Receiver of Many

by Rachel Alexander

  “By this sacrament, I am your Mother. You hold in your hands the fruitful bounty of the earth. Go out into the world, you maidens and mothers. And as you give this bread to your elders, to your menfolk, to your children, pray only for the return of my Kore from the halls of the Unseen One.”

  “Of Demeter, of corn-rich Eleusis, and of the violet-garlanded Kore we sing!” the women said in response, and broke the bread in half as a promise to share it with the masses that had made the pilgrimage to Eleusis.

  A heavily-veiled girl rang a koudounia at the back of the room, its copper chimes signaling the women to leave. The indigo throngs slowly moved toward the doors. Metaneira drew her himation over her head and greeted each of the women with a sip from the blessed cup of kykeon as they exited, then followed after them, leaving Demeter alone. The room felt colder, and Demeter’s slightest movement echoed through the lonely hall. She looked around for Triptolemus, then remembered that he had gone into the greenhouse to meet with his two new students, Diocles and Eumolpus.

  No matter how many people she surrounded herself with, no matter how many praises and prayers, heartfelt thanks and supplications she received, she was still without her Kore. Her poor trapped Kore. She must be scared, alone, surrounded by the frightful House of Nyx if she were allowed to meet anyone at all. Demeter knew Aidoneus— his selfishness, his inexorability, his violence. He had most likely locked Kore away, greedily isolating her from anyone’s eyes. She wondered how desperately her daughter must have searched for a way out, how many times Kore must have injured herself trying to escape him.

  Her throat started to tighten, remembering the asphodel growing in Kore’s sacred shrine the morning before Hades stole her. Aidoneus had come to her daughter, had seen her sleeping there peaceful and innocent. He’d touched her that night and she’d let him— Demeter knew it. The defiance in Kore’s gait, the shame and guilt of discovery on her face that morning had said it all. It was the same flushed look she’d had on her face when she was young, and imperious Hecate had questioned her, arms crossed, about the evening she stolen away to Crete to be kissed and caressed by Zeus, two years before their hieros gamos on Olympus. He had used all manner of tender words and heated touch to persuade Demeter, but ultimately respected her wishes to remain a virgin that night. Demeter had no such assurances about Hades.

  He had sweetly tempted Kore, lured and seduced her to convince Demeter that her daughter had given consent. With the asphodel he’d planted to mark the place where they’d lain, Aidoneus had made it clear to Demeter what he wanted, what he would have, what he would take. He couldn’t have left Kore alone and unspoiled this whole time. She thought about the great tear in the earth, the breached and ruined grove in Nysa where his chariot had sprung forth to abduct her Kore. Hot tears stung her eyes. When she pictured Hades dragging her to his bed and pinning her struggling, crying daughter under his body, they blurred her vision. When Demeter imagined her taken unwillingly, screaming in pain as the dark god moved upon her without pity or remorse to turn Kore into Persephone, her tears finally spilled over.

  He would have broken her spirit by now, just as surely as he would have ruined her innocence. Demeter cupped her hand to her mouth to muffle her crying and drew the veil down to hide her face. No one should hear her. Her throat made hitching, choking noises around wrenching shudders that refused to go away no matter how much she willed herself to do so. Kore no more. The cold wind howled outside, the foundations of the Telesterion shuddering, its wooden rafters moaning. The braziers in the hallway guttered for a moment, dimming the room. Aidoneus had made good on the prophetic name that Zeus and the Fates had given to her daughter. She Who Destroys the Light.

  The door to the greenhouse behind her throne banged open and she sat upright, pinching her arm, biting her lips together, anything to force herself back to serene silence.

  “…And we’ll terrace them on the hillside when Kore is returned. The ground will be warm enough,” a nasal voice said.

  “But remember, Diocles, you cannot fill them with the dry dust you find in the field,” Triptolemus answered. “The soil needs to be thoroughly alive. Living soil, living harvests. All the crossing in the world won’t help you unless it is. Do you believe I grew wheat like that from any random scoop of dirt?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “But what about the water?” Eumolpus asked.

  “From the springs. Grow near them or carry water from there,” Triptolemus drifted away in thought for a moment. “We need to devise a way to convey it… build cisterns to store it… Maybe we can build one before we have to focus on the planting when Kore is returned…”

  “My lord, I know. But those springs come from… under the ground. Aren’t they the domain of—”

  “It matters not,” Triptolemus interrupted. His voice grew low. “And do not mention his name or any epithet he answers to while you are in this sanctuary or in my presence. Thanks to his greed, my sisters are gone. To say nothing of our Lady’s precious Kore.”

  “Apologies, my lord,” Eumolpus muttered.

  One student had been the son of a mighty king from a great city state, the other the spawn of a nymph. Both were now leveled from their lofty positions, students of newly immortal Triptolemus, once the humble prince of simple farmers. Diocles and Eumolpus walked around to the front of the throne and spied Demeter. Each immediately fell to one knee. “Queen of the Earth,” they said in unison.

  Demeter stood slowly, still veiled, the stream of tears hidden. She curtsied to them slowly and walked down the dais in silence, the sheaves scattered at her feet clinging to the base of her robes, strewn behind her as she walked. Demeter entered the greenhouse door they had just exited. The smell of freshly tilled earth greeted her, but barely calmed her tortured mind.

  She swished her robes away from the door and closed it behind her, leaning back against it. A loud sob burst out of her throat, and she walked over to a bed of soil. The wheat had been harvested, milled, turned to bread, and now the loam lay thrice plowed, waiting for new seeds to be planted. She sat down and buried her face in her hands, wishing more than anything to escape the echoing loneliness of her own gasping breaths, her wretched tears. How was she supposed to lead these poor people if she couldn’t even gain control of her own emotions?

  She heard the creak of the door opening and stilled, facing away.

  “My lady?”

  Demeter lifted the veil over her head and wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, pasting a smile on her face for Triptolemus. “My prince.”

  The title had no meaning for him anymore, now that he was one of the deathless ones, but she still used it with him. Triptolemus closed the door behind him. “My lady, is something wrong?”

  Demeter looked down, her voice wavering. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry that he even came to mention in the temple, my lady. If Eumolpus said anything that upset you—”

  “No, my prince, it wasn’t him. I already was…”

  Triptolemus saw her shudder again and turn her head away. He cautiously took one step forward, then another, finally sitting down beside Demeter on the fresh bed. Cautiously, he reached a hand out toward her shoulder. Before he touched her he drew it back. “Do you wish to be alone?”

  She crumpled toward him, her shoulder leaning against his chest, her body shuddering as she cried quietly. She said nothing. He brought his hands up once more, forgoing his usual caution, embracing her. Triptolemus could always see through her disguise. But it had been easier to talk to her when she was Doso. He could at least pretend that she was a gentle crone, a humble wise woman. The barriers of decorum he would have normally kept with her were so much easier to cast aside before. Now here she was, a beautiful goddess, one of the most venerated beings in all creation, weeping softly in his arms. He stayed still for long moments before rocking her slowly in his embrace. She sniffled once, calming down.

  He hummed, then started softly singing a lullaby he had heard long
ago, or in a fever dream. He couldn’t remember. As he reached the next verse, she stiffened and turned to look up at him in astonishment.

  “Where did you hear that?” she whispered.

  “I—” he thought for a moment. “I’ve always known it.”

  She stared into his eyes, not breathing. She had been taught that same lullaby long ago. Aeons ago. By a man who held her just like this— a kind farmer. She’d sung it to Kore throughout her childhood.

  “Should I not sing it?”

  “No, it’s…” Demeter trailed off. It couldn’t be. These poor mayfly mortals. Prometheus had created their bodies from the dust of the earth and the blood of the Golden Men— forms that couldn’t hold their immortal souls for long. They passed between worlds, from the verdant to the chthonic, taken apart and put back together, lost to oblivion each time they crossed the Lethe. But the obliteration of who they were was never absolute. There were distant memories, ancestral dreams…

  Demeter would never know for sure. Names and details were lost forever on the Other Side. It could just have been coincidence— in her despair she was wishing for something familiar, wishing to be comforted. But to hear a song she hadn’t heard in aeons, a song taught to her by Iasion, her lover, that she in turn had sung for Kore… Her eyes watered again.

  “Forgive me. I won’t cause you any further distress. I’ll go.”

  “No, don’t!” She leaned again on his chest and cried, her face red, tears streaming down her hot cheeks, finally letting go and sobbing aloud. Grieving. “Triptolemus…”

  “Shh… I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered, stroking her lovely hair. She was a woman. In this moment, she was just a woman. Demeter. He petted her hair, holding her close. She smelled of wheat and barley, the sun, fresh cut grass. He was struck with an image of holding her and comforting her like this before, but he’d never been this close to her, nor would he ever dare to be so intimate with the goddess of his people. But right now, she was a woman— a soft, vulnerable, disconsolate woman who needed him.

  And he was a man.

  Triptolemus leaned down and tilted her chin up, stroking her face. He tilted his head and kissed her. She brought her hand up to his neck and returned it. Her lips were so soft and warm, and a fire burst to life within him. But he dared not take it further. She shut her eyes, her breath catching around a sob.

  Her little mewling sound made his heart freeze in his chest. He pulled away in fear. “My lady, I’m sorry!”

  Triptolemus stood up and backed away from her. Demeter touched her lips, still tingling from his kiss, the first she’d had in aeons. “For what? What’s wrong?”

  “Forgive me. You’re… you’re the Lady of the Harvest and I’m only… Gods above, what was I thinking?”

  “Please stop calling me ‘My Lady’; I asked you before—”

  “That was when you were Doso. I have no right to that familiarity. You’ll anger at me later for taking these liberties with you.”

  “Liberties, what—” she shook her head, the corner of her mouth twisting up. “Triptolemus, I’m fully aware of my choices. I enjoyed your kiss; truly. There’s no harm, here.”

  “There is when you’re grieved and I’m comforting you, my lady. I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Please, just call me Deme.”

  “Deme was my baby sister’s name.”

  “Then Demeter. Call me Demeter.”

  He took another step away from her. “I have no right…”

  “No, no please… come back,” she reached out to him.

  Triptolemus just shook his head.

  “Why not?” she said, knitting her brow.

  “Because I have no right to love you!” He swallowed, the words finally out.

  She raised her eyebrows at that. “You…?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Everything I’ve ever done…” He thinned his lips. “Even when you were Doso I knew who you were and loved you. I thought Death had come for me, but you were there. You stopped him. And I knew instantly who you really were. I’ve tried my best to love you from a distance, but…”

  Demeter’s mouth twitched up at this. She had quietly admired her prince since she arrived, not daring to think that he harbored anything for her other than respect for the wise woman Doso or reverence for the Lady of the Harvest. She secretly looked forward to accidental brushes of skin, or a glance from his bright blue eyes. This past month, Demeter had tried in vain to forget the warmth that flooded through her when she’d touched him. She remembered the hard lines of his body, the slight thickening of his phallus when she had him undress for the rites that gave him immortality. She would never have guessed that he had feelings for her, or that this handsome young man might even want to…

  She blushed and looked away.

  “I adore you, my la— Demeter. I would never presume, but I cannot help what I feel. And what I feel for you seems to have always been— even before you arrived,” he said glancing around them at the greenhouse. “What do you think all this was for? I’ve had this passion lit in me my whole life. And it feels like a continuation of sorts. A progression. I know I was delirious, but it all seemed so clear when I had the fever. I saw you— us— in my dreams.”

  Demeter opened her eyes wide and drew closer to him. “What did you see?”

  He drew back, wary of her intensity. “N-nothing… they never made any sense.”

  “They’re dreams! They’re not supposed to make sense to you.” She stood, tilting her head to look up at him. “But I can understand dreams. I’m a goddess, aren’t I?” Demeter said, smiling gently to reassure Triptolemus.

  He sighed and looked away. “Which is why I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “Just tell me,” she said softly, running her hand along his cheek. Her heart was beating fast. The first time she’d felt it truly beat in aeons. She had spent so long being a scorned lover, a mother, a protector, a goddess. She’d forgotten how intoxicating it was to be a woman. Not since…

  “It was a shield with strange symbols I couldn’t read— nothing I’ve ever seen before. And I saw sparks and a ceramic mould and the shield melted into a plow. I opened a pomegranate with you. You were so very beautiful, just as you are now. I gave you a seed and kissed you. You told me who you really were, and you were afraid to do so— afraid I would hate you. But I didn’t and I…”

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  He looked down, his face reddening. “I made love to you. Many times. One time, we were in the sunlight in an open field and you held my hand and smiled at me. But the sky darkened and everything disappeared. There was a man taking an obol from my hand and asking me to sing for him. Then an endless field of white flowers under gray mist. Someone unseen, wrapped in shadows, asked me many questions about you, about my life, about your Kore, and called me by a name that isn’t mine.”

  Demeter’s eyes watered and she breathed in sharply, almost staggering back from him.

  Triptolemus looked at her and blinked, fearing he’d said something terrible. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s…” a tear rolled down her face again, “It’s too complicated to explain. I can’t—” She ran her fingers under his jaw and kissed him, and he returned it hesitantly.

  Demeter pulled away, her lips thinning. It would happen again. This was infatuation— at best, an echo of who he once was; at worst, only a feeling of obligation to her. She had saved his life and granted him immortality— and Triptolemus now felt that he owed her whatever she wanted. She admonished herself. Here he was, worrying about taking advantage of her. She was a Child of Kronos, deathless for millennia, and he had only been immortal for a month. The blink of an eye. And since Triptolemus was one of the deathless ones, he would tire of her eventually, just as Zeus had. Mortals could love for twenty or thirty years if they were lucky. Gods, deathless and free of consequence, for even less time. To expect a being to love another for thousands of years was impossible. She had come to terms with that long ago.


  “My prince, you could have your pick of any maiden here.”

  “I don’t want them,” he smiled. “And please call me Triptolemus.”

  “But so many noble families have come to Eleusis. Fathers and brothers have gone to your family without demanding bride prices. They’ve even offered dowries that would make Midas blush.”

  “Riches mean nothing here, and nothing to me.”

  “They will again, when my daughter is returned.”

  “I see none but you.”

  “I’m old, Triptolemus. I was ancient as Doso, but even now—”

  “Not to me.”

  “If we were mortal, I would appear ten years your senior. It’s been a long time since I looked like a flower in bloom.”

  He wiped a tear off her face with his thumb. “We’re not mortals, Demeter. I know I haven’t witnessed the aeons you have, but I’m here to stay. I don’t want some girl that just wandered into Eleusis for food.”

  She drew closer to him, trembling. His thumb traveled across the curve of her bottom lip, still swollen from his kiss.

  “I want the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her close, slanting his mouth against hers. Demeter melted into him. It had been too long.

  Triptolemus held her close and deepened their kiss. To her, he tasted of mild sweetness, like honeyed bread. She was filled with an irrepressible urge to touch his skin again, just as she had when she’d massaged the ambrosia and oil into his limbs. Her fingers pushed his himation off his shoulder and started pulling at the fibulae of his tunic. Triptolemus wrapped his hands around her wrists.