One of only a few immortals to actually live on earth, Aeolus, at any time, could also command Notus to blow in any desired scent, filling the house with whatever fragrance he wished: roses from the gardens of Moab, honeysuckle from Damascus, salty drops off the Black Sea, or the pungent smells of Syrian cooking spices.
Hera, however, was completely oblivious to these earthly delights. She had summoned Aeolus to his workroom at the tip of the island very, very early that morning. When he had entered, she was silhouetted against the huge panes of glass that formed one wall, allowing a view of whatever lands the island was passing. She hovered in the air just off the floor, her eyes trained on him like a falcon’s. His fear didn’t register clearly because the skin on Aeolus’s face was always pulled back tightly, as if he were in the path of a hurricane, but his body was shaking badly. He had stood silently, quivering for several minutes, before she finally descended and began yelling.
Now she paced about his workroom with angry, lumbering steps. Aeolus ran after her frantically, righting jars of winds, catching pots of gusts and gales, and steadying mixing bowls that were bumped and jostled as she passed by table after table.
“You call that a storm?” she screamed, turning suddenly, the sleeve of her brilliant blue robe knocking over a jar labeled WINDS OF CHANGE. “I specifically came to you for a bone-cracking, boat-breaking, lungs-filled-with-water, sink-to-the-bottom
storm!
One that would send those girls tumbling into the sea! You’re the silly King of Winds, for my sake! You’re supposed to know which winds to mix together to produce the right effect. But I could have done better simply by exhaling!”
“That would kill us all,” muttered Aeolus very quietly under his breath, fixing the lid on the jar she’d almost spilled.
“Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that. Did you say something?” barked Hera, crossing to him with one large stride.
“I said, gracious Queen of Heaven,” he recovered quickly, “that it was still a squall. I did try my best, my lady. And it should have worked.”
“It didn’t!” said Hera. “So before I have you tied to the Sirens’ rock and let their singing drive you mad for eternity, what else do you have for me?”
She forced a smile onto her face as if to say “How hard can it be? I’m
so
easy to please!” Opening her arms wide as she looked about the room, she sent a large clay pot crashing to the floor.
“Ahh!” cried Aeolus, withering slightly.
“Oops. Sorry . . . was it important?”
“No. No.” Aeolus fought to keep himself from collapsing with rage and sorrow. “Just a rare wind from Carthage. One that brings the scent of war. Almost extinct. In a one-of-a-kind pot about three thousand years old. But no—no biggie.”
“Good. So . . . what else?”
“Well, of course, great one . . . of course I’ll formulate just the right thing for your needs,” Aeolus said. “But unless these old eardrums have been permanently wind damaged, you did say you didn’t necessarily want the girls killed, right?”
“Killed? No . . . it’s not time yet. Someone in a position of power on Olympus—who shall remain nameless but is my husband—would become extremely suspicious and spoil all the fun I’m having. So, killed? No. But I expected you to at least get them into the water! Then I could send a few flesh-eating sea creatures to mangle them a bit. Make it look like an accident, that sort of thing. That’s what I want! Go ahead, get to work. I’ll just wait here.”
She plopped into his favorite chair, the one he always sat in to create his wind recipes; the one that he’d sat on for centuries, which curved so comfortably to his bottom.
Aeolus spun on his heels and furtively surveyed his huge workroom. Jars upon jars, a few older ones of clay and porcelain, but most of clear glass, lined the shelves along the walls, stretching from the floor to the ceiling some twenty meters high. There were thousands of them, each labeled with the type of wind or gust inside, where it came from, and what its best uses were.
Blowa-Blowa (medium strength), from the region south of the great Sahara Desert, good for shaking spiders and snakes from the tops of trees.
Northeasterly Winds (strong), off of the great ocean that lay to the west of the Mediterranean, excellent for driving ships miles off course.
Coif Cruncher (strong), from the icy lands to the north, best used for ruining women’s perfectly styled hairdos (for special occasions) in one cold blast.
Whizzer (medium), a short, sharp burst of hot air out of Syria; used to blow reams of important papyrus papers out of the hands of politicians as they left the government houses.
Somna-Gust (mild), from the Dead Sea, often used by Morpheus in combination with Baby-Lamb’s Breath when cranky children refuse to go to sleep.
He had them all cross-referenced and categorized.
One whole wall was filled with containers of winds to be mixed only with various rains: Helter-Pelter, Wet Wash, and the furious Toga-Soak—a wet wind so powerful it could waterlog a person’s undergarments in mere seconds.
Another large section contained winds and gales to be used only at sea: Mast-Snapper, Scent of Land, and the inescapable Maelstrom, the wind Aeolus used to create deadly whirlpools.
A row of jars sitting on the bottom shelf housed winds specifically designed for natural disasters, such as the Volcanic Ash Carrier and Boulder Assist, to help move rocks and stones a little farther during earthquakes and landslides.
And a smaller section still was the single shelf, high in a back corner, where Aeolus kept the subtle and delicate indoor winds: Whisper Breath, Candle-Out, and the mysterious Breeze for an Empty Room.
Some jars were filled with smoky black, gray, or silver swirls, others had brown bits and chunks of filth suspended in midair and several had faint sounds coming through the glass—like voices crying out in pain or laughter. A few were rocking, teetering, or rattling; these were secured to the wall by leather straps. But most of the thousands of jars were clear and still.
Aeolus glanced up at his almost endless collection. What concoction could he mix to please the great Hera? What was the right formula? High overhead was a jar labeled Hurricane Extract. But he’d already combined that with Tincture of Typhoon for this last storm and, to put it mildly, it didn’t have the desired effect.
“How was I to know the girl had a magic rope?” he whispered to himself.
There were the winds he’d always counted on to serve as the best foundations for his blends: Sirocco— Arabian Desert. Monsoon Additive. Tempest—Large. Tempest—Small. Zephyr Zest. Strong Wind Base. Gale Gel. Winds of Insanity. Mountain Pass Winds. Hot Air. Windbag. Wind for Shivers. Sudden Breeze.
He desperately wanted to use Thunderstorm Elixir again, but knew that would require some more of Zeus’s lightning bolts and Hera had made it quite clear that not only was Zeus not to be involved in any way, but she didn’t even want her husband to know.
“Do you want to know what I’ll do to you if you tell him I was here?” she cooed to him when she’d requested the first storm.
“Oh gosh, lovely one, I really don’t,” Aeolus replied.
“Good, I’ll tell you,” Hera said. And she proceeded to explain just how hard it would be to mix winds with all ten of his fingers protruding from his backside and his nose stuck on top of his right knee.
Finally, Aeolus spotted a jar on one of the highest shelves; a jar with a tiny black funnel inside. He sighed deeply. Hera looked up at him and, following his gaze, rose immediately on her huge haunches.
“What? What is it? You’ve got your beady eyes on something!”
“Well,” he said, “. . . it is something . . . it’s just that it’s not entirely ready! There’s still more testing to be done!”
“What is it? We can test it on the girl. Go get it, get it!”
“Yes, gracious Hera. Notus! I need you—attend!”
A rush of the South Wind instantly filled the workroom and Aeolus was lifted off the floor, his dark robes flying and his long gray hair whipping in all different directions. He pointed to the glass jar with the tiny swirling funnel and was carried toward it like a weightless feather. He grabbed the jar and gave a quick little nod. He descended slowly and gently until at last his feet touched the floor.
“Thank you, Notus,” Aeolus said as he crossed to the worktable, and the wind rushed outside once more. There was a soft tinkling of silver wind chimes in reply.
“Sheesh!” sneered Hera. “Such a production. I could have just snapped my fingers, you know. Had it on the table in an instant.”
“The Queen of Heaven is too kind,” Aeolus said, bowing low and trying not to sound irritated, “but we have our own little system. Perhaps a bit showy, yes, but it keeps Notus busy. We like to keep things moving around here, if you know what I mean.”
“As you please,” Hera said. Then she glanced at the jar Aeolus was holding and a wicked smile began to form. “Now what
is
that? Let me see it.”
Slowly, Aeolus withdrew his arms from around the jar.
Inside was a small, black, circular funnel. The large end was at the top and a small point was moving back and forth across the bottom of the glass. It writhed and wriggled, twisting back in on itself like a serpent.
“Now
that
I like!” Hera clapped her hands together like a child. “I don’t even know what it is, but I get a good feeling of destruction from it!”
“I call it a Tornado,” Aeolus said. “I’ve only tested it once or twice, and not in the known world. I usually experiment on a terrain far across the ocean, where there are great plains and large expanses of flatland. The small end of the funnel touches the earth and plows a trough through anything it finds. And it sucks things, animals and trees and the like, up into the funnel, whirls them around for a bit, and then spits them out miles away.”
“Now that’s just genius!” Hera squealed.
“It still has a few glitches, though.”
“Like what?” said Hera, although Aeolus could tell that her mind was already made up.
“Sometimes it inverts itself and the large end touches the earth. It’s a little sloppier, not quite as delicate. Also, sometimes it just fizzles out. And then sometimes it doesn’t touch the earth at all.”
“I don’t care, I love it! Use it!” said Hera.
“But . . . ,” said Aeolus.
“I can still see to it that you give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘sitting on your hands’,” she threatened.
“As Hera commands,” Aeolus said quickly.
“Good! Use it immediately. Oh, I am so excited about this,” Hera said, gathering her robes and preparing to leave. “Now I will show you how the great Olympians get around. None of this blowing to and fro on the top of a wind nonsense. Good day, Aeolus.”
And with a giant puff of silver and blue smoke, the majestic Hera was gone, leaving only the sound of her voice purring hideously . . .
“And
this
time, it had better work!”
11:33 a.m.
Just at that moment, a cry went up from the top of the deck.
“Lighthouse! Lighthouse!”
The cry woke all three girls. Pandy from her musings on what lay ahead, and Alcie and Iole from their naps.
Alcie flew into the passageway, almost colliding with the captain on his way up to the top.
“All of you, on deck. Where’s Homer? Hurry. One’s first entrance into the Great Harbor at Alexandria is something not to be missed!”
The girls, with Homer following, jostled each other playfully as to who would be the first to reach the deck and set eyes on the magnificent lighthouse.
Dido won.
11:34 a.m.
“I don’t see it,” said Alcie.
“Neither do I,” said Iole.
“Hang on,” said Pandy. “My dad told me about this . . . he’s seen it lots of times. It starts off as a speck. Sometimes sailors are specially trained just to spot the lighthouse.”
Pandy, Alcie, Iole, Homer, and Dido stood at the railing, all eyes searching the horizon for something different, strange, miraculous. All over the ship, sailors were making ready to put into port.
“Aren’t they excited?” asked Alcie. “We’re the only ones who seem to be excited.”
“It’s probably just another day to them,” said Homer.
It was true; most of the sailors had made this voyage back and forth from Greece to Egypt many times before, so watching for the beacon of light that would guide the
Peacock
past the jagged rocks and into Alexandria was nothing to them. The girls, however, were ready to be in complete and total awe.
“Is that it?” said Iole. “No, it was just the sun reflecting off of a wave.”
“What’s that?” said Alcie, hopefully. “Oh, figs. Never mind. It’s a fishing boat in the distance.”
Suddenly, Dido gave a tremendous bark. And then another. And another.
Pandy knelt down by her dog. His eyes were almost completely white, so trying to follow his gaze was next to impossible; only a thin blue ring around his white irises told Pandy where to look.