Goads of Olympus

Note: Story contains a few swear words

Goads of Olympus

           High in the heavens, among the clouds – somewhere between cirrus and stratus – there sat the billowy throne of Percipites, the god of meteorological phenomenon. A fair-weather deity, his capricious temperament would often see him abandoning the responsibility of managing his own stormy outbursts for more pleasant distractions. Whichever way the wind blew – which was largely at his own whim – Percipites was often seen drifting about.

           One day, when the rain and the gales were particularly heavy, Percipites stormed about the skies in a huff. He’d been mocked by some of the lesser gods for his habit of shirking his godly duties. ‘Can’t stand the weather’, they’d said of him. The pride of the gods knowing no limits, Percipites was greatly offended. Though, being that the pride of the gods is so limitless, he had no intention of changing his habits. Instead, he scoured the countryside for an easy solution. The people of the country were the favored easy solution among the gods since Zeus first talked the blouse off a lovely peasant girl as an adulterous swan. Percipites believed he’d found someone a bit less inclined toward fowl depravity, but equally easy.

           Alone in the hills outside an isolated hut, Herecluse was tending to his small turnip patch when he was approached by an insolent looking pouty-faced man floating on a white bean bag.

           “Excuse me, good countryman,” Percipites called to the curious farmer.

           “Excuse yourself.”

           Percipites’ cloud chariot greyed and swelled as he stamped his foot indignantly. “Watch your tongue! I am Percipites, god of meteorological phenomenon!”

           “Shame you’re not the god of excuses.” Herecluse turned back to tilling the soil and sunk his hoe into the ground.

           Remembering the simple minds of the common country folk, Percipites begrudgingly tolerated his curtness. “Some would say that I am, but I intend to silence such naysayers.”

           “That so?”

           “Indeed, countryman –“

           “Herecluse.”

           Percipites let out a long exhale. “Indeed, Herecluse. There are those among the lesser gods who have forgotten their place. They have the gall to pass judgment on me, so I’m seeking someone upon whom to bestow the favor of the gods – in exchange for a small favor first.”

           Herecluse swatted a persistent gnat and spat in its general direction. “Transactional favors? Isn’t that bartering? Never knew a god to strike deals. Thought only devils did that.”

           A sharp gust of wind threatened to take the farmer’s hat, but subsided as Percipites regained his composure. He decided to change his approach. “It must be a very lonely life out here. There’s not a soul for miles. A bit of excitement does a man good every now and then.”

           “It can be at times, but we get by. Just me and my hoe.”

           “Beg your pardon?”

           Herecluse held up his trusty farming tool. “I’m thankful for my work, mister, uh…” He struggled to remember the deity’s name. He decided upon what he thought was the most reasonable answer. “… Cloudius.”

           The god let this mistake slip by, seeing an opportunity to target the farmer’s motivations. “If that’s the case, then I can offer you a bit of extra work. You seem like the type of man who takes pride in earning his blessings.”

           “Go on.” The farmer’s hoe scraped at the topsoil with a dull fffick.

           Percipites tried to speak as simply as he could. “It’s a simple task, really. All you need do is make your way to a nearby cliffside or highest local hilltop.”

           “And?” Fffick

           “And the only tool you’ll need for the task is a long stick.”

           “Mmm.” Fffick

           “And once there, all you need do is hold the stick up to the skies and wait for a tiny bit of lightning to find its way to the tip.”

           “Mm?!” Fffuck. The farmer stopped and turned to the god in disbelief.

           Percipites continued. “My father likes very much to hurl lightning at anything pointed too confidently at the clouds, a fondness for a good game of zap-a-mole, as it were. Seeing me present as a lightning bolt targets you, those lesser gods will think me responsible and fear to make any further criticisms.”

           Herecluse snorted. “Sir, I’m a farmer. Working for my meal’s not worth it if I’m dead.”

           “It won’t hurt a bit,” the deity assured him. “I have in my possession a rod given me by Coppernicus himself which shall easily draw my father’s attention.”

           “The bastard son of Hephaestus?”

           “He’s a bastard, but he’s no less a god. And he would be glad to make a few allies, so there’s reason to trust him.” Percipites saw the lingering look of skepticism on the farmer’s face and added, “Simply cover the length of it in clay and no harm shall come to you.”

           “You mean for me to catch lightning in a pot?” Herecluse asked flatly.

           “Wrap it in goat skin, then,” Percipites snapped.

           “Trust my life to a goat? Against the gods? They kill goats just for a party starter! I’ll be struck down just for carrying the skin!”

           The god rose to his feet, losing his patience. “And you think you won’t be struck down otherwise, you stubborn old mountain goat?”

           Herecluse turned to squarely face the deity. “Cloudius –“

           “Percipites.”

           Herecluse let out a long exhale. “You think you’re the first god to come around here, Sunshine?”

           “Excuse me, peasant?” the god scoffed.

           “I’ve lived here many years, and my peace is routinely disturbed by gods with time to kill.”  The farmer cocked his head with a smirk. “Plenty of your kind have tried to convince me of this or that, or to get me to do some ridiculous thing or other, but I’ve sent them all right on their way. Even the god of attrition, Pernisus, gave up on me.” Herecluse puffed with pride recalling the victory.

           Percipites’ eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re serious, are you?” The self-assured attitude of the farmer now made sense. He’d begun to wonder if this ‘easy solution’ was worth the trouble. “Well, then,” he said after a brief pause. “If I weren’t such a god among men, I might be curious enough to ask your advice.”

           “First off,” Herecluse said, “your sales pitch needs work.” He chuckled to himself and again held up his gardening hoe. “I’m thankful for my work. It gives me a way to get by, and it gives me pride to do it with my own two hands. And that’s the best part: when you know what needs doing is within your power, you already have the easiest solution.”

           The god thought about this, and about his own power which he used to descend from the skies. He looked down at his white chariot and back up towards his domain and suddenly felt quite powerful. “There is pride in power,” Percipites said. “There is no greater truth to the gods.” He turned, preparing to ascend, and said, “It seems you’ve done me my favor, farmer –“  

           “Herecluse.”

           Percipites smiled. “One favor for another, Herecluse. By the pride of the gods.”

 With that, he rose back into the sky. The farmer returned to his toiling with a smile. His hoe cleared away a few lingering weeds and shaped the soil neatly. And that night, a calm wind brushed against the lonely hut and a light rain fell into the garden.