Green trees and grass blew where sand and scrub had been, and Homer saw that he was on a mountain.  In the distance, water glinted, and the sky above was rising dawn-rosy and red.  There would be rain soon.  The wind was becoming gustier and the sky darker in the west, juxtaposing the growing daylight to the east.

Carried on the wind, the bleating of sheep and soft thump of hooves on turf drifted up toward Homer.  Around a shoulder of mountain rock, a flock emerged, clambering clumsily up the slope.  A merry whistle followed them, and a young man appeared, driving his flock from below.

“Greetings,” Homer saluted the man, “I am a stranger to this land and far from my home.  What place is this, and what do they call you?”

“This mount is called Ida, and I am called Paris,” the golden-haired man smiled warmly.

“Then I am near illustrious Ilium,” Homer mused aloud to himself.

“Yes, old sir,” Paris replied, sitting on the knoll beside the bright-eyed stranger while the sheep began to scatter and graze above them.

“Thank you for your kindness, young Paris.  I am a harper, and in other places am called Homer.  My tales have spread far and wide over land and sea, for I know of mighty men, feats of arms, and bloody battles, the fall of cities and heroes, and the rise of new ones.”

“Would you spin me a tale while we rest here, sir?” Paris asked, eager for a new tale to wile away the hours.

Homer strummed his harp several times, first adjusting the tune of the strings, then finding a rhythm.  Then he began at the beginning, where the fall of Ilium had begun, with a fair shepherd on Mount Ida who met three strangers.  Lest his hearer refuse to hear the story, though, Homer changed the names and places.

“Muses, gather, and help me weave this story into poetry and song.  Once a young shepherd was strolling along.  Strangers, three, he met upon his lonely mountainside, and he knew not who they were, although they knew him by name.  From him they sought a single answer to three riddles and three offers.  But was the test a test of them, as it seemed, or perhaps a test of him?  Mayhap the story will reveal the answer to this riddle within the riddle.  Listen, and you shall see.”

An hour slipped by under the magic of story-song and lyre before Paris noticed the looming storm was almost upon them.

“Sir, your story I tire not to hear, but a storm approaches.”

Homer’s hands stilled, and Paris continued, “Is your journey’s end near, or would you seek shelter with me in the nearby cave that is my retreat when Zeus is restless in the skies?  I think the storm may be long and last into the night.”

“My journey’s end is far and must wait until the storm sails on, indeed.  I thank you for your hospitality.”

Homer wrapped his lyre in the folds of his cloak and rose with the aid of Paris’ proffered shoulder.  Then, Paris clambered to his feet, shepherd’s crook back in his hands, and began whistling and regathering his herd, driving them ever upward, with Homer behind.