“Are you sure we should approach them? Are they safe?” Odysseus asked, and Hermes gave him a look. What group of natives could stand against the god of thieves? Odysseus shrugged. “Right.”
They walked through the trees, Hermes following his nose until the village became visible through the dense growth. It was an oblong stretch of cleared land, crowded through with huts that reminded Odysseus of “The Three Little Pigs”: small, rounded, and made from sticks, reeds, and woven plants. Smoke rose from several fires, and the smell of roasting meat drove the memory of the reeking corpse flower far away.
A group of children huddled in the dirt, playing some kind of game with stones. At their approach, the children raised their heads. Odysseus paused, but Hermes smiled broadly and opened his palms. The children smiled unabashedly back.
“Are you using some kind of god trick?” Odysseus asked. “To make them unafraid?”
“That’d be a pretty good trick,” Hermes answered. “But no. Look at them. At their fat bellies and rounded arms. Listen to the quiet of this forest. What reason do they have to be afraid?”
“Instinct. You know. Fear of the unknown. Of the strange.”
“If we had fangs and claws, they’d scream soon enough. But we don’t. We walk on two. Like them.” They emerged from the trees and were greeted by a grizzled black and gray dog, who thumped her tail and snuffled their pants pockets. One of the children raised an arm and said something too fast for Odysseus to make out, but Hermes said it right back.
“A greeting,” he explained, as the children surrounded them.
Curious hands tugged at Odysseus’ sleeves and tried to get into his rucksack. Two of the children ran for the center of the village. “Should we go? Are they—?”
“Relax, will you? Look around.” Hermes gestured toward the huts and their wide open doorways. “Do you see any bones? Any trophies? Look at their clothing. As much woven from plants and bartered cloth as leather. These people hunt for sustenance. It’s not like we’ve stumbled into an Aztec city. Believe me, I could tell you stories.”
The two children were on their way back, with several equally curious adults. A woman with long black hair and rosy cheeks came up close and pushed a green, rounded fruit into Odysseus’ palm.
“Smile. Show your appreciation. If we play our cards right we can get a cooked meal and a cozy straw bed.”
Odysseus did as he was told; the woman blushed and grinned behind her hand. It was a sweet and bashful gesture, and his stomach started to relax.
Beside him, Hermes nodded at the people and spoke in their language.
“You speak this? What’d you say?”
“Always ask for the oldest woman. If she likes you, you’re golden.”
They were herded through the village, past curious faces sitting in huts or beside fires.
The oldest woman in the village had to be the oldest by about fifty years. She wore a shift beaded with blue and yellow, and her hair flowed around her rickety shoulders in a peppered curtain. But the hand that held her machete had an iron grip.
Hermes said the greeting and waited. The old woman was slower to smile than the others, and when she spoke her voice was cautious.
“We can rest here,” Hermes said when she was through. “And eat. They’re roasting a monkey.”
“I don’t know about that,” Odysseus said. He looked up into the canopy, at the slanting light. “But the resting part sounds fantastic.”
*
They ate communally, sharing between fires. And even though he doubted Cassandra would approve, Odysseus ate plenty of the monkey. The villagers glazed the meat with some kind of fruit juice, and it tasted a little like rich pork. Beside him, Hermes tried to show restraint, but the village children kept bringing him bits of roasted yam and nuts, amazed at how much he could put away.