The woman laid Heracles’ arms down and paced to her side. Without warning she tore the neckline of Danae’s dress, ripping it open down to her sternum to reveal the marks gouged by the fury. The wet, dark fabric of her robe had concealed the blood.
The woman sucked the air through her teeth. ‘Foolish girl, you should have said.’
The woman placed her hands either side of Danae’s wounds, who gasped as warmth spread through her body. It felt as though liquid sunlight was pouring into her from the woman’s fingertips. Then her pain began to melt away. She could feel her skin tightening, the muscles beneath knitting together. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized what was happening.
It was over so swiftly.
The woman sat back, rubbed her bloody hands on her tunic and pushed herself up.
‘Come on, help me with him.’
Danae staggered to her feet.
‘You … you have powers.’
The woman glared at Danae as she took hold of Heracles’ arms. ‘Course I have.’
‘YouareMetis, aren’t you?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed further. ‘Last time I checked.’
A little burst of relief bloomed through Danae’s freshly healed body. She had finally fulfilled Prometheus’ last instruction.
‘Grab his legs,’ prompted Metis.
Danae hurried to do as she was bid, and between themthey heaved the hero onto Hylas’ back. Danae clambered up beside him, her arms wrapped tight around his torso.
Metis pointed to the hill. ‘See that boulder? Land the horse behind it. I’ll meet you there.’
‘One last push,’ Danae whispered into Hylas’ ear.
No, not Hylas.Pegasus, Metis had called him, Poseidon’s horse. As he spread his snowy wings and launched into the air, Danae felt a jolt of unease. It grated over her skin like the wind. He did not have a voice with which he could have spoken his true name, yet he had accepted the moniker of Hylas without protest. Now, it felt as though the animal had been playing a part. Just as she had done aboard theArgo. Since the Caucasus Mountains it had been her and the horse against the world, his time as an Olympian steed erased by his choosing to be with her. But perhaps his past could not be so easily forgotten.
As they flew towards the hill, questions began to ripple like delayed shockwaves through Danae’s mind. Why did Metis speak of Heracles’ father as though he were an old friend? Why did she recognize Pegasus? Who was this woman?
Below them, the stony hillside began to reveal its secrets. Behind the rust-coloured boulder Metis had pointed to was a ledge of flat ground, and beyond that, the entrance to a tiny stone dwelling. It looked to be little more than a doorway in the rock-strewn hill, but the placement of the stones around it betrayed a human design. Rocks of a similar size had been stacked like bricks to form the outer walls, and those atop the dwelling slanted up to a peak like the roof of a hut. The smoke Danae had spied seeped from the shadowed entrance.
As the horse landed, Danae breathed in a lungful of relief at the sudden lull of the wind. She could see why Metis had chosen this sheltered spot, hidden from the beach with clear vantage over the entire western reach of the island.
As she eased Heracles down from Hylas’ back, Metis appeared, and together they carried the hero’s bony body into the stone dwelling.
‘Wait here,’ Danae said to Pegasus. The horse huffed and hoofed the ground but stayed where he was.
Inside, the hut was cool and strangely quiet given the wind whipping around the island. The internal walls were rough, as though the dwelling had been hollowed out of the mountainside by hand. Great cracks ran through the rock, and in the centre, nestled in a ring of stones, was a small fire. As they lay Heracles down beside this rudimentary hearth, Danae noticed a smell she recognized. She looked around and located the stench wafting from a woven basket and fishing spear leaning against the doorway. An eclectic collection of clay pots and bowls were piled around the edges of the walls, and the floor was strewn with dry leaves. Dried bunches of herbs hung from twigs prised between the cracks in the walls. There were lizards too, some as small as her thumb, some as long as her forearm, pinned to the stone with sharpened sticks. She was reminded of the trophies mounted on the wall of the Hunters Hall on Lemnos.
Danae’s attention was drawn back to Heracles as Metis swaddled him in a navy woollen cloak trimmed with fur. It was strange to see such a piece of finery in a place like this.
Metis leant over Heracles, her ear to his chest. Then she sat back, closed her eyes and placed her hands upon his torso. Questions clustered in Danae’s throat, fighting to be the first to pass her lips. But she did not dare disturb the healing. She sank to her knees and watched Metis work.
Finally, the woman let out a long breath, withdrew her hands and opened her eyes.
‘I do not know if I have the skill to save him.’
Danae felt as though she were made of glass.
‘If he survives the night, his chances will be better.’ Metis pushed herself up with a sigh and walked towards a collection of chipped pottery piled against the wall. She moved slowly, as though each step cost her. Danae knew that feeling, the fatigue of expending life-threads. A primal longing ached through her.
Metis found what she was seeking, picked up a waterskin and gulped. She wiped her mouth, eyes never leaving Danae.
