“Put the fish head back. It is for the cyclops,” Thelus said.
“There is no cyclops,” Tep said. Thelus grabbed the fish head from the child’s hands, squeezing the rotten brains out. He threw the remains into the marsh.
“And don’t stand on the altar,” Thelus said, giving Telepinus a gentle push off it. Every night without fail Thelus placed a fish head on a hook above the altar for the cyclops. “What would your father say?”
“He won’t care,” Tep replied, “And he calls me Tep. My name is Tep.”
“Yes he will,” Thelus replied. “Crithoros is traditional.” “Did you get woken up by your father yelling and screaming?” Tep asked.
“No,” Thelus replied. “He is my uncle, not my father.” “Did you wash your eyes from the clay bowl when you woke up this morning?” Tep asked.
“No.”
“Did you carve a doll when you were eating breakfast?”
“No.”
“Did you tie your hammock with a fishing knot before you left the shanty you sleep in?”
“No.”
“Did you sit on the stone fence at the edge of the village until the sun was up?”
“No.”
“Are you going to walk to the shrine of Demeter and place an ear of grain on it?”
“No.”
“Will you place traps in the creek?”
“No.”
“How many fish will you catch?”
“It is a statue, not a doll,” Thelus said. “I am carving a statue.”
“Why did you throw the fish head in the marsh?” Tep asked skipping from question to question like a bird flits across the ground looking for seed.
“To feed the cyclops,” Thelus said.
“There is no cyclops in the little marsh,” Tep replied. Thelus could see the child thinking, ready to burst into thought like an irrigation ditch overwhelming its gate. “Does a cyclops have one eye or do they have a good eye and a dead one?” Thelus snorted. He needed to educate the child.
“Poetry is how we worship the gods, understand the world and know how to live.” he said to himself.
“Not me,” Tep said. “Poetry is boring.”
Thelus slipped into verse, smoothing his voice in rhythm:
“Muses, talk to me of the cyclops brothers and how the little marsh, east of Athens on the Marathon Plain came to be:
Zeus, son of Cronus, who masses the storm clouds, said, ‘Cyclops, sons of Uranus, brothers four, Fashion me a weapon of lightning from tumultuous air’. The one-eyed brothers: Brontes, Steropes, Arges, stern of strength, offspring of father sky and mother earth, took to the task, forging Zeus his deadly lightning bolt. But the fourth sibling, Arkodes, work shy and idle, went back to their cave, quaffing sheep, gurgling wine, until overwhelmed with sleep and beastly snores.
The three brothers returned to their cave at Mount Agrieliki. ‘Wake Laziness!’ white-bolted Arges roared, stamping his foot. ‘Wake Idleness!’ lightning Steropes roared, stamping his foot. Brontes, thundering eldest, endowed with strength, ‘Gluttonous, lazy, and idle. Arkodes, I curse you absent!’ Brontes crushed the cave with his foot, creating a spring. ‘By blue-maned Poseidon,’ Brontes roared, ‘you will toil, without food or rest, stopping the cool spring water from ever reaching the wine dark sea. No idleness for you.’ And, Brontes created the Vima with the flowing spring, and Steropes created Mesis, and Arges created Katou. Apeontesde, the village was called, ‘to the absent.’
Arkodes weeps as he toils. ‘Forsaken by kin!’ His stomach rumbles with hunger, mouth dry for wine, eye sore for sleep, as he traps the spring in the little marsh.”
“There is no cyclops in the marsh,” Tep repeated.
“The fish head would be eaten if the cyclops escaped his brother’s curse,” Thelus said. “He is still in the marsh and very hungry.”
Telepinus shrugged.
This morning was all wrong, Thelus thought. He had been woken by honking geese and his uncle’s rage echoing around the village, and now this child disturbing the ritual at the altar.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Thelus said.
“I want to see the warships,” Tep said.
“There are no ships,” Thelus replied. Tep pointed at the northerly spire of smoke rising from Rhamnus at the other end of the Marathon Plain.
“So what? We live on a hill. We have nothing raiders want. It is the cyclops you should be worried about. If escapes he will tear our homes to the ground,” Thelus said.
“The warships are coming,” Tep said.
“There are no ships.” Thelus replied.
“I have a fig you can eat with your gruel,” Tep said.
“I don’t want it.” Thelus said.
“You can eat your food here,” Tep said. “Instead of the stone fence.”
“I don’t want it,” Thelus said. What he wanted was for the day to start again so it would be like every other day: a normal day.
“You haven’t tied your satchel like you normally do,” Tep said.
“I tie it how I want.”
“Nah uh.”
“You are such a child.”
“You are.”
“I am twenty-seven,” Thelus replied, which got a giggle from Tep.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“You should be.”
“I am not.”
“I eat my peas,” Tep said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I eat them.” the child continued.
“Your father was up early too.” Thelus said.
“My father saw you.” Tep said. Thelus pursed his lips. He was always careful to escape notice.
“No he didn’t,” Thelus said, “Why are you following me?”
“Peas are squishy,” Tep replied.
“You stood on the altar and took the fish head,” Thelus said, steeling his voice to scare Telepinus away. “Arkodes the cyclops will escape the marsh, destroy our village and eat your friends.”
“Don’t follow me,” Thelus said, he looked over his shoulder. Of course the child was following.