by Lianyu Tan
“Mother, please—”
“You can’t keep her a prisoner forever—”
“Get out!” Demeter said, throwing the plate for emphasis. This time Hephaestus blocked it with his arm, and it shattered on the floor.
Persephone grabbed his other arm, leading him out of the house before her mother could hurl anything else. Once they were a safe distance outside, she released him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea she would treat you so badly.”
Hephaestus squeezed wine from his tunic. “It’s quite all right. Ares warned me about her temper, but I didn’t listen. I thought she might look upon me more favorably. I was wrong.”
“Ares?” Persephone asked.
Hephaestus glanced away. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. You didn’t know he was trying to court you?”
Persephone grimaced. “There was that year I received a severed gorgon head as a present, but I thought... Mother said it was a mistake. I didn’t actually see him in person.”
“Demeter has something of a reputation.”
“How long has this been going on?” Persephone asked. The gorgon head incident felt like it had been years ago; decades, even.
Hephaestus grimaced. “I don’t know. A while, perhaps.” He hesitated. “You may think this cowardly of me, but I have no desire to cross the goddess of the harvest. A pity. If you manage to change her mind, by all means, send a message to my forge.”
Persephone smiled to hide her mixed emotions. “Of course. I understand.”
Hephaestus pressed a kiss to the back of her hand and bowed slightly before leaving her alone in the gardens. She watched him walk back to his chariot, and then he was away, with no one left to stand between herself and Demeter.
She took slow, measured steps up the path back to the house. Inside, servants had already cleared away the wreckage of Demeter’s temper, leaving the floor clean, albeit damp. Demeter herself was seated, idly shredding a lettuce leaf between her fingers.
“Well?” she asked as Persephone approached. “Did he see reason?”
“He left,” Persephone said.
“Good.”
“Mother...” Persephone hesitated. “He said you treated Ares in a similar manner.”
Demeter dropped the lettuce. “Of course. I don’t discriminate.”
“But why? They are both worthy gods, aren’t they?”
Demeter rose from her seat and walked toward her, placing her hands upon Persephone’s shoulders. She gazed down at her daughter, her eyes dark and solemn, the afternoon sun setting her pale hair aglow. “None of them are worthy.” Her grip tightened until her nails dug into Persephone’s skin. “Anyone who would take you from me is my enemy.”
Persephone pushed back against her mother’s hands, but Demeter’s hold was firm. “Mother, please... You’re frightening me.”
“Swear to me, then,” Demeter said, shaking her by the shoulders. “Swear that you will not leave me.”
“Of course. Of course,” Persephone said, the words slurring together as she tripped over her tongue. “I do so swear.”
Demeter was pressing hard enough to leave bruises. “His ichor runs through your veins. How can I forget it, seeing it there plain on your face? Your father has whores in every corner of the civilized world. You know that, don’t you?”
Persephone fumbled for something to say that would not be considered blasphemous. “His children are many—”
“And you would seek to follow in his footsteps?”
“No—no!” Persephone’s throat constricted. Aphrodite had not divulged her secret, then. Her preference for goddesses was not a topic she particularly wished to discuss with Demeter, ever.
Demeter studied her. Persephone did her best to project an aura of frightened honesty. She spoke the truth, besides—though perhaps not all of it.
Demeter released her. “I cannot stand the sight of you,” she said, waving her off.
Persephone stepped away with relief, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m going to help in the kitchen,” she said and ran before Demeter could think of something else to blame her for.
The servants were quiet around Persephone, as if they could avoid invoking Demeter’s wrath by not engaging with the current object of her displeasure. That might have bothered Persephone, if she’d let it, but she was too busy contemplating how to defuse her mother’s anger to be concerned with the rest of the household.
She was lugging an overflowing pail of scraps to the midden when she saw the most remarkable thing mixed in with all the trash. Persephone set down the pail and pulled out a bouquet of cut flowers. They had some life left in them, although not much, their narrow white petals frail and wilting.
They would not respond to her touch. There was a kind of chill about them, despite both the heat of the summer’s day and the warmth of the midden.
Persephone saved the freshest stalk and brought it inside with her, placing it in a cup of water at her bedside. She tried running her fingertips over it again, and still, she could feel no sense of recognition in the plant. It wasn’t simply that it had been cut; there was something else wrong. As if it had died and been reborn and now was dying a second time.
Downstairs, she beckoned to a maid and pulled her aside. “Kyra... those white flowers. Who brought them?”
Kyra scrunched up her nose. “Couldn’t say, Miss. Only your mother’s sent word they’re not to be kept in the house.” She shrugged helplessly.
“You mean this has happened more than once?”
Kyra opened her mouth, then seemed to realize she’d said too much. “Well...”
“How many times?”
Kyra gulped and shook her head, silently begging Persephone not to ask more.
It was answer enough. Persephone sighed and waved Kyra off; she seemed grateful to return to her work.
How long would she let Demeter rule her life?
She went back upstairs to her bedroom and climbed into bed, staring at the lonely flower in its makeshift vase. So Hades hadn’t found her bothersome and insolent after all—or perhaps she had but hadn’t cared.
Persephone shivered and rested her chin on her hands, closing her eyes as she inhaled the asphodel’s faint fragrance. This time, it matched her memory—icy, green, with a faint trace of smoke like a freshly snuffed candle.
She ought not to leap to conclusions. She couldn’t think so highly of herself; Demeter may have been wrong about some things, but she was right in saying that a girl like Persephone could hold no interest for the Queen of the Underworld.
Hades had to think her rude; she’d never once sent back a word of thanks.
She was still pondering whether she dared to acknowledge Hades’ gift when the door of her room flew open, swinging back against the wall with a bang.
Persephone sat up at once, shuffling to the side of the bed to try to block the asphodel from view. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Ignorant children like you are so naive about what it takes to survive in this world,” Demeter said, as if they’d never ended their previous conversation. She stood in the doorway, blocking the only exit. “I’ve bled so that you could live a charmed life, free from struggle and sorrow—the kind of childhood I never had.”
“I’ve always been grateful for what you’ve done for me—”
“Grateful!” Demeter sneered. “Is that what you call cavorting behind my back? Consorting with cripples?”
Persephone bristled. “That is unkind of you, Mother, and besides, Hephaestus and I never—”
Demeter pushed her aside and leaned over the bed, snatching the asphodel from its cup. She stood up, holding it as water dripped down her wrist, staring at it as though it were a pig’s leavings or something equally foul. “What is this weed doing here? In my house?”
Persephone said nothing, which was not the correct response, as Demeter threw the flower in her face. It landed wetly on her cheek, then fell to the floor.
“I won’t have such filth in here,” Demeter
said.
“It was a gift,” Persephone said. “For me. You had no right to throw it away!”
She’d gone too far. Demeter’s eyes widened. “No right? No right!” She raised her hands to the heavens, as if imploring the gods of the sky to hear her. “My hearth and home, and this ungrateful child tells me I have no right!”
Persephone picked up the bloom from the floor and stood, moving toward the door.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
She held up the asphodel like a talisman. “You said you didn’t want this here, so I’m taking it out of your house—”
“When I’m talking to you, you will sit and listen,” Demeter said, her arms folded over her chest. Her cheeks were in high color, and her gaze could’ve cut marble.
Seeing no way out, Persephone sat back down on the bed, her eyes lowered.
“When you were born, you were such a little thing. So frail and useless. Hera advised me to cast you down, as she’d done with her son—did you know that?”
“No,” Persephone whispered. She’d heard this tale countless times before but knew what was expected of her.
“But I didn’t listen to her. I nursed you from my own breast. And to this day here you are, still draining the life from your poor, exhausted mother! Why I bothered to keep you at all, Gaia only knows. If I’d known you’d be such a spoiled and selfish brat, I’d have followed Hera’s advice and cast you into the ocean!”
That didn’t sound so bad right now. A kind nereid might’ve saved her, for one. “I’m sorry,” Persephone said, not entirely certain what she was being sorry for.
“I should’ve known nothing good ever came from your father’s seed. He might be the king of the gods, but we all know the truth—at heart, he is a beast, no better than any satyr!”
Persephone flinched and glanced out the window. The sky seemed clear, at least for now. If Zeus had heard her mother’s rantings, he gave no sign.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
She turned her head, and Demeter slapped her across the face. Persephone tasted ichor, the blood of the gods, upon her tongue.
“You would be nothing without me.”
Persephone held her hand to her cheek. “That’s not true,” she whispered.
“Oh, you think yourself so capable and worldly?” Demeter sneered.
“I didn’t—”
“Fine.” Demeter went to the trunk at the end of her bed and began pulling out clothes, belts, and sandals, tossing them over her shoulder onto the floor. “Everything I’ve bought for you—no expense spared, no luxury out of reach—you think you can do better for yourself? Very well. Take your things—my things, those things earned by my sweat and labor—and go.”
Persephone stared at the mess all around them. “That’s not what I meant, Mother. Of course I appreciate everything you’ve ever done to raise me—”
Demeter dropped the last belt on the floor, its metal links clinking. “You have no idea what I’ve been through to keep you safe! No idea of the dangers outside, of the sacrifices I’ve made for you!”
Persephone ducked as her mother flung a sandal at her head. It hit the cup that had held the asphodel, and the pottery smashed. “Mother, please!”
Demeter advanced upon her. “If you think yourself so wise, let’s see how you do for once without my protection! Then you’ll know. Then you’ll know how hard I toil, just to keep you safe! And for what?”
Persephone shrank back until she’d reached the edge of the bed, one arm raised to shield herself against her mother’s rage. “Please, Mother. I love you. Forgive me. Forgive me!”
Demeter took Persephone’s face between her hands, her nails digging into the girl’s scalp. She bent down until her lips were almost touching Persephone’s forehead. “From now until harvest, you are no longer my daughter,” she said, her voice flat and even. She dropped her hands as if she were discarding something loathsome and wiped her palms on her chiton before turning her back on Persephone. A slight breeze picked up the hem of her chiton, the whisper of fabric almost eclipsing her next words.
“Get out.”
Persephone had not the faintest idea of what she would need to survive for even a day on her own, but there was no time to prepare. She grabbed a himation and a spare chiton from the pile of discarded clothes. She backed away toward the door, expecting her mother to turn around, to say all was forgotten, but Demeter merely stood there as if she had been struck by Medusa.
Persephone flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste to get away, her meager belongings in hand. She left out the back door and ran, with no idea where she was running to, only knowing that she had to get away; away from the rage and the silence and the weight of her guilt.
3
The Flower
Demeter’s words rang in her ears, a constant refrain drowning out all other thought.
You are no longer my daughter.
Persephone ran until she could no longer see her mother’s house in the distance. By then, the long summer day was beginning to end, Helios washing the sky in hues of rose and amber.
She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for air. She’d rolled her spare chiton inside her himation and tied it into a parcel; the bundle dropped from her shoulder as she caught her breath.
Where could she go? Her father would not turn her away, but she had no desire to incur Hera’s wrath. She could ask Hephaestus, but he had made it clear that he would not stand against Demeter’s wishes.
There were the nymphs of the forests and rivers, her friends... but they belonged to her mother’s lands, and Persephone had no intention of trespassing when she was clearly unwanted.
She could turn to Grandmother Gaia for help—to burrow into the earth for a time, like a bulb, and rest in the cool embrace of her earth dreams until her mother’s wrath had receded. Gaia rarely meddled in her kin’s affairs, though, and who was Persephone to expect her aid? She was no one amongst hundreds of gods and goddesses, and...
She fought back tears at the thought and sniffled, rubbing her nose. She’d known better than to provoke her mother. This was her fault. Nothing good ever came from raising Demeter’s ire.
She brushed the sweat-slicked hair back from her face and straightened, slinging her clothes bundle over her shoulder. If she couldn’t decide whom to implore for help, she would have to seek her own shelter for the night. She’d slept in trees before, when she was younger, in a time when Demeter hadn’t chastised her for being unmaidenly. Those times were dead and gone, as lost as Demeter’s patience.
She stood near the edge of her mother’s lands. To her left and right grew fields of grain, tall and almost ripe. She ran her hand over their swollen ears without thinking.
“Oh!” Persephone drew her hand back and into her mouth, tasting the sweet tang of ichor. Around her, the fields shivered, a wave rolling through them like the tides stirring the ocean.
The stalks nearest to her whipped at her legs. She lurched backward into the opposite field. Instead of parting at her presence, the stalks around her began striking her, the impact shaking grain loose all over the ground.
Persephone stumbled. The crest of the wave hit her, feeling like a wall of solid air swatting her away from Demeter’s lands, away from the safety of her mother’s protection.
Persephone tumbled as though an invisible fist had struck her. Her body rolled, crushing stalks of wheat, being pushed along by them as if the crop shared Demeter’s wrath. By the time she came to the end of the fields, her momentum continued to carry her down the side of the hill, bouncing across the uneven ground with her hands pressed over her face to protect her eyes.
It took Persephone an embarrassingly long time to stop moving, but at last she spread her arms out and dug her heels into the ground, coming to a halt. It hurt to breathe, but she was too exhausted to do more than that for a time.
Cassiopeia was visible in the night sky when she finally sat up, wincing as the movement
awakened new bruises on her body. Her headlong flight had left her scratched all over and had torn the hem of her chiton.
She staggered to her feet, finding the soft earth giving way to dense rock. She’d found some sort of cave, proving that she must have traveled past the boundaries of her mother’s estate. Demeter disliked unproductive land.
Perhaps that was a good omen. She walked forward quietly, mindful that there could be other creatures calling this place home. Inside, the air was damp and cool; she shivered, but she had dropped her himation and spare chiton somewhere on the hillside.
As she went deeper inside, the only light available was from tiny phosphorescent mushrooms clinging to patches of rock. She closed her eyes and stretched out her hand, calling to them.
When she opened her eyes, the cave was covered on all sides by a profusion of glowing vegetation, surrounding her in an arch. The back of the cave extended into darkness, deeper than she had anticipated.
She hugged her shoulders, gazing at the eerie colors all around her, and saw the most peculiar thing.
Farther into the cave grew a yellow narcissus in bud, sprouting from the earth in a place no sunlight could penetrate. She walked to it as if in a trance, an ache growing in her chest with each step. Even if the sunlight were to reach it somehow, it was impossible for the flower to bloom now, in high summer. It should have long ago shriveled and died, returning to the cool, dreaming earth with the rest of its fellows to wait for spring.
Persephone crouched down and touched its calyx. It grew taller and unfurled as she watched, each petal perfection.
The air grew colder. Persephone straightened, her eyes wide in the dim light. “Is someone there? Show yourself!”
She waited so long for an answer, teeth chattering and the fine hairs on her arms standing on end, that she felt foolish. She was scaring herself. It was cold and dark, and she was tired. There was no reason why she felt like she had to run—
The ground shook beneath her feet, and she cried out, grabbing a nearby stalagmite for support. Before her, the floor sank into a rift, the narcissus tumbling into darkness.
