"So, you think you can get away with defacing my master’s property? Huh?" bellowed the vertically challenged man—shirtless and possibly a slave—at the youth, who looked anything but frightened. Behind the bald slave of a man stood a magnificent horse carriage, made with the finest woods, and decked with gold. Strapped to the carriage were two magnificent white stallions, they too wearing gold—golden harnesses, that is.

A voice boomed from inside the carriage.

"Rodin!"

The slave, who had just been called Rodin, answered.

"Yes, master!"

"Bring that little raccoon over here. He must be taught a good lesson."

The hot summer son blazed down upon the slave and the young man. The slave grabbed the youth’s shirtfront and dragged him to whoever was sitting inside the carriage. Apparently, the rich man was about to ride out in his fancy carriage when his servant, Rodin, had noticed graffiti on the side of the horse-drawn vehicle, then the boy, who was putting away a black piece of coal in his pocket in a hurry. Rodin had grabbed the back of the youth’s shirt before he could get away (although, to any passerby, it would look that the youth let himself get caught).

"You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life," sneered Rodin.

All around, the townsfolk had gathered around, stopping their work and peeping out of shops, homes, and stopping their horses to watch what manner of a juvenile delinquent had gotten caught red-handed.

The youth was dragged to the front of the carriage. The curtains parted, and a man of towering stature, wearing expensive, lavish clothing of red and blue and violet, emerged. The rich man descended the few steps down on to the ground; he stood looking at the young man with a scar running down his right cheek, looking about fifteen years of age. The rich man looked up at the youth. Then he adjusted his turban, straightened out his cape and bulky clothes, and struck the young man across the face.

"Do you know who I am?" asked the rich man to the boy, who looked unfazed.

Youth:

"Of course I do. You’re Ragner, one of the many pigs out there who raise armies, and sit back and collect our hard-earned crops."

Rodin, the servant, struck a blow to the youth’s waist; he did not flinch one bit. At once Rodin was intimidated by this youth’s coolness. In other words, the youth had the upper hand; but to save face Rodin pushed on and said: "He’s Lord Ragner to you, little punk!"

Ragner:

"Easy, Rodin. (Turning to the boy) People…like to put labels on my kind. They call us ‘warlords.’ Now, why do you suppose that is so?"

Youth, looking down at the warlord:

"Because your type are the ones who profit from chaos; you are the ones who rejoice at killing, are delighted by raiding and plundering, and drinking your enemies’ blood out of your wine glasses."

The townsfolk could not believe how bold the youth was. He was telling this man named Ragner precisely what people like him despised to hear. They were awed at his courage, but also feared for his life, for most warlords liked to assert their "power" by making "examples" out of the non-compliant ones.

Ragner:

"Ho, ho, ho. What talent we have here! You are one strong lad. What is your name?"

Youth:

"Solan."

Ragner calmly looked the boy over. One aspect of this boy’s physical appearance that immediately grabbed Ragner’s attention was his shiny, jet-black hair. His hair was darker than the darkest night itself; it was almost inhuman.

Ragner swallowed. He was gripped by a sudden, cold wave of fear. As he looked into the deep, dark wells that were the youth’s eyes, the fear only heightened. His eyes looked bottomless, sucking Ragner in deeper and deeper, with no way out…

"Rodin! Let the boy go."

Rodin was hopelessly confused. He whispered to his master.

"What has come over you, master? This boy has defied you in a most degrading manner! I’ll present his head to you on a platter if you would only give the word!"

Ragner:

"I said, let him go. He is…is not human!"

Rodin:

"We’ll see about that."

Rodin was itching for a fight; he wanted to kill this young man named Solan anyway, and turned away from Ragner and attacked the youth. Rodin’s fist, however, managed to hit thin air as Solan ducked under the blow. There he stood, not making a move. It was as if he was daring Rodin to take another shot. Rodin then kicked at Solan’s midsection, with a ducking side kick. However, before his foot could even clear the ground, he felt something on his temple. A sharp pain, followed by the whole world blackening out.

One of the bolder bystanders called out to the now terrified Ragner. "Hey, Ragner, how ya gonna get home, now that your driver’s out of commission?"

Ragner:

"What???"

Ragner drew his sword and stepped forward, but Solan blocked his way. Ragner, already humiliated, did not want to embarrass himself further. He backed away, and climbed back into his carriage, getting into the driver’s seat.

"Today was his last day as my driver anyway." With that, Ragner the warlord drove away into the mountains, leaving his unconscious slave on the ground.

After shaking off the thanks, etc from the townsfolk, Solan went up to the nearby mountains. He seemed to be in a hurry, looking left and right, searching. He either did not notice, or ignored, Ragner sneaking up from behind him, his sword drawn. Just as Ragner was four feet behind Solan, about to strike, Solan whirled around, dropped, and delivered a powerful foot sweep that knocked Ragner off his feet.

"I really don’t have time for this, Mr. Warlord," snarled Solan.

Ragner, getting up as quickly as he had fallen:

"Make time! You humiliated me in front of the world, like never before. Now you’re gonna pay."

Ragner swung, in a terrific overhead slash, but Solan merely sidestepped the blow. As Ragner frantically struggled to recompose himself, Solan shook his head at the fat man. Ragner was then met with an earth-shaking kick to the chin. Ragner’s head jerked back with a snapping sound, and he collapsed onto the grass. As Solan looked around, the warlord’s body lay still as a rock. Solan could tell he was dead; he did not need to feel Ragner’s pulse.

Solan turned around, and started walking. When he arrived in a deep, dark part of the forest, he stopped.

Solan:

"When can I see my mother?"
A voice, that of a man, seemingly out of nowhere:
"Soon."

Solan:

"I’m tired of "soon"! I want some real answers!"
Voice:

"How dare you!"
Solan’s body was suddenly hurled back twenty feet, right into a tree trunk. Solan slammed his head, and fell down to the ground unconscious.

"That should do it."

"No. His training is still far from over…his skills may be complete, but his is that of raw, unpolished talent."

"That’s right. There is still much anger and confusion in him. We cannot release him like this; we’ll have another Ares on our hands!"

Darkness was covering Solan. He felt the ground beneath him: solid stone. He felt weightless however, and couldn’t move. He recognized the second voice that had spoken; Solan now knew where he was, and relaxed. After he heard footsteps fading away, he decided for a quick nap. Too bad someone else had other plans. Solan felt someone slap him in the face, and instinctively jumped up and put up his fists. As Solan stood up on top of the pedestal he had been lying on, Ares, obviously the one who had interrupted Solan’s nap, kicked Solan’s legs out from under him. Solan fell, banged his head on the edge of the pedestal, and rolled to the floor.

Solan got up, scowling at the god of war, who had burst into laughter. His laughter echoed in the great hallway in which the two stood. A furious Solan was about to lunge his fist into the bushy face of the god of war when he felt himself enveloped in unbearable heat. Ares had expected Solan to attack, and had encased him in a cloud of purple flame.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Get me outta here!"

Ares, mockingly:

"Oh, you foolish mortal. You dare challenge a god? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I COULD DO TO YOU?"

Solan:

Ares, his face turning ugly with anger:

"WHAT? Why, how dare you…!"

A third voice:

"STOP THIS!!!!"

Ares froze, knowing who it was. But he went ahead and socked Solan a good one before stopping and turning to the owner of the voice.

Ares:
"Well, Athena, ‘tis looks like time to warm his (Solan’s) milk again."

Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, responded:

Enough of your antics, Ares. You know you do not belong here."

"Wellll, excussssssse meeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!" Ares said with a graceful, but mocking, bow.

Ares spat in Solan’s general direction, and faded away.

Athena turned toward Solan, who was kneeling on the ground, and went over to him.

"Rise."

Solan stood up, only to be met by another slap to the face. He went down again.

Athena:

"Wisdom does not mean going out to look for trouble. I am the goddess of war, yes; but do you see me thirsting for violence and destruction as Ares does?"

Solan:

"Goddess Athena, but that’s because Ares knows that his father is the almighty Zeus, and that is why—"

Athena:

"Silence!"

Solan shut his mouth.

Athena continued:

"Why did we give you a new life? Why did we give you a new body, and train you? It certainly was not so that you can go out into the world and become another bum. Have you forgotten that the ground you stand on is the sacred Mt. Olympus?"

Solan:

"No, my goddess; I have not forgotten."

Athena’s lecture continued for quite some time. The sight looked a lot like a mother disciplining her delinquent son rather than a goddess taking time out to talk to a mere mortal. All around them, blinding sunlight filled the hallway and illuminated every nook and cranny of the pillars standing to the side. Outside, the clouds formed various shapes, some recognizable, some not. There were faces in the clouds. It seemed as if Athena and Solan weren’t alone in the great hallway.

Solan was a mortal, who was raised by the gods—Athena most of all. Ares was like a big bully to Solan, forever pestering, always the stronger one. Ares was the one who always won, and was always there.

Hermes, the god of fleet feet and messengers, stepped into the hall. He had a matte of curly blond hair that seemed to simply sit on top of his head, and looked like any ordinary youth, save his eyes, which were emerald green. He wore a white robe draped over one shoulder, which was held by a leather belt at his waist and came down to his knees; he also sported his trademark, his winged sandals. Hermes saw Solan and Athena, sitting at a table and engrossed in a board game of some kind. He hated to disturb them; alas, he had a job to do, so he pulled out his horn (not a cow’s horn; the musical instrument) and made a deafening boom that made Solan jump.

Athena, turning to Hermes:

"Yes, messenger of the gods?"
Hermes:

"His greatness Zeus summons you both."

Athena got up from the table as gracefully as a swan wading through water. Solan, still feeling the ringing in his ears, struggled up.

As Hermes and Athena led the way into a much bigger, but darker hall, Solan thought about his present situation. He had been born between two people, known as Barius and Xena. He had been abandoned as an infant, given to the Centaurs. He did not learn that Xena was his mother until a girl dressed in rags killed him and his soul was taken to the land of Illusia. There the truth came out, and Solan forgave her mother for lying to him, her son, for all these years. Then he was transported out of Illusia, right when he had his mother back, the mother he never knew. For a year after that, Solan, now a spirit with no body to possess, roamed the world aimlessly. He saw many things that would make any ordinary young boy sick, such as the horrors of war, incest, and murder.

When he was summoned to Mt. Olympus by the great gods, Solan was already a soul on a mission: to find Xena, his mother, and reach out to her any way he could. When he got to Mt. Olympus however, he realized that the only way he would be able to meet his mother again would be to pass the trial that the gods had laid before him. And this was his trial, the life he now led, living in Mt. Olympus, training under the gods and goddesses.

Solan shifted gears. As he walked behind Athena, he had the wild thought of imagining how attractive Athena would be as a mortal. Athena, in her physical representation, looked like a homely middle-aged woman, with short auburn hair, about 5’ 9" in height. She wore a white gown flowing down to her knees, and brown strap sandals. Athena turned around and squinted at Solan. "Don’t even think about it," whispered Athena. Solan shrugged, fighting to look calm and not blush in embarrassment.

"Got it!" Gabby shouted in the dusk as she successfully dug out another trout from the water. In the small, hand-held fishing net, the grayish-blue trout struggled to free itself, but Gabby carefully grabbed its head, lifted it up, and tossed it behind her shoulder, into the basket full of other trout, other hapless victims of Gabby’s hand of doom. Xena, who too was fishing about ten yards away, put down her fishing pole, and trotted over to Gabby.

Xena:

"Another one? That’s six already."

Gabby, beaming with pride:

"Ha! Try to beat that."

Xena, grinning:

"Don’t tell me you’re going to eat all six trout."

Gabby:

"Hey, I don’t look that fat. …How many do you have?"

Xena:

"I have two. What do you say we call it a day? It’s getting dark."

Far away, above the mountains, the sun was a deep red bronze, as it quickly sank to hide its face and make way for the moon.

Gabby:

"Yeah."

They had packed up their gear and were starting to retreat from the shore of the lake when Gabby spoke.

"Xena."

"Yeah?"
"…Do you ever think of what the world must be like from the viewpoint of the gods?"

"Hmm…Can’t say I really have. Why?"
"It’s just that…it’s just like us fishing. The gods sit high on Mt. Olympus, although sometimes they take on mortal form and travel the world. But mostly they sit and observe the world they created, and the mortals that inhabit it."

As Gabby was busy in her monologue, the two women had built camp, lit a fire, and were rolling out their sleeping bags. Gabby continued:

"The world is just like the fishing pond, and we are the fish. The gods can, and do take mortal lives and give them as they please…"
Xena was getting annoyed really quickly, but she fought her feelings by ignoring Gabby. Gabby did not even seem to notice. As the darkness of night found the two while Gabby rambled on about gods and the world and the meaning of life, Xena cooked two trout, poked one through a stick, and stuck it in Gabby’s face.

"Talking takes a lot of energy. Here, have some fish."

Sixteen-year old Solan was observing every second of this moment in his mother’s life, hidden from her because he was a spirit. He flew back to Mt. Olympus. As he approached the temple high atop the mountain, at the top of the world, he saw Athena, pacing the front courtyard of the huge, magnificent complex.

Solan:

"Goddess Athena!"

Athena looked at Solan with her brown, expressionless eyes, as she always did.

Solan:
"What may you be doing out here?"
Athena:

"I have been waiting to deliver some news to you. Let’s go inside."

Solan nodded and followed Athena inside.

Once inside, Solan was surprised to see all the god(dess)s gathered in one place, lining up either wall of the great hallway. Solan could see them all; Pan, the god of the wilderness; Hermes, the messenger god; Hephaestus, the blacksmith god; Apollo, god of music and purity, etc. At the other end of the hall, sitting on the throne made with gold, was an ominous looking old man, holding a shiny metal staff. Solan instinctively knew that this was the one and only Zeus, the great King of the Gods. Standing next to him was a woman he assumed to be Hera, wife of Zeus. At the awe inspiring sight of Zeus, and the way gods lined the hallway like troopers, Solan knelt down. Athena took her place along one of the pillars against the walls.

Zeus spoke, with clapping thunder and booming lightning:

"You, the one named Solan, have been deprived of your chance at life at an early age. I, Zeus, king of all deities, summoned your soul here."

Solan’s pulse quickened. His mind went blank. Standing in the presence of Zeus, the god of all gods, the highest of the high, he was frightened beyond words. If he had been able to think clearly, he would have correctly assumed that his trial was now over, and that the gods were releasing him to go forth into life. Zeus continued:

"I hereby announce that you, Solan, have completed your trial."
Solan looked up, dumbfounded.

Zeus:

"You shall go forth into the mortal world as of this moment; you shall also be given a new name from the scrolls of the gods. From here on, you will be known as Gilead."

Solan felt a sudden jolt of pain. It felt as if his body was writhing under tremendous pressure; he felt like his body was being crushed by a tremendous weight. As intense the pain was, however, he was able to stand it; he felt the eyes of the gods on him, looking on with anticipation.

The pain suddenly went away one moment, and everything turned black. Solan/Gilead felt weightless, as if he was floating in space. He heard a voice:

"I am Hephaestus, the blacksmith god. Open your eyes now and receive Zeus’s gift."

Solan/Gilead opened his eyes. All around him was total blackness, except for himself, and a bearded man with a bronze-colored tan dressed in armor. Solan/Gilead could not see what he was standing on, but it felt firm, and he knelt before the blacksmith god. The god held out a sword, gleaming and shining even without any light; the sword seemed to emit a light of its own. He accepted the sword, and a scabbard made of a type of wood Solan/Gilead had never seen before. As soon as he grabbed the two items firmly in his hands, the blackness went away, as did Hephaestus.

He was standing in the outer courtyard of the Mt. Olympus temple. As he gazed around, as if seeing this place for the first time, he noticed that Athena was standing not less than five feet away from him.

"I hope I have done enough with you, Gilead. I send you out to the world today; you will never see this place again. Mind what I have taught you. Wisdom comes in many shapes and sizes. And remember, violence is the last resort in any situation."

Solan/Gilead looked at Athena with a puzzled look. As he was staring at Athena, who was like a mother to her, she disappeared. Gilead turned around and gazed out toward the setting sun. The sun, glowing faintly and looking like heated copper in a weapon maker’s oven, was slowly hiding behind the blanket of clouds, they too shining a deep orange. Solan/Gilead drew a deep breath. He could not believe what was happening now. Things were happening so fast; he needed someone to clear up his mind for him.

To be continued in "Discovering Himself"…