Free Hero for Hire by C. B. Pratt Page B

Iole didn’t bring it herself. Nor could she spare any of the young and active maids.
    The crone brought it, her thin shoulders bowing under the weight as she shuffled forward. But she shooed me away with hissing noises when I tried to take the buckets.
    She perched on the end of the horse trough. Muffled in dusty black draperies, she looked like a molting crow with eyes just as black, shiny and inquisitive. Black bands bound brow and chin, white hairs sprouting from both. She rocked a little on her uneven perch and screeched, “Go on, go on! You have nothing I haven’t seen before. I’ve buried three husbands and have another one on the string any time I say the word!”
    “The men of Leros are valiant,” I muttered. Well, if she didn’t care, neither should I. The men of Athens often walked through the streets wearing little besides their short capes. It was times like these that reminded me that I remain just a country lad at heart.
    I stripped and upturned one bucket over my head. The soap was scorchingly strong, pumice and lye mixed with goat’s fat. Some hopeful soul had added verbena flowers but they had long-lost the battle to overcome the goat smell. It worked though. I felt I’d added significantly to the local topsoil and seemed at least two shades less tan when I was done.
    I rinsed while the crone cackled. “A well-set up fellow indeed. Brave too, I hear. Fighting the dead...and other things.”
    Hearing some undertone in her voice, I cast her a sidelong glance. One of her eyes was buried in puffy flesh, the other surrounded by a web of wrinkles. I decided she wasn’t actually screwing up her face in a leering wink but that this was her usual appearance.
    Every case, it seems, must contain at least one cryptic crone. I'll teach a whole class on them in my school someday. What is so frustrating is that they never come right out and say what they mean. I suppose once you are old, with all your intense emotions behind you, you have to find your fun where you can.
    They want careful handling, the crones. Show your impatience or try to awe them with your authority and they'll tell you nothing, or worse than nothing. They seem to enjoy sending busy men on wild goose chases. Be especially cautious if they start calling you 'dearie' or complaining about their feet. It's like the warning rattle of a snake. It means trouble.
    While pondering the right approach for this ancient creature, I picked up my discarded clothes.
    I sniffed gingerly at the sweat-stained crumpled pieces and decided that they’d do for another day or so. Doing battle in the nude has never been my choice. I had no reason to assume today would not end in a fight. It would be pleasant to get to grips with something reliably human for a change.
    The crone cackled again, less like a mocking crow, more like a setting hen. “Men,” she said, in a tone of indescribable knowingness.
    After fumbling in the depths of her robe, she drew out an oblong length of crisp white fabric and, from her sleeve, a tunic actually long and wide enough for me. They were so white, especially in comparison to the others I’d worn since leaving Athens, that they seemed to sparkle as they passed from her hands to mine.
    “Now you are dressed as befits the emissary of our new king.”
    “Thank you, good mother.”
    She snorted wetly and spat. “Call me Doris .”
    “ Doris ?” It was the name of mother of many sea-nymphs, lithe, beautiful, and full of joy. Everything she wasn't.
    “Aye. I was nurse to the late king and favorite handmaiden to his mother. My own children are scattered to the four winds.”
    “That must grieve you.”
    She shrugged or perhaps she merely hitched at her robe. “They are good children and follow their paths. I even have a son and grandson fighting now in Troy for good King Priam.”
    “Good luck to him,” I said, and spat.
    “Aye.” She spat again. “You try to help the young ones but they don’t listen, think they know it