(1) Crucia

"I went deer hunting yesterday," said Hermann 'Bear' Claus, "and brought with me a biologist friend, Rufus Jay Wingate, an Englishman. Dapper fellow. I took aim at a deer with magnificent antlers. Then Rufus said, 'Don't shoot! It's a doe!' As it turns out, he was right. It is rare indeed, but some female deer grow antlers. Would you agree that this is analogous to feminism?"

Fredrico Rolgo turned from the window, having watched a pair of Palominos romp across the meadow of the Wyoming ranch that Claus called home during the hunting season. He took off his hornrim glasses and wiped the lenses with his tie.

"You are referring to Ambrosia Kastri," he said, smiling his agreement. "Beauty without balls does not necessarily mean a lack of horns. If you send Sanguineus after her, let's not include a biologist."

Rolgo put on his glasses and reached for his Intel file folder on the walnut table of the study, the table with the ceramic statuette of a rearing grizzly.

"Her father was a Spaniard who married a Greek girl," he continued, as Claus settled into a bearskin armchair near the fireplace. "He had bought a vineyard near Corinth. The girl worked in the office. He got her pregnant. Hoping for a son, he married her and got a daughter for his trouble. Then he was bitten by a flea and died two days later from bubonic plague. The girl raised her daughter, Ambrosia, like a tomboy, in memory of her late husband's desire for a son. But she met a Greek mobster named Kastri, married him, and promptly forgot about Ambrosia. The little girl was subsequently raised by her mother's step-sister, Pella, who taught law at a college in Athens. Pella's husband (they were separated) held the Chair of Philosophy in the university across town. Professor Grigoris Markos. When Ambrosia Kastri grew up into a beautiful and unpredictable free spirit, and Pella was killed in a drive-by gangland shooting, Grigoris took a sabbatical leave and set up a hermitage on Patmos, a Greek island in the Aegean Sea. He changed his name to Tragos. It means 'goat.' Not sure why he chose that monicker. Symbolic of some aspect of his nature, I suppose."

"A Faun, or satyr, maybe," suggested Claus. "Leaving his wife, or she leaving him, makes me think of infidelity."

"Anyway, he grew a long white beard and dressed himself in robe and sandals. He found that he enjoyed the life of a hermit philosopher. Students from the university would visit him. In fact, they got credits for doing so. Tragos arranged for their transportation, on tramp freighters, no less. Quite an excursion for the kids. Adventurous, romantic. Ambrosia visited him regularly during her college days. She was, and still is, very close to him. He is still Tragos the Hermit on Patmos, and she runs a vineyard near Corinth, which she inherited by court order when her mother and step-dad committed suicide together."

"A tidy end to a relationship," quipped Claus. "And she is single?" he inquired, waving his beer bottle.

"As all truly free spirits are."

Bear Claus smiled grimly. "But not all free spirits are bad to the bone."

Sunlight off the Corinthian Gulf shone brightly on the windows of the elementary schoolroom. It gave a rather appropriate halo to the balding head of the old robed hermit who sat on a stool in front of a semi circle of children in their blue and white uniforms.

Idly fingering his straggly white beard, Tragos asked in his clear deep voice, "Who can tell me the name of the mythological creature who symbolizes our fair city of Corinth?"

A nine year old girl in the back stood up. She had black hair cut square at her shoulders, and blue Mediterranean eyes "with fish in them" thought Tragos, who smiled at her encouragingly.

"Pegasus the winged horse," she said with a kind of belligerent confidence. Her expression was somber and serious.

"And your name is--?"

"Fabienne," she said. "Fabienne Chora."

Tragos beamed. "Indeed? Chora is the name of the principal town on Patmos, where I live. Coincidence is the favorite song of the goddess Echo. Actually, I just made that up. But don't you think it is likely to be true?" he asked the children.

They agreed. He laughed indulgently. But seeing that Fabienne was still standing and looking at him in such an impatient way, he said to her: "And what can you tell us about Pegasus?"

Fabienne seemed both relieved and excited. "Pegasus has never been tamed," she said, as though making an announcement.

Tragos nodded musingly, his white brows raised in skepticism. "But wasn't he ridden by Bellerophon in battles against the Amazons, and against the monster Chimera?"

"No! Only Crucia can ride him!"

The children, surprised by the fervency of Fabienne's statement, and even more surprised by her sharp 'No,' turned on their cushions to gape at her.

Tragos, sensing a temper tantrum coming, nodded as if he had just been correctly informed. But the name 'Crucia' sparked his curiosity.

"I have never heard this name before," he said to her, "though I don't doubt you're right. Can you tell me who Crucia is?"

"The goddess of fruit "

"Ah. But isn't that Pomona? Perhaps Crucia is Pomona's sister?"

"No! They were enemies. Crucia killed Pomona and nailed her to a cross that flew up into the sky. The corral where Pegasus grazes was made by flying crosses."

Tragos was dumbfounded for a moment. He hardly knew what to think about this headstrong little girl with the strange ideas. But his smile did not falter. "You mean, flying crosses with people on them?"

"Dead people," said Fabienne.

Tragos nodded again. "And where did you hear these stories about Pegasus and... his rider?"

The girl considered, and while she considered her face softened and the shadow of a pleasant thought touched her lips.

"From Crucia," she said, and sat down.

In the New York City offices of Universal Tools, an Admin secretary set aside her knitting and pulled five sheets of paper from the printer on her desk and stapled them.

The papers were titled, 'Modern Interpretations of Greek Mythology.'

She brushed her dishevelled grey hair from her eyes and put the papers in a manila envelope.

"Sally," she said to the prospect sitting on a short sofa by a window across from her, "post this on Google Plus, would you, dear, and tag Ricklen Cruor."

The girl, a tall and lithe strawberry blonde, came over eagerly and took the envelope. "God how I wish I'd get tagged," she said wistfully.

"Keep on maxing your tests and it won't be long before you'll get an assistant operative position."

"Not if I don't do better on my Response Times, my God, sometimes I think I can't make up my mind about anything!"

The secretary leaned back in her swivel chair, taking up her knitting. "Remember, a bad decision is better than no decision at all. They can teach you to make the right decision, but they can't teach you to think fast. Never mind the quality of your decisions when they're testing you, just make one and make it fast."

The prospect chewed on a strand of hair. "But... suppose I say something really stupid?"

The knitting needles went to work with alacrity. The ball of yarn jerked and wobbled on the secretary's woolen lap.

"The only stupid thing," she said, "is to say nothing."