Pale Eyes

by James Welsh

Hades was wading across the stream, holding up his long robes so that they wouldn’t get wet. The water was frozen for a summer’s day, the shallow current biting at his heels. Hades grimaced from the chill. Even though he was used to freezing in the Underworld, somehow the cold in the world above felt different. There was a spark to it which shocked him, in more ways than one. He shivered so much from the water that he didn’t notice that each footstep turned the clear water murky around the foot.

  When he reached the other bank, he immediately found himself in a forest, the greedy trees having grown as close as they can to the stream for its water. The leaves were dark and rich, and what little sunlight that could make its way through the canopy showed the forest as being a sweet chocolate in color. All around him, Hades could see only browns and greens, the colors of life, and this stung his eyes. All around him, Hades could smell only syrup and trees, so strong that he could even taste it, and he felt the sudden urge to vomit. Hades was so overwhelmed by the life in the forest that he didn’t notice that each footstep of his left behind a trail of decay, with the grass and foliage withering and dying behind him.

  Hades had been looking for hours, with no luck, all in the hopes of finding the Fates. He had never met them before, he wasn’t even sure if they existed or not, but he had it on good authority that their myth was in this forest. Every time he pressed someone for the Fates’ exact location, though, he received a different answer each time. But Hades knew that he was getting closer to their hiding-place: indeed the woods were becoming even darker, and there was a thick mist beginning to settle in. The woods were enough to terrify any mortal afraid of death, but for Hades it was life, and the King of the Underworld felt a sudden vigor in his walk as he plunged into the darkness.

  That was when the trees gave away. Hades found himself in a massive clearing that was as dark as midnight, even though it was still day and there were no trees to block out the sunlight. Hades knew that if any immortals could have such magic, it would certainly be the trio of Fates. In the center of the clearing there was an enormous megalith, a ring of rock slabs, each the size of a galley if the boat was pointing upwards. The rocks looked out-of-place in the clearing, which meant that they were moved there, which would have been impossible given their size – another symptom of an immortal’s presence. Each of the slabs had a hole hollowed out of it as well – in each hole there was a lit torch, its sick-green light dazzling in the dimness. Hades peered past the rock slabs and noticed there was an absurdly simple well in the middle of the megalith, with a bucket leaning against the well’s stone.

  And Hades didn’t so much see it as he heard it, but there was a thick grunting and moaning behind one of the stone slabs. Curious, Hades took a few steps closer and called out, “Is there someone there?”

  The moans stopped almost immediately. There was a few moments of a heavy silence, then a face appeared from behind the slab. At least, Hades thought it was a face; it was hard to tell with the mass of stringy hair over the front of it, hair that looked like a clump of rotting seaweed more than anything else. Then slowly, the being moved into full view, and Hades saw that it was a head, and it was attached to a hunched-over, gnarled body. The creature was dressed in a beggar’s tatters, its limp breasts exposed. Just like Zeus many years before, when that god first met the witches, Hades felt the sickness rising up his throat.

  Hades fought the urge to take a step backwards. He found his voice once more and demanded, “Are you the Fate herself?”

  The creature shuffled closer – Hades saw that even though the being had a woman’s breasts, it had a man’s beard. The beard was matted and tangled in the creature’s flowing hair, a beard so thick that Hades couldn’t see the being move its lips as it said, “Yes, I’m one of the Fates.”

  “Where are your sisters then?” Hades persisted. He wanted to believe that the strange creature was one of the Fates, but he knew the woods were full of tricks and betrayal. The beast standing before him could have just as easily been a faun, the cursed offspring of men and goats, who knew the woods better than anyone else, who could disguise themselves as any person they wanted. Hades had never met one before, but he had heard enough stories.

  The creature smiled – or, at least, Hades thought that it had smiled – and it turned back to the stone slabs. It called out in its creaky voice, “Come, my sisters. The god has arrived.”

  The creature turned and said, “We’ve been waiting for you, dear Hades. We’ve been patient, almost too patient.”

  Two others came out from being the slab, creatures that were identical to the first in every detail. Flattening out the folds in their ruined robes, the one asked, “Do you believe us, Hades? Do you truly believe we are the Fates?”

  Hades tried to sound confident, but the unease crept into his voice as he said shortly, “Do I have a choice?”

  The creatures laughed at that. The one, mocking a mother’s soothing voice, said, “You have as much choice as a prisoner pacing his cell, wondering where his next step should be.”

  “As much as a prisoner, yes,” another hissed softly.

  Hades asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean,” the trio said at the same time. As they said this, they came closer and closer, until Hades could smell their breath.

  Hades wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sheathed sword. He warned, “Don’t come too close.”

  The one giggled. “Oh, you wouldn’t hurt us, little Hades. If you did, what would happen to your kingdom? Don’t you know what we do?”

  “You cut the strings of the mortals. You decide when they die,” Hades said, his fingers still on the hilt.

  “We do so much more than that, Hades.”

  The other two agreed. “So much more.”

  “I know, and that’s why I have come to see you. I want to know what you know,” Hades said tensely.

  “That’s why we have been waiting for you, little Hades,” the one cooed. “You’ve come to ask us about Zeus.”

  “Yes,” Hades said with some hesitation. “Now, which one of you is the one who spins the thread? Which of you determines the fate of every being in the Universe?”

  “I do,” the one said, offering a hand that was surprisingly perfect and youthful and clear of scars. “But so do the others.”

  Hades was beginning to lose his patience. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t, Hades. But who does? My name is Clotho, and these are my sisters, Lachesis, the one who measures a life…”

  The one curtsied.

  “…and Atropos, who cuts the death.”

  The other nodded slowly.

  Clotho continued. “I may spin the thread of someone’s life, but the three of us, we are one when it comes to death. We pull out the strands as one, and we cut the strings as one.”

  Lachesis and Atropos nodded and said as one, “We are together, as much as we are separate.”

  Clotho smiled at the confused Hades. “An arrowhead has three points, but they all kill together.”

  Hades’ fury was beginning to grow; he did not have the time to deal with their riddles, as important as they were. He was looking for answers, not more questions. Still, part of him was beginning to understand the moans from behind the stone slab earlier. The mortal couple becomes one when they love each other – perhaps these sisters, these weird sisters, did the same? Perhaps the moans of ecstasy came from the three-faced creature, finally realized in all of its glory?

  Lachesis and Atropos – at least, that’s who Hades thought they were – began slowly encircling the god as Clotho stepped closer, the long weeds rustling beneath her ragged skirt. And, Hades hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a silk scarf wrapped around Clotho’s neck. Clotho noticed that Hades noticed and whispered, “Beautiful, no?”

  Hades couldn’t imagine such a horrific beast having such a beautiful scarf. “Yes, yes it is.”

&nb
sp; Clotho said through her cracked lips, “We weave our scarves from only the most breathtaking of mortals. These strands once belonged to queens and princesses, to priestesses and warriors. We are amazing when we wear these, we are gorgeous.”

  All Hades could smell now was rotting lamb. He asked, “What does this have to do with me?”

  Clotho smiled. “Everything.”

  Just then, the one Hades believed to be Atropos called out, “Sister, it is time.”

  Without a word, Cloth swept to her sisters. They huddled together, so close it seemed as if their clothes were one cloak, their bodies one corpse. Barely holding back his impatience now, Hades looked over their shoulders, and he saw that they held a strand between the three of them. Two held the string taut while the other pulled a pair of scissors from her robes. In a few moments, they cut the strand and sent a soul down to the Underworld. The sisters showed no emotion over the murder: Hades didn’t know if their blank looks were because the deaths were their duty, or because the three sisters had killed for so long that a human just seemed like another string to them.

  Clotho turned back towards Hades and asked, “You wanted to know what these things have to do with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Atropos asked, “You wanted to know why our scarves, woven out of the past, hold your future?”

  “Yes.”

  Lachesis asked, “You wanted to know if we could destroy your brother Zeus?”

  “Yes.”

  Clotho said heavily, “We do not enjoy telling people their secrets, you know. We already made that mistake once before, with your brother actually.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard how he came to you, asking about his future. But why was it a mistake?”

  “In the end, every strand is cut, and they’re all as brittle as the others,” Clotho explained. “A king can be cut as easily as a peasant. Even you, King of the Underworld, are as easy to cut as a mortal.”

  Clotho said that last sentence with a hint of satisfaction. She enjoyed the terror that pulsed in Hades’ eyes. The god scoffed at this, but he was already wondering if it was true, if he could die, and not just die, but pass as easily as a mortal can.

  Clotho continued. “You gods may think you’re immortal, but everything is just string in our scissors. And true, a being can complicate things if they knew the truth about themselves…”

  “Yes, they can,” the other two sisters said, almost sorrowfully.

  “But even then, their string can still be cut. It’s just that their string has to break in a different place.”

  “So how did Zeus change things?” Hades asked.

  “Zeus’ first child was meant to be with the sister Hera. It was meant to be a son, born with a sword drawn to kill Zeus in its first moment of life. When Zeus discovered the truth, though, he tried to run from his wife and his death, but all he did was run into Metis’ arms. And together, they conceived Athena.”

  “Why did you bother telling Zeus the truth? Why not let him live his course and die?” Hades demanded, now angry. Perhaps if Zeus had died long before, Persephone would have never been taken from him.

  “Your brother may be powerful, but he is arrogant,” Atropos said. The other two sisters nodded in approval. “We wanted him to know that death is inevitable, even for a mighty god like himself, one who thinks he knows all. He may have altered the course of history since, but all of the roads meet together in the end, no matter how much they diverge.”

  “Where does his road lead from here then? How will he die now?”

  The sisters paused. Finally, the one – Hades wasn’t sure who it was anymore – said, “We will help you, Hades, but do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you don’t,” the sister spat. “You take the dead from us as much as we give them to you. You may not fully realize it, but we all have been working together all of this time. And I suppose we owe you a favor, little Hades. If it wasn’t for the despair of your kingdom, then these mortals, they wouldn’t fear our scissors. We may provide you with these strings, but you provide us with the blade. So you will have this favor, just this once, as our thanks.”

  “So Hades, are you ready for everything to change?” Lachesis asked.

  Hades had not come that far just to turn away. It was too late for such things. “Yes.”

  “Very well,” Clotho said. “Sisters.”

  Clotho walked towards the well in the center of the megalith, her sisters close behind her. Hades watched as, together, the sisters drew a bucket of water from the well. One of the sisters plucked a torch of green light from a stone slab, and she doused the torch in the bucket of water. But instead of the bucket giving off a cloud of gray steam, there were puffs of yellow smoke. Hades continued to watch, by now entranced by the spectacle, as the Fates gathered around the bucket and breathed in the dangerous fumes. At first, nothing seemed to happen, and Hades began to wonder if the whole scene was a trick, if the Fates weren’t as magical as they appeared.

  But then, they began to twitch, with the shakes beginning in their fingertips, then their wrists, then their elbows, then their shoulders. In a short minute, the weird sisters were entirely consumed by themselves, shaking madly in their seizures like prey writhing in a beast’s jaws. But, for all of their madness, for all of their shaking, their feet were still solid and calm. And so the sisters marched slowly towards Hades, all the while their heads and their arms and their torsos shook and bounced and bent at all of the wrong angles. The whole time, Hades had not moved an inch – he found himself bizarrely drawn in by the insanity of the moment. Even his fingers, having been fastened around his sword’s hilt the entire time, had begun to loosen on their own.

  The Fates began to circle Hades, and the circle began to close in on the god, until he began to feel morbidly claustrophobic. He imagined this was what being buried alive felt like. In spite of the breath being pushed out of him, he could hear poetry over the intense pressure.

  “Your brother Zeus will die, but not

  by your hands. Instead, his daughter,

  his Athena, will deliver the mortal

  blow, without even knowing. They are

  the actors, and you are the playwright.

  You will force one against the other,

  and when Athena has killed and taken

  over her father, you will storm the palace

  and break Mount Olympus down the middle.

  This is the way that things have to happen.”

  The moment the last syllable was uttered, Hades heard a sudden and terrible scream in his ears. He cried in pain, feeling as if he would be ripped apart. Hades collapsed in the soil, hands pressed firmly to his eyes, but still the sound flooded his mind. It took Hades a few moments before he realized there was no sound anymore – the silence was just as crushing as the noise was. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and he realized for the first time that he was lying in the grass, pathetic and feeling almost human. Shaken and self-conscious, Hades stood up on his chattering knees. There was nothing around him: the Fates, the stone slabs, even the clearing had all vanished. He was once more in the deep forest, and everything was still and calm – he couldn’t hear a bird song, even if he wanted.

  The only thing still there was the Fates’ song, which sang itself over and over again in Hades’ mind. He stumbled away, lost for a few minutes, as he tried to regain his sense of the world. He looked up through the thick soup of branches and managed to see the sun setting in the west, the only logic in the forest swirling with madness. He knew that the stream he had crossed earlier was to the west, and that was where the cave was, his entrance to the Underworld. As he moved briskly along, he desperately tried to make sense of what it was the Fates had sung.

  If what the Fates said was true, then his revenge was murdering his own brother. But he couldn’t do it, not on his own anyway – he would have to kill Zeus through Athena, somehow. And with Zeus destroyed and the c
onquering Athena on the throne, it would be only a matter of time before Hades laid siege to the mountain. Only then would Hades win what was rightfully his: not only claim to his wife Persephone, but to his rights as a king, to enjoy the rewards of his kingdom in peace, without Zeus and the others on Olympus arrogantly dictating the terms of his existence. He was already beginning to forget his earlier confusion, though, and as Hades heard the stream trickling nearby, he was already thinking of a plan to ruin Zeus and bring down Olympus in an avalanche.

  Book 6