Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology

by T. S. Cleveland

  On another less exciting occasion, one of Aphrodite’s mortal sons came to the Underworld looking for his father so he could ask him advice about the best place to build his new house. He’d taken a bough from one of Persephone’s trees in order to bribe Charon the boatman, and when she’d told Hades of this, her husband had laughed and allowed the mortal to get his directions and leave. He did it just to goad her, she was sure.

  There were others, but the most notable also proved to be the most useful, and the very thing Persephone had been waiting for. His name was Theseus, and he did not come alone. He brought a friend with him by the name of Pirithous, and the two of them had it in their heads that they would marry daughters of Zeus. Persephone didn’t know this because they’d told her, she knew it because, upon hearing of their arrival, she'd snuck into Hades’ display room and stolen his Helmet of Invisibility. Slipping it onto her own head with a giggle, she then proceeded to the throne room, where Hades was greeting the men with an unusual level of hospitality.

  She settled into her throne to watch the proceedings silently and invisibly. It quickly became a challenge to mask her outrage, because Theseus and Pirithous were, in her opinion, appalling.

  “Let me understand you, my friends,” Hades said, offering them both a goblet of wine as they stood around the thrones. They politely declined. “Your wives died and now you seek new ones.”

  “Not just any wives,” Pirithous said. “They must be sired from Zeus himself.” He laughed. “Theseus here has already found himself a young lady, but I have my heart set on a particular sort of woman.”

  “Is that so?” Hades asked, sipping casually at his wine. In the presence of such lewd and arrogant men, he shone. “Zeus will be flattered, I am sure. If he has not picked out these daughters already, for himself.” His eyes darted once to Persephone’s throne, and she panicked for an instant, thinking he’d seen her. But his eyes didn’t meet hers, just glanced quickly at her seat and looked away. “Tell me, friend, who is this second fortunate daughter of Zeus you’d like to wed?”

  Pirithous nudged at Theseus to answer for him. “We thought you might have guessed, since the matter has brought us here to your doorstep, Hades,” Theseus said. “Pirithous wishes to marry Persephone.”

  Persephone brought a hand to her mouth to cover her sharp inhale, but she needn’t do it, for the slamming down of Hades’ cup caused a loud echo in the throne room. And then, to her horror, his laugh echoed even louder.

  “You’ve come here to take my wife?” he asked, still laughing, as if he found the whole thing extremely funny and not at all disgusting and offensive.

  Persephone was relieved she’d chosen this meeting to spy on, for, though she’d meant to catch Hades in the act of confessing his love, she’d caught instead his intentions to marry her off to the first man who asked. Already her head spun with ideas of escape. She could have Hecate hide her until Hermes could come and fly her somewhere secret. She would not go with Pirithous or Theseus or anyone. She almost grew so bold as to tear the helmet from her head and throw it at the visitors, but before she could do it, the conversation continued, led by Hades’ steady voice.

  “May I ask why you’ve set your heart on my wife in particular?” he asked. “I have it on good authority that Zeus has many daughters who are not already married.”

  Pirithous answered this one. “I have heard she is feisty and beautiful, but yet a virgin. An extraordinarily attractive young woman, with a subservient disposition.” His laugh was a bellow that hurt Persephone’s ears. “I like that in a wife. I’ve come to take her off your hands.”

  “Oh?” asked Hades.

  “I figure you don’t need a girl like that ruling beside you in the Underworld. You need someone strong, authoritative, like you.”

  “I see. You’d be doing me a favor, taking her,” Hades said with a smile.

  Pirithous nudged at his friend again. “See? I told you he’d agree. And it never hurts to ask, does it, Hades?”

  “Indeed, it does not,” answered Hades. He lifted his goblet and toasted his guests, Persephone watching on, horrorstruck. “I am inclined to accept this generous offer, but let us sit together first and go over the details.” He looked around the room with a frown. “I apologize for the lack of seating. It is usually just me and my wife. Soon I will have a throne to spare, however! Ha! Allow me to procure you some chairs.” He flicked his wrist and a pair of ornate seats appeared behind Theseus and Pirithous. “Take a seat, my friends, and we can discuss the details.”

  Persephone stood as the men took their seats. She could watch this no longer. She had lingered long enough. She would find Hecate and Hermes right away. They would help her.

  She was turned away from Hades when she heard him laugh again, only this laugh gave her pause. It was not slithering like the one he’d used with the men before. It was more like the laugh she’d heard when they’d watched Sisyphus roll the boulder up the mountain. It was enough to stop her in the doorway and make her turn back around.

  Theseus and Pirithous were sitting in their chairs and Hades was standing in front of them, same as before, only now, the lecherous looks on the faces of the men were gone. The lechery had been replaced with dullness, emptiness, a stupid confusion. And Hades’ mask of charm had been replaced with the grimness Persephone knew so well.

  Her heart swelled to see it.

  “Oh my,” said Hades. “It seems you’ve both taken a seat in my Chairs of Forgetfulness. I’m terribly sorry.”

  They looked at him blankly.

  “You see, when you come to a man and ask him for his beloved wife, these things sometimes happen.” His voice was dark and deep and as shadowed as his kingdom, and Persephone walked back to the thrones to better look at him.

  Theseus moved one of his arms and the chair leg turned into a hissing, coiling snake. It struck at his ankles, keeping him seated and afraid. Beside him, Pirithous was dimwitted enough to make the same mistake. His chair attacked him similarly, and the two men exchanged dumb glances.

  “You will not be getting up from your chairs anytime soon, my friends,” Hades informed them, clicking his tongue as the snakes turned back into chair legs. “I hope you’re comfortable being seated, because I plan to be your host from here on out. And my wife,” he snarled, coming close enough to lean down and gaze into their empty eyes—Persephone took the opportunity to gaze at his backside—“is not some helpless, subservient girl to be bargained away. She is fierce and she is formidable, and you are lucky to have met with me today instead of her.” He straightened. “A pity about your new wives. But perhaps you will run into your old ones during your stay here. Though I doubt you will even remember them.” He flicked his wrist, and the chairs, as well as the men who sat in them, disappeared.

  Persephone took a step towards him.

  Hades crossed his arms and sighed, shaking his head at the floor. “Persephone,” he said.

  Wondering how he’d known, she removed the helmet.

  He yelped in surprise to see her, and she squeaked in turn.

  “Persephone?” His eyes were huge and his face was white.

  “You didn’t know I was here?” she asked. “You said my name!”

  “I say it often,” he said. “I just like the way it sounds.”

  “Oh?”

  He tilted his head at her. “Were you here this whole time? Were you spying on me?”

  Persephone didn’t blush. Hades was blushing enough for the both of them. “I was.” She stepped closer and handed him the helmet. “I thought you were going to let them take me,” she admitted. She took another step closer.

  “You did?”

  “I did,” she said. “But if I am your beloved wife, I suppose there’s no need to spy on you again. It’s a nasty thing to do.”

  He felt along the edge of the helmet, then let it drop to the floor. It made a loud clang against the marble, but Persephone hardly heard it. As soon as his hands were fr
ee, he threaded them through her hair and pulled her close.

  She kissed him before he could kiss her, though later he would claim to have begun it. It didn’t matter who kissed whom, only that they were kissing, and it was exactly what they both had hoped for. Persephone could see why her mother had kept her away from suitors for so long, even if she doubted that anyone, even Apollo, could kiss as well as her husband.

  Sweet Core, lovely Core, innocent Core would not have known what to do with a kiss from Hades.

  But Persephone knew. She slid her hand into his and led him back to her bedchamber. They had an eternity together, it was true, but only a few scant months until Demeter demanded back her daughter. And to Persephone, it didn’t feel like nearly enough time.

  “Core,” her mother said.

  Persephone sighed but didn’t bother correcting her mother again. After the tenth time, she’d resigned herself to remaining Core in her mother’s presence. It made Demeter happy, and even though Persephone had changed, loving her mother had remained a welcome constancy.

  “Yes, mother?” she asked, skipping to her in the blooming meadow. It was evening and they’d spent all day in the bright, flowery fields. How Persephone had missed the sunshine, and she looked forward to six months more of it. But already, in her heart, she longed again for shadows, and the husband that dwelt within them.

  “Look what I’ve found.”

  “At last!” cried Persephone, laughing as her mother picked the yellow narcissus from the grass and stuck it behind her ear.

  “How lovely,” Demeter said, drawing her in for another hug. Since her return, they had been all hugs and kisses, and there was a silent agreement between them that, during her stay, they would not discuss Hades or the Underworld. So far, it had gone quite well.

  Persephone had picked a flower for her mother, as well, and tucked it behind her ear in exchange. “I missed you,” she said, and kissed Demeter’s cheek.

  “My sweet daughter.”

  She watched her mother resume the picking of her flowers. Later, they would move to the next field, and her mother would help the farmers grow their crops, and Persephone would play with her friends in the sunlight. But for now, she sat in the meadow, listening to her mother hum a soft tune.

  She looked up at the night sky, another thing she’d missed, and would miss again.

  “Wait,” she whispered, leaning back to rest on her elbows, her legs stretched out before her in the grass. There was something different about the sky. Something new.

  There was a story lit up with stars. A maiden of spring, beautiful and shining in the sky, but also fierce. Formidable.

  Persephone laughed, knowing Hades could hear her. Then she slammed her fist against the earth. “Hades,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  A sweet curse for him at last.

  Callisto

  By the midnight of madness:

  The lone-lying sea,

  The swoon of the moon,

  Your swoon unto me,

  The sentinel sadness

  Of cliff-clinging pine,

  That night of delight

  You were mine, you were mine!

  -Aleister Crowley

  She was the daughter of a king, but a king’s daughter was not who she was. And if you asked her now about her life before, she would have few words for you. Her father was Lycaon of Arcadia, but she was just Callisto. And her life, from birth to eternity, was only ever lived for Artemis.

  She could recount the goddess’ first years as if she’d lived them too, right beside her love.

  Even in the beginning, the very beginning, Artemis was extraordinary. Callisto loved to whisper the tale to herself when she was young, still living in her father’s palace. She’d lie awake and wish it was her life, but found it was as good, or better, to have distance from it, so she could enjoy it from the outside.

  When she first met the goddess, she was embarrassed by her depth of knowledge, but Artemis never laughed at Callisto’s love. Sometimes, after Callisto had joined her in the mountains, Artemis would ask her to recount the circumstances of her birth. She said she liked to hear it from her lips, and Callisto never dreamt of depriving her a single word.

  “Artemis was born of Zeus, mightiest of the gods,” she would begin, “and shared the womb with her twin brother, Apollo, within Leto. Leto was lovely, the daughter of Titans, but when Zeus came to claim her, he changed them both to quails before they coupled.” This always made Callisto blush, but Artemis would slap her knee and laugh heartily.

  “Father brags of his conquests, but he has to disguise himself more often than not to bed his women,” she’d bluster. She’d laugh a bit more, and Callisto would only continue when she’d had her fun and gently nudged her to continue.

  “But mighty Zeus was already married to a jealous goddess, Hera. When she learned that Leto carried the child of her husband, she sent the serpent Python to hunt her down. She did not want Leto to find a place of rest in order to deliver. Leto had no choice. Pregnant and hunted, she was forced to run. She was in Ortygia when she could run no more and gave birth to the beautiful babe, whom she named Artemis.”

  Artemis beamed at this part, and sometimes Callisto dared to touch her. Her hand, or her shoulder, or her knee.

  “The babe was extraordinary from the moment of birth,” she’d continue with a grin, for this was her favorite part. “As soon as she slipped from Leto, she helped guide her mother’s way down the narrow straits, and found a place for her to deliver her second child on Mount Cyntha, between an olive tree and a date-palm. This child was Apollo, Artemis’ twin brother.”

  “We hardly look alike,” Artemis would scoff.

  “You do,” insisted Callisto, time and time again. Then she would whisper, “But you are far more beautiful.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say it,” Artemis would whisper back, sometimes right in her ear, leaving Callisto slightly breathless for the rest of the story.

  “When Artemis was still little, only three or four, she sat on her father’s lap, and he asked her of the presents she’d like to have. Little Artemis smiled up at him and said, ‘I want a bow like my brother’s. I want a new saffron hunting tunic with red trim. I want sixty nymphs to keep as my maids, and twenty more to watch my hounds and horses when I’m on the hunt. I want all the mountains in the world to be mine. But most of all, I wish to never be married. Do not make me do it, father. I would hate that very much.’”

  “Wisdom beyond my years,” Artemis would laugh, while Callisto slyly admired the curve of her cheek in the moonlight.

  “Zeus was thrilled with his daughter’s requests, and he granted each readily. He laughed loudly and applauded her desire to remain chaste. He would never make her marry.”

  “Not yet.”

  “He would never make her marry,” Callisto repeated firmly. “And she grew up happy, surrounded by her adoring companions on whichever mountain she chose to call her home, for they all belonged to her.”

  “Mountains or maidens?” Artemis would ask.

  And Callisto would answer: “Both.”

  As a grown woman, Artemis still wore a saffron tunic with a red hem, though the hem had grown shorter over the years. Her back was always equipped with her supple silver bow, and her quiver was endlessly filled with perfectly crafted arrows. She had long brown hair that she wore pulled back in a thick braid. Sometimes it was Callisto’s pleasure to braid it, sometimes the honor went to one of her sixty nymphs, but it was always shining and dark and as beautiful as everything else about Artemis.

  She was the goddess of the hunt, the protector of baby animals, and she had the power to bring terrible plague and death to mortals. But her first passion was always the chase. Stags were her favorite. Callisto watched her dash through the forests, her muscles flexing beneath the draw of her bow. Other times, she would change into a doe and run with the stags, leap with them and play. Whatever form, she was intoxicating to ob
serve, and Callisto never grew tired of observing her. For Callisto, every moment since entering the mountains had been a gift.

  She’d known since she was old enough to memorize Artemis’ story that she wanted to be a huntress, and the most she could say of her father, King Lycaon, was that he never stood in her way. When she was sixteen, she left home with a bow slung over her shoulder and headed for the mountains. There was a temple to Artemis within the forest, and she intended to pledge herself a loyal servant. She expected there might be a trial put to her by the other priestesses, but she did not expect what actually came to pass.

  Upon reaching the temple, Callisto heard weeping. She followed the sound to the inner chamber, where a woman was surrounded by wolves. She was the loveliest thing, even in tears, that Callisto had ever seen, and she knew, when their eyes met, that the woman was her goddess Artemis.

  She fell to her knees and bent her head. A wolf sniffed at her curiously, its wet nose blowing puffs of hot air on her forehead. There was a moment when she thought she would be killed, ordered by Artemis herself to be torn apart by her wolves, but the moment came and went, and all that happened was that Artemis stood from the middle of the chamber and joined Callisto on her knees beside her.

  “Do you know anything of love?” she asked. “You can look at me. It’s all right.”

  Callisto’s eyes did not linger on the temple floor once permission was granted to look upon Artemis. She looked at once, and she knew. She’d not known love before, but she knew it now; it was branded across her heart with fire.

  But she could not answer with so much brazenness. It was clearly not the sort of council the goddess was seeking. So Callisto answered as best she could.

  “I know nothing of men,” she said. “And even less of loving them.”

  Artemis nodded. Her hair was not braided that day, and it fell across her shoulders, lustrous and straight as an arrow. “I know nothing at all,” she admitted. “I thought I loved a man, but I’ve killed him recently.”