Prostaphanes found Homer at the bar in ‘The Bards Sorrow’. The talented youngster looked very tired as he sat, his head propped up on one arm. Like all lonely drunks, he had cleared a space around him that other visitors to the tavern simply avoided. His hair was matted and he smelt like he had not bathed in a year. The remnants of several days of food told a story on his tunic – which was more than Homer was capable of doing. It had been almost three months now since he had told any stories. He had put on weight, lost contact with most of his friends at the Academy and barely attended any classes, except occasionally to pick up scrolls from the back, at the end of the lecture. His final exam was tomorrow.

Prostaphanes, lecturer in ancient story form, had seen it all before. That, in essence, was why he always argued against letting girls into the Academy-it simply distracted the boys. Some of the best, most promising bards were also the most sensitive and easily distracted. Homer had showed such potential with tales of war and quest. His essay on ‘Freeform Expressionism in Pre-Hellenic Myth’ was truly outstanding, perhaps the best the school had ever seen. Yet, it had taken only one girl to distract him and send him into a spiral of depressed self-loathing. Prostaphanes suspected that this was one Greek Tragedy with more than a touch of inevitability. He approached the boy slowly and sat one stool away from him, ordering a drink of Bards Brew from Orestes the owner.

He sat staring into his drink, listening to Homer groan quietly.

"You ever been in love ?" Homer broke the silence with a drunks directness.

"No," lied Prostaphanes. He had his way in now and he was not about to waste it. "What’s it like?" he led on.

"It’s like," he started, "oh, what does it matter? Another drink and one for my ex-lecturer Prostifartes," he laughed.

Orestes glanced at Prostaphanes who shook his head, indicating that he had quite enough to drink already. Orestes poured Homer another, who took the drink and slammed it down his throat in one huge gulp. Another few and his pain would begin to subside just a little, perhaps enough to sleep tonight. He burped and leaned that little bit more heavily on his arm, his hand pushing his cheek into a distorted shape, making his face seem fat and ugly. When sober, it would have been embarrassing.

Prostaphanes knew that a true Bard told stories inspired by hard times, honed by adversity and tempered by loss. It was the hardship that inspired the truest words, the intricate plots, the glorious passages and the tangible emotion on the page. If all in life was easy and good, who would fight, what evils would they overcome, how many tears would they shed or hearts break? Broken hearts? Poor Homer. Poor Homer, yes, but if he could learn to harness it, to tame the beast of pain, turn it around and use it, if he could focus and create, his tales would acquire a depth unavailable to the youngster before.

"Was she worth all this Homer?"

"Yes," Homer breathed, his face contorted in a mirrored expression of his soul. He brushed his hair from his eyes, back over his head, and turned to face the lecturer he admired so much. Tears filled his eyes.

"Tell me about her," Prostaphanes offered gently.

Homer closed his eyes but began to sit upright. He breathed deeply, as if breathing itself required concentration. At first, Prostaphanes thought Homer was not going to talk to him about her. Would the boy lock it all away? Outside, a horse clopped by.

Then Homer began…

"Here begin the woes. Here begin the sorrows. Gird well your loins, brace your soul and guard your mind for here begins the tale of she. Brave men present, I beg of you not to listen, for bravery has sent many a hardy fool to his grave. Instead, flee, by yonder wind until no more can you hear of me. If yet you choose

to stay, if curiosity as a wicked tormentor goads you to listen then blame not the mirror. And such dull mirrors are words, for they cannot reflect but a sparrows portion of her beauty, or a flys worth of her charm. Yet in this dullness will you be caught, entranced as moth to flame and so to share in your bards sweet misery."

Homer paused. He was not talking to Prostaphanes, or anyone else in the inn. His words were for himself. Prostaphanes held his breath, willing Homer to continue. Just one telling, one bardic release might see the boy back in the academy by tomorrow morning, or more likely by midday once Bards Brew had worked its way through him.

"Gold is treasure indeed, but none so precious, nor untarnished ever burned as brightly as my loves hair. And gold is but a frame for alabaster skin of purest white with inlaid eyes of stolen emerald green that sparkle, with verdant life, even in the darkest night."

Prostaphanes could not stop himself from noticing the excessive use of superlative and extended sentence structure, admittedly advanced topics, but the boy had pulled it off with aplomb.

"Yet this is hearsay, of Aphrodite myth, for when with her, there can be neither darkness nor night. For all is lit by her sweetest smile and only men’s souls fall into shadow. Blessed by sweet Aphrodite only, this mortal Goddess would capture hearts, yet also blessed is she by huntress spirit of Artemis. In this blessing is the body toned, as if the outer is carved to muscled perfection by the honed edge of her inner spirit. Perfection of body continues on to neck and thigh, through arms of such delicate splendour and woman’s gifts of such rounded firmness. Both huntress and lover blessed is she, that no mans eyes nor heart is safe be they hardened to stone by pain or sorrow."

Prostaphanes watched as Homer stared into mid space. Prostaphanes rolled his drink between his hands and waited. Thrice blessed?

"Were Great Zeus to create a perfect woman, she would hide her face in shame, nor ever speak, nor ever love once she had met our Goddess. For Athena could not leave her sisters to create but added wisdom and art into the bouquet. For not twice blessed but thrice is she. For to hear her tell a story, or read her runes is pleasure itself. To watch her create is inspiration itself. To watch her, oh just to watch her, is worship."

Homer paused.

"A thrice blessed Goddess, in innocent ignorance of her worshipers who need no recognition, nor wishes granted but simply to live in the glorious light of her blessing."

Prostaphanes watched the young man closely.

"A sculpture of perfection, with no touch for mortal man who gazes upon her from afar and knows his own Elysian fields."

Perhaps he had been wrong about women. Perhaps it was the men who were the problem.

"A golden poem of lyrical conception beyond the reach of earthly bards, except to read and know of Olympian perfection and Muses inspiration."

Perhaps trouble was good.

"Mea Dea Gabrielle. Mea Musa."

Prostaphanes watched Homer slump. His story was over. It hadn’t had much of a plot. In some ways it was more of a prayer than a story but it had many commendable elements. From the start, Prostaphanes had been gripped. Each stage was expected but rewarding and the ending had punch and, well, pathos. It could lose ‘Mea Musa’ easily and not suffer. Prostaphanes finished his drink, stood and straightened his robe. He put an arm around the distressed young bard at his side.

"That would be a pass in the final oral exam tomorrow Homer and I won’t be marking it, so who is to say you have used it before?"

Prostaphanes turned and walked to the exit, somewhat distracted by the boy’s powerful story. An elegant woman was clearing mugs from a table. She looked up as he passed and he smiled openly and warmly at her, holding eye contact for a long time. She smiled back and he stopped. This was the first time he had even looked at a woman in years, let alone held eye contact.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked in a deep feminine voice.

"No, just moving to where I can watch you work," he replied quietly and sat down next to her. She smiled sweetly.

"I get off soon, perhaps you’d buy me a drink?" she asked.

"I’d be honoured."

He watched her stroll away, then turned to look at Homer. If the boy turned up tomorrow, one day, Prostaphanes knew, he would tell the greatest stories ever known.

Jason