The Deep End of the Sea Read Free Page B

and hard for so very many things. I cried for my sister, who I surely would never see again. For the life robbed from me, and for the situation I was trapped within. And I cried for the sweetness of a name I’d never thought I’d hear again.
    When I finally got up and dusted myself off, I decided to open the door. For all I knew, I could be stepping into another of the gods’ traps. And yet there was no trick awaiting me, just a pile of thick, beautiful blankets. Until that moment, I didn’t have such luxuries, and I, being partially reptilian, chilled easily. Winter was miserable—drafts flowing off the Aegean made sleep bitterly elusive and days stretched out in front of me forever. Warming myself out in the sun helped somewhat, but at night, all bets were off. I was wretched.
    But that pile of blankets ... it was a turning point for me.
    Over the next hundred years, more gifts came, alongside improvements for my temple. During festival times, when I would drown in melancholy over what once was, he would bring me sweet treats, wine when I wanted to indulge in my sorrows. When my family passed from this land to the next, he let me know in the gentlest ways. Books appeared when he somehow knew I was bored to tears, and then lessons to learn how to read languages other than Greek. He was the one to bring me a lock for my door, and furniture for me to sit and lay on.
    Even still, I forced him to keep his distance—I could kill the gods, after all, and was leery of his intentions toward me—but slowly, oh so slowly, he and I began to talk. I resented it at first, compared him to his louse of an uncle who charmed me with words before violating me, but Hermes persevered when others surely would have given up. On the days I refused to open up about myself, he told me of the outside world. I heard of places I never even knew of, learned the world was round and that there were peoples across vast expanses of water. He told me of scientific discoveries, of stories both true and imaginary. He allowed me to ask him— a god —any questions I wished, and in return he answered me honestly and thoroughly.
    It took a good couple of centuries before I allowed him within ten feet of me, and only after we devised a plan to keep him safe. In those early days, I relied exclusively on scarves (which he brought or had sent to me) to wrap around my eyes and my snakes. It was terrifying, going blind in the presence of a god who had the ability to transform or maim me at his whim, but Hermes treated me kindly. Respectfully.
    After a thousand years, I had to admit that Hermes was someone I could trust. Today, I cannot imagine my life without him. And there is a comfort in that, unlike the fear I harbor over Mikkos’ fragile existence.
     

 

     
     
    “Dusa?” calls a voice, and I scramble to find my glasses.
    “Hold on a minute!” I slap on a pair of deep black, mirrored wrap-around shades and then quickly bind the Girls up in their scarf. They hiss in protest, but it’s only half-hearted, as they would never risk hurting Hermes.
    I whip my head back and forth to ensure no parts of my eyes are visible. Then I do a double, triple check of pat downs before heading into the cella and calling out for him to come in.
    My favorite god strolls into this main room of the temple, a warm smile gracing his divinely gorgeous face. “Greetings! And how are you on this wonderful day?”
    I wait until he’s a few steps away before putting a hand out. Fool would hug me if I let him. Has he no sense of self-preservation? Even though he must already know it, I tell him, “I killed somebody yesterday.”
    His well-loved Vans sneakers squeak against the worn tiles as he comes to a halt, my outstretched hand half an inch away from his chest. I drop it as he says, “It’s not your fault.”
    “Really? I think Walt would disagree.”
    I know it sounds foolish and typical, especially since he’s a god and all, but when Hermes smiles, it’s really