Mistaken Identity

 She walked into the quiet, empty room. It was different than the other rooms in the museum. A cracked and partial piece of what looked like a building was featured in the room. On the panel was a line of people, possibly Greek goddesses, but the card under the sculpture informed her they were the nine muses and it was Roman not Greek.  She was fascinated by the details in the work, the pillars on either side, the folds in their robes, the arches holding two muses each except one in the center of the panel.

“Why is that one muse by herself?” Sandra wondered. “And which muse is she?”

“That’s Euterpe,” said a man’s voice.

Sandra turned to see an older gentleman in the room with her.

“She is the muse of music and lyric poetry. Her name means ‘one who gives pleasure,’” the man continued. “It is said she brought great inspiration to Orpheus, the great musician.”

“You know a lot about her,” Sandra said.

“I know of all the muses and others,” he states matter-of-factly. At first he seemed very old, ancient sprung to her mind, but a second glance at his chiseled features and towering stature showed a much younger man than she originally thought. 

“Like Orpheus,” she countered.

“Mmmm. Orpheus. Now that is a love story,” he said with a far-away look, as though he were remembering the story, or the love itself, stroking his thick, gleaming white beard that almost seemed an extension of his lush platinum hair. 

“A timeless truth,” Sandra mused, “when you tell someone not to look, they always look.”

“Indeed,” said the wise man. “But who could trust Hades, who has always been the trickster.”

“Another truth.”

“It’s heartening to know humans still know the old stories,” the man said absentmindedly.

Humans. Sandra thought about his choice of words. She started to wonder, but, no, that was absurd. She went back to admiring the relief and he told,her stories about every muse. His telling was authentic and made her question again whether she was in the museum with . . . . No, absolutely not.

After a while, Sandra just straight up asked the man.

“This is going to sound weird, but, you just know so much and the way you talk about the muses almost as though you were there and the way you look and just everything, are you Zeus?”

“Me, Zeus. Oh, no way,” he started, and for a moment she felt foolish.  “I’m Hercules, Zeus is my father.”