The Golden Throne

The Golden Throne.

While I waited for a reply, I had prepared myself for both possibilities. By the time Hermes was due to arrive, I had already spent two days out in the fields.

If the answer said the ship had reached shore, that would be wonderful. If it said it had not, nothing would change. The plan would proceed as planned — only one more small ache of disappointment would settle in. Either way, a reply was a reply. Once I had sorted it out like that, the waiting became a little more bearable.

The reply came on the second day.

"Older Sister! The reply is here! I brought it as fast as I could!"

I took the letter from him.

My hands trembled as I broke the seal. This letter held the answer to that question. I steadied my breath and unfolded the paper.

It was a fresh sheet. He had not touched a single character of the blank lines I had left beneath each question; every answer was written on new paper. My own letter had come back stacked behind the reply, still creased exactly as I had folded it. He had even explained why, at the end of the letter: the blank lines belonged to the one who left them empty, so he would leave them as they were.

The handwriting was as neat as always — except for the final answer, where the strokes ran a little thicker. The place where he had held the brush a long time before pressing down.

I read the storm answer first.

He had not been afraid. The ship was sturdy, and the poet was not a man who would retreat. What he had worried about was the number of sailors remaining.

I read the star answer twice.

A star that appeared in no astronomy text in the library. One the poet must have invented. And yet — a star that helped find the way was as good as a real one.

A star that exists even if it is not in the records. I looked out the window at that star of mine. My star is in no record either. It is a star built from the Underworld stories Uncle told me. And just now, Uncle had decided that it was as good as a real one. Tonight I would have to read this reply to that star. It was about the star, after all — the star deserved to hear it.

At ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the lighthouse keeper's answer, I stopped for a long time.

The lighthouse keeper would not have known the poet was coming. There was no way to know. Instead, he lit the lamp every day without fail, so when the ship arrived the light was already burning. He was not waiting — he was keeping the light. And yet the years of keeping it became, in the end, a kind of waiting.

I set the letter down on my knees.

He was not waiting — he was keeping the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠light.

That was Uncle's story. The master of a palace who had lit the lamp for eons without missing a single day — there was no way he could have written that sentence without knowing whose story it was. No. He wouldn't have known. Because that was the kind of person Uncle was. Thinking he was only defending the lighthouse keeper, he had written about himself.

So I would have to make sure that light was not wasted. The ship was going. So that eons of burning would mean something.

And then the final answer remained.

And about your last question.

At that line, I steadied my breath once more. Had Uncle steadied his breath before this answer, too?

It would have arrived. Because the light was on. A ship that went as far as the light was visible would not fail to row the remaining few strokes.

It would have arrived.

I read those five words over and over. Without sound — only the shape of them on my lips. The reasoning attached after them was even better. Because the light was on. An answer that comes with a reason is not an answer that insists. It is an answer that believes.

It was exactly the ending I had decided on. I had settled it alone — that if the ship went as far as the light was visible, it had arrived — and set my heart at ease alone. And Uncle had written the same answer in his own hand and sent it to me.

The poet arrives. As long as the light is burning.

This was an answer drawn from Uncle's own mouth. Written by the same hand that once said the living had no ground to walk upon — written that if the light was on, the ship would arrive. He would have thought he was writing about a book. But what is written is written.

At the end of the letter was one more line: I will wait for your next questions as well.I will wait — was Uncle really the kind of person who used those words so easily? I counted the questions I had saved. At least ten remained, and when those ran out I could simply read the book again from the beginning.

So only one thing was left. That the light must not go out. And as far as I knew, that light had not gone out for a single day in eons.

I laid the letter against my chest and sat for a long time. The paper rose and fell with my breathing.

I was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still sitting like that when Hermes, crouched on the field embankment with a cup of honey water in hand, spoke up.

"I'm waiting to take your reply back. While I'm waiting, shall I give you a bit of news? Olympus is in an uproar right now."

"What kind of uproar?"

"Lady Hera can't get up from a throne. It's been three days. The moment she sat down, the throne seized her."

"A throne that seizes people."

"Where it came from is the bigger mystery. One morning it was just sitting there in front of the Great Hall. The craftsmanship — golden vines twisted into the most exquisite work — was so fine that Lady Hera sat down the instant she saw it. And that was the trap. None of the craftsmen on Olympus have that kind of skill."

"How does it hold her? Do the armrests coil around her? Does the backrest grab her?"

"That's the strangest part. There's nothing visible. No chains, no vines moving. She just — when she tries to stand, her body won't leave the throne. She can shout all she likes and the throne doesn't so much as flinch. And it doesn't hurt, she says. She simply can't get up. So the Great Hall is quite a sight right now. The gods have been standing in a circle around the throne holding council for three days straight. They carry her meals right up to the throne, and they've assigned a new nymph just for water service. Lady Hera is presiding over the meetings while still seated — and apparently she still has all her dignity."

Dignity even while seated. Of course.

"Have they tried to free her?"

"Brother Ares charged in saying he'd pull her free by force and only managed to tear up the Great Hall floor. Not a single scratch on the throne. Lady Athena studied it all day and concluded that only its creator can release her. Lord Zeus raised his thunderbolt, then lowered it again for fear of harming Lady Hera. So now everyone's searching for the creator first. I've been ordered to make inquiries myself — I've been twice as busy lately."

"How did they know only the creator can free her?"

"It's engraved on the back of the throne. It will release only when the one who made it wills it. Just that one line."

He had even engraved it. The creator had mapped out this entire spectacle from beginning to end before he started.

I laughed at the part about Ares tearing up the floor. That older brother of mine — then and now — was always faster at knocking things down than at catching them. At the part about Lady Hera being unable to rise for three days, I felt nothing at all. Whether she was sitting or standing was none of my concern.

What held my attention was the throne itself.

A chair that even a goddess could not rise from once she sat. Unmoved by force, untouchable by thunderbolt, releasable only by its maker. So such a thing existed in the world.

"When you find the person who made that throne, tell me too."

"What? Why?"

"I want to see the craftsmanship. It's the only skill of its kind in the world. And I'm curious what a person with hands like that looks like."

"Well, that's all anyone talks about these days. Understood. If I find him, you'll be the first to know."

Hermes said he would come back tomorrow for the reply and flew off. One thing he said as he left stayed in my ear — that if they found the creator, they ought to warn the Underworld as well. Since Uncle also used a throne, he should be careful.

Nothing like that would ever appear on Uncle's throne. If it did, it would be something I already knew about.

Alone again, I began to sketch that chair in my mind.

Golden vines and invisible bonds.

It didn't hurt, they said. It wasn't heavy. You simply couldn't get up. An object that knew how to hold without causing pain.

At first it was merely fascinating. But the longer I drew it, the less it stayed merely fascinating — because a use for it had already risen in my mind.

In my imagination, that chair sat by the window of our house. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did not draw the face of the person sitting in it. If I went that far, I was afraid I would truly want it. And once the wanting took root, it did not die easily — I knew that better than anyone.

I didn't need it now. Letters were going back and forth, the ending had been decided — the ship arrives — and Uncle was not a man who would extinguish the light. If things continued like this, I would walk through that door smiling. That was the first plan, and I preferred the first plan.

But what if.

What if Uncle never opened the door. What if that took its place at his side before I did. What if every method of making him call for me proved useless.

Then a different method would be needed.

Something like a chair you cannot rise from. It didn't have to be a chair. A bed would do.

The moment I entertained the what if, the imagination I had been holding back finished drawing itself. This time, all the way to the face of the person sitting there.

The chair sits by the window, just as before. Uncle comes. As always, he declines at first — says it's fine — and then sits down anyway. The moment he sits, it is over.

Uncle probably wouldn't even be startled. He would try to stand, confirm two or three times that he couldn't, narrow his brow once, and look at me. Kore, what is this? No anger. Just that same voice.

I would sit beside him and answer.

You can't go anywhere now. And you don't need to.

As for what I would do once I had him bound — nothing much. I would read to him, set the table for him, sit at his side. Only the things I was already doing by letter, done within arm's reach. If he worried about Underworld affairs, Hermes could carry the documents for approval. The fastest child in the world — he could make the round trip in a day.

Even as imagination, the tips of my fingers went warm.

It was still only the second plan. The first was going well, so there would be no need to take this one out. There must not be a need.

Still — if they found the creator, I now had two things to ask.

How he made it.

And whether he could make one more.