Chants to Persephone: The Future of the World Hangs on a Knife's Edge - and Only a Human Sacrifice Can Save It

by Jennifer Macaire

  ‘Here, look what I found,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks.’ He tucked it into his pouch and nodded at the horizon. ‘It’s going to be rough out there,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, I don’t get sick at sea.’ He grinned briefly. When he smiled he looked so very young. I felt another pang. He didn’t often smile.

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Eighteen.’ His answer surprised me. It must have showed, because he blushed. ‘You must think badly of me,’ he said. ‘I know what I did was wrong, but Selena can be so…so persuasive. And I was her slave.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I looked away. ‘I don’t think badly of you at all. I make no judgements. It’s not my way. Besides, I only know about it because I was hiding in the closet. Oh, and I thought the helmet was a newfangled toilet from Rome.’

  I saw his body stiffen. Then he chuckled. ‘I always wondered about that.’ His voice trailed away. We were silent a moment. The wind seemed to mock us.

  Then I said, ‘Now that you’re free, what would you like to do? You don’t have to stay with us, you know. We’ll be glad to give you what you need to start a new life. Is there anywhere you’d like to go? Anything you’d like to do? You’re young, handsome, and healthy. Why don’t you take advantage of that?’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ He sounded unsure of himself.

  ‘Of course, please do.’

  ‘Is it true that your husband is the great Iskander? No, don’t worry,’ he said quickly. ‘I will never tell anyone, but I was there the night Demos came and heard everything. Just tell me, is it true?’

  ‘It is.’ I stared bleakly at the waves.

  Yovanix took a deep breath. ‘All my life I’ve dreamed of adventure, of being free, travelling, and becoming a great hero. You must think it’s silly, I want to live a great adventure. You have to understand that I was a slave nearly all my life. Everyone told me what to do. I had no future. I heard about Iskander and his conquests. The Gauls were sure he was going to sweep through their land. They spoke of nothing else. His stories were already legends by the time I was old enough to understand them. He was my first hero. Now he’s here searching for his soul. Perhaps, in some small way I can help him. He has given me a new life. What I’m trying to say, what I’d really like, is to stay with you. All of you.’ His blush was painful.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. My throat hurt. ‘Of course you can stay with us. I never realized you wanted to. I’m sorry. I must have seemed very unfriendly.’

  ‘You mustn’t apologize. Paul told me about Millis. I suppose you blame us. But it was Voltarrix.’ When he said that name he shivered.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Some say he’s a demon. Anoramix said he was a druid from the far north. From what I gathered, he is a very powerful thief of souls. He is one of the old ones, the ones who worship iron and water.’

  ‘What is a thief of souls?’

  ‘In Celtic myth, it’s a druid who can steal souls.’ He made a face. ‘I’m not explaining this very well. I’m not Celt you see. But if Anoramix was afraid of him, I would be frightened too. Anoramix was never afraid of anything, not even death. There’s one last thing I should tell you.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘Selena told me never to trust you. She said you were really Persephone, the Queen of Ice and Darkness, and that your heart was like a stone.’

  ‘She was still upset about Anoramix,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘She blamed you for his death and wanted revenge. She forbade me to tell you that Voltarrix is still seeking Paul. She said that Paul would never be safe, and that no one could protect him.’

  ‘What does he want with Paul?’

  Yovanix spoke as if weighing his words. ‘If it’s true Iskander lost his soul, I think I know why. If Voltarrix captured Paul and put Iskander’s soul in his body, can you imagine what would happen? Paul can no longer call the moon, but he can grow up to lead an army. The Druids are starting to feel the end of their world approaching. They speak of only one thing now; stopping the Romans before it’s too late. Some think it’s already too late. Voltarrix is one of the old ones who believe that time can be twisted.’ ‘Twisted?’ I echoed. My voice sounded odd.

  ‘The druids believe that time can be changed, like a river’s course. They can change it, slow it, or speed it up. With enough work, they can even make it flow backward. Time is the foundation of the druid’s religion’

  It was starting to make sense. Time. The Aztecs had foreseen the date their empire would topple, and they had tried to turn back time with their ceremonies. Nothing had worked for them. Nothing would work for the druids. The Romans would take over and usher in the modern world. Unless a boy, who never should have been born, somehow changed time.

  It was conceivable – there were still two hundred years. After that, nothing would halt the inexorable march of the Roman Empire and the event that changed the world; the birth of Christ.

  But suppose the druids somehow managed to unite the Norsemen, Celts, and Gauls against the Romans? What if Paul were somehow the catalyst? Paul – with Iskander’s soul.

  I took a deep breath. I would have to think about this. There were three people in the world who should never have been born: Paul, Chiron, and Cleopatra – and I was not supposed to be in this time or place. Anyone of us could, conceivably, change the world. A butterfly’s wings indeed.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The sea was rough the following day, and the day after. It wasn’t until nearly a week went by, that the waves smoothed and Alexander could get up. He’d been so ill, I couldn’t speak to him about what was troubling me. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe it.

  Poor Alexander. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow, his smile wan, and he needed a shave, a bath, and a good meal.

  The shave was possible, the good meal was tentatively nibbled on, and the bath was a bucket of seawater heated to a bearable temperature and sluiced over his head while he stood naked at the stern.

  ‘Do you feel any better, Father?’ Paul asked worriedly. He was sitting near the mast, playing chess with Nearchus.

  Nearchus looked at Alexander, then quickly back at the board again. His mouth drew tight. I knew how he felt. I hadn’t seen Alexander look so thin and pale since he’d been struck with the arrow in India.

  ‘I’m feeling much better,’ he said. He started to smile, then the boat slewed sideways as a large wave lifted us up and slid us into a deep trough. The horizon tilted, the mast creaked, and Alexander leaned over the rail and was sick.

  ‘Damn!’ I exclaimed, and went to find Erati for more food.

  Paul and Nearchus’s game wasn’t bothered. Yovanix had carved a special chess set with holes in the board and pegs on the bottom of the pieces, so they wouldn’t slide all over the place. When I came back with warm bread, Alexander was huddled next to them, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his face pinched and unhappy.

  I gave him the plate of food and stood by, making sure he at least tried to eat it. Afterwards, I half led, half carried him back to his bed. We’d slung a hammock in the very middle of the boat, hoping that the swing would even out the sway. He sank into the hammock and closed his eyes. Sleeping was the only thing that helped. I poured him a draught of poppy, and he sank into a restless slumber. Paul came and sat next to me. He put his head on my shoulder and I held him close.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. He’s tougher than he looks.’

  ‘I worry about him,’ said Paul. Seeing my surprise, he added, ‘When you came to the Valley of Nysa, I thought we’d be together for ever. I was so happy.’

  ‘The hardest thing I ever did, in my entire life, was leaving you in the valley after I’d found you again. And I only did it, because I thought I would be back for you.’

  ‘Alone, without my father.’

  ‘He was supposed to die,’ I said quietly. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘I
forgive you.’ His eyes didn’t waver. ‘I know why you left me there. You thought you would not be able to protect me after Father died.’

  ‘And then Olympias sent someone to seize you and take you to Babylon. You must have been so frightened.’ I hated thinking of Paul’s voyage. He had been seven years old, alone, afraid, and heading toward a fabled city where his father would be acclaimed king.

  He looked at me obliquely. ‘I wasn’t scared. You want to know something strange? Before the ceremony … you know, the one where the blood … you know …?’ He waved his hand nervously. ‘I believed I was the son of the moon goddess. Since the day I was born, everyone told me that. I used to look up at the moon at night and feel safe.’

  ‘And now?’ I asked.

  ‘Now, I have you and Father. You’re both here with me, and I feel like the luckiest boy in the world. Yet, I’m scared too. Because I never believed Father was a god. And, I think, he’s become even more mortal than any of us.’

  ‘Only because he’s seasick. Anyone can get that greenish shade of skin. It has to do with the inner ear,’ I told him.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Don’t worry about him, don’t worry about anything.’

  ‘I won’t, honest. But can I show you something odd?’ He pulled up his sleeve and pointed to his arm. ‘Look, since the ceremony the scar has changed. What do you think of that?’

  I peered closely at his arm. On the round part of his biceps, a crescent moon had always shone. Now the moon was different. It had nearly vanished. I pulled back, startled. ‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said.

  ‘It’s nice not being the moon’s child,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nearchus doesn’t call me the Harbinger of Destruction any more, and he plays chess with me. I feel like a real person,’ he said, satisfaction in his voice. ‘Do you think I’m becoming normal?’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  When we arrived in sight of land, we took our places and rowed. The day was grey and chilly. We’d been travelling just ahead of spring, and here we’d outrun it. It would be another two or three weeks before it caught up with us.

  I shivered as I rowed. On my right was the endless ocean, on my left, a tall granite cliff and crashing surf. We had to slip the boat into a ridiculously narrow channel, and I was terrified we’d smash into the rocks. But Phaleria and Kell knew their landmarks, and the rest of the crew knew their business, so we squeezed through the narrow passage. We entered a wide, deep fjord, and arrived at a small settlement.

  Phaleria shouted to someone on the docks, and the man tossed a heavy rope onto our deck. The crew tied the boat, and Phaleria turned to us with a wide grin.

  ‘Welcome to Orce!’ she cried.

  Alexander tapped my shoulder. ‘Say hello to the land of your ancestors,’ he said.

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘My ancestors? Most of them have yet to be born.’

  ‘Well, your future ancestors then.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Ah, land. Finally! I thought we’d never make it. Do you want to take a walk with me?’

  ‘I want to take a bath,’ I told him.

  ‘With me?’ His eyes twinkled. He was feeling much better.

  ‘With anyone,’ I said seriously.

  ‘Let’s go then.’ He grabbed my hand and practically dragged me off the boat.

  Paul and Cerberus had beaten us off the boat. The dog bounded onto the beach, found what looked like a hundred-year-old dead seagull, and was happily rolling in it. Paul was wading in the surf; cold or no cold, boys can’t resist wading. He held his cloak tightly around his shoulders, but his head was bare and his hair whipped around his face.

  Other people were on the beach as well. Women were busy digging in the sand, and I saw willow baskets full of clams. Children played on the shingle, some picking up driftwood, others throwing seaweed at each other and shouting. On the dock, men were mending fishing nets. And everyone had the same hair as Paul and I.

  I looked back to the beach where Paul was now throwing a stick to Cerberus. Another boy had joined the game, and the two towheads could have been brothers.

  No one gave me a second glance here. It was the first time I’d felt as if I weren’t sticking out like tinsel at Easter. Everyone here had blue eyes. Everyone had high, broad cheekbones. Alexander looked at me, his head tilted to the side, and said, ‘And I always thought you were unique. How disappointing.’

  I shoved him off the dock.

  Well, he did need a bath, and the water wasn’t that deep. He grinned up at me, his teeth flashing white in his face. ‘You do have feelings after all,’ he crowed.

  The people weren’t yet Vikings. They weren’t going to terrorize anything, except maybe the shoals of cod in the freezing waters off the coast. Their main industry was fishing, of course. They lived in deep fjords, braving the winter, fishing all year long, and farming during the short spring and summer. The coast was still sparsely settled.

  The Gulf Stream made its way up to the Arctic Circle here, and the climate wasn’t as bad as you’d think. But we were roughly four hundred kilometres from the Arctic Circle, and the wind, when it blew from the north, was like a block of ice. Where the cold air met the warmer water, there were huge, thick banks of fog. The sudden fog was deadly – a boat could get lost ten feet from shore.

  We’d been lucky with the weather, and we were the first to arrive in the village that spring. It was beautiful. Rarely have I seen such majesty in nature. Alexander would often walk to the bow of the boat and just stand, his hands clasped behind his back, his face lifted toward the mountains.

  The villages were set deep in the fjords. Behind them were towering pine forests, and small pockets of meadow used for grazing and hay. Tides rose and fell gently. The huge, Atlantic waves were tamed inside the fjords, and often the water was as flat as glass. The colour of the water varied according to the sky. All around were mountains, above us, and reflected in the mirror of the fjords.

  The people were the strong, silent type. During the day, few words were exchanged. All this ended at night. When the work was done, and the villagers gathered in the great hall for the communal dinner, it was as if a switch had been thrown. Beer flowed from huge wooden casks. A whole sheep turned on a spit. There was codfish, of course. And stories.

  I didn’t understand a word of what they said. Phaleria did, and translated for us. As the evening wore on, people stood up, one after another, and told stories. There were tales about the gods, with king Odin, Thor the thunder god, or Loki, troublemaker. They told fishing tales, like the entertaining story about Olaf caught in the codfish net, or the tragic tale of Svensson and his disappearance in a fog bank. Since the men sailed far afield, there were stories about different tribes in the region, gossip from neighbouring villages, or news from faraway friends and relatives. They talked about a new invention someone saw or heard about, a new recipe, strange animals they’d seen, or even a strange weather pattern.

  It wasn’t only men. Women commanded as much attention as men did. One thing struck me after a while. The only people who stood up to talk were adults. Phaleria, when I asked her about this, told me that only the people over a certain age could speak. The young were supposed to listen and learn. It was, she informed me, a sort of informal education. The best stories were honed and perfected, the useful ones repeated for generations, and the whole village profited.

  There were no writings here. It was a purely aural society. Everyone listened carefully when someone spoke.

  No one monopolized the conversation. Phaleria was able to translate almost everything, because after someone spoke there was a lull while people discussed what they’d just heard. When dinner was over, everyone helped clean up, then bade each other goodnight, and went to bed.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  We stayed at an inn. It wouldn’t get any stars in modern times. It was a longhouse, with a common hearth in the middle, beds along the sides of the walls, and no windows or chimney. At the north end was stabling for animals. Luckily it
was spring and the livestock had been moved outside – but the smell lingered. The hearth smouldered all night, giving off heat and smoke. A small hole in the thatched roof was supposed to let the smoke out, but the smoke didn’t seem to want to venture outside.

  Each bed was built as an alcove. We pulled heavy wool curtains closed around us and slept while the smoke swirled lazily. In the morning, I felt like a smoked sausage. The wooden floor was covered with brightly coloured rugs. The hearth was made of flat rocks placed in a rectangle. These stones made a good bench. When I woke, I saw Titte and Kell sitting there, drinking chicory and discussing the day’s plans.

  Phaleria emerged from her bed, parting the curtains and poking her head out. ‘Is anyone in the bathroom?’ she called.

  ‘No, it’s free,’ said Kell.

  Phaleria nodded in satisfaction and left the longhouse by the front door. The bathroom was right outside, and was the most comfortable I’d seen in all my travels. I suppose that cold weather would tend to make people more careful about how they built their toilets. This was a spacious affair, with smooth wooden benches, many large buckets always full of clean water, and a seemingly endless supply of clean cloths.

  We settled down to stay for a month of trading. The first day was spent getting to know the village, finding the baths – sauna huts, a small pond, ducks in the water, and steaming people shooting naked out of the door and diving into the pond – and getting settled.

  Paul had found a friend, and was busy learning the language by pointing to everything and repeating the words like a parrot. I was sure he’d be speaking fluently before we left.

  It was the fifth day after our arrival, and I still hadn’t spoken to Alexander about what Yovanix had told me. We never seemed to be alone. Plus, I wasn’t sure what to say. ‘By the way, the man who stole your soul wants to use Paul to lead an army and conquer Rome?’ It sounded ridiculous, even to me. Alexander seemed to be in a good mood. Why ruin it? Voltarrix couldn’t harm us here. He wasn’t anywhere near us.