Dead Beautiful (12 page)

“I have no idea.”

“Then how do you know all this about Hecate, Helios and Hades?”

“You know how it works. It’s along the lines of how radio frequency will function in eighteen, nineteen centuries. I can kind of triangulate on her location, but she keeps moving around.”

“Well,” Hera says. “We’ll just have to wait for her to settle down. Then we’ll sort this out.”

Persephone

I step through the open doors onto the terrace, which is constructed of some stone that glows faintly beneath my feet. The terrace is wide and flat, with two sets of broad stairs descending on the left and right-hand sides.

I take the left-hand staircase, which winds by 90° turns in a half-circle so that I find myself standing at the base of the terrace facing down the allée, flanked by tall, conical cedars looming up into the darkness, that leads away from the palace into what is and is not shadow.

Compared to the upper world, the world of Hades is dim and shadowy but it isn’t pitch black the way a windowless room is, or a closet. Here, it is always evening, that liminal time balanced between the sun’s supremacy and the moon’s ascendancy. Here, I sense rather than see shadows moving at the edge of my awareness, so that even awake I feel as though I am entering the realm of sleep and dreams.

The skittering shapes do not frighten me; I sense no malice or ill-intent in them, only nervousness. I continue down the allée.

It ends in a “T” at a walkway that leads right and left, and again, I take the left-hand path that leads me through rich gardens filled with cypress, willow and poplar. Flowers, too, glimmer in distant beds and I am tempted to leave the path and wander there, examining the new blooms, but time enough for that later, I decide. Today I want to see as much of this realm as I can.

Once the path has left the grounds of the palace it narrows and grows uneven, bends and twists. It passes through a forest and then an area of brush and shrub until it emerges into what looks like a small village of modest cottages hugging each side of the now-rutted track. As I approach I hear the stutter of hurrying feet. It seems the souls who live here are withdrawing so that, as I walk past each building, only blank black doors and empty, gaping windows greet me.

Everything is still. No wind troubles the leaves above me, I hear no merry chatter of birdsong, no gurgle of streams. I come upon a river that moves dark and silent beside the route I follow. I could drop a memory in those waters and never recover it.

Presently the track opens out into a village centre. I see shadows moving silently to and fro. As I approach they stare, hiss as if in alarm, and blow away like smoke before my eyes. All that remains are faint, sad cries that echo in my ears.

I continue walking. In the middle of the village I come to a quay that juts out from the shore into the waters of a wide river, dreary, choppy waters that look like the ragged remnants of black mourning dress.

I stand on the quay and gaze across the river, straining to see the other shore, but it’s impossible. Black sky falls like a curtain to meet murky waters. The two merge and become one shifting presence, impenetrable, receding into an infinity of shadow. The opposite bank is invisible. I know it is there only because of the sounds of grief that travel to me across the moving waters.

Slowly I become aware that the voices are drawing nearer, a high, keening chorus increasing in volume. I stand alone on the jetty waiting to see what will emerge from the shadow.

Cyane

So Darryl and I went to the old guy’s house. It was a cute little place, well, not really, it was kind of shabby and really tiny. I told Darryl that when I have a house I want it to be big. I want a nice entrance hall and a beautiful inner courtyard with a water feature. Darryl said with his know-how and my background it would be a snap. Plus I want the kitchen separate from the living area — all those stinky smells — and a second-storey Thalamos. More privacy that way.

We sorted stuff out for the guy. I talked to the local water deity, who’s a cousin of my mom’s aunt’s daughter-in-law, and he said no problem, he’d be happy to give the guy’s house a miss.

After that was all fixed up I asked Darryl if he wanted to see where I want to build my own house someday, and he said sure. And then Darryl and I went there. It’s on the bank of a small river.

Darryl liked the spot. He pointed out the bedrooms could be east-facing, so it would be easy to get up with Helios in the morning. Darryl is so smart. I had never thought of that. He’s interested in trying this new thing on the windows — really thin waxed vellum. It lets in light, but keeps out rain and dirt. We’d still need shutters to keep the rooms cool during the middle of the day, but I said the vellum stuff sounded like a good idea. Plus he said he’s always wanted to try tiles on the floor of a house; they’re cleaner than packed dirt and cooler, too.

So then we talked about stuff and it’s amazing — we have so much in common! I want two boys and a girl, and so does he! He thinks the man should be the head of the household and so do I — well, about most things, anyway. I mean, Dad really is the boss of the house — when he’s around. But Mom’s in charge of the servants, the food, paying the bills. She gives Dad drachmas to go out and have ouzo with the boys, but they’ve agreed she can manage the household accounts and savings because she’s got a really good head for numbers. She plans the vacations. She’s the one who hooked my sister up with Orville, Deputy Assistant to the Demi-God of back taxes and she’s also the one who just happened to run into Demeter at a garden show, which is how Pers and I first hooked up.

So, yeah, and we both think the bunch on Olympus are a little full of themselves — except for Pers, of course. But like Darryl says, if you want to work with the best, you’ve got to put up with a bit of attitude.

Then it was time to say goodbye, but Darryl was really sweet and saw me home before dematerializing.

But he’s Pers’s, so I have to stop dreaming about him.

Demeter

Everywhere I go I see destruction. Without my care, fruits wither on trees and vines, and leaves desiccate on branches. Plants curl up and die. The wind comes, blowing all the leaves, sticks and dry husks before him, leaving only barren soil and rocks in his wake. In the outer world I see a reflection of my shattered inner world.

The skies are overcast and grey, blocking Helios’ rays. The gloom drives away Zephyr. In his stead Boreus brings bone-chilling blasts that crack rocks, the roots of trees and the humans’ pitiful houses. People huddle together calling out to me, to Zeus, for help. I turn a deaf ear to their plaints. Until my daughter is returned to me they can suffer as I suffer.

I feel Zeus’ eye wandering over the earth in search of me, so I disguise myself as an old woman, cover my robes of gold and green, olive, plum and wine — the colours of ripeness — with tattered rags. I bend my back and shuffle along the roads leaning heavily on a gnarled walking staff.

Who has time or charity for a strange old woman when all are hungry? In small towns they throw me whatever scraps are left, but need makes people mistrust strangers. If I stay more than a day or two, eyes turn on me, whispers flit from person to person. I sense suspicion blotting around me, like a cloud of in ink in water. I pick up my staff and move on.

One day I come to a town smaller than the rest, a mere scattering of hovels. I settle my old bones at the well, hoping for a drink.

Presently four girls come up to me. They remind me of Persephone, their skin as soft and fresh as new rose petals, their eyes lit with laughter and mischief. My longing for my daughter is a sharp ache in my chest, snatching away my breath.

“What place is this?” I ask, my voice cracking and breaking like a dried-out leaf.

“Eleusis,” says one.

“And who are you?”

They look at each other, somewhat alarmed, but soon enough they decide an old woman is no danger. “I am Callithoe,” says the tallest. “My sisters are Cleisidice, Demo and Celedice. Our father is Celeus.”

“Celery?” I pretend my ears are bad.

“Celeus,” Callithoe repeats, more loudly. Behind her, her sisters giggle.

“Which one is Demo?” I ask, curious about the child who bears my nickname.

The youngest one steps forward, her eyes shyly downcast.

“Is it a family name?” I put to them.

“She was named after Mother Demeter, Daughter of Rich-haired Rhea,” Callithoe explains.

“Mother Demeter?” I repeat. “Doesn’t seem to have helped much, does it? Demeter seems to be slacking off these days, don’t you think?”

Again they glance at one another with some alarm. Criticizing a Goddess so bluntly might be considered blasphemy by the Gods if they heard such talk. Humans have been turned to spiders or given a mule’s ears for talking so plainly.

Then Callithoe says, “Our father, Celeus, says Demeter’s daughter has been stolen from her. He says if one of us were stolen he would mourn just as Demeter does.”

So the news has made it this far. Even the humans know about Persephone’s abduction. Who spilled the beans? Probably that motormouth, Hermes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say in my rasping old-woman’s voice. “Don’t you think she’s making a mountain out of a molehill? Daughters leave their mothers every day. Why should hers be any different? Why should we suffer because of her unhappiness?”

“Because she loves her daughter, she mourns,” says Callithoe. “That’s normal. If she didn’t mourn, it would mean she didn’t value her daughter.”

“Hmmm,” I say thoughtfully. “Well, you’re good girls to say so.”

“Not always,” laughs Cleisidice. “Our parents say we drive them crazy sometimes.”

“May we offer you a drink?” asks Callithoe.

“That’s kind of you. Some water would be wonderful, thank you.”

Callithoe lowers the bucket into the well, pulls it up and offers me the brimming dipper.

When I have drunk my fill, Callithoe says, “Our parents invite you to stay and eat with us. It won’t be fancy — the drought has killed a lot of my father’s crops — but it will be good, and we would be honoured to have you.”

“Bless you for your kindness to an old woman. I would be happy to stay.”

And so, shortly we settle down around the dinner table; the four girls, whose laughter shimmers like poplar leaves in the wind and whose youthful carelessness reminds me of my daughter, so that I can hardly stand to be in their presence, but at the same time, I can’t bear to leave them. Their father is a blustery, solid, red-faced man, who reminds me of Zeus, and whose love for his daughters is so patent and fierce that I honour him for it. Metaneira, his wife, is a slender, sharp-eyed woman, whose love for her girls is as strong as her husband’s but is tempered by a clearer understanding of what it is to be a girl, and after that a woman.

“Demo, please give up your seat to our guest,” she says to her youngest, seated on her father’s right. “Run and bring the stool from the kitchen for yourself.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to put your daughter out of her place,” I protest. “I will take the stool.”

Metaneira flashes me a quick, conspiratorial smile. “It will benefit my daughter to learn good manners,” she says, ostensibly to me, all the while looking straight at her daughter, who remains planted on her chair. “After all, you never know when a God might stop by for dinner.”

Has something slipped? Have I overlooked some detail that has given away my identity? I glance surreptitiously at my hands, still veiny, the knuckles knotted with age — at my robes, still dusty and tattered. I peer into the cup of water set before me; my face stares back, wrinkled and saggy. (How can humans stand to live in their decaying bodies?) All is intact. I am still a travel-worn old woman.

“Up, up, girl,” hastens Celeus. Demo disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying a plain wooden stool.

I decide Metaneira’s remark must have been one of those things women say to their daughters, hinting to them at the responsibilities of hospitality and domesticity that await them, the way I always tell Persephone, “A Goddess always feeds a stranger at the door. You never know when it might be your father in disguise. He has a strange sense of humour, but he gets cranky when his blood sugar is low.”

I make a show of settling my old bones gratefully down on the chair, and accept the plates they pass to me first, letting me select the most succulent bits of meat and the freshest vegetables for my plate.

As Callithoe said, the fare is sparse. Celeus apologizes, saying, “The harvest has been meager this year.”

I nod. “Your daughters and I were talking about how Mother Demeter is neglecting her duties.”

He glances at the girls in alarm. “They didn’t say anything critical of Mother Demeter, did they? We know she grieves for her daughter. We grieve with her.”

I see worry settle on the girls, see their playfulness dampened, their high spirits guttering like flames. “No,” I reply. “They said nothing disrespectful. In fact, they explained about Persephone’s absence, which I hadn’t heard of before.”

“Yes,” Celeus says. “It is said the Rich One has Mother Demeter’s daughter.”