by Lianyu Tan
Persephone gathered the torn edges of her chiton, clasping them to her chest. Tears streamed down her face. “Why are you doing this?”
“You are not Hades’ wife. Zeus had no power to sell you off without my agreement. You are not a queen of the underworld. You are simply my selfish, ignorant daughter, and I am the person with the misfortune to call myself your mother.”
“That’s not my fault!”
Demeter slapped her across the face, hard. It was nothing in terms of physical pain; Persephone knew the pain in her heart would linger for far longer.
“You have no idea what trials I’ve been through to find you,” Demeter said, her voice dangerously low. “And for what? To be insulted by a mere seedling of a girl?”
“I’m a woman grown. A married woman.” Persephone looked past Demeter to the door. It was made of sturdy oak and iron and could be barred from the outside. “I know what you did. During the war. Hades told me.”
Demeter froze for a moment, then recovered. “You’re speaking nonsense. Hades lies; everyone knows that.”
“That’s not what they say, Mother. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell everyone how you were ready to betray them.”
Demeter laughed, short and harsh. “You think anyone would believe your word over mine? And for what? Some inconsequential bit of ancient history?” She sneered. “The Titans are long gone. Zeus needs my powers. He has no reason to listen to you on this or any other matter. You will stay here, under guard, until I return from Olympus with an annulment for this farce Hades calls a marriage. Until that time, you will see no one and speak to no one. Do you understand?”
“You can’t do this to me,” Persephone said. “I—I was given to her. Zeus promised. He gave his word. He won’t take it back!”
Demeter looked at her evenly. “He’ll do what he must.” She picked up the torch again, holding the remnants of Persephone’s finery in her other hand.
“Wait!”
Demeter slowly turned.
Persephone tottered to her feet. Hating herself with every step, she walked forward and then lowered herself to her knees, bending her head in supplication. “Please forgive my foolishness,” she said, the words coming haltingly to her lips. “I have not thanked you enough for all that you did for me, for coming to my aid.” She leaned forward and prostrated herself like a foreigner, her forehead almost touching the floor. “Thank you,” she said, breathing in the musty scent of old cheese and parsnips.
Demeter left her stewing there for what felt like an eternity. “I’ll see you when I return,” she said.
“Mother!” Persephone leapt to her feet, struggling to hold the remnants of her chiton over her chest as she rushed to Demeter’s side. “If you must keep me under guard until your business is concluded, I will understand. But it has been a year since I’ve seen the sun. Please, might I stay some place above ground?”
Demeter gestured to the tiny grate. “You have your view.”
“But Mother—”
Demeter ignored her and left the cell, closing the door behind her. Persephone flung herself at it, crying out as her shoulder struck the unyielding wood. She heard the bar slide into place, sealing her inside.
She pounded her fists against the door, then pressed her ear to it, striving to hear any sound from the outside. All she heard was her own breath and the too-rapid rhythm of her heartbeat.
She picked up a cushion from the bed and threw it at the door before letting her head drop into her hands. Her chest felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist; she took a few deep breaths to steady herself.
The last time she’d been in here, she’d promised herself never again. She had promised to be good and obedient in all things.
That had worked out so well, hadn’t it?
Persephone grabbed the end of the bed and dragged it across the floor, ignoring the hideous noises it made as the wood scraped along stone. She set it against the wall underneath the grate and hopped on top of it, grasping the bars and peering out.
She was taller than she’d been the last time, since she could see outside without needing to jump. It was dark, with few stars visible. As before, the soil nearest her cell was barren, with not even a single blade of grass within reach. In the distance, the wind stirred Demeter’s fields of grain, the same breeze caressing Persephone’s cheeks.
She hopped down from the bed and went to the door, running her hand over it. She didn’t need light to find the marks scored into the wood by the end of a fibula or the point of a buckle. Each slash was one day she’d spent awake; collectively the door bore witness to long months of captivity. For one stretch, a year of her waking life had been spent in this prison. She’d spent many more years in here, unconscious, surrendering to the dreaming earth.
She turned and fumbled in the dark, finding a chest near where the bed had originally been placed. Inside, there was food and water, enough for a few days, and spare clothing. She changed out of her ruined chiton into a fresh one and wrapped herself in a woolen himation.
She sat down on the floor with her back to the wall, facing the door.
She’d survived the underworld. She could survive this.
Demeter could not be angry forever. And then Persephone would...
Would what? Return to acting as the dutiful child? That role had ever been ill-suited for her, and now it did not seem to fit at all.
What other choice did she have?
Persephone curled up with her knees tucked under her chin, her arms wrapped around them. If she’d stayed with Hades...
No. That hadn’t been an option, not with Demeter’s threats made real. Coming to the surface had been the right decision.
Demeter would never change. A year apart had given Persephone hope, so quickly dashed. She had endured her mother’s moods for centuries, knowing nothing else, and had been prepared to live with them for centuries more, but now...
Great Mother Gaia, lend me your strength, your patience.
She crawled into the bed, huddling in a tight ball under the blankets. One hand grasped the frame—it was pine, the dowels made of oak, as familiar to her as her own name. Closing her eyes, she let the dreaming earth carry her into slumber, willing this torment to be over by the time she woke.
24
Demeter
The shop was small and dimly lit. It took Demeter’s eyes a moment to adjust after the blazing glare of the midday sun.
“May I offer some wine? Or ambrosia, if you’d prefer?”
Demeter waved the attendant away. She was not here for pleasantries. She cast her eye on the dozens of swords racked against the walls, at the variety of spears, bows, and polearms on display. The shop stank of oiled leather and metal.
“The game you seek must be quite special, for you to travel all this way,” the attendant said. He was a man of small stature, clean-shaven and wiry.
“Quite.” Demeter dismissed the rest of his wares with a glance. “I was told you could help me.”
“Of course.” The man spoke to his servant in rapid-fire Phoenician. The servant set a ‘closed’ sign outside the shop and shut the door, blocking the slight breeze that had brushed Demeter’s shoulders. The heat of the room settled upon her like a shroud.
“Please, come this way,” the man said.
Demeter followed him farther into the building and down several flights of steps. She held her skirts in her hand to stop them from trailing behind her. The man held only a rushlight to show him the way, its flame weak and wavering.
The steps leveled out, and the man fished a key from his belt and opened a door before waving Demeter inside.
She found herself in a cellar littered with objects like the site of a battlefield, sans the bodies. There seemed to be no order to the chaos, with shields stacked haphazardly over suits of armor, halberds and pikes propped up against the walls. She was forced to tread carefully to avoid stepping on trinkets. The air held the acrid taste of preservation charms and some other enchantments—protectio
n against theft, possibly, although at first glance it seemed like nothing of value could be stored here.
“I’ve seen drakon hoards that were better organized,” Demeter said.
The man shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving.” He trudged over to a small cabinet, miraculously managing not to touch anything whilst doing so, and moved several pieces of armor in order to uncover it. He took another key from his belt and unlocked the cabinet, then returned the key and donned a pair of thick leather gloves, the type used in blacksmithing.
Demeter rolled her eyes at this theater, but she waited all the same, unable to tear her gaze away from what he was doing.
She was almost disappointed when the man brought out a small clay jar, stoppered and sealed with wax. He gently set it down on top of the cabinet.
“That’s it?” Demeter asked.
“The poison of the Lernaean hydra,” the man said. “Strong enough to fell the most powerful hero. Even an immortal,” he added slyly.
Demeter considered the drab container. “How can you prove this?”
The man brought one gloved hand to hover over his chest, careful not to touch the cloth of his tunic with the glove. “My word and my reputation are all I have,” he said. “Strike me down if you find me a liar.”
Demeter worried at her bottom lip, calculating. She would have to conduct her own tests, of course—though not here. She had no real suspicion that the man was a fraud. He’d come highly recommended by Artemis herself.
They haggled for some time over the price but eventually settled on an exorbitant fee. Demeter left some drachmae as a deposit and signed a contract to have the rest delivered.
The merchant packaged her goods carefully, wrapping it in three layers of oilskin and placing that into a leather pouch.
Outside the shop it was only slightly cooler than it had been inside, but despite the oppressive heat, Demeter strode along with a spring in her step. Her precious purchase she held cradled in one arm, just like she’d held Persephone once, so long ago.
She couldn’t wait to test it.
“It was so kind of you to join me on such short notice,” Demeter said, pouring the wine herself.
Monime tittered, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. “No trouble at all.” She looked around the courtyard with wide eyes, no doubt trying to remember every detail in order to lord it over her fellow nymphs when she left. Despite the recent drought, the topiary here were lush and green, the grass soft and inviting. They reclined under a shade cloth attached to the main house, the platters before them groaning with produce. Dining with Demeter was an honor granted only to a select few.
Monime was a safe choice. Few would miss her. Demeter tried to avoid looking down at Monime’s chalice, its rim carefully coated with a thin layer of the venom.
Irritatingly, Monime seemed disinclined to drink. Demeter was forced to endure several long minutes of her stories about her fellow nymphs and how she was afraid that her favorite horse required some kind of medical treatment. The girl went on and on, seemingly without needing to draw a breath.
“And then she said—” Monime began.
“You should try the wine,” Demeter said at last. “The vintage is from a gentler time.”
“Oh, of course!” Monime said. “I feel so blessed.” She placed her hand upon the chalice. “Did I ever tell you about the time I almost bought a vineyard in Attica?”
Demeter plastered a smile on her face as if she were interested. “I don’t believe so. Tell me more.”
Monime did, managing to talk on and on without needing to wet her throat.
As she continued talking, Demeter stood up and snatched Monime’s chalice, grinding the rim of it against the nymph’s cheek before tossing it, wine and all, into a nearby flower arrangement.
The flowers began to wilt. Monime stared at her in shock and raised trembling fingers to touch her cheek.
“Is this about the wine?” Monime asked. “Because I don’t—”
Demeter watched her closely, dropping all pretenses of a smile.
Monime began to shiver, and then she stood, flinging back her chair. “What did you do? What did you do to me?” She looked around, wild-eyed, and then seized a decorative bowl filled with water and floating blossoms and poured it over her head. Sodden petals clung to her hair, whilst the bowl clattered to her feet.
Perhaps that had only succeeded in spreading the venom further. The skin on Monime’s cheek began to blister, and she howled like a she-demon, clawing at her face.
Demeter was glad for the loyalty of her servants; everyone a league distant was certain to have heard Monime’s cries, terrible as they were. Monime sank to her knees, still screaming and tearing out her own hair in her agony.
“What does it feel like?” Demeter asked.
“Burns... it burns!” Monime whimpered, her words difficult to distinguish. “What did I do... what did I do to offend you?”
Demeter considered it. “Your stories were awfully dull.”
Monime wordlessly screamed.
The sounds were giving Demeter a headache. “Would you like it to stop?”
“Yes!” Monime screamed again. She had succeeded in ripping out a chunk of her cheek, and blood ran down her neck, staining her chiton. Still she writhed on the ground, her scuffles making an uneven set of marks that the servants would need to carefully rake over on the morrow. “Yes—I’ll do anything!”
“As you say.” Demeter waved her hand, and Monime was gone, replaced by a young oak. Some of the bark formations on its trunk almost looked like a face, the mouth gaping wide in perpetual horror.
Demeter looked around at the mess Monime had left, from the fallen bowl and strewn flowers to the chalice nestled under her dying plants. The servants would have to burn it all to avoid contamination, but it was a small price to pay for her successful trial. She made a note to herself to send Artemis a gift basket for her fruitful advice.
That night, Demeter left her home and made her way to the old barn, some distance downhill. Once inside, she went downstairs to the cellar, holding a torch to light the way and humming a few bars from a marching song as she walked.
She nodded to the drakon positioned outside Persephone’s room. It had been no small task to get the enormous beast down the stairwell, but they had managed, somehow, emptying the cellar of almost all its foodstuffs in order to make space for it. Persephone’s room took up the other half of the floor.
Demeter transferred the torch to her left hand and unlocked the cell door before sliding back the bar that held it shut. Once inside Persephone’s room, she set the torch in a wall sconce and dusted her palms on her skirts.
The room stank of fish, and Demeter wrinkled her nose. She glanced at the discarded chiton that was the source of the smell and resisted the temptation to simply burn it on the spot.
Persephone was sprawled on her side on the bed, seemingly still asleep. Demeter was struck, not for the first time, by the girl’s resemblance to her father. She had his lips. Sensuous. Cruel. A bruise still marked her throat, a sign of her degeneracy, not quite covered over by the other, fresher marks made by the chain around her neck.
Demeter raised the hem of her gown and delicately prodded the girl with her foot.
Nothing.
“Persephone,” she said.
Not even the flicker of an eyelid.
Demeter brushed back the hair from Persephone’s face and slapped her cheek. The sound echoed in the small cell.
Demeter watched the imprint of her hand fading rapidly from Persephone’s skin, and still the girl did not wake. She placed her hand on the back of Persephone’s neck and pinched, hard.
“By root and stem, bestir yourself.”
Finally, she saw some changes. Persephone’s breathing quickened, and her eyelids fluttered before she roused herself sufficiently to sit up. “Mother,” she said, her voice hoarse.
The girl was still confused, half-asleep. Demeter saw the depths of the world in her
eyes. She sniffed. As if anyone of consequence had the time to spend in hibernation.
“I’ve come with great news,” Demeter said. She sat down on the end of the bed, as there were no other soft furnishings, forcing Persephone to move to accommodate her.
“What news?” Persephone asked. She blinked and glanced at the door. “What day is it?”
“I’ve found the perfect wedding gift for your new lover.”
Persephone flinched as though she’d been struck. “You said you would have my marriage annulled.”
Demeter shrugged. “I’ve sent my messengers, but you know how busy your father is. He’ll be pleased when he sees this matter resolve itself.”
Persephone went very still. “What is the gift?”
Demeter smiled. “It’s a special treatment for my arrows. I had my doubts, but Artemis truly came through for me this time.”
“You can’t mean to attack one of our own.”
Demeter scowled. “And why not? She attacked me first, her and your father both, scheming behind my back to take you from me!” She calmed herself with a deep breath. “It will be self-defense.”
“And you mean to go to the underworld to give her this gift?” Persephone asked, not even trying to hide her disbelief.
Poor, sweet, simple child. “Of course not.”
“Then—?”
“She’ll be coming here,” Demeter said.
“Here?” Persephone echoed, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She glanced at the door as if expecting Hades to walk in at any moment.
“I sent back your borrowed finery, along with an invitation. It’s time she came here to atone for what she’s done.” Demeter sniffed. “I expect she’ll be making the arrangements as we speak.”
Persephone clutched the blankets to her chest, as if they could shield her. “She can’t come to the overworld,” she said, in part to convince herself. “Not without permission.”
Demeter airily waved her hand. “I’m sure she will find some way to bend the rules; she always does,” she said, her eyes narrowed. She hooked her fingers under Persephone’s necklace, yanking her forward. “And you, my dear, will be the perfect daughter when she comes, won’t you?”
