- Vol. 05
- Chapter 11
For their sport
In a mood as usual, Jove spat. A comet of divine expectorate exploded in the green, just off some coast. Euterpe tugged his selfish sleeve; glancing back, he noted how the whole island shuddered. A klaxon howled, and mortals hid from it.
“Never apologise,” he said. The Muse, astounded, remonstrated soundly. Fool, to think that she could move her master’s mind! He turned on her. “High time you tried your hand at divine intervention. Make merciful overtures, if you must. It’ll be no use...”
How right he was. Euterpe went and tuned her hopeful harp. The heart of the inferno set raging on the fatal shore, a mass- murdering mess, was where her masterclass took place. Before her harp-strings could turn to ash – all froze. “I told you so!” Jove grinned.
Now metamorphosed, here she sits. She smoothly breathes; there’s plenty in the tank. Her thumb and fingers seem poised to reclaim their pure notes – but no one lives to hear them. The population, after all, has shrunk. And the gods save their yarns for the ex-pats.