The young girl was an athlete and a scholar. Her father was a soldier, and tamed the large warbirds that dominated the sky during times of battle. The birds were used as transport in peacetime, and so although the guns were silent, she often went days without seeing her dad. Although she’d felt pressure to join her father in his occupation when she grew up, she had no issue telling him she didn’t think it was for her. She didn’t want to fly, and besides, she was allergic.
Her mother, by contrast, encouraged her daughter to find her own path. She was intelligent and hardworking, and strove to raise her daughter as an independent and well-educated woman. With her help, the girl grew up knowing school as a joy instead of a chore.
The fifteen-year-old was a bit too bookish – and taller than most of the boys by at least three inches, which put a serious damper on her social life. She always managed to have a date for the few formal functions held by her religious school, but she wasn’t exactly popular. She was, at the moment, reclining on a bench under a tree in the park, engrossed in a book about folk magic and superstitions. She wondered idly about the beginnings of such belief. “Could they be rooted in something true? Why would people still do these things if they didn’t, somehow, work?”
A small silver thread floated down on the breeze and landed on her right wrist. She held her arm up into the late afternoon sun slanting through the tree’s branches. It shone and sparkled a bit as she shook her hand, but the thread clung and loosely encircled her wrist. As she watched it, it seemed to appear, vanish, and then appear again. She carefully slipped the silver thread from her wrist and put gently into her pocket.
She gazed into the distance, lost in thought. The ancient oak trees seemed to commiserate with each other in rustles and whispers as the sun dipped behind the crown of leaves.
“Where’s Jehovah?” the grey-eyed woman asked, amused. She was peering into the clear pool of water set in the middle of the chamber. The water was completely still, but the images of the young girl flickered and moved in the soft light of late afternoon. “He’s taking his eye off the ball with this one.”
From one of the deep-cushioned chairs on the far side of the room, a veiled woman answered, “She’ll come to us eventually, Glaukopis. You know she will.” You could hear the smile in her voice, even though the veil obscured her face. “The die, as they say, has been cast.”
“You know as well as I do that nobody’s fate is written in stone, Sister, even if we do like to say it is so. Isn’t that right, Hound?” She walked over and reached down and affectionately scratched the ear of the big, black dog seated at the woman’s feet. It raised its massive head and licked her hand in appreciation.
“Just look at her - already interested in the things beyond the worlds. The path is often twisted, but it will get here.” Propolos noticed her sister’s furrowed brow and motioned to Hebe to bring another silver cup. “Don’t fret. Sometimes you think too much. Come, sit with me and have some wine.”