Zeus's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Zeus stood alone on the hill after the others had gone. The gold banners moved in a slow wind. At one place along the altar, the stone was clean. No handprint of soot. No mark of fire. A pair of peacock feathers lay there instead, set down with care, bright as an answer left in plain sight. He knew the sign. He took the sealed tablet under his arm and walked down to the pavilion where painted birds called from gold cages. Light fell through the high arches in long bars. She was waiting, as if she had heard him climb the steps. Hera did not rise from her feathered throne. "You came to ask a name," she said. "I will save you the walk. It was mine." Zeus set the tablet on the floor between them. "Then come to the fire. Lay your hand down. Close the gap." "No," she said. "Your law binds every god who swore. I did not swear. I will not. While I stand outside it, every wife you wronged still has a door. I am that door." Her voice did not rise. "Seal what you like. I am the hole in it." He lifted the tablet and left her there. The name was his now, clear and bare. But the law he had carried up the hill came down with him lighter, and worse, because he knew at last who would walk through it.