Homer found himself drawn to the mountainside he had walked once with the son of Troy and his flock. His guide brought him to a grassy outcrop, and Homer sent him away then, desiring some solitude.
The sun warmed his back, and he felt the peacefulness of the quiet mountain settling in his bones. Drawing aside his cloak, Homer felt for the curve of his harp and cradled it in his arm, beginning as he always did, first with the tuning, then with the rhythm, then with the gentle song.
“Muses, the flaming torch that Hecuba foresaw in dreams, that was foretold to be the doom of Troy, that torch has gone out and brought down with it the immortal fame of his city. Perhaps this is how Apollo’s will was brought to pass after all, even as a different hero died for the sake of his city, whether an unnatural death or the death of ignominy. So too, has his city perished in nameless, unmarked history. One last time will I tell this tale upon this mountainside, but I will not hide the names. I will remember what once was and was has been since. I will carry on the legacy before I depart and pass into my own lands, if the Fates allow me to return on one final journey home.”
Homer paused, about to begin, when he heard the faint bleating of sheep and thrum of hooves. The sounds grew gradually louder, and he heard a young boy calling and whistling. He pictured a golden-haired lad, much like the one with whom he had once sat on this mountain, but younger.
“Greetings, old sir,” came a young boy’s voice as the shepherd spotted Homer.
“Greetings. I am a stranger in these parts,” Homer paused a moment, pondering what to say or ask.
“Can you tell me of this place and of your kin? I once passed this place before, many years ago, and met a shepherd here who has passed over the River by now but who mayhap have kindred here.”
“I am called Corythus, and I am of the house of Agelaus.”
Homer started at the name. Could it be?
“Perchance, was there one named Paris in your ancient line?”
“Indeed! I am surprised you know that name, though, for he was but a poor shepherd like myself and my kin. I am named for his son, Corythus.”
“His name wound its way into one of my tales once, that is why,” Homer’s voice trailed off once more, before he remembered his listener.
“I can tell you of it, if you would like,” Homer offered. “In exchange, I would ask only for a tale of your own, perhaps of what you know of your family and the comings and goings of this mountain and the city below.”
“Gladly would I hear your story, although mine is little to offer in exchange,” Corythus dropped to the ground next to Homer with a lad’s enthusiasm at the prospect of this intriguing tale.
And so old Homer began once more, heart and mind finally at rest now that he knew the end of the story that he had begun and respun and found again in this chance meeting that could be only of the gods. Perhaps this was a reward from Athena, who knew the restlessness of an unsolved riddle and an unfinished tale.
It mattered not so much now the particulars of what Paris had done or said or how he had changed the course of war. The storyteller could rest now that the end was found, and he was glad that it seemed a happy one for both the sons of Priam. So he laid to rest the tale, with one last telling, of the breaker of horses and the keeper of sheep. And which version did he tell? Well, it was something in between what had been and what had become.
So harped Homer his hero tale one final time on green Mount Ida above the seagulls’ cries and the mighty walls of Troy.
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