Gifts of the Gods Part Fourteen Pythia

Dawn was creeping slowly over the rim of the lake, painting roseate glimmers across the water and sending soft whispers of light into the dying gloom. It had been nearly an hour since the lake had sunk in on itself, its waters retreating from the shore and leaving a wide strip of damp beach exposed to the air. The crowd had been muttering ever since, reading that unnatural event as one more evil omen to add to the terrors of the night. The gurgling roar which had echoed through the valley – followed by those moments of absolute panic as – barely a few minutes later - the earth had rumbled and shuddered under them, had been enough to unsettle even the hardiest of souls. Some of the men had wanted to leave; indeed, some of them already had, taking to their heels and slipping away into the night, seeking the suspect sanctuary of distance. Ettian had calmed the rest as best he could, murmuring anxious reassurances which he only half believed.

They were gathered at the foot of the shallow mound that marked the entrance to the nest, a huddled, wary group of figures, their eyes fixed on the shadowed shapes which they’d carefully placed around the mouth of the entry tunnel some three or four hours before. The Jantians had provided six barrels of their poorer quality oil, the stuff that came out on the final pressing and was usually sold for half the price of the first. They’d charged full cost for this supply though; Ettian had made a few tight lipped remarks when Theodorus had told him what he’d had to pay for it. Nobody had believed that six barrels would be enough to rid them of the monstrous creatures lurking underfoot, but Lathius and the preist had gathered up enough volunteers to make the attempt, just in case it made a difference. They’d carefully rolled the barrels into place, untugged the bungs and left them to drain. It should have taken less than half an hour to drain all six dry.

And the last time anyone had checked, the oil was still glugging out at the same eager speed that it had had in the beginning.

It was hard to ignore a miracle when you were busy witnessing one. They’d been startled enough when they’d arrived to discover Timeon crawling his way out of the pit, clear evidence of how a hero keeps his promises. Finding the boy safe and relatively unhurt had raised spirits considerably; the passage of time had slowly worn that inspiration down again, but the puzzle of the seemingly endless oil remained an anchor for hope and they were clinging to it, desperately. Lathius remained the most certain among them. The unexpected – and welcome – survival of his son had convinced him that there would be a way to defeat the menace that threatened them, and he remained convinced, despite the creeping closeness of the dawn and the unsettling events in the earth. He’d been the one to suggest that the gurgle and the rumbling might have been the work of man rather than ant, and helped the entertainer set the rope to dangle in the entrance tunnel. The majority of the men – Ettian included – believed Iolaus long dead, like Hercules before him. Timeon had offered only a brief and rather garbled account of his experiences before being whisked away to his mother’s anxious arms, leaving the men to exchange whispers and speculation. Most of them had questioned the kind of foolish courage which would send a warrior back into the earth in search of a dead friend, rather than bringing him to the surface along with the child he’d managed to rescue.

Theodorus was pacing, a long limbed back and forth motion that the rest of them were now ignoring with determination. He’d refused to let the fire be set any early than planned. He’d promised Iolaus he’d wait until dawn and dawn it was going to be, no matter how slim the chance that now remained. Lathius was standing guard by the torches, equally determined to give the missing warrior every chance he could. Every five minutes or so Ettian would murmur ‘now?’ and the farmer would shake his head, keeping watch on the horizon for signs of the approaching day.

The first stirrings of the rope went unnoticed. The second caught Traxis’ eye; he yelled in alarm and within a moment the entire group had gathered to watch the oil soaked hemp as it shivered and shifted against the equally oil soaked earth. Lathius ran up the slope, a lit torch in one hand and his hay fork in the other. Theodorus followed him, both men being careful to stay out of the shimmering pool of oil that circled the gaping mouth of the mound.

"Someone’s climbing it," the entertainer identified with a relieved grin, dipping to test the tightness of the rope. The farmer looked grim.

"Or some thing," he suggested, giving Theodorus cause to let go of the hemp and back away with a gulp.

"Fire the hole," Ettian called up, stern advice that most of the rest of the group were quick to agree with. "Now, Lathius. Before it’s too late!"

Lathius glanced back at the gathering, then up at the sky. The first fingers of true daylight were reaching over the horizon, past the roseate glimmers of dawn. He looked down, at where the rope lay taut against the earth. It was still moving, rolling over and back with short, effort filled jerks. Ettian’s voice repeated its demand, packed with anxious terror. "Now, Lathius. Now!"

The farmer threw an apologetic glance at the man beside him then gritted his teeth and - with decided reluctance - began to tip the torch down towards the waiting pool of oil. Flame danced across the bundled cloth at its tip, curling up and round as it reacted to the slow rise of heat which drifted out of the tunnel mouth. It was barely a breath from the oil’s surface when Theodorus let out a strangled yell.

"Wait! Stop …"

Lathius jerked the torch away in alarm, then bent and hastily thrust it into the soft soil behind him. It took him a moment to make sense of what Theodorus had seen – why the lanky entertainer might be mad enough to stumble forward into the fumes and the spill of the oil just as he’d been about to light it – but the minute the image did make sense, he too was diving forward, reaching with both hands to catch hold, to lift and pull with all his strength. There was a hand – a human hand – groping its way up the rope.

The farmer went down on his belly in the dirt, ignoring the cling of the oil as he helped lift dead weight off a hero’s back. By some miracle or other, Iolaus had made it to the top of the tunnel with the unconscious body of his partner hanging from his shoulders. His body was slick with oil and streaked with dirt, his eyes were bloodshot and he looked half dead from exhaustion – but he was there, clinging to the rope with a white knuckled grip that had somehow managed to defy the slippery coating on the hemp. There was also the tell-tale shadow of an ant, making its way up the tunnel behind him.

"Dammit," Lathius cursed, tugging frantically at muscled limbs as he tried to heave the son of Zeus out of the fume filled hole. There was no way that they could lift both men together – and no time to save the exhausted hunter if they didn’t, not before the approaching monster arrived. Oil soaked fingers skidded on equally oil painted skin; Theodorus was tugging in panic from the other side with the same limited success. "Dammit!"

The ant was climbing closer, its jaws clacking ominously. The tunnel was filled with a high pitched, angry whistle which pierced the senses and battered at them without mercy. Iolaus was muttering something – something about leaving him and saving Hercules; Lathius gritted his teeth and heaved again; these men had saved his son, and he’d never forgive himself if he abandoned them now.

"Gods," he heard Theodorus mutter. "Oh gods!"

Abruptly – and without any kind of warning – the opposite lip of the tunnel subsided with a odd slooping kind of sound. The barrel that had been resting there tipped forward, and then down, tumbling past dangling feet to slam straight into the face of the approaching ant. The impact lifted it from its feet and it – along with the barrel – was sent hurtling back into the depths. It gave a weird, panicked scream as it fell.

Farmer and Entertainer exchanged a look – one that acknowledged miracles and the sense of not questioning them - then hastily went back to work. This time both of them got a good grip; a moment’s effort and Hercules’ unconscious form slithered up out of the hole, slithered out of their hands and rolled away down the slope. Theodorus went flat on his back, and Lathius had to twist round and lunge forward as Iolaus – who’d probably been clinging to the rope on sheer will power alone – lost his grip with a gasp and began to slide back into the earth.

"Oh no you don’t," the farmer muttered, locking work hardened hands around an oil soaked gauntlet and pulling its owner up towards the light. "Not after everything you’ve done …" He heaved and scrabbled backwards, dragging the barely conscious warrior out of the tunnel and away from the oil soaked earth. The lip where he’d been lying collapsed behind them both, spilling another barrel into the nest. A second, angrily whistled scream pierced the air.

"That’s enough," Ettian declared, racing past to snatch up the burning torch and toss it directly into the nest. There was nothing but silence for a moment and then the whole mouth of the tunnel erupted in a roaring gout of flame as the oil caught and the barrels began to burn.

"Whoa," Theodorus gulped, bending to help Lathius lift Iolaus up and away. The hunter was too exhausted to do more than hang between them as they staggered down the slope, but he struggled free as they reached the forest floor, falling to his knees beside his unconscious partner. His hand groped out in search of reassurance, splaying across the demi-god’s chest to feel the steady pound of his friend’s heart. The light of the burning mound painted orange and gold reflections across their oil slicked skin. His tired but triumphant grin held almost as blinding a light.

"Theo," he rasped, his voice no more than a effort filled whisper as he turned towards the relieved entertainer, "meet - my friend - Hercules … " His eyes rolled up, his body went limp – and he collapsed like a rag doll, landing sprawled across his partner’s sturdy chest. Lathius threw Theodorus a questioning look and he shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.

"Hey," he said defensively. "Would you have believed him?"

Warmth.

Softness.

The scent of baking bread and the rich odour of roasting pork.

The distant sound of a child’s laughter and the closer crackle of wood burning on a fire.

For one long and contented moment Hercules was cradled in memory, expecting to open his eyes and find Deinaira smiling down at him. Then the soft throb of his damaged shoulder and the general aching protests of his body began to register, drawing him up from the past and anchoring him firmly into the present. He appeared to lying in a comfortable bed, cocooned in the warmth of bundled blankets and supported by a bundling of pillows – a distinct contrast to his last conscious perceptions of cold, damp surroundings and the unforgiving textures of hard rock and grit digging into his skin.

Guess I’m alive …

The lingering pain in his shoulder suggested that; you didn’t hurt when you woke up in Elysium. Nor did you feel vaguely nauseous – and you certainly didn’t feel as if you’d been turned into a piece of laundry; beaten soundly, wrung out and left hung up to dry …

He groaned softly, rolled over into a slightly more comfortable spot and cautiously cracked open his eyelids. Soft sunlight greeted him, a wash of warm gold painting the interior of homely and welcoming room. There was a cheery fireplace, with an equally cheery fire, a sturdy chair sitting by it, and a matching sturdy table standing beneath an open window – the same window that framed the gentle shaft of light and was allowing those rich and wonderful scents to drift into room.

Alive – and safe, by the seem of things.

He used the support of the pillows to ease himself up into a semi-sitting position, frowning at how weak and shaky he felt. There was no one else in the room, and a faint skein of worry began to worm its way out of his heart and towards more conscious thought. The last thing he remembered – the very last thing – was feeling his partner stumble and fall as the world shuddered beneath them both. It was only a vague memory, a dim flash buried in among disjointed echoes of pain and distress, but it was there.

And his best friend wasn’t …

Things were pretty desperate, he recalled, trying to focus blurred and disjointed memories into something a little more concrete. His head was full of images and sensations; angled armoured bodies, a strong, bitter sweet scent, darkness, pain – lots of that, some of which still lingered in reality – short sharp flashes of light, and the sound of high pitched trills and whistles. He closed his eyes for a moment, following the memories back down into the dark, and then snapped them open again with a shiver. He’d been helpless. Dying. Only – Iolaus had been there. Had saved him. Had risked his own life to do so – and had put it at risk again, trying to save the world.

No – make that succeeding in saving the world. If his partner had failed, it was highly unlikely that he’d be lying where he was, bundled up in clean sheets and wool blankets with his clothes lying neatly stacked on the chest at the end of his bed.

So - where is he?

Somewhere, close by, someone began strumming a lute. A moment later, a strangely familiar voice began adding words to the tune.

"My love was born on a fresh spring day,
Under blue skies and the blossoming May,
I courted her through the season’s turn
I promised the earth if my love she’d return -
With passion and promise and love all three
We shared our hearts neath the greenwood tree."

Hercules blinked, not quite sure if he were hearing things. That sounded suspiciously like Joxer singing. And doing a pretty good job of it too.

"The tree is stark in the winter night
My arms are empty, my heart took flight;
For I lost my love in the autumn wind
And I wait alone for the spring …"

A second voice joined in with the first, adding a layer of laughter to the exuberance of the chorus. An unmistakable voice; Hercules relaxed back against the pillows with a relieved smile, recognising – not just the owner of the melodious tenor, but the cheery note that underpinned it. He’d spent too many days on the road listening to those merry tones to miss it; despite innumerable mock protests and teasing complaints, Iolaus wasn’t that bad a singer. Not bad at all, in fact; what he lacked in technical skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm – a talent he was busy demonstrating, out there in the warm sunshine.

"Oh, I will wait for the spring to come
The leaves to bud and the flowers to bloom
I’ll find a new love to share my life
I’ll court her, I’ll win her and make her my wife
With passion and promise and love, all threeeeeeee
We’ll share our hearts neath the greenwood tree."

A pause for breath – and the singers repeated the last lines of the chorus, serenading the day with blissful spontaneity.

"With passion and promise and love, all three
We’ll share our hearts neath the greenwood tree …"

The lute player strummed a dancing chord or two, clearly showing off with a flourish, and then both men succumbed to a fit of laughter, the hunter’s familiar giggle mingling with deeper, snorted tones. For Hercules – who, not that long ago, had been resigning himself to taking a one way boat trip to the Underworld with his best friend as company – it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

That does sound like Joxer …

"Hey!" he called good-naturedly. "Can’t a man enjoy his beauty sleep in peace around here?"

"Herc!" Iolaus’s head and shoulders popped up from beneath the window like a conjuring trick. "You’re awake!" Sunlight danced through his tousled curls, matching the twinkle of delight in his eyes – and the warmth of his grin, which curved practically from ear to ear. "Cool!" He vanished for a moment, then reappeared a few seconds later, hurtling through the door of the room to land with a bounce on the end of the bed. He was followed – at a slightly more sedate pace and with a hint of hesitancy – by a lanky figure wearing an ornate green and red jerkin, a matching hat with a feather dancing at the tip of it, and carrying a battered lute under his arm. Hercules blinked and took a second look. It wasn’t Joxer – but it looked disconcertingly like him.

"Theo, Herc, Herc, Theo," Iolaus announced with a grin, dancing his hand back and forth to facilitate the introduction. The demi-god acknowledged the new arrival with a friendly nod, and the musician responded with a wary smile. "Theo’s the one that organised the oil – well," the hunter corrected with an amused glance at the man concerned, "some of the oil. The stuff that was in the barrels originally. The rest was – probably Demeter’s doing, but she’s not turned up to confirm the fact. You wanna talk about overkill?" he asked with a snort. "The nest is still burning brightly out there. How ya feeling, buddy?"

Hercules took a moment to catch up with the question, working his way through the earlier statements and deciding he probably needed to hear the whole of the story before he could make any sense of them. "Alive," he admitted wryly. "Which is more than I expected to be."

"Ah," his partner considered, "that’s all Theo’s fault, too. He understood my message about throwing us a rope. For which I am eternally grateful," he added, giving the entertainer a look that made him blush with instant embarrassment.

"I didn’t do that much," he protested. "I mean – you were the one that went down there, and saved Timeon, and drowned the queen and carried Hercules out and everything. All I did was half drown you in oil - and I nearly let Lathius set you on fire too."

"Well, yeah," the hunter agreed, "but you didn’t. Something else I’m really grateful for …"

"Okay," Hercules chuckled, putting up his hands to halt the mutual flow of thanks and admiration. "I get the feeling there’s a long story here, and I only know a part of it. Someone like to fill me in on the bit’s I’ve missed? Like – who Theo actually is – and where I am right now?"

"Oh. Right." Theo reached to sweep off his hat and present himself with a deep and flourished bow. "Theodorus of Rhodes, musician, entertainer, and raconteur - at your service, son of Zeus." He straightened up and resettled his hat, leaving the feather bobbing above his head and manfully ignoring Iolaus’ half smothered giggles. "As for where you are, you’re in the precincts of Demeter’s temple – praise her beneficence."

"Yeah," Iolaus confirmed with a grin. "You’ve been asleep for three days straight. Ettian was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up."

Three days?

Hercules sank back against his pillows with disconcerted astonishment. No wonder his memories of recent events were foggy; if he were still feeling the after effects of the poison after three full days, then it must have been incredibly toxic. He was lucky to be alive.

"You can talk," Theodorus was saying, draping himself onto the nearest chair. "You only woke up yesterday. Well, got up, I should say. He ate supper the day before," he explained, eliciting a knowing grin from Hercules. "Three helpings worth."

"Four," Iolaus corrected cheerfully. "I was hungry."

"You’re always hungry," his partner pointed out with a soft laugh. Then he sobored a little, taking in the implications behind the entertainer’s jesting words. Iolaus looked okay – bright eyed, bouncing with energy and full of the joys of spring – but recent events had called on him to find far more in himself than any man might reasonably be asked to give. To risk – to face - far more than any man should ever need to. If his own experience in the nest had taught him anything, it was that he had long been undervaluing the price his friend had often been called upon to pay; the price he chose to pay, and went on paying, each and every time the Fates demanded.

What does it cost him, he wondered, drinking in the light in the man’s eyes and relishing the sweet sound of his happy giggle, to be my friend? How can I go on asking him to give so much of himself?

He already knew the answer. He’d known it for years. He just liked to take it out and study it from time to time. To remind himself of just how blessed he was, to have a friend who wasn’t just prepared to pay the price that was asked of him – but offered it with a free and willing heart. And never really asked for anything in return.

Because that’s who he is. Who he chooses to be. And why I would move heaven and earth to keep him by my side …

They had long ago given up on keeping track over who owed who the life that lay between them. Hercules suspected that – on this occasion – the balance lay very firmly on Iolaus’ side of the scale.

"I guess," he started to say, "ant wrangling could work up a man’s appetite … " Only his stomach rumbled – loudly – beating him to any intended punch line and reducing his best friend to absolute howl of laughter.

"You said it, Herc," Iolaus spluttered, rolling back onto the bed and hugging his ribs for want of laughing too hard. Theodorus tried to smother his own laughter behind a hastily lifted hand, and Hercules – after a moment of total chagrin – succumbed to the moment and joined in.

It felt good to laugh.

So good that he went on doing it, spurred by the pained and gasping antics of his best friend, who was now laughing so hard that he was struggling to catch his breath. It was a wonderful, spontaneous reaction, an expression of pure delight that – to Hercules at least - conveyed far more than words would ever do. There was no doubt that Iolaus had been worried sick by his incapacitation; the depth of his concern was being made perfectly clear by his relieved and delighted reaction at finding him well on the way to recovery.

It was a delight the son of Zeus was more than happy to reciprocate; despite his still weak and shaky state he was alive – and very grateful for the fact. Add that to the welcome discovery that his partner had managed to survive recent events with both his skin intact and his energies apparently undiminished, and he had more than enough reason to celebrate.

"Well," he observed, leaning back and smiling warmly at his friend’s antics, "I guess there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all of this."

"What’s that?" Theodorus asked curiously.

Hercules grinned. "Next time one of my relatives asks us to do them a favour? We'd better anticipate the worst …"

The sound of laughter drifted out across the courtyard, echoing through the temple compound and reaching the ears of an old man, sitting on the temple steps. Ocmon smiled; a quiet, knowing smile that recognised the joys of life and knew how much they should be treasured. The boy sitting at his feet looked up, reflecting the laughter with a happy smile of his own.

"This is the new one, Granpa," he said, thrusting a toy soldier into the old man’s hands. "Uncle Ettian promised he’d paint it, specially."

"Did he now?" Ocmon accepted the toy with care, turning the carved figure over and examining it with quiet pride. Ettian was an excellent craftsman, a credit to his parents and a worthy successor to his own long and dedicated servitude. He would have no regrets when his time finally came; he knew he would be leaving his valley in good hands. "So which hero is this one going to be? Perseus? Meleager? Theseus?"

"No," Timeon laughed, reclaiming the figure and carefully standing it up on the step next to the rest of his collection. "That one’s Theseus –and Meleager got eaten by the dog, remember? He’s still waiting to be fixed. No – this one’s special. This is gonna be the bestest, bravest, truest hero in the whole wide world."

"Really?" the old man smiled, reaching over to pick up one of the taller toy warriors and stand it beside its still unpainted companion. "Braver than this one?"

"Uhuh," the boy nodded, his eyes momentarily darting towards the guest houses and the real heroes he knew were currently occupying them. "Much braver. Hercules said - " He paused for a moment, reminded, no doubt, of the circumstances in which he’d held that particular conversation. "He said – there was one who was much braver. Braver than all the rest put together. And he was – wasn’t he."

Ocmon – who wasn’t anywhere as near as senile as he occasionally liked to appear – nodded sagely. "He certainly was," he agreed softly, reaching to ruffle the child’s hair. "And if that’s who we’ve been talking about, then he definitely belongs in your collection. Right where he’s standing," he added, pointing at the pairing of wooden figures with a smile. Timeon laughed.

"Oh granpa," he scolded warmly, "that’s Hector. This is Hercules." He lifted another of his toys and planted it firmly next to his newest model, knocking the other aside without concern. "And this," he concluded firmly, "is his partner. Iolaus."

He looked up to meet his great grandfather’s indulgent smile, his eyes dancing with awe and admiration – with hero-worship in its truest sense. "He promised he’d take me fishing. Once Hercules is well."

"Did he?" Ocmon noted sagaciously. "Well, that would explain why I found what I did on the altar this morning."

Timeon looked puzzled. "Why? What did you find?"

The old man grinned. "Just a jug – packed full of fat, squirming, maggots …"

Disclaimer:

No classic, black and white monster movie was harmed during the making of this tale, although the sound effects were re-used to provide appropriate atmosphere. The water level in Lake Hebris fell by at least two feet; the oil used to fill the ant nest is still burning.

And Iolaus has gone back to using bread for bait …