrugged her shoulders, glad the cat was no longer insulting her - though still uncomfortable with his probing stare. “I dunno. It just makes sense.”

  “The gods don’t teach mortals to read, do they? Do you know why?”

  Pallas tried a blind guess. “They don’t want us to know what they know?”

  His snake-like pupils exploded with surprise. Pallas was sure he didn’t expect that answer. Now he changed the subject. “How far are we from shore?”

  Pallas cursed aloud as she scrambled out the crescent door. The sea breeze cooled her glistening brow, welcome relief from the sweltering raft. The dolphins were still surrounding the raft, but there was no land in sight. She cursed herself again. I knew the river would be strong, but had no idea it would push us out this far.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t see the shore, so we’re at least a few miles out.”

  “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s bad, but it’s not terrible. The wind blows to the west, and we’re on the eastern shore. So eventually, it’ll blow us back…”

  But deep down, Pallas was quite worried. The village of Kelly Tree was a very isolated. No one ever left except for Lord Joculo. There were merchants who sailed from distant towns, but most folk never left their humble abodes. “Did you see the dolphins?” she asked, wishing to change the subject yet again.

  “Dolphins. They’re so cute! For the life of me, I can’t understand why everyone is so enraptured with the slimy beasts. Just a rabble of overgrown fish if you ask me.”

  Pallas thought it was funny that the cat would be jealous of a fish. She didn’t know that dolphins were mammals and not a fish, but neither did Othello. “But why are they following us? And why did they save me from that shark?”

  “Did they?” he said, obviously startled.

  With this, she recounted her miraculous rescue. Othello listened with wide-eyed interest - before dismissing it as some sort of fluke.

  “Haven’t the faintest idea.”

  But Pallas could always pick out a lie, and was sure about this one. But she didn’t press the issue. She didn’t want to make him angry again. “How did you get here?”

  “Well - it’s a rather confusing story - not at all what you’d expect.”

  She gave him with a doubtful expression.

  “The whole thing’s a bit hard to fathom, even for a cat. I seriously doubt that you, with you’re very limited intelligence and sub-standard breeding could even begin to understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Very well,” he announced with great importance, “I am the pet of Mulciber’s daughter.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Mulciber the god?”

  “Mulciber - yes. I live with his daughter, deep within the bowels of Volcano.” Then with great fanfare he announced, “I will ransom thee from the power of hell. O sheol, I shall be your destruction.”

  Pallas scoffed. “I don’t believe you. You’re very clever, but you’ll have to do much better than that.”

  “Look around you, man-cub, and tell me what you see? Who made the raft, the cans, the compass?”

  Pallas didn’t know what to say. Her father was the best blacksmith in Kelly Tree. He could craft a knife as fine as the one in the bag, but could never make anything as perfectly round as one of these cans. As to the raft, she ran her hands against the knobby surface. A cloth that floats? She’d never seen anything like it.

  “We were in a hover-plane,” he said.

  “A hover-plane?”

  “We left Vulcana’s fortress inside the Three Titans and were flying to Aeolia when we were ambushed by Cypris. When I heard the order to evacuate, I rushed to the nearest escape pod, certain my mistress was right behind me. But as soon as I got in, the pod jettisoned of its own accord. The pod had a parachute, of course, so it floated to the surface of the ocean where it automatically inflated into this raft.”

  Pallas understood almost nothing of this story; which, she thought, the cat must have counted on. But one thing she did understand…

  “The gods fight each other?” I don’t remember any of the clerics mentioning that!

  “Well, yes. It’s really quite rare, but it does happen.”

  “But - I’ve always been taught the gods were immortal, infallible. How could one of them - crash into the sea?”

  “When the heavens war upon each other, who shall stand?”

  “But - surely Mulciber didn’t die?” Even though she didn’t believe in the gods, she had a hard time accepting one of them perished.

  “Mulciber’s daughter. And I’m sure she wasn’t hurt. She was probably rescued by Poseida and taken to Atlantis for ransom.”

  “Why didn’t she rescue you?”

  “Poseida never liked me,” he grumbled, pacing the bulbous floor. It was clear he was bothered by the queen’s neglect.

  “Well that’s just fine, because I don’t like Poseida either.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because - she killed my mother.”

  “Drowned, did she?”

  “I guess,” she sighed, allowing her sadness to swell. “They never - you know, found her body.”

  “Typical. What is shocking to me is how your entire species hasn’t become extinct, what with all the interesting ways you’ve found to murder yourselves…”

  Pallas furrowed her angry brow. “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind,” he glibly replied. “And just when did this - unfortunate event occur?”

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  “Fifteen? Are you quite sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “On the beach, near the village of Kelly Tree?”

  “Yeah. Like, where else would she be?”

  “Indeed,” he mused. “That’s just - very sad.”

  But Pallas found no compassion in his emerald eyes, only a mask of distracted curiosity.

  “Tell me, dear child; tell me about your mother.”

  “Well, she was very smart,” Pallas said. “She seemed to be an expert at everything. She knew how to fish and weave and build houses and bridges. She even helped Lord Joculo design the sewers…”

  “Did she have gray eyes?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because,” he pondered, “gray eyes are a very recessive trait.”

  “What does that mean?” she said, annoyed. The blue-eyed girls use to tease her about her gray ones all the time.

  “It means that they aren’t very common. Most humans have dark eyes.”

  “Lots of my friends have blue eyes…”

  “Yes, well,” he chuckled, “they got a bit carried away with the blond-haired, blue-eyed children. But I assure you in a few generations the dominant genes will weed them down to more nominal levels.”

  “Who got carried away?”

  “The gods, of course.”

  “What about them?”

  But Othello only smiled. Not a pleasant smile that one might share with a friend, but a conniving, selfish smirk.

  “You said the raft - inflated?” Pallas said, steering the conversation away from her mother.

  “That’s right. Carbon dioxide cartridges fill the rubber with air, causing it to float.”

  “This rubber, it’s full of air?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What if a hole got punched in it?”

  “Well, let’s see.” With this he directed her to flip through the leaves of the survival manual. “According to this, the raft is self-sealing with any puncture less than three inches long; though I would not advise you trying it, as I do not like to swim.”

  “Can you take the air out?”

  “An interesting question, by Jove: one worthy of an answer. There appears to be two levers attached to the carbon dioxide cartridges that deflate the raft. Acts as an emergency propulsion device. They’re located on the outside, near the sea anchor.”

  “Anchor?!” She scrambled out the door. “No wonder we’re not getting any closer to the shore!”

  Othello followed, taking a moment to snarl at the dolphins. In answer, one of the dolphins launched a well-aimed splash. The soaked fur-ball shrieked with surprise before bolting inside the raft.

  Pallas laughed. Laughed so hard, she actually fell into the ocean. The water felt wonderful, so she swam a few strokes just for fun. The dolphins seemed quite intrigued, yet they kept their watchful distance.

  At the rear of the raft she found two cylinders and a rope attached to something dragging in the sea. Climbing back onto the raft, she pulled the anchor in. It was made of the same cloth-like rubber shaped like a cup. She secured the anchor to a loop before inspecting the deflation levers. One handle was just above the surface and another just below, both surrounded by more of the arcane markings. But these markings were bold and red, as if a warning not to touch them.

  Climbing back inside, she found Othello ferociously cleaning his fur.

  “Anything else you’d like to say about those overgrown fishes?” she chided.

  “If I never see another dolphin...”

  Pallas stifled a giggle.  

  Pallas spent the rest of the day going through the “magic” bag. Othello kept saying things like, “Don’t touch that,” or, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” After a great deal of begging he explained some of the objects, but refused to describe the others. In truth, he didn’t know what many of the objects were, but would never admit this to Pallas.

  Pallas studied the items, taking particular interest in the backpack. The manual had a picture showing where each piece of gear should be placed. Pallas was delighted. Even if she couldn’t read, she could follow these simple instructions. She put the backpack on. It was made of a stretchy material which hugged her body, built upon a feather-light frame. The manual described the frame as an AERO-FOIL, though the cat didn’t know what that meant.

  “The legs are cantilevered to your arms for greater pumping action,” he yawned.

  “What’s a cantilever?”

  “Does it have to be so inquisitive? Can’t it mind its betters and leave it at that?”

  Pallas wondered what he meant, naively continuing to pepper him with questions. But his mood was far too foul to be polite. “It’s not a backpack, oh ye of little knowledge and much less brain, it’s a survival harness. Now let me get some sleep.”

  “Fine,” she huffed.

  She took off the harness and climbed outside the muggy raft. The breeze played wonderfully upon her long blond hair as she tasted the tang of the salty air. What’s the name of the Sun god, she wondered, Helios, isn’t it? Othello’s tale made her curious about the gods, more curious than she’d ever been before. The beautiful sky and the rocking waves stirred her heart into a comforting reverie. She seemed to belong to the sea, as if she came from the sea, as if - that’s where her mother had gone…

  Stop it! she rued, cursing herself for being stupid. Mother is dead; drowned perhaps - but it doesn’t really matter. She’s dead, and no one can ever bring her back.

  A single tear misted in her eye. But before it could trickle down her cheek, it blew away with the summer wind. Pallas said good-bye to her friends, climbing back inside the raft.

  Othello was, of course, asleep.