The Saintly Tenant

  The air was ringing with the music of hard work, iron banging on iron. Hephaestus breathed it in, steam, forge smoke and all, and smiled in the knowledge that there wasn’t a callous-free mortal hand or clean dry brow as far as he could see. The potters working around his temple were putting their fresh pots out to dry and the blacksmiths were hammering bronze into shape.

Hephaestus pushed his wheelchair towards the altar where some worshippers were making offerings. The wheels glided along the marble floor effortlessly, and an intricately decorated inner wheel kept spinning whenever he stopped. He was proud of his handiwork, even though none of the mortals here could see it. They were singing prayers and burning sweet herbs for him, and it felt delightful. He’d been enjoying offerings from mortals for over a millennium but this brand new temple was especially nice. He looked forward to another thousand years here at this hub of industry within Athens.

Though, he thought, it would be nice to share this with the some company. He looked down at his twisted feet and wondered if anyone would see past them. Athena left and Aphrodite cheated, and they are the jewels of womankind. Who else could entertain the thought of being with him if those two wouldn’t? Who would dare question their decisions by doing the opposite? He pushed any hope out of his mind and tried to be content enjoying the company of doting mortals.

Time passed and history moved quickly. Parts of the ceiling of the temple started to crumble. The paint was long gone, the pillars are now crooked, and it had been a couple of centuries since the new god from the East came through the hearts of the people here. Nobody had been bringing Hephaestus any offerings since, and he wheeled around aimlessly in the dark at night.

One day, some men came with wooden boards, painting equipment, and carpentry tools. They filled the temple with pews and placed a new altar at the front. Decorating the freshened walls were likenesses of a sacrificed man he recognised, and a curly-haired knight he hadn’t seen before. Whatever happened to chiseling a muscular body into stone, Hephaestus thought. He enjoyed watching the tradesmen perform their craft but he withheld his blessings, knowing their work wasn’t for him.

“Hello, who are you?” he heard from behind. He spun around in his chair to find a curly-haired youth with a fine red line about his neck. “I believe this is my church.”

“Excuse me?!” Hephaestus wheezed. “I am Hephaestus, Vulcan, incinerator of Pompeii and master of the anvil! A patron to all craftsmen and artisans! This is my temple so I should be the one asking who YOU are!”

The youth shrunk back, visibly abashed. “I am Georgos of Lydda, but they call me Saint George.” He touched the red line around his neck and peered down at Hephaestus’ unusual form. “I fought for this country and the emperor tortured me and chopped my head off for refusing to believe in you and your kind.” He turned to look up at the carving of his Lord on the cross at the front. A new fortitude washed away his embarrassment. “It matters not. You are just some illusion sent to test me, so everything you say will fall on deaf ears.”

Hephaestus continued to rebuke George but the words did indeed fall on deaf ears. George went to pray in every corner of the place and inspected all the renovations. His conviction was strong that this man yelling at him was just a figment of the imagination. I will not be tempted, he thought. This will be a fine church, and its past, along with this unhappy ghost, will be purified by next mass.

Soon the mortals came to attend the first service, and Hephaestus observed (and pouted) in the corner. There was a lot of standing, sitting, kneeling, and singing. The incense didn’t smell as sweet as the burning herbs he remembered, and what’s this, he thought. The worshippers are receiving an offering from the priest? Well, that’s just silly. Mortals should give wine to the gods, not the other way around!

He recognised many of the men as tradesmen from around town. “I’m still the patron of craft, whether George realises it or not” he muttered to himself. A little touch here and there with some unheard incantations, and the men would find none of their tools working the next day. None who come here to honour George will be able to keep their livelihood so long as Hephaestus was here, and he wasn’t going to leave.

The carpenters in town that week noticed their hammers would always miss the nail, the painters found their brushes would not hold any paint, and the metalworkers could not remove the slag and dross from their ores. Hephaestus hoped they would stop coming to this church, but his hope was short-lived. Armourers came in even stronger numbers, making prayers to Saint George.

“I’m their patron saint, buddy” he gloated, “I know what you’ve been doing, and it’s nothing I can’t fix. You can keep your tradesmen, because every military man in the city is going to come flocking here.”

Hephaestus moped in the corner and considered moving to his workshop in Mount Aetna back in Sicily. No, the thought, George needs to be taught a lesson! Next mass, he made sure none of the flames would light. He delighted in the frustration on the clergy’s faces, especially when they made their audience feel guilty for being impatient. After a time they gave up and started swinging unlit censers. George smirked; nothing can stop mass. They'll continue fire or no fire.

“Oh, this will wipe the smile off your smug face...” Hephaestus let every candle, censer, and brazier in and around the church spontaneously combust in a frightening display. The confused clergy tried to calm everyone down but the people ran in every direction, some with eyebrows missing. Wax boiled onto the floor and smoke coated the high ceiling in a thick plume. Decorative curtains and even the altar cloth were pulled down to help smother the fires. When Hephaestus’ tears of laughter finally cleared he was glad to see George was nowhere to be found!

That week, after workers had finished fixing the damage, there was still no sign of George; Hephaestus invited Apollo and Zeus over for a celebration. Their nearby temples had been buried for a couple of centuries now, so they were glad to share this small victory. Though Apollo was slightly jealous about it, he still filled the building with sweet music. Zeus drank them all under the table and they would pass out onto the floor, only to wake up and start again the next day. They played games without keeping score, and spent hours reminiscing old times.

The week of drunken games came to a close and Hephaestus bid his guests farewell, adding “We should do this again some time”. He planned to pretend the masses were for him, now that George was gone. On Sunday morning he was ready at the front to receive is ‘worshippers’, and chuckled to himself when the priests hesitated to light the candles. He looked up and almost fell over backwards when he saw George was walking in!

Stunned, he almost failed to notice the old woman who was with him: he knows women who dress like this are called ‘nuns’ but this one had a crown of lit candles on her head and all her footsteps were wet. Another bloody saint to contend with, he thought. He moved to explode the fires again but the nun lifted her shepherd staff up and worked against him. Every candle emitted a brilliant white light and the people were marveling that the flames were cool to the touch.

Hephaestus saw there was nothing he could do. How is a saint, a dead mortal, defeating his power? It’s over, he thought, he’ll just be plodding around ruins for eternity, the days only broken up by occasional drinking with his family. He wheeled over to the entrance and looked up at the two saints. “You’ll be like me one day too. They’ll stop coming to love you and they’ll forget you too! Mark my words!”

George smirked at these words as Hephaestus stormed out. “Thanks for coming all the way out here, Brigid. I’ll have this church to myself now."

“I’ll head back home if you don’t mind.” Brigid turned to leave before George could answer. Bright saint Brigid, they say she keeps the eternal flames going and tends to the sacred wells. But she used to be more. She wasn’t going to go back to Ireland; she was bent on following the wheel tracks in the ground to find that old god. It didn’t take long – there was an old mint still in use and he was there watching the coins get pressed.

He didn’t even turn to look at her when she walked in. “What do you want?” he growled.

“Look,” Brigid paused an uncomfortably long time, “I want to apologise, and show you something.” She pulled a small shining object out of her habit and gave it to him. “It’s a whistle. I invented it.”

Hephaestus inspected the simple tin trinket in his hands. “You’re only, what, two centuries old? This tools is older than I am, how could you, unless...”

With her listener more receptive now, Brigid changed her appearance to her natural form. Her crown of candles and veil fell away to expose long braided red hair, and the habit fell too to reveal a laced-up green dress over a white shift. The wrinkles in her face disappeared and at her hip was a utility belt, holding some scrolls, some medicine and, curious to Hephaestus, a forge hammer.

“I wasn’t always a saint. The Celts worshipped me as a goddess of healing, poetry, and smithing. I changed to adapt to the times, and I want to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“You’ll help me?” Hephaestus thought about what that would look like. Maybe he’d be called a saint as well, and people would come to mass for him like they do for George. It’d be just like in the old times, when he felt… quite lonely actually. “I’m really glad to have met you, Brigid. You can’t help me, but, I hope you’ll stay with me a while as a friend.”’

Hephaestus showed the goddess around his workshop in Mount Aetna. Hot red light from the wells of molten rock reflected back from a large array of inventions hung up on the stone walls. Brigid was enchanted by the cogwheels, pistons and steam engines. They spent a great deal of time working away at the forge, creating things together, teaching each other different methods of construction, and finding new uses for old things. Hephaestus found that having a friend with similar interests felt so much better than having short-lived mortals give him smoke.

She couldn’t stay forever, of course; there were eternal flames to protect and wells to tend back in Ireland. “I’ll come with you! Show me around the fires, please.” Hephaestus implored.

“You’ll expose my identity, dear friend.” Brigid held his hands to comfort him. “But there is something I can do for you. Come with me.”

The goddess took up her saintly form again and took Hephaestus back to his temple-turned-church. She sat him and George down and acted as a mediator between them. It wasn’t easy to come to an agreement, even though both of them respected Brigid. Two hoarse throats, a few bruises and several burnt locks of hair later, the terms were finally set.

“Hephaestus, you’ll allow people to pay homage to George in your temple?”

“Yes, Brigid.”

“And George, you’ll allow Hephaestus to influence the people such that craft becomes popular in the area again?”

“Yes, Brigid.”

“Then it is done. I’ll come back every now and then to visit you both.” They said their farewells and she left in a business-like manner but the real parting for Hephaestus was when they left the workshop. She’s free to be herself there whenever she visits, he promised, and he would have a friend. These were the unspoken terms of the arrangement.

Time moved relentlessly again, eating away at the building as well as the animosity between its tenants. Together they saw Greece plunged into many wars: against the Ottomans, for independence, amongst themselves, for the Balkans, and both their blessings of arms were needed in each one. They worked hard together to protect the country and couldn’t remain rivals after that. The last one was called ‘the war to end all wars’, but they could feel in their divine bones that a bigger one was coming very soon, and Hephaestus was tired of it.

“George, I have an idea.” He wheeled over to what used to be the altar but now held a display of ancient helmets; the building had been a museum instead of a church for about a century now. “Remember how many soldiers came back broken and injured last time?”

George paused and wondered where on Earth this was going. If this is some joke about that made up dragon legend again… “What’s your idea?”

“They were all still strong and fit, weren’t they? They just have missing bits or parts that don’t work, like me.” Hephaestus smiled at George. “What do you think, would such soldiers compete in the Olympics?”

George laughed for a while, but then he thought about it. Those soldiers wouldn’t feel so broken anymore, they’d stay fit, and they’d have something positive to do. “Well, I'm sick of helping people make tanks. Walk me through your plan, friend.”

The building was declared an ancient monument that year. Free from the distraction of visiting mortals, the saint and the old god, with Brigid’s help, worked hard to turn their influences over engineers away from weapons and towards prostheses. They whispered ‘who can run the fastest’ to all the soldiers they could find. They put a good sense of sport in people's hearts, though the hearts were filling quickly with fear about the future.

They were crestfallen to find that their predictions were correct, when World War II came and devastated the continent. However, in all rubble there is hope. In the 1948 London Olympics, Hephaestus, George, and Brigid watched as post-war amputees competed in their very own events. They knew this was the start of something great.

So Hephaestus got his temple back in a way, but instead of enjoying smoke by himself, he had a fresh purpose, and not one but two friends. They'll be with him every step of the way as the future unfolds.