Pholus the Centaur
Teacher and Storyteller
Stoning (Not that kind of stoning!)
This is a story that takes place over 300 years before the birth of Jesus Christ. Nothing bad happens in this tale.
The Coast, Not Far From Megara
Archonship of Euergetes, The Ninth Day of Maimakterion
To my Mother, greetings,
Your son wishes you all well at this time of the year, and I hope that you are well settled in for the approaching rains of winter. My own health has been good, although I am, as always, suffering with the colic, and you shall, as always, undoubtedly urge this or that alteration in my diet. Be assured, dear Mother, that I shall consult the pharmacologists at the Lyceum upon my return from the Peloponnese.
I do try to eat what is right, but it is, as always, the beans that prove my undoing, and my fondness for them is a thing I must temper. But, as you know, they are nourishing.
As you have asked, I have consulted old Thibron in Tanagra about the state of your investments in the Megarid, and he and I together urge you to send no more money to the Fuller’s Association in Perachora. I agree that the new process may be useful both in the fulling and cleaning of wool, but they are at odds with each other over the costs of further effort and where investments such as yours should go. I fear it will be into the purses of the less honorable among them. Execias will advise you further, and it is my thought that you should keep your silver closer to Rhodes. I see storm clouds on the horizon here in Greece, but I will speak no more without certain knowledge, lest the gods take notice.
Work, or meaningful work, at least, eludes me still. One with skill in numbers or knowledge of carting may always find employment, of course, but I do still refuse to pull a cart after all my studies. I know from my own youth, as you are undoubtedly thinking, the honest nature of the work, and I do not look down upon my father’s profession. But, Mother! I have done my part between the shafts, and with no shame, but I have not spent my years at the Lyceum for something that may as well be done by a horse! I am not a horse, however useful my resemblance to one might be to a two-legs in need of my strength.
Despite my travails and difficulties, I will not, however, shame us both by asking for your assistance. I am reasonably well-clothed, and find ways to eat and dwell cheaply, at only a very small cost to my health and appearance. The comic poets make great jests about the threadbare, traveling scholar, but, as such a figure, at least I meet with smiles, rather than crossed spears, in the course of my travels. Things are calm between the breeds. Our folk are getting along well with the two-legged populace of the regions through which I have traveled, and the Silenoi and the Satyrs seem to be managing, at least as far as I can tell. Just today I encountered an somewhat older palomino stallion, and there witnessed a portent of enough wonder to make me pause in my journeys and indite this to you.
It was a rather rocky pathway overlooking the coast, a treacherous spot, for all its beauty. One must place each hoof carefully, and not allow the splendor of the view to lure you onto the rocks, far below. I might have tried Odysseus’s measure against the Sirens, but, ha ha! Plugging my eyes with cloth and wax would produce the same result as letting my gaze wander, and sooner.
Picking my way carefully, and rejoicing in the fact that I was well shod at that time, I came to the highest part of the trail, on a promontory directly above a sheer drop to deep waters below. I paused to doff my hat and take breath, a bit lathered, for the sun had come up and warmed me before I thought to remove my cloak. Ah, the shining blue skies and seas of Greece, although our own little island, as you know, Mother, can match it in glory at its best. I thought of my long travels with Father, and as always, at such times, longed for him again with the passing melancholy we have both come to know so well.
You may thank Rhodos herself that I did not bolt over the cliff, as our silly, distant relatives might do when startled, and I must confess that I shied rather badly when the voice addressed me in what was, to be sure, a simple, polite greeting. The wind was in the wrong direction at that moment. It was another of our people, always a pleasant encounter, although I am an old enough wanderer to check a stranger for hidden weapons or companions before dropping my guard. Before I forget—please to place an order with that artisan by the docks with whom I have dealt in the past—ask the sailors for the shop of Phrynicus—for another fifty of the bolts my gastrophetes requires. I have had occasion to use the weapon, but, invoke no gods, Mother, merely in practice and demonstrations of its use and effectiveness. Perhaps I should become a merchant in them! An amusing thought, yet one, I admit, that it might do to consider. I have friends yet in Syracuse who might procure any number of them for me…
I digress, and these tablets are not infinite in size! The palomino centaur who had addressed me was perhaps a few years older than I, very heavily built, perhaps from heavy cartage in the quarries near by. We exchanged pleasantries and names—He was Hermogenes son of Chilon, and indeed, involved in the carving and transport of stones from this place north to Athens, south to the Isthmus. His pelt, though in good condition, was stained with the stone dust of the quarries, and his hands and flanks wore calluses and harness-galls. After a polite exchange of breath and an embrace, I offered him some from my wine skin, and he urged me to kneel there beside him and rest myself as we shared the last of my wine.
We passed some time together, in companionable silence, and, as you know, it is most comforting to be in the proximity of a fellow centaur when you have been long among the two-legs and other such strangers. We watched the clouds in formation over the sea for some time, together, and then I noticed a carved ball of pine, I think, in between his folded foreknees.
At my lifted eyebrow, he smiled at me and rose to his hooves.
This is a story that takes place over 300 years before the birth of Jesus Christ. Nothing bad happens in this tale.
The Coast, Not Far From Megara
Archonship of Euergetes, The Ninth Day of Maimakterion
To my Mother, greetings,
Your son wishes you all well at this time of the year, and I hope that you are well settled in for the approaching rains of winter. My own health has been good, although I am, as always, suffering with the colic, and you shall, as always, undoubtedly urge this or that alteration in my diet. Be assured, dear Mother, that I shall consult the pharmacologists at the Lyceum upon my return from the Peloponnese.
I do try to eat what is right, but it is, as always, the beans that prove my undoing, and my fondness for them is a thing I must temper. But, as you know, they are nourishing.
As you have asked, I have consulted old Thibron in Tanagra about the state of your investments in the Megarid, and he and I together urge you to send no more money to the Fuller’s Association in Perachora. I agree that the new process may be useful both in the fulling and cleaning of wool, but they are at odds with each other over the costs of further effort and where investments such as yours should go. I fear it will be into the purses of the less honorable among them. Execias will advise you further, and it is my thought that you should keep your silver closer to Rhodes. I see storm clouds on the horizon here in Greece, but I will speak no more without certain knowledge, lest the gods take notice.
Work, or meaningful work, at least, eludes me still. One with skill in numbers or knowledge of carting may always find employment, of course, but I do still refuse to pull a cart after all my studies. I know from my own youth, as you are undoubtedly thinking, the honest nature of the work, and I do not look down upon my father’s profession. But, Mother! I have done my part between the shafts, and with no shame, but I have not spent my years at the Lyceum for something that may as well be done by a horse! I am not a horse, however useful my resemblance to one might be to a two-legs in need of my strength.
Despite my travails and difficulties, I will not, however, shame us both by asking for your assistance. I am reasonably well-clothed, and find ways to eat and dwell cheaply, at only a very small cost to my health and appearance. The comic poets make great jests about the threadbare, traveling scholar, but, as such a figure, at least I meet with smiles, rather than crossed spears, in the course of my travels. Things are calm between the breeds. Our folk are getting along well with the two-legged populace of the regions through which I have traveled, and the Silenoi and the Satyrs seem to be managing, at least as far as I can tell. Just today I encountered an somewhat older palomino stallion, and there witnessed a portent of enough wonder to make me pause in my journeys and indite this to you.
It was a rather rocky pathway overlooking the coast, a treacherous spot, for all its beauty. One must place each hoof carefully, and not allow the splendor of the view to lure you onto the rocks, far below. I might have tried Odysseus’s measure against the Sirens, but, ha ha! Plugging my eyes with cloth and wax would produce the same result as letting my gaze wander, and sooner.
Picking my way carefully, and rejoicing in the fact that I was well shod at that time, I came to the highest part of the trail, on a promontory directly above a sheer drop to deep waters below. I paused to doff my hat and take breath, a bit lathered, for the sun had come up and warmed me before I thought to remove my cloak. Ah, the shining blue skies and seas of Greece, although our own little island, as you know, Mother, can match it in glory at its best. I thought of my long travels with Father, and as always, at such times, longed for him again with the passing melancholy we have both come to know so well.
You may thank Rhodos herself that I did not bolt over the cliff, as our silly, distant relatives might do when startled, and I must confess that I shied rather badly when the voice addressed me in what was, to be sure, a simple, polite greeting. The wind was in the wrong direction at that moment. It was another of our people, always a pleasant encounter, although I am an old enough wanderer to check a stranger for hidden weapons or companions before dropping my guard. Before I forget—please to place an order with that artisan by the docks with whom I have dealt in the past—ask the sailors for the shop of Phrynicus—for another fifty of the bolts my gastrophetes requires. I have had occasion to use the weapon, but, invoke no gods, Mother, merely in practice and demonstrations of its use and effectiveness. Perhaps I should become a merchant in them! An amusing thought, yet one, I admit, that it might do to consider. I have friends yet in Syracuse who might procure any number of them for me…
I digress, and these tablets are not infinite in size! The palomino centaur who had addressed me was perhaps a few years older than I, very heavily built, perhaps from heavy cartage in the quarries near by. We exchanged pleasantries and names—He was Hermogenes son of Chilon, and indeed, involved in the carving and transport of stones from this place north to Athens, south to the Isthmus. His pelt, though in good condition, was stained with the stone dust of the quarries, and his hands and flanks wore calluses and harness-galls. After a polite exchange of breath and an embrace, I offered him some from my wine skin, and he urged me to kneel there beside him and rest myself as we shared the last of my wine.
We passed some time together, in companionable silence, and, as you know, it is most comforting to be in the proximity of a fellow centaur when you have been long among the two-legs and other such strangers. We watched the clouds in formation over the sea for some time, together, and then I noticed a carved ball of pine, I think, in between his folded foreknees.
At my lifted eyebrow, he smiled at me and rose to his hooves.
