The Dark Wife (14 page)

“It’s believed that the kingdoms of Poseidon, Zeus, and
myself
are linked to us, physically, to our souls, our emotions.
When Poseidon rages, the waves arc higher than mountains.
When Zeus is provoked, the sky explodes with lightning. If the Underworld truly is connected to me, perhaps that’s why it’s changing…rearranging.”

“But how could it change?” I asked her. “It’s stone, and stone can’t grow, can’t reform itself. It’s not alive.”

“No. But
I
am,” she whispered.

I puzzled over this. The tower was connected to Hades, and it had been broken, irreparably so. Now it was one piece again, as good as new.
Perhaps better than new.
The metaphor was obvious, and it pained my heart even as it warmed it. The palace, with its disjointed design, its maze of passageways, its loose, softened stone—did it reflect Hades’ inner shape? Did she truly feel so lost, so ruined?

We passed through the village of the dead without incident, skirted along the shining bank of the River Styx, and then we broke away, found the middle of a dark plain, and there Hades stopped, regarded the dark above her, head cocked as if she were listening to something I could not hear.

“What is it?” I whispered, heart quickening, but she shook her head, closed her eyes. Had a monster escaped from its cave? One of the monsters Pallas had warned me about? Was it stalking us now? I determined not to be afraid, but my traitorous hands were shaking. Just as my mother’s hands had shaken when—

“Persephone.”
Hades covered my hands
with her own,
and I felt still, comforted. “It’s all right. There’s nothing to fear. There’s nothing here, save for the door.”

“What door?”

She looked into my eyes, bent her neck so that her forehead nearly grazed my own. I could feel her breath travel the contours of my face, and she was so close, our mouths could touch, would touch if I just—

The great darkness of the Underworld dissolved around us.

There was light! So much light that I had to shield my eyes. I felt my skin soak it up, sun-starved, and I twirled in a circle, my head tilted backward, my whole body trembling, reveling in this burst of summer, this golden warmth.

We were surrounded by wheat, waist-deep in it—glorious, sweet-smelling grains that stood tall and shimmering in the hot sunshine. There was nothing but wheat, fields of it, hazy and blurred along the edges of the horizon.

Pain stilled my heart when I passed my hand over the dry, papery leaves, the tall stalks. I swept my fingers across them as if they were lyre strings, instruments of music.

My mother grew the grasses, fruit, trees and flowers, but she loved the grains best. Her people worshipped her for the grains she provided them, for their yearly harvest, for their breads. I remembered how she and I used to chase each other through the whispering wheat. It bent for us as we moved through it, flattened itself to the ground, bowing.

I missed her profoundly, but I refused to feel sorry for myself. She was up there somewhere, living her life, seeding the earth, fulfilling her purpose, her passion. And I was down here, awash with light, Hades—pale skin shining like moonstone beneath this false sun—warm by my side.

She took my hand, held it like her dearest jewel.

“The Elysian Fields,” she whispered, head bent low, her mouth near my ear. “Listen.”

I listened. The grain slithered together, shushing with the same soft sound my mother had made to me when I was a baby, lying in my cradle woven of reeds. It was the sound of comfort for me, of home, and I closed my eyes to hear it without distractions. My body began to sway, back and forth, in time with the slowly sifting grain.

It was sublime.

“Keep listening,” Hades’ gentle voice urged me. “More deeply—fall into the sound.”

I held my eyes shut, loosened my grip on Hades’ hand, and listened hard, probing beyond the susurrations.

“Where am I?”

It was a boy’s voice, urgent, bewildered. 

I raised my lashes.
Before us, in a small circle of earth nestled among the grains, crouched a youth.
He could not have been more than fifteen mortal years old—lithe, muscled, wrapped in scraps of leather and bent, misshapen metals. White scars gleamed like chalk on his skin, and he kept one eye clamped closed, because, I assumed, it was injured, or gone.

“Where am I?” he entreated again, looking up at Hades. “Do you know? Did you bring me here?”

Hades let go of my hand and knelt down beside him, placed her palms on his hunched shoulders.

“You are home,” Hades said, in a tone both soft and firm. “
A victor, a hero, come
back from the wars. We are all so proud of you. Your father is so proud of you.”

The youth shook his head. His brows furrowed together, and tears streaked down his face, dripped from his chin to the soft turned soil beneath him. “I’m not a hero. I was afraid.”

“You are a hero,” Hades insisted in the same steady voice, gentle, certain. “They sing songs of your conquests. They tell the tale of your victory when they sit around the cooking fires.”

“I killed her,” the boy spoke through his sobs, rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed over. “She was on her knees in the mud. She begged me to spare her, but I had to…I had my orders—”

“You’re home now,” Hades whispered again, even as he began to wail. He fell forward, pressed his face into the earth, his whole body quaking with the intensity of his grief. Hades gazed up at me for a moment, her eyes brimming with sadness. I wanted to comfort her, even as she strove so single-mindedly to soothe the war-torn young man, crying now like a child lost in the dark woods. 

Hades wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he sat up, buried his wet face in her breast.

She
sighed
a deep, silent sigh.

How did she cope with this?
Every day, for years…centuries, longer?

I swiped the back of my hand across my face, realized I was crying, too.

The wheat swayed, back and forth, forth and back, hypnotic, and as I stared at it, relaxed my eyes upon its calm waves of gold, the field changed, grew more focused. There were broken patches of wheat now, and scattered over the ground, as far as I could see, were men and women, young and old. Many sobbed, some stared, forlorn, up at the sky, some paced, some wreaked violence—tearing at their clothing, at their hair, at the monotony of wheat.

The shushing of the fields was drowned in moans and howls, and I knew, then, why Pallas hated this place. I hated it, too.
The irony of it.
Beauty and light mocking the unsightliness of mortal suffering.
The sun shone too brightly, blithe and indifferent, and I sunk to my knees at Hades’ side.

These people, their pain—it was too much. Deep within me, I felt my heart crack.

The youth was quiet now, curled up like a kitten on the wheat-littered earth, his good eye gazing blankly at the apathetic blue sky. Hades turned to me, grimacing.

“Do you want to stay, Persephone?” she asked. “Would you like to see more?”

I felt shamed for my initial euphoria at sight of the gleaming field of wheat, blind to the horrors that it concealed, as blind as this sky.

“No, please,” I whispered.

Hades gazed at me with such gentleness. Again, she leaned in close, so that the tips of our noses met, and the tears clinging to my lashes dampened her face.

I bowed my head lower, and even behind my closed eyelids, I saw the darkness descend, felt the cold of it surround me, extinguishing the hot forged sun.

It was all gone—the fields; the broken, mislaid souls.

I squinted in the black landscape, reached out my hands. Hades took them, held them,
pressed
them against her chest.

“It’s all right,” she murmured to me, and I whispered, “no,” because it was so unfair—she spent her immortal lifetime comforting others, and now she had to comfort me, too. When would she be comforted? When would she be permitted to rest?

But I was weak; I couldn’t stop my tears.

“Perhaps I was wrong to take you there. But you asked me so many questions about it, and I felt you had to see it with your own eyes to understand.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice unfamiliar, rough, “I had to see it. Thank you, Hades. Pallas tried to tell me, but… I had to see it. The villagers are mad to long for that place.
To blame you for depriving them of it.”

She shook her head, inhaled deeply, avoiding my gaze.

I bit my lip. There were so many things I wished to say to her. I wanted to tell her how I admired her.
How brave she was, how selfless.

I wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked here, now, even as the corners of her mouth dipped downward, her eyes lowered so that I noticed the delicate pink skin below her brows. “You do that,” I whispered. “You go there every day. You speak with them, but they don’t remember your visits. They don’t listen. They don’t change.
So why…
Why do you put yourself through this trauma, in vain?”

“I must.” She regarded me evenly. “If I can provide peace for even one moment, one moment in an eternity of moments, my efforts, none of them, were in vain.”

“You’re mercy itself,” I smiled, shaking my head. “How different the world would be if you, not Zeus, had drawn the longest straw.”

Her mouth opened—whether from surprise, offense, or disagreement, I could not tell—but she offered no reply, and I didn’t expect one from her. We sat down together on the dusty black rock, our backs to the distant Styx.

I wondered… How many people—heroes—inhabited the Elysian Fields? What had they done to earn that professed honor? What violence had they inflicted in the name of Zeus?

I thought of my father, the abominations he committed, commanded, condoned, and I seethed with disgust for him, and shook with pity for his misguided followers.

Hades leaned against me, shoulder to shoulder, and I welcomed her weight, her warmth.

“You are too good,” I said, “and he—” I could not bring myself to pronounce his name again; my mouth felt sour with the taste of it. “He belongs in
Tartarus
with the monsters.”

She stared at me sadly. “Persephone…”

 “Why must any of this happen? Why must these places exist, the Underworld, the Elysian Fields? I don’t understand, Hades. It…none of it makes any sense.”

 “Perhaps it isn’t meant to.”

I shook my head. “He tricked you. He banished you here to secure his own playground. Why have you let him do this to you?”

She stood abruptly, brushed clinging bits of wheat from her dark clothing. “Someday I’ll tell you the story.” She offered me her hand and a gentle smile.
“But not today.”

We walked back to the palace slowly, and I was so consumed with my thoughts that I scarcely noticed when we passed through the village of the dead. The people seemed subdued, though, disinterested in our presence, and I was grateful for it.

Hades parted from me in the corridor that led to my room, and I found Pallas lounging upon my pallet.

“What happened?” she asked me, rising to her feet. “Your face—
Have
you been crying?”

I crossed my arms, collapsed on top of the blankets. “I’m all right,” I sighed.
“Only a little tired.”

“Oh, Persephone.
She took you there, didn’t she? You saw the heroes—”

“Yes.”

She reached out as if to offer me comfort, but I was heart-sore, raw, and did not want to be touched. I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging at the tangles, and when I felt salt tears sting my eyes, I turned toward the pillow, hiding my face.