Page 107 of The Ruin of Eros

We cross rivers and follow mountain passes, and look down at the world from a great height, at forests like green blankets or the wide sweep of ocean. Once we see a fleet of battleships in the distance and I can’t help but wonder,are they going to Atlantis too?

With every village we pass, I think about the changed world we’re traveling through, the one that is weakening him. We pass small shrines in his name that are bare of offerings; I wonder if even the icons sold in the markets here have been put away for lack of trade.

Mostly we camp in the forests, but sometimes a village is safer than bare, open plains. When we stop to ask for shelter, it’s Eros who does the asking. Tonight he dismounts and leads us to the door of a little house on the outskirts of a village. There is a hay-barn, and a chicken pecking out front.

My husband knocks, and the door opens on a man of my father’s age, but leather-skinned and whiskered. I hear Eros ask humbly for a night’s lodging, and for some food for his wife.Wife:the word still shimmers in my ears.

I see the man’s eyes take me in, and how his gaze narrows. He is wondering at such a beautiful horse, at my torn but once-elegant clothes. Why is it, he’s wondering, that a couple such as these should be beggars?

“You are welcome here,” the man says at last, though he sounds less than pleased. “Tie up the horse, and you may eat at my table.”

I walk inside their small home while Eros attends to Ajax. I feel the gap of cold air behind me where he stood. How quickly my body has grown used to his; without it, there’s an absence.

The man’s wife greets me with the same wary courtesy.

“Sit, please.” The house is small but clean, one large room where this couple must eat, sleep, work, and rest.

“You will eat with us.”

In Sikyon mostly the men and women eat separately, but here there is only one room, one table. Eros enters noiselessly through the front door, the cool night air flowing from the folds of his cloak, and the woman of the house looks up, alarmed. The sight of him does not seem to reassure her much, but her husband gives her a small nod.

“There was a festival in our village today,” he says. “A goat was sacrificed. So you will eat meat with us tonight. Your visit is well-timed.”

It is only a small bit of meat, but they offer it to us first, along with a dish of emmer wheat and some bread.

“You are gracious,” Eros says. He eats carefully, from beneath his hood. He takes only a small amount. Human food is neither here nor there for him, but it is important not to offend our hosts, nor to draw too much attention. But tonight, that is not enough.

“Traveler,” our host says. “Why do you wear your cloak, still? It is customary, here, to show one’s face to one’s hosts.”

Eros lifts his glass, takes a sip of the wine they have poured. He answers smoothly, with just the briefest hesitation.

“My family, sir, has been involved in a great feud. As a result, there are those from my hometown that would do me harm. I do not wish for others to become involved in our troubled tale. And so I keep my face hidden.”

The woman sits back in alarm.

“I assure you,” Eros continues, “no one will come knocking for me here. No one who wishes me harm knows where I am. Let us keep it that way.”

The man nods slowly, but I see the glance that passes between him and his wife.

“Whither do you travel?” the wife says finally, addressing her question to me this time. Her voice is strained, her hand moves nervously as she speaks, and I feel guilty, witnessing thisdiscomfort at our presence. We should have tried another house.

“To Atlantis,” I say, and see her expression change. Eros’s boot nudges mine beneath the table.

The husband and wife share another glance, and this one piques my curiosity. What have they heard? Something they’re not telling us?

“You are not the first,” the man says eventually, “to come this way, seeking shelter on the road to Atlantis.”

“Indeed?” Eros says.

“It’s true,” the wife chimes in, her curiosity seeming to trump her suspicion for a moment. “There were two others, back when the summer was young.Ostraka,” she adds, in confidential tones. “A father and a daughter.”

I stare.

A father and a daughter.

But that could be anyone. There may be many such, on the roads between here and Atlantis. This strange feeling in my chest is nothing more than my wishful heart.

And yet…

---