He is dead.
Cyrus wandered along a shady river. It was hot and there was no one in sight. He hit fast forward. Shadows blurred by the sun reached higher and higher overhead. In the distance he could make out a bent-over figure. He resumed normal speed. As he got closer he heard her weeping. Are you Isis? he asked her.
Here I am she said, dark tall hollow eyed willowy seemingly draped in mists. Hunched over one minute filling all space the next. Who are you, mortal, to approach me unafraid and challenge me thus? Donít you see my grief?
Donít you fear the goddess in her sorrow? Her eyes flashed.
He said, I am sorry. I will show more respect.
What are you thinking she said suddenly. I do not like the look in your eyes.
Quickly he said, Why are you crying?
Is it not supposed to be a mystery? she asked. Do you think you can come and ask me anything? Are you an adept?
I donít know, he said.
You knew one of my names, she pointed out, Do you know my brother my lover?
I may know him.
Did you know he was dead?
I had heard but how can a god die?
A god is just a hero from a long time ago, she lectured; another hero can kill him. Seth the destroyer has scattered him in the river. I am plotting revenge. She gestured at a pile in the shade.
He tried to look without displaying unseemly interest. He could make out a thigh or piece of a torso a hand what may have been a shaggy mop of hair. You can put him together again?
I can. I could do it now but he would not be whole. There is a piece of him I cannot find and while I fear it is lost forever I owe it to him to look.