The Myth of Alexander and Penelope

Penelope stood in the center of the room. Her arms were extended to allow the

servant to attend her. The room was bare and white, and there was only one other to

assist her – just as the tradition demanded.

She waited for a minute or two as the old crone (the words were affectionate ones,

thought in the same way that a man might call his beloved wife a pig) finished her work,

as she clipped and hemmed and sewed until her charge was presentable. There was no

copper mirror in the room, no way to ensure that the woman did her work well. There

was only Penelope’s faith in her, born of long years together. When she pronounced the

task finished Penelope had not a second’s hesitation in lowering her arms and smoothing

out her dress.

At the same moment the bell rang, and the clear silver tones found their way

inside her body and gave her an energy and a joy and a clarity of mind that she had not

felt before. The old servant smiled beside her.

“You’re as lovely as a goddess, miss,” she said. “As lovely as Chryses herself.

The poets will sing of you for years.”

Penelope laughed; the same bright, unvarnished sound as the bell.

“Perhaps they will sing of you,” she said. “The woman who had power to make

mortals seem like gods.”

The old woman turned red, both in gratitude and in humble recognition of her

own quiet skill. Penelope laughed again and kissed her brow.

“Go in peace, my dear,” she said. “May the gods smile at our next meeting.”
 “And may they grant us peace until that day,” she servant finished. She stood for

a moment, admiring her mistress. Then she turned and walked out of the room.

Penelope stood still in breathless exultation. The moment was like standing at the

edge of the river, and knowing that the water would be cool delight to your skin, but

hesitating just a moment to enhance the sweetness. Tonight marked the first time she

would be publicly identified as his, a week and three days before the wedding itself. Just

as the tradition demanded.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The guests would be waiting. Time for

celebration would come soon enough. Now it was time to meet the village outside. She

reached out an olive-skinned hand and pushed open the door.

Marble colonnades and thatched roofs greeted her eyes. The great courtyard of

her parents’ estate was connected to the room. From it a thousand sights and smells and

sounds struck her senses. A group of minstrels were entertaining passers-by with songs

from the Roman lands. Tunics rustled in the same easy breeze that carried gossip from

the housewives. In the center of the courtyard a lamb was roasting on a spit. All of it

was traditional, all of it familiar, and all its familiarity was only a tribute to the utter

abnormality of the event being celebrated.

Penelope fought again the pinpricks of joy in her eyes, searched for some bit of

steady normalcy to keep her anchored. She found her parents at the places of honor at the

table and approached them.

Her mother in her passionate devotion kissed Penelope on her cheeks. Her father

in his gentleness pulled her into a soft embrace. Neither of them said anything, but all
that they meant was in their eyes, in the joyous but almost disbelieving way they touched

her, as though she were a specter too wondrous to be real.

She sat down at the table and watched as their goblets were filled with new wine.

She was not offered it; a bride to be could not drink of the fruit of the vine until she was

consecrated to her husband. Penelope did not mind. What she did mind, what was at

once anchor and silent tormentor, was the pretense of ritual, the act that she and all of her

guests put on to pretend to convince themselves that this was a normal festival of

engagement. As though any semblance of normalcy could be real, knowing the identity

of the groom. The illusion kept her sane, it also seemed close to driving her mad, to

spurring her heart to leaps and still greater leaps until it collapsed, to cutting off her

breath until he came, to stirring her emotions to a fevered pitch that could be stopped

only by –

A trumpet! Yes, he was coming! He was here! She stood immediately, and the

guests followed suit. For a moment the courtyard was silent but for the crackle of flames.

Then he came into view, and though no one spoke a word or twitched a limb the place

came alive with crackling energy and deafening noise. He walked straight through the

crowd, a head taller than every man, his smile brighter, his hair fuller, his eyes more

alive. He stepped through the sea of faces until he came to Penelope’s side.

She wished to cry out in delight, and also to be silent; to rush into his arms, and

also to be still. She wished, most of all, to speak, to say something to the man she knew

nearly nothing about but would soon be pledged to forever, but he placed a finger to her

lips and whispered, “The priest is about to begin.”

 As if he were waiting for those very words the priest in his purple robes raised his

hands for the attention of the people. He was a tall, thin man who had been in service to

Alexander for nineteen years. He spoke with both the rustic confidence of rote and also

with the passion of a man with new purpose.

“We have upon this spit a dead lamb,” he said, his deep, strong voice rolling

across the courtyard. “It has been slaughtered for our sustenance, and for that of our

children. But on this night of joy it is fitting that we should offer up a live one to the

Lord Alexander, the provider of all we have reason to celebrate.”

The crowed bowed their heads as one, all of them but the man at Penelope’s side,

who surveyed the scene with a cool confidence that it is not fitting for a man to have.

After a brief silence a newborn lamb was led to the priest, who placed his hands over it

and offered up a silent prayer. Beside Penelope her husband-to-be smiled as if he could

hear the words on the priest’s heart.

The priest finished his prayer and withdrew the ceremonial dagger (a bronze

blade, set into a golden hilt laid with rubies) from his robes. He lifted it above the lamb,

waited for a moment, then plunged it into the beast’s neck.

“For you, my Lord Alexander,” he said.

Beside Penelope the god of love quietly slipped his hand into hers. “Thank you.”

* * * * * *

The first time Penelope heard the word destiny was the first time it was applied to

her. She was eight years old.

 Perhaps it is untrue to say that to say she had never heard it before. The word had

been hidden in shadows, in awed whispers, in meaningful glances she never

comprehended, in thoughts she would never hear spoken, since she was an infant. But no

man had ever spoken to her plainly until the purple-robed priest of Alexander looked

down at her and calmly told her who she was and what she was expected to do.

Her mother had woken her up that morning with the sun, and had personally

helped her to bathe and be clothed. Penelope had watched with pleased confusion. Her

mother and father were very rich and she seldom saw them until the sun had begun its

descent in the sky. But no complaint rose on her lips; Penelope loved her mother very

dearly.

But that morning she was acting peculiarly. She was quiet, and when Penelope

asked her mother to be excused to attend her lessons her mother said that her lessons had

been set aside for a special meeting with the priest of Alexander. She would not tell

Penelope the reason for the meeting.

Then the priest himself had come and had asked her mother to leave him alone

with Penelope. He was a quiet sort of man, with a booming voice that was only raised

when he performed his duties at the temple. Penelope liked him in his own manner, but

she could not help but feel strange in his presence. He had a holiness about him, a

separation from the simple and mundane and physical that came (she knew this, even at

her tender age) from long hours spent in the presence of the gods. She found that she

could not meet his eyes for more than an instant, and she answered all his questions in the

most demure of voices.

 He seemed to notice her behavior after a few minutes, and even with her head

slightly bowed she knew that he smiled.

“Penelope,” he said. “Do I set you ill at ease?”

Penelope twirled her hair before she answered. “Yes.”

The priest straightened his back. “It is good that this is so. You sense that I have

fellowship with the gods, and that I am changed for it. But what is strange to you now

shall one day be familiar. You shall have a greater bond with the gods than I. You shall

know Alexander – even, perhaps, Alexander’s father” (here the priest bowed, for the

father of Alexander and all the gods was holy and just beyond the knowledge of mortals).

Penelope sat still. Then she asked the only question that came to her mind:

“Why?”

The priest’s smile became grave. “It is your destiny, child,” he said. “You were

chosen by Alexander through his Oracle, on the day you were born. You are one of the

Great Ones. You will be blessed by the gods, but especially by the Lord Alexander.”

“What does that mean?” said Penelope in a small voice.

The priest shrugged. “I do not know. I am young for a priest, but even those who

have been long in the gods’ service cannot predict their will. They are without chains,

child, free as we are not. Lord Alexander will do as he wishes with you. But it is only

fitting that you should know, that you should be aware of your calling.”

At this he reclined in his chair, as though he waited for Penelope to say

something. But she had nothing to say. She did not understand the things the priest had

said. She did not know what it meant; she knew only that it was of great and grand

nature and that it had to do, somehow, with her. So she was silent.
 Minutes passed by in that discomfiting silence. Then the priest stood up, bowed

his head, and told Penelope that he had business to attend to, and that she would see him

often after this.

“May the gods smile at our next meeting,” he said.

“And may they grant us peace until that day,” she answered.

When the priest had departed, her mother came back into the room. They both

were silent. Part of Penelope longed to ask her mother what all of it meant, but another

part of her said that this was something even her mother knew nothing of.

But she did speak, later that day, with her dearest friend, Demas, as he returned

home from his father’s forges (in truth the forges belonged to Penelope’s own parents,

but Penelope in her mind always thought of them as belonging to Demas’ family).

Penelope told him the whole story, and Demas had listened in his quiet, attentive

way. He did not speak until she had finished, and then it was only to ask.

“What is destiny?”

Penelope had waved her hand airily, as she had seen her mother do when

speaking to the less educated. “What each of us was born to do,” she said. “Our purpose,

I suppose. Father says destiny is highly lauded by the poets.”

Demas looked at her without comprehension. “Oh,” he said simply. For a

moment Penelope was puzzled that anyone could be ignorant of the poets. Then she

remembered that he was only a blacksmith’s son, and that the poets to him were as

unknown as the faces of the gods.

* * * * * * *
 It was Demas who was Penelope’s first friend. His parents were slaves to her

own; his mother helped clean the house and his father served as blacksmith for the estate

and for the village. They were good slaves, and Penelope’s parents treated them well.

The family lived only a short distance from Penelope’s own home, and her parents

encouraged her to play with Demas. And so they grew together.

Demas was as solid as the metal he and his father worked with. He stayed in the

forges from dawn until dusk, but he was given an hour in the morning and at midday with

which to amuse himself. Every day he would set out a few yards down the path and wait

for Penelope to come down the road and take him walking. He was just as taciturn with

his friends as he was in the forge. He spoke little, seldom embraced her, and never took

her hand. But he was always present when she wanted or needed him. If she was excited

or curious he would listen to her exclamations or her probing questions. If she had

discovered a new game he would patiently play it in spite of his weariness. And as they

grew older he would put a hand on Penelope’s shoulder if she began to cry, or pick her up

and carry her home if she was injured in the forest.

It was their difference of birth – the very thing that should have created a distance

between them too great to overcome – that made them close. Penelope, for all her

kindness and generosity of spirit, was full of the sophistication and mannerisms of

nobility. Demas had all the simplicity of a peasant, but with a heart that was fully

devoted to the things he loved. She was enlivened by his simple sincerity; he was awed

by her beauty and propriety. And they both were happy.

But as the seasons changed, as leaves died and rose and died and rose again, the

minds of the people towards Penelope changed, their talk fell more and more to the
mysterious calling of the Oracle. She grew more beautiful by the day. Her kindness was

unmatched by any in the village. She held herself with more grace and poise than the

highest of nobles, and she was more humble than the poorest of beggars. The blessings

of Alexander were clear. But what was the child’s destiny? What was she to do?

One day as she was walking through the streets a woman approached her with her

little daughter. The girl could not be older than nine, and she looked at Penelope as

though she were looking at a prophet. The woman eyed her with fear, and with hope, and

she led the child closer.

“Bless my daughter, Penelope,” she said. “Please, Great One, bless her.”

Penelope was taken aback. “If you need a blessing why do you not take her to the

temple to be blessed by the priest?”

The woman shook her head. “You were chosen by Lord Alexander himself.

Where you go, his spirit goes in greater measure than in any temple.”

Penelope considered for a moment. “What blessing does she need?”

The woman bowed her head. “We are poor, Penelope,” she said. “My daughter

must have some provision, but my husband and I will not have money to help her in the

future. Her only chance to be happy is if she has a husband. You know the god of love

more intimately than any other mortal. Pray to Alexander, and ask him to find a husband

for my daughter.”

Penelope listened to the woman intently, but all the while she felt ill. She had

only ever prayed in the closed walls of her own home and in the silence of the temple.

And this woman was asking her to pray for something she did not know would be

granted. She was making Penelope the master of her fate. What would come if Penelope
failed? If she prayed, but to no effect? If this little girl spent her life waiting for her

blessing from Alexander, waiting for some prince to carry her away, only to find herself a

grey-haired old woman with nothing to her name but broken dreams?

“I cannot, ma’am,” she said. “I don’t know if he would listen to me, and I would

not condemn your daughter to a life of poverty.”

“She is condemned already,” the woman said with tears. “Please, Penelope!”

Penelope took a deep breath. It was impossible. A foolish fancy. The gods

would not give this power to mortals. But Penelope knelt down beside the little girl and

touched her hand to her brow.

“Lord Alexander,” she said in a quavering voice. “I beseech you, bless this child.

Watch over her, and if it pleases you, find her a husband that is fitting for her.”

For a moment nothing happened. Then, red mist rose from the ground and

covered her hand. When it disappeared there was a purple flame upon her palm – the

mark of Alexander.

The old woman fell to her knees and cried out an ancient blessing upon the gods.

Then she kissed Penelope on the brow, and led her child away, singing a hymn.

Penelope stared at her hands, then at the sky. She was not certain, but she thought

she could hear a voice in her mind say, It shall be as you ask, my dear.

She shook her head, filled with the wonder and the terror of the gods. Penelope

turned and saw the priest of Alexander standing in the distance, watching her and

smiling. He bowed his head, and she saw his lips form the words: “This shall not be the

last.”
 Then she walked home, looking neither to the left or the right, straight to Demas’

forge. He was not inside. She fell down and covered her face with her hands, trembling.

A firm, gentle hand gripped her shoulder. “Penelope?”

She looked up, and Demas was standing over her. His brown eyes were tight with

concern, and she flung herself into his arms, weeping.

“Penelope, what has happened?” he said.

Penelope took in a deep, shuddering breath and told her story. She told him of the

voice that she had heard, and of the priest’s words, and of her own horror at the thought

of what might happen to the child. She told him everything, and when she finished she

dried her eyes and looked at him.

“What does it mean, Demas?” she said. “The mark of Alexander…my prayer

being answered…What does it mean?”

Demas heaved a great sigh. “I don’t know, Penelope,” he said. “I will not lie and

give you answers I do not have. But I do know this: you helped that girl. You did

something for her even though it frightened you and you did not know that it would

work. That means more than anything else. It shows…” he paused, his brows knitted, as

he struggled to find the words he wanted. “It shows just what sort of person you are. It

shows that the people love you for good reason.”

Penelope placed her hand over her heart. Demas’ words were like balm to soothe

her fear, and she embraced him again in gratitude. “You are too good to me,” she said.

When she pulled away Demas’ face had turned bright red. “I don’t know about

that,” he said. Then, in jest, he added, “Perhaps I am part of your blessing from

Alexander.”
 Penelope laughed. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I have a feeling that Alexander’s

blessing will come in the form of a husband. Perhaps some prince, or lord, some man

with a great love to give…” her voice trailed off in longing. The thing she had given to

the young girl today, when would it come for herself?

Beside her Demas smiled, though his smile seemed to her as though it were

wooden. “Alexander is a god of love, isn’t he?” he said. “Do you not always say that

friendship is the love most praised by the poets and the philosophers?”

Penelope laughed again. “Indeed,” she said. “But Alexander is first a god of

romantic love.”

“He is?” said Demas, and there was a light in his eyes. She knew that it meant

something to him, something tremendous, but she could not divine what it was, and when

she pressed him he would not speak.

In fact, Penelope herself did not know the significance of this simple fact. Neither

of them would know until the eve of her twenty-first birthday.

* * * * * *

A young girl’s twenty-first birthday was a grand occasion. It marked her passing

from childhood to full womanhood. It marked that she was now held accountable under

the ancient laws of the gods. It marked that she was ready for Alexander to give her a

husband.

The priest had summoned Penelope a few days before the celebration. He had sat

her down, looked her in the eyes, and told her that he believed that Alexander might soon

manifest himself.
 “How?” she had asked, with bright eyes. The blankness, the unknowing

indifference that had been present at their first meeting, was now quite gone. She knew

Alexander. She had performed other signs in the years since she had prayed over the

young girl, had gone to the temple daily to worship. She had not heard his voice again,

but she felt certain at times that were she to turn around she would see the god of love,

standing, waiting to fulfill her calling.

The priest smiled. “Always ‘how’ and why’,” she said. “You know that I do not

know. He may mark you. He may present you with a suitor. He may do anything or

nothing at all. But the twenty-first birthday is when a woman is given into the care of

Alexander until she is married. I thought it only right to warn you.”

Penelope had thanked the priest, bowed, and excused herself. But the light in her

eyes and in her heart was not diminished. It remained with her as she stepped through the

streets, and it drew the people to her in even greater numbers than they usually flocked –

the people she loved, that she had spent all her days with. They had always loved her,

and she was stricken with gratitude in these moments when they showed it.

She went to the baker’s, to ensure that the promised loaves would come. She

went to her father as he rested from his long talks with ambassadors and traders from far-

off lands. She went to Demas’ forge and extracted a promise from him that he would

come to the celebration early and sit with her at the place of honor. Then she went to her

home, and rested, and let the days following melt into a stream of expectation and

contentment, until finally her twenty-first birthday arrived.

All of her small village was gathered in the courtyard of her home. The elders,

and her parents, and Demas sat at the head table, while all the other guests were seated at
other tables. To the side of the courtyard was a small pile of gifts brought by those

friends and family who could afford them.

Penelope was veiled, and she was glad of it, for the gifts and the love of the

people swelled her heart and brought sweet tears to her eyes. She was a woman, now.

She carried the sacred light, the warm strength of a woman, and it was all due to the

people before her. Beside her Demas smiled as though he could see the tears behind her

veil and wanted to show his own love.

There was food, and drinks, and games. Joyous talk floated lightly in the air,

whisked away and back again by the wind. Friends came to embrace, old women to

impart wisdom. Demas presented her with a polished bronze mirror for her bedroom.

Her parents wiped tears from their own eyes and told her that they were proud.

When the sun began to sink, and the sky to be painted by deep hues of purple and

blue, all of the guests gathered in the center of the courtyard. Penelope and the priest of

Alexander stood in the midst of them. The priest gave her a blessing, and she smiled

through the veil. Then he led the village in a prayer to Alexander, and her swelling heart

was pierced with longing, by the desire for the great god to show himself, to

acknowledge her on this day.

The priest finished his prayer, and the temple dancers performed a dance in honor

of the great Father of the gods, whose name was not spoken by mortals, for by his name

all things were spoken into existence. All of the people bowed their heads in reverence,

then joined in singing a hymn of praise to the gods.

Darkness descended as the last note rang strong and clear. The priest inclined his

head to Penelope; it was time to remove the veil. It was a symbolic act, representing the
removal of the last barrier between her and the gods. Penelope hesitated a moment in

fear and anticipation. Then she lifted her shaking fingers and lifted the veil.

A great pale light blinded her. It was beautiful, and of such beauty that it nearly

broke her heart in two, but it was also of such fearsome strength that she felt she had been

stricken a powerful but painless blow. Around her – though she could not see – she knew

that all the people felt the same. And as one they gazed in fear at the light.

It began to dim, to dwindle until it illuminated only a small space. Then it formed

into the shape of a man, and the light continued to dim until only a man was left standing

where the light once was.

He was the loveliest man Penelope had seen or dreamed of. His skin was smooth

and dark and fair like the pools of incense in the temples, his hair cascaded to his

shoulders in curls. His eyes were lit by fire; fire that spoke of great passion and devotion.

And around him and in him was such a presence of power and beauty that Penelope

wanted both to embrace him and to shrink away because of her unworthiness.

She had no doubt who it was she saw. No one did. They were gazing with their

mortal eyes at the god of love himself.

A man in the crowd cried out and fell upon his knees, with his face to the ground.

The crowd followed his example until everyone bowed but Penelope, who was still too

full of awe to move. For a moment she and Alexander stood; twin points of light on a

still water of people. Then he stepped forward, and the crowd parted before him. He

walked without glancing to the left or to the right until he was near Penelope.

She gazed at him in wonder, in fear, in elation; all so heavy on her heart that she

could almost feel them in her veins. Alexander met her eyes with his own, and he smiled.
 Then he said, in a voice like the sea, “Penelope, you are the most beautiful among

women. I have chosen you. I have come to make you my bride.”

* * * * * *

Alexander spoke as though he could hardly restrain the tempest of his heart. His

smooth skin was stronger than iron and yet softer than silk. He was immensely powerful,

and dazzled the people of the village with his feats. He was quick to anger, and not a

little proud.

These were the things Penelope knew about her husband-to-be. They were

kernels of truth; fragments of a great mystery she would never truly know but would

spend all her days trying to divine.

In those first moments of their meeting, when Penelope was still rooted to the

ground, he had taken her into his arms. It was then that she first felt his power, his skill

to reach a human’s heart and touch it beyond measure. She seemed to hear soft music,

and to smell the ocean, and she felt his warm caress. All that she found lovely or worthy

filled her up, and she knew that it was by Alexander’s bidding that this was so, and her

heart leapt with joy when she thought that she was to be his wife.

Their engagement was a departure from tradition, even without the nature of the

groom. There was no sacrifice, no consulting of the Oracle. There was no formal

declaration of vows, and no dowry. All of these things, Alexander said, were ways that

men bonded themselves to each other. He needed none of them. His word, he said, the

word of a god, was sufficient.

 The village was, of course, in awe in his presence. Immediately after Alexander’s

appearance a feast had been ordered in his honor, and all the riches of the people flowed

into praise to the god and exultation at his coming. The priest told Penelope that she was

the greatest of the chosen, that no such thing had ever happened under the sun, that the

poets would remember her always as the woman lovely enough to be the bride of the god.

She was grateful for his kind words, but those things were not important to her. What

was important was that she had found her place, her love. And she knew that it was to be

greater than anything she could have conceived.

The wedding was to be two weeks from the day of her birthday. Alexander had

taken over the preparations; he said that he had thousands of years experience in

preparing weddings and that it would be a joy to use it on his own.

Four days after he appeared Penelope was formally presented as a bride-to-be.

This was the one tradition Alexander wished to honor. He said that she ought to be seen,

that all ought to know that he had claimed her as his bride before men and the gods.

The next day Alexander took her to an empty field and told her he wished to give

her an early wedding present. She had looked around in befuddlement, and Alexander

laughed. He turned his eyes to the ground and clapped his hands together.

Mist and clouds descended from the sky, moved as if by the unseen fingers of an

artist, and came to rest on the ground. Then all at once the mist shaped itself into a

magnificent palace far greater than anything else in the village. The fog was pink, and

from within it lights sparkled, and Penelope laughed in delight at the beauty of it. She

was preparing to touch it and let it disperse, to thank Alexander for his show, but the mist

fled of its own accord. In its place was a gleaming white palace.
 Penelope gasped. The columns were purest marble. Gold traced the contours of

the building, and great white steps led to a massive oak doorway. Penelope began to

ascend them.

A cool, strong hand pulled her back. Alexander was smiling. “Not until after our

marriage, my dear,” he said. “I wish it to be a surprise. But I wanted you to see it now,

for this is how I wish to tell you that I love you.”

Penelope gasped again at the word, and fell in his arms with the shock and the joy

of it. “It’s – it’s…” she fumbled for the right word. “So much…to see something like

that…to see it appear in the twinkling of an eye, when it would have taken many men a

year or more to build it…and to know that it is for me…”

Alexander chuckled, and her face pressed to his chest felt it as a rumble. “My

dear,” he said, “Do not be so taken aback. You will see greater wonders than this, and it

will seem strange to your eyes. It is no fault of your own that you were born mortal.”

A sudden pang pulsed in her heart. Penelope had no visible reason to feel it,

nothing he had said was rude or crass or fearful. But something – something in what the

god had said pierced her with an unendurable grief.

Then it passed, and Penelope pushed the memory away. It was nothing, only a

natural fear, the sort of thing that all young brides felt. She shook her head and smiled at

Alexander, looked at his perfect beauty and at the perfect house he had made. Joy filled

her again.

Two days after the incident she had finished her work, and as she gazed at the

moon she realized she wished to see Demas. It had been six days since their last meeting,

and Penelope knew that she had to see him, that she did not want him to feel lonely, that
she had to share her coming marriage with the man who was her best friend. She put on a

comfortable white dress and began to walk down the path.

Alexander was waiting as she turned around the bend. He smiled when he saw

her.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Where are you going?”

Penelope smiled back at him. “I’m going to see Demas,” she said.

Alexander nodded, and his smile persisted. But Penelope looked into his eyes and

saw that there was a hint of shadow there. “I see,” he said. “I will await your return.”

He kissed her, and she felt as though she would swoon. Then they broke apart,

and Penelope began to walk away. But as she did a thought struck her. Alexander had

been in the house, in the chamber they had found for him, when she decided to leave.

“Alexander,” she called out, “How did you come to the bend before me? Did you

run?”

Alexander’s face filled with a reckless amusement. “No,” he said; and the hint of

shadows became full grown ones, and they danced in his eyes. “I willed it. You poor

mortals. I shall never understand how you can bear to move so slowly.”

The grief emptied her out again, the grief at she knew not what. And now it was

laced with terror. Terror, because Penelope had seen what was in his eyes, because she

knew – though she did not know whence the knowledge came or how she was sure of it –

that he had intended his remark to wound, that he knew in his heart how horrible a thing

he had said in the simple words, knew it full well even if she did not.
 Her legs had ceased to carry her. Her breath was coming in gasps. The icy chill

in her heart had shackled her to the ground. No! she whispered to herself. It isn’t true, it

isn’t true, it isn’t true…

With all her will she seized the shackles, and broke them, and forced her heart to

be still and her breath to come easy again. Peace returned, slowly. Now only one fear

remained. Penelope turned around, but Alexander was gone. How long he had been

gone, and what he had seen, she could not say.

Penelope shook herself and pushed the thoughts away again. She would go to

Demas. He had always been able to soothe her soul.

She walked down the path that led from her house to the forge. The old road felt

different, and Penelope realized that she had not put on her sandals. She realized also

that it was right that she was barefoot, that it somehow captured the essence of the

comfort and ease and warmth that she sought from the familiar way and the familiar face

at the end of it. All of this filled her with wonder.

The forge rose up in her sight, and she entered it without a sound. Demas was at

his anvil, as he had been many times before during her visits. His father had died three

years before, and she often came to see Demas and watch him work. It was hard,

physical work, without any lofty phrases or rhymes to praise it, but there was something

in the sight of a man doing work he loved that was more beautiful to her than any of the

words of the poets.

But tonight something was different in his manner. The swing of his hammer was

swifter, its clang on the metal louder, his brows knit closer together. Penelope saw that
Demas’ eyes were filled – not with malice and the will to hurt as Alexander’s had been –

but with suffering, and the desire to escape it in toil.

Penelope almost turned away, as she would if she had seen a man undressing.

She had never seen Demas in such a mood before, and the sight seemed a private thing

that ought to be left as such. But as she turned to leave his eyes rose and saw her, and the

suffering seemed to depart. Demas put down his hammer and came to her. He smiled,

then took her in an embrace. When they parted Penelope looked at him, and she knew

that she could not ask him his tribulations, that he would keep them clutched to his chest

and that it was better they remain there.

“What are you working on?” she asked softly.

“Nothing of importance,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I know you have been

busy preparing, and I don’t complain. But it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” she said, and as she said it she knew how fully she

meant it. “Things are not the same without you present.”

The smile on Demas’ face became waxen and stretched in a thin, grim line. “I

suppose you have been spending a great deal of time with your husband-to-be.”

“Yes,” said Penelope. Demas said nothing. Then, after a minute’s long silence,

he asked, “What is he like, Penelope? What sort of man – god – is he?”

The question was a simple one, but Penelope was long in answering. “It is

difficult to describe Alexander. His character is elusive, fluid. Like water. To try and

understand him is like trying to count the currents of the river.”

 Demas was silent again, and Penelope noticed for the first time that there were

lines in his young face. He waited before continuing, then softly, hesitantly, he said, “Is

he the sort of man you can live with?”

The question was the stroke that felled the dam holding back her uncertainty, and

the tears that flowed from her eyes were merely drops of the grief that had consumed her

these two times, the grief that had no name, no source, but poured onward even so.

Demas stood distantly for a moment, then pulled her closer to him. She cried and he held

her, until the tears ceased their cascade down her cheeks and her breathing lost its

serrated edge.

Demas whispered into her hair, and it was a whisper of suffering and fear and

violent anger. “What has he done to you, Penelope?”

Penelope sprang back. “Oh, no,” she said, horrified. “He has done nothing. It is

nothing of that sort. It is only…” and as she spoke the gap in her knowledge was filled,

the nameless grief found a name. “I am unworthy,” she said, and her voice trembled with

the truth and the power of the words. “Unworthy to be the wife of a god. I haven’t

earned it. I cannot earn it. There is nothing I can give him.”

A look of steel such as Penelope had never seen sprang in to Demas’ usually

gentle eyes. He placed firm hands on her shoulders, and his voice was of iron. “No. Do

not say that. Never say that. He is a god, and I am only a blacksmith, but I know that it

is he who must prove himself worthy of you.”

Penelope nearly staggered backwards. It was nothing, could be nothing; it was

only Demas’ customary kindness. But as she looked into his eyes she knew that he

meant it with a whole heart. New tears – tears of gratitude – filled her eyes.
 “Demas,” she whispered. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“And the most true,” he said. And now the steel in his eyes was lit by fire, by

some all-consuming passion that left him for a moment staring into the distance. Then he

turned to her and said, “Penelope, I have something I must do. Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “But Demas, what –”

He held up a hand. “I will tell you, but not yet. I must finish my work first.”

Then he bowed his head, and Penelope walked outside. And it seemed to her that

the stars in the sky were like the lights in Demas’ eyes.

* * * * * *

Five days before her wedding Penelope was walking home from the market. She

had needed fresh herbs for supper and she enjoyed coming to talk to the people. As she

was walking she passed by an open courtyard and heard a woman’s voice speaking.

Penelope was filled with wonder. The voice was speaking Penelope’s own

language, but with a strange accent, and the voice seemed to sway with the words it was

saying. Penelope turned to the side and stepped into the courtyard.

An old Jewess sat on the stone, and around her were three children. She looked

once at Penelope, then motioned at the ground before her. Penelope sat.

The woman was telling a story from her own people. She had a husky voice, but

it was rich, and it seemed to Penelope as if it brought to life the things it spoke.

“Then Delilah said to him” (the Jewess said) “How can you say, ‘I love you’

when your heart is not with me? You have deceived me these three times and have not

told me where your great strength is.

 “And it came about when she pressed him daily with her words and urged him,

that his soul was annoyed unto death. So he told her all that was in his heart and said to

her, ‘A razor has never come on my head, for I have been a Nazirite to God from my

mother’s womb. If I am shaved, then my strength will leave me and I shall become weak

and be like any other man.’”

The woman carried on, but Penelope stood, bowed her head, and walked. She

walked now with purpose. For the words of the old story were like keys in her mind, and

they had unlocked the secret that she had searched for and had not found. She knew now

a way to prove herself. She knew what she could give him.

Penelope walked with all the haste she could muster until she came to her home.

Then she set down the herbs and called out to the air:

“Alexander.”

He appeared instantly at her side. Penelope took a deep breath and stretched a

smile that she did not feel.

“Yes my dear?” he said.

“Alexander,” she said. “Do you have a weakness?”

Penelope put forth all her strength to steady her voice, but inside her heart was

trembling as it never had before. This was the one thing she could offer him. Her word.

Her integrity. For Alexander to tell her such a thing would be for him to have such faith

in another as (she was sure) he had never had. And though the trust he gave her would be

his, it was her gift that would prove it true, it would be the iron of her commitment that

gave it value, it would be her vow of silence that was offered in exchange for his

confidence.
 “A weakness?” said Alexander.

“Yes,” she said. It cost her all her effort to raise her voice above a whisper.

Alexander’s eyebrows rose. “You are to be my bride, Penelope,” he said, and

then he paused. And that pause was like the moment when gold enters the fires to be

purged or destroyed. “But even the wife of a god must tread carefully. What you ask is

not for mortals to know.”

And with those words all of the dreams Penelope had of their future, any thought

of mending the wound in her heart; all of it shattered like a drop of ice on a hard road.

The heady illusion of the last week vanished, and she saw that she was to be a beggar.

He would feed her all of her days, and give continuously, and she would remain huddled

in the rags of her mortality, crying in despair for her poverty and yet remaining by his

side.

All of this she felt, but her face and her voice gave signs only of innocent

disappointment. “Oh, very well,” she said. “It was merely a bit of human curiosity.”

He smiled at her, then looked at the herbs she had brought. “Didn’t you forget the

sage?”

“Oh yes!” she cried, and her voice was unnaturally high. “Let me go back to get

it.”

But Penelope did not go back to the market. As soon as Alexander vanished she

ran down the dirt path to Demas’ forge.

He was nearly to the door when she charged through it. “Hello, Penelope,” he

said. “I was just coming to look for you.”

 His voice stopped her for a moment. It was clear, and joyous, and triumphant.

Penelope looked into his eyes and saw that they were whole again. Even the remnants of

his agony were gone.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. Penelope saw now that in it was a parcel

wrapped in leather. “I wanted to give you your wedding present a little early.”

She stood for a moment, her mind full of tortured questions and shrieks gone

unuttered. Then she took the parcel from his hands. They were cut and bruised and burnt

as she had never seen them before.

“Demas,” she said. “What happened? Do you need a physician?”

He looked at her, puzzled, then he seemed to realize she was speaking about his

hands. “I don’t need a physician, Penelope,” he said, smiling. “Open the parcel, please.”

Accepting a gift from Alexander had filled her with fear, but a gift from Demas

seemed somehow a different matter. She tore apart the strings binding the leather, then

gasped.

Inside was a necklace, something the likes of which Demas had not made before.

The chain was nearly as fine as silk, and the links were as small as smithcraft could make

them. The chain held a piece of polished metal, beaten into a circle, and in the center of

the circle was a clear stone. The materials were not beautiful to look at in the dark

(Demas’ poverty did not allow for gold or silver), but when the light fell on them they

danced and shimmered with all of the colors of the rainbow, and the energy that Demas

had spent on it made it lovely in her eyes.

“Demas,” she said, nearly breathless. “It’s beautiful –” she paused. “Is this how

you wounded your hands?”

 Demas smiled in guilt. “I had to use whatever materials were ready in the shop,”

he said. “They were not always easy to work with.”

Penelope looked at the necklace, and then at his hands, and then her eyes

widened. Demas had told her he was in love with her. Here, in this necklace, in this

thing born of the only skill he truly understood and truly possessed, here was his

unspoken passion, and she knew that it was a passion born in silence for many years. He

had admired her and loved her and he had said nothing, because he did not know how to

say it, because she had told him her dreams of lords and nobles and had sewed his lips

shut with fear. She saw it now.

Alexander had declared his love as well. He had raised up a splendorous house

for her, and to other eyes the necklace might seem small beside it. But Demas’ love had

seared and scarred his hands, and where the palace had been built there was only the

smooth strong stone hands of her god. And she knew that she could not accept the latter

if the former existed in the world.

Even as she thought the words, and as their meaning was etched on her face, the

forge was filled with light. Alexander stood beside them. His eyes flitted between

Penelope and Demas.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, and his voice was soft, and cold, and the shadows

glared at her from his eyes.

“Hello, Alexander,” she said. She felt no fear. Demas stood beside her, and his

quiet defiance seemed in her eyes to be more than all of Alexander’s evident rage.
 “So,” Alexander said. “So. You have come here tonight. You have taken his gift

with joy, while you have taken mine with trepidation. You have had thoughts of

betraying me with this worm.”

Penelope saw Demas stiffen, and she knew that he controlled himself for her sake.

“So I have come to warn you,” Alexander continued. “It is only fair. Should you

ever think again of betraying me, I will leave you. If you should ever seek to become an

adulteress I will abandon you to your mortality and leave you forever tortured by the

dreams of what you could have had. Do you understand me, oath-breaker? I –”

“I have broken no oath,” said Penelope, and she wondered that her voice was

clear and cold also. “I made you no promise. You required none. You have no hold on

me. And I do not intend to commit adultery. I intend to leave you.”

Demas stared at her. Alexander was stricken dumb. The forge was silent but for

the crackle of the flames. Then the god’s fury broke.

“You will leave me?” he screamed. “You, who are less than nothing, you, who are

fashioned from the dust of the earth, you will leave me, the all-powerful, the beautiful,

the fearsome? Do not think of it, brazen whore! Do not let the words pass your lips you

miserable mortal wench!”

And with his words and the shadows in his eyes Penelope understood, and the

grief and the terror he had filled her with was gone utterly. It was not she who had

nothing to give. For all her fears of having nothing, it was not she who was empty.

Alexander had chosen her, not despite, but because she was mortal. He had chosen her

because she would give him everything that was worthy, all that she was, and he would

never have to lift a finger. He had chosen her to make her a beggar. He had filled her
with gifts and given her power to perform signs and wonders so that she would be praised

on earth, lauded and loved, and then she would be brought to her knees, cringing before

him. He had chosen her so that he would see his own beauty and power held higher than

the most beautiful of the mortals he had gifted. He had chosen her to break her back and

so make his temple and his power secure.

Penelope stepped back in revulsion, and she realized that she was speaking. “You

disgust me. Leave now and never return.”

Alexander ceased to speak. He looked at her, and his eyes were filled with

ancient hatred, and the ground beneath her feet started to shake, and the metal of the

forge made a great noise. And above it all she heard Alexander whisper, “Prepare to die,

mortal.”

Penelope looked to Demas, and he to her, and there was no fear between them, no

terror at the thought of the death that was swiftly coming. In his eyes there was only

surprise, and in hers only calm certainty. She knew that there was no other man she

would rather die with.

Then a voice spoke, and it was both louder and softer than anything Penelope had

ever heard, and it was more powerful even than Alexander’s, and altogether more

beautiful and more terrible, and the voice shook her soul and mended her heart at once.

“REMEMBER YOUR OATH, MY SON.”

The earth ceased its shaking. Alexander stood still, and he bowed his head. This,

then, was how he could be bound. Alexander could do not harm to real love. The god

gave her a last look of hatred, and then he vanished.

 Demas turned to Penelope in wonder, and she pulled him close and kissed him.

His hands were still a moment, then they grasped her and held her close. She took her

lips from his and whispered, “I love you.”

She pulled away, and she saw that Demas was stricken dumb. His simple heart

was filled to burst, but his simple mind did not yet know what had happened.

“Penelope, I – I don’t understand,” he said, his voice trembling with

bewilderment and joy.

Penelope embraced him again, and her head found its place on his shoulder. “I

do,” she said. “I finally do.”