The Winter Thief

87

Vera was holding up a small flare to guide Alicia as she examined the wound on Apollo’s shoulder that had reopened. Omar had returned and sat beside them, tense and silent, his eyes on the gate. No one had lit torches, unsure of what attention the flames might attract. The courtyard was illuminated only by a brilliant cover of stars that flowed like an icy river across the sky.

“Look how bright the stars are,” Vera said in order to distract Apollo from his pain and herself from the memory of Gabriel’s death that accompanied her everywhere.

Apollo leaned his head back and gazed upward. “That’s Hartacol, the Straw Thief’s Way,” he told her. “According to the legend, the god Vahagn stole some straw from the Assyrian king Barsham and brought it to Armenia to protect the people from a cold winter, just like this one. When he fled across the heavens, he spilled some of the straw along the way.”

“So Vahagn stole the straw but managed to drop most of it along the way? What a useless deity!” Vera exclaimed, her voice bitter. She extinguished the flare now that Alicia had finished bandaging Apollo’s shoulder, and they all sat back to gaze at the stars.

“In another legend,” Apollo continued, “the straw was dropped by Saint Venus after she was stolen from Saint Peter. And an even earlier legend says that the stars are corn ears dropped by Isis in her flight from Typhon. It’s an ancient name. The Arabs call it Darb al-Tabanin, the Path of the Chopped Straw Carriers, or Tarik al-Tibn, the Straw Road. The Persians call it Rah Kakeshan. And even in China, it’s called the Yellow Road, from the color of the dropped straw.”

“We call it the Milky Way, as if a cow had knocked over a pail,” Alicia said. “To me, though, it looks like a field of diamonds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars at once.”

“All those clumsy gods and heroes, where are they now?” Vera complained.

“When we need their help,” Apollo added softly, scraping up a handful of straw from the ground and scattering it in the air.

“Do you know all those languages, Apollo?” Alicia asked admiringly, getting up to help Victor tend to the other wounded.

“I’m a philosopher, my dear. We collect the cream clotted at the rim of every civilization. We don’t need to see it milked and churned.”