In Homer's Shadow (conclusion)

I did not know where to look. Dare I look at the crown in his hand? Wouldn’t looking at his eyes be worse? And, oh! Calliope still standing there!

So I focus my attention on Minerva’s arrow pointed at my chest. “I do not need you to give me a crown,” I said to him.

“This is not just any laurel crown,” he said. My breath caught—instinctively, I knew what he was about to say. “This is his laurel crown.”

“H—Ho—His crown?”

Apollo and Calliope nodded together. My eyes started to drift to the crown in his hand. I tried to avert my gaze, accidentally turning to Calliope’s form. Shuddering, I dropped my gaze to her feet. Her shadow merged into the shadow that hung over me.

In that moment, I realized that I was mistaken. The goddess pointing the arrow at my heart was not Diana. I was in older myths, closer to the truth—and the masks the spirits wore on their faces were much thinner.

The lightning flashed overhead. It seemed brighter, knowing it was Zeus and not Jove who held it. Hera seemed more cruel and dangerous. Eros did not seem so innocent as Cupid did. Though it was not any closer, I felt as though Artemis’ arrow had already pierced me. I turned back to the god before me.

He laughed. “Yes, now you see. You stand in the shadow of Homer, poet. These are no Roman imposters before you. You stand before the descendants not of Saturn, but of Kronos. See Zeus and Hera, standing there. Neptune and Pluto are nothing; you face Poseidon and Hades.” He outstretched his arms.

“And I—I am Apollo! Apollo to the Greeks, Apollo to the Romans; Apollo who is the same yesterday, today, and forever!”

My blood ran cold.

“Accept my touch,” Calliope whispered. “You know the one you call Master does not deserve the title—not when compared with Homer. Homer loved me. Now cling to me, poet, as a man cleaves to his wife—love me as a god deserves to be loved.”

“You are no god,” I said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt. “I would sooner call you demoness—or worse. I could believe you an accuser, a serpent.”

“You call Calliope a serpent?” Apollo mocked. “Then serpent she is—and Homer the one who mastered her. And you are nothing more than a sown man, grown from the seed of the serpent’s teeth that Homer planted.”

“Are you content with that?” Calliope continued. “Step out of his shadow and cast your own. Accept the laurel crown that was worn by him and him alone.”

“I gave him this crown,” Apollo said. “No one has been worthy of it since him. You know this.” He waved the crown in the air.

“No man could write such a work alone,” I said. “It is as though he were inspired.”

“Inspired!” Apollo cried. “Exactly! ‘God-breathed!’ Kiss Calliope, kiss her hungrily and take her breath into you. Honor her in all things.”

“Were I to honor Calliope,” I said, “it would be lip-service only. She would never have my heart.”

“Your lips are enough. With your lips you frame your speech, with your mouth you make your words—and it is your words we desire.”

“Kneel to us.”

My legs felt weak. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, remembering the words of my Master—ignoring the whispered memories of Rage and Men, I remembered the stars. I could not see them beyond Zeus’ lightning, beyond Homer’s shadow, but I knew they were there.

And all the while, Dionysius danced around our circle.

They waited long for my answer. At last, the gods seemed to grow bored. One by one, they left. Even the Muses departed one by one until only Calliope and Apollo remained. She spat at my feet. Apollo shrugged. “The offer is always open.” He threw the laurel crown on the ground and walked away, arm around her.

I looked at the laurel crown on the ground and considered.

Then I sat in the dark of the shadow and amused myself by writing verses. The verses were empty and uninspired—as I intended. I looked up to the stars and prayed that empty verses might be filled.

Then, sitting in the midst of the shadow, I prepared to go to sleep and decided to start a fire.