“These are the most interesting times we live in!” said Bob and smirked, because one part of him, the part that was listening, liked his own joke. You see, the other part wasn’t very good at poking fun at things, especially philosophical ones. But it was remarkably good at listening. And it was precisely that part that understood Bearton so well. Bearton smiled, as if he could hear Bob’s feline thoughts. Then Bob stretched and decided it was perfect moment to tell Bearton the story of the ten-year war between the Olympians and the Titans. Bob settled into his seat and began:
“It began with a swallowing …”
Bearton raised a brow, which, for a bear, is quite a feat.
“Not a sword,” Bob continued, “not a betrayal. Not even a prophecy. Just … a father swallowing his children.” He tapped his paw against the seat and calmly continued, “as one does.” “Kronos,” he went on, “the Titan of time and harvest was told that his children would one day overthrow him. So, naturally, he ate them. One by one. Gulp.” Bob smirked.
“But you see … mothers are clever. And Rhea, their mother, had enough of birthing gods into oblivion. So when the youngest. Zeus was born, she gave Kronos a stone wrapped in swaddling cloth. He swallowed it whole. Digestive denial,” muttered Bob.
Bearton chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that made train windows fog.
Bob continued: “Zeus grew up hidden in a cave, raised by nymphs, goat milk, and rebellion. When he was ready, he gave Kronos a potion. And …” Bob paused for dramatic effect. “Up came his siblings, all five, fully grown and slightly annoyed.”
“That was the beginning,” Bob said, “of a war that shook Olympus and cracked open the bones of earth. The sky turned against the mountains. Thunder answered stone. They called it the Titanomachy,” he added. “For ten years, Titans and Olympians fought. Old gods with ancient strength versus upstart immortals who’d learned how to throw lightning like sarcasm.”
Bob glanced toward the train window. A shadow passed, or maybe it was just time reshuffling itself. “The Titans lost, of course. You can’t hold off change forever. Not even with strength carved from the world’s first breath. They were cast down into Tartarus,” Bob whispered, “the deepest part of the Underworld. Shackled in chains forged by Necessity. Guarded by a monster with a hundred hands.” He flicked his tail once more, voice lower now. “And Zeus? He sat on a throne of storm clouds and called himself king.”
Bob looked at Bearton, who was now staring into the distance. “And that, my dear bear,” cat said with a soft smirk, “is how we got seasons, thunder, and daddy issues.”
Bearton chuckled, low and thoughtful.
Outside, the train howled softly through Elsewhere. The sky folded in strange angles and stars blinked like they’d heard it all before. Bob stretched again, arching his back like a question mark. “But here’s the part they don’t write in marble,” he murmured, flicking imaginary dust from his imaginary coat. “Zeus won the war, yes. But Time was never really defeated. Just … dethroned. Temporarily.”
The train lights flickered once, then again. “And we?” Bob mused, “we all are just trying to outrun one of two things: gods we have swallowed … or the ones we’ve become.” Then he looked at Bearton, a little softer now. “So, would you like some tea?” And with that, the story was over. Or perhaps it was just beginning again.
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