Chapter One: The Bard

Chapter Two: The Mountain

The firelight flickered to life under Paris’ skilled hands.  As it grew in strength, it danced shadows upon Paris’ noble features and cast a mountain of crags upon Homer’s own wrinkled face—a pair of contrasts, young past and ancient future, untested youth and wizened age.

“There are still many turns of the sun dial left in the day,” Homer said, “If you wish, I will continue the tale.”

“Please, continue,” Paris urged, “It will help to speed the passing of the storm, and perhaps your tune will calm the sheep.  I relish not spending hours crowded in with them like this, especially if they are restless as they are wont to be when the skies are uneasy.”

Homer too hoped the story might distract.  The smoke stung his eyes as it clung low to the ground, and it did little to disperse or cloak the stench of the flock in such close quarters, even if the sheep were crowded into the rear of the cave, away from the entrance where he and Paris sat by the flames.  Homer briefly pictured himself in the place of Odysseus in the cave of the Cyclops and wondered how Odysseus and his men had born the sheep stench after weeks of living with the sheep—and then to strap themselves to the sheep underbellies for their ultimate escape—

Homer brought himself back to the present abruptly, realizing Paris must think him a wandering old fool if he stared off silently, eyes unfocused in thought, for much longer.

Unwrapping the lyre again, Homer listened intently to the strings’ voices and tightened a few of them until their tone satisfied him.  Straightening a little as he remained seated, he half-turned to Paris and then began to speak again, half to the lad and half to the storm-thrashed scene before them, his voice slightly raised to carry above the sound of the sheep and the storm.

The storm seemed to bring the story to life even more, matching the violence of war with the violence of Zeus’ bolts and the torrent of arrows and spears with the torrent of rain.  A torrent to match the bloodshed on the fields before Troy’s walls, and crashes of thunder to match the unchecked fury of gods and men.

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“Your voice must grow tired,” Paris said, raising a hand respectfully as he interjected in a pause in Homer’s story.

Turning to his pack, Paris drew out a wineskin and passed it to Homer.

“I thank you.  I see that your parents have raised one who respects the aged.”

“You speak kindly, sir, but I know not who my parents may be.  A shepherd of the mountain found and raised me from my infancy.  It is he whose herd I keep and whose craft I have learned, who taught me to respect the wise and share what little I have with strangers in need.”

“He taught you well, then, and I bless him for his teaching as I enjoy its fruits this day,” Homer smiled and handed the wineskin back to Paris, who took a mouthful of it as well.

Night drew its shades about the cave, and eventually Homer and Paris slept.  As Homer closed his eyes, he wondered if he would find himself back in the sightless future, only to find this all a dream.  Silently, he made a request, that if this be not a dream, he might be given time to finish his task and make one more journey in the past before his return.

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When Homer woke the next morning, the cave mouth still wore a veil of rain and gloom.  After breaking their fast with dry bread and cheese, Paris and Homer resumed their seats by the fire, which Paris woke to life with quick skill, saying, “I should enjoy hearing the rest of your tale, if you are willing, seeing that the storm continues to keep us here.”

“Gladly will I wile the hours some more,” Homer agreed.  “Now, where did I leave off?” he said, half to himself.

“Hephaestus was forging new armor for Alastor, at the request of Thalia, his mother,” Paris prompted.

“Ah, yes, indeed, that was the place,” Homer concurred, lyre in hand once more and familiar lines springing to his lips.

Had the storm been sent by the same forces that had sent him here? Homer wondered, for within a short time of his closing words about the death of Hector, the sun broke through the clouds, and the rain ceased.

“How glorious the day becomes, but at such a tragic ending,” Paris mused, getting to his feet, “Thank you for sharing your tale, learned one.  It gives me much to think on and makes me dream of a time when I shall do more hero’s work than this sheep-tending.”

“If that is what you have learned from this story, then I fear you have not been attending well,” Homer responded, with a seriousness that took Paris aback.  “The time has come for me to reveal the full truth of why I have come here and told you this tale.”