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It was a windy night. Powerful gusts, howling like disembodied voices. They rattled windows and pinched the air with frosty fingers. Winter was on its way; that was for sure. Hermes nursed a tea and whiskey at his bar, which had finally emptied out. Tuesdays meant he got to close up earlier than usual, since they were his slowest day of the week. He’d only just had the chance to start on his drink after wiping down the tables when he heard the noises: a sudden roar of the wind. A loud banging. Heavy breathing. Footsteps.
“Hermes.”
He looked up from his mug. He knew who it was, of course—the voice was as familiar to him as the town itself. But the way she spoke his name, urgently, like she needed something from him, caught his attention.
Calliope—a muse, and one of Hermes’s oldest friends. She possessed a mesmerizing beauty that had brought many a desperate man to his knees in the past. Her voice was sweet and rhythmic: the voice of a poet. Her physical charm and playful spirit together gave the impression of someone much younger than she was.
In one of her hands, she held a suitcase, packed full to bursting with every possession she owned. She was dressed in traveling attire, her hair ruffled from the fierce wind outside. The scene was almost identical to the first time he’d met her. She had stumbled into his bar, seeking shelter from a storm. He’d given her a drink, they’d talked, and the rest, as they say, was history. She’d come and gone since then, but this stay had been longer than the others, nearly eight years. The reason for which brought him to what her other hand was gripping tightly.
A little boy, around the age of seven, stumbled along with his mother. He blinked sleepily around, hugging a teddy bear to his chest with the hand that wasn’t being squeezed to death. A beat-up brown backpack hung from his shoulders and a red bandana was knotted around his neck.
The pair crossed from the door to the counter to face Hermes.
“Hermes, it’s time.” Her eyes were alight with that glow that he recognized. This was the urgency in her voice. It burned deep inside of her, and it wouldn’t stop until it consumed her completely.
“Where you gonna go?” Hermes raised an eyebrow. He didn’t expect a legitimate answer from her; he knew her too well for that.
Calliope looked back toward the door, a small, hopeful smile growing on her face. “Any way the wind blows, I guess.”
“And your boy? He ain’t coming with you, is he?” Calliope took a breath, as if she were delivering a speech.
“Hermes, I know it’s asking a lot of you. But Orpheus adores you. There’s no place I’d rather him be than with you. Please, Hermes. I trust you more than anyone else on the earth.”
A pause, overflowing with electric silence, but for the ever-present cries of the wind.
Hermes shook his head. “I always knew you were gonna be trouble.”
“So you’ll do it?” The light in her eyes shone brighter than ever.
“His music will bring some life back into this place,” he chuckled. “Little poet.”
Orpheus turned his face up toward the god. Then he leaned back against his mother, his eyes falling shut. She scooped him up and sat him down on the bar.
“I love you so much, baby. So much. You’re going to do amazing things, songbird. I can feel it. I’ll see you soon, okay? I love you.” She kissed the top of his head and stepped away from the countertop.
“Mama?” Orpheus asked, bewildered. His tiny hands reached out to the space where his mother’s face had been only moments ago. “Mama?”
“Take care of him.” Calliope turned to Hermes one last time. He nodded and replied,
“Take care of yourself out there. Now, you’d better be going. Looks like you’ve got a train to catch.”
The muse grinned at him, fresh tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Mama? Mama, don’t go!” Orpheus pleaded. His eyes were suddenly wide with fear and uncertainty.
“It’s okay, baby. I love you. I promise i’ll see you again someday.” Then, with one final kiss to his forehead, she darted back out into the wailing wind and the thrill of the night.
Hermes had always known that Calliope would never be able to settle in one place for long. She was a poet, a storyteller—that’s what had drawn the two of them together in the first place. And when a storyteller ran out of stories, they had to go out and find their own. Hermes had done plenty of that in his time. He had only hoped that her love for her son would be enough to anchor her, at least for long enough to raise him properly.
But you know how those muses are.
“Mr. Hermes?” the little boy on the counter spoke up, exhausted and confused.
Hermes sighed and lifted him into his arms. Orpheus instantly relaxed into the embrace, cuddling into Hermes’s neck. The god turned and began making his way toward the stairs that would take them to his apartment above the bar. “Let’s get you into bed, boy.”
A minute or so later, Hermes reached his spare bedroom. He set the child down on the bed. Orpheus swayed, barely sitting upright, as Hermes removed his shoes and backpack. He was already mostly asleep as he was tucked into the comically oversized bed. Hermes stepped back, watching the boy subconsciously nestle deeper into the blankets. He smiled as he noticed that Orpheus was still clutching the shabby, old teddy bear.
“Sleep well, little poet,” the god whispered.
What had he gotten himself into?