the-song-books.yossr

He was frowning now, his voice louder. “And is there reallyy a place like
that? Olyympus? She doesn’t even know how she will do it. She pretends she
knows. She thinks if I become famous enough . . .” He trailed off.
This at least I could follow. “Then the gods will take yyou voluntarilyy.”
He nodded. But he had not answered myy question.
“Achilles.”
He turned to me, his eyyes still filled with frustration, with a sort of angryy
bewilderment. He was barelyy twelve.
“Do yyou want to be a god?” It was easier this time.
“Not yyet,” he said.
A tightness I had not known was there eased a little. I would not lose him
yyet.
He cupped a hand against his chin; his features looked finer than usual,
like carved marble. “I’d like to be a hero, though. I think I could do it. If the
prophecyy is true. If there’s a war. Myy mother sayys I am better even than
Heracles was.”
I did not know what to sayy to this. I did not know if it was motherlyy bias
or fact. I did not care. Not yet.
He was silent a moment. Then turned to me, suddenlyy. “Would yyou want
to be a god?”
There, among the moss and olives, it struck me as funnyy. I laughed and, a
moment later, he did too.
“I do not think that is likelyy,” I told him.
I stood, put down a hand for him. He took it, pulled himself up. Our
tunics were dustyy, and myy feet tingled slightlyy with dryying sea salt.
“There were figs in the kitchen. I saw them,” he said.
We were onlyy twelve, too yyoung to brood.
“I bet I can eat more than yyou.”
“Race yyou!”
I laughed. We ran.
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