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Gods came to America by raft, by boat, by ship, even by plane. They travelled from tongue to tongue, were packed safely in the depths of suitcases, passed around at night to quiet sleepless children.
For Eris, it happened differently. But then, everything happened differently with Eris. She was brought ashore in dusty, leather bound books, stuffy academic journals and in the minds of stuffier professors. She might have come more quickly if it hadn't been for the ship wrecks, the boxes dropped into harbours, the professors lost in the pleasures of the port, but discord was in her nature. Discord was her nature.
At the height of her power, Eris disposed rulers, tumbled cities and plunged whole islands into the sea. Her biggest claim to fame, or at least her biggest source of scholarly footnotes, is the Trojan War. The story has been worn out and re-embroidered over time, but most accounts agree that Zeus and Hera, fearing the effects of her presence, didn't invite her to a feast. The Greek pantheon were one of the more raucous ones, even for gods. Eris didn't need to use her influence for gatherings to descend into brawls or orgies anymore than Dionysus did. Besides, Dionysus was invited. Dionysus brought the alcohol.
After the dust had settled over the battlefields and the bones of the fallen had been picked clean, the story remained. Eris remained. Her temples, along with the other gods, had fallen into disrepair, but the stories migrated and became literature. Fragments of them made their way into popular culture, were altered, changed, retold. Eris became the uninvited guest at the christening. The crone sitting at the spinning wheel.
From time to time, Eris would pause her wanderings to warm herself by nursery fires. Sometimes she'd send fallen pieces of coal to scorch the carpet, but she always stopped short of setting it alight. There were few enough places left to rest and Eris was growing older now. More cautious.
In 1812, a pair of German brothers published a collection of folktales. In less than a year, every nursery and every school yard knew about the Bad Fairy. Eris grew sleek and strong. She slept by firesides and in the beds of youths on midnight wanderings. She never stopped her own wanderings. Change was in her nature.
Gods have to adapt or be forgotten, but Eris doesn't forget her roots. She spends the Prohibition drinking moonshine liquor in speakeasies and dancing until long past dawn. She misses it when it's gone. She's there in 1929 when Wall Street crashes, coaxing stock brokers out of the windows of their top floor offices. She's there as whole states turn to dust and families starve. She's there for every riot, every assassination, every war. She's even there for the Cold War, although she doesn't get involved. No one will worship her after they're dead and Eris is still cautious.
At some point in the Fifties, a goddess appears to two young men in California. This is perhaps not surprising, given that they are under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. Her eyes are as dark as the still water at the bottom of a deep dark well and her hair crackles with lightning. She gives them a message: "To tell constricted mankind that there are no rules unless they invent rules."
Drugs do things to Eris. That is, they affect her even more than they affect humans. Even the rush of someone else indulging in the next room leaves her dizzy and breathless, her pupils wide as dinner plates and the world fizzing into a kind of crystalline stillness. She doesn't remember what happened in California, but she doesn't think the message sounds like the kind of thing she'd say. Still, she watches the cult that forms with interest. A book, Principia Discordia, is published, and Xeroxed copies are circulated between friends, passed around clubs, coffee houses and comic book stores. People send letters to people they've never met and businesses they've never had dealings with, declaring themselves to be Discordian Popes. No one seems sure whether or not it's a joke, least of all the worshippers themselves. That is Eris' favourite part.
Eris sees the War coming before anybody. She scents the bloodshed in the winds that blow in cold from the future, sees the order lying under the chaos. Wednesday comes to visit her, but he takes her refusal easily. He doesn't seem comfortable around her. Perhaps he suspects she knows more than she says. Perhaps he remembers the Trojan war.
It doesn't matter. When the battle lines are drawn and the fighting starts, Eris is going to be there on the sidelines. She won't be fighting, because to fight is to be part of the storm. Eris wants to ride it.