Dead Beautiful (13 page)

“How do you know this?” I ask, trying to sound off-handed.

“Oh, you know,” Celeus shrugs. “The usual way. Some wood or water spirit whispered it to a reed, which told the wind.”

“I see.” The chattering classes are always with us. “But don’t you think Mother Demeter neglects her duties?”

“If one of my girls were taken from me,” Celeus replies, “I would go mad with worry. Metaneira?

His wife shakes her head, glancing quickly at the girls as if to reassure herself they are all still present. “I can’t even think about it.”

“So we pray daily for Persephone’s safe return,” says Celeus.

“I am sure Mother Demeter appreciates that,” I say, my heart warming towards this kind man.

He laughs heartily. “I’ll wager Mother Demeter doesn’t know or care. We are less to her than grains of sand. But we love her, and the kindness she shows us in helping our crops, and it is all we can do. Now,” he says, “Girls, please clear the table.” I see I have misjudged the humans. They are not selfish, concerned only with their own troubles. Even in their hardship they have sympathy for my plight.

His daughters rise and carry away plates and serving bowls.

“In the old days,” says Celeus, “before our current troubles, I would have had nuts and dates, figs and sweetmeats to offer you, but tonight all I can give you is baklava. I hope you like it. Callithoe made it herself.”

“Then I am sure it will be perfect.” I smile.

The baklava is in fact superb, as is the strong, sweet coffee they serve in delicate cups.

“And to finish, some wine,” says Celeus, clapping his hands.

The girls bring out a fine, round jug and tall, elegant cups.

“Run along now,” Celeus says to the girls, who leave the room in a flurry of chatter. “Last year’s vintage was one of the best ever,” he says, filling my cup. “This year’s — well,” he shakes his head. “This year there may be no wine. But let us drink to things improving.”

We lift a toast, and after we are finished, Celeus asks, “Where are you from? And why do you wander? It can’t be easy to go from town to town at your age.”

“I came across the sea’s wide back from Crete,” I tell them. “We were a small village — only four families — kidnapped by pirates, more wolves than men they were. They wanted the young men’s strength and the young women for concubines. They would have thrown me overboard as they did the other old ones, but I have some knowledge of herbs and healing, and they spared me.

“We were at sea for many weeks when the pirates sited a rich town they wanted to plunder, so they made land. I tell you, I fell on my knees and kissed Mother Gaia when I first set foot on her.

“They ravaged the place, and afterwards decided to have a feast to celebrate. In the noise and drunkenness I slipped away. I knew they wouldn’t hunt me down — how much ransom could they get for one old widow?

“Since I made my escape I have been wandering from town to town, keeping to myself. I don’t know what country this is, or what people you are. Yours is the first town to offer me real hospitality, for which I am grateful, especially when I see the hardship you are having.”

Celeus nods. “Yes, times are tough. I can’t remember such a difficult period, can you?” he asks his wife. She shakes her head.

“Callithoe is betrothed, and is to marry this fall,” he continues, leaning forward. His voice falls to a whisper, “We haven’t told her yet, but we may have to postpone the wedding. Her dowry is 100 cattle. Usually I have four or five times that, but this year the cows do not breed well, so …” He throws up his hand in helplessness. “She will be disappointed. But at least we have enough to eat — for now. Who knows how long we can survive if Mother Demeter forgets us.”

“But we understand,” Metaneira says quietly. “We lost a daughter ourselves.”

“We did,” says Celeus. “Doso, born between Callithoe and Callidice. Callithoe was a baby herself, and does not remember. It was before the others were born. Doso was a sweet girl, with shining eyes, always full of mischief.” I hear the sadness in his voice.

“What happened?” I ask. “If it is not too painful to talk about.”

Husband and wife exchange a glance. Metaneira smiles sadly. “Now that the worst has passed, we don’t mind talking about her. It brings her back to us.

“She had a fever and then she passed into the realm of the Rich One. It was very quick. And afterwards it was as if Helios had withdrawn his light. The world seemed dark. We understand Mother Demeter’s grief in some part.”

Later that night, lying in their bed, which they insisted on giving up for me, I think about these people, how generous they are and how, even in the hardship I have brought upon them, they bear me no ill-will. I think of their daughters — lively, clever and kind — and how they are burdened as a result of my grief. How easily unhappiness grows, like throwing a stone into a still pond; the first ripples are small, but grow larger and larger as they spread further from the centre. I sigh and turn on my side wishing Persephone were back with me. Then, maybe, there would be an end to unhappiness.

Persephone

I stand on the wharf. I feel as if a huge, dark spirit approaches from over the water, a cloud of fear and despair that bears down on me like the Furies.             

It is a vessel, a looming shape cutting soundlessly through the ragged, murky waters, moving slowly and inexorably toward the shore. They call it Charon’s ferry, but it’s really more like a big dinghy. Hades has got to upgrade.

The sounds of wailing and sobbing carry over the waters, so many voices as to be incomprehensible. Now and then a word or phrase floats above the general clamour — “Zeus, help me,” “Helios, give me light” — but then, like a wave in a choppy ocean swamped by other waves, the word is swallowed and sinks beneath the chorus of voices.

The cloud of unknowing that surrounds the vessel presses on me, a great swirling vortex of pain, fear and doubt. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and call up images of my mother, the sunlit world above, buds spinning open under Helios’ caress, the noise and unruliness of the upper world. I sense the cloud halt and pull away from me as shadows withdraw from a flame.

The boat glides up to the dock. A gangplank appears and, lowered by invisible hands, floats down to settle weightlessly on the wharf. Passengers emerge.

They are less than living beings and more than mere shades. As they make their way to the wharf, each seems to change and shift unceasingly.

The first to emerge seems at first glance to be an old man, his outline wavering and glimmering with the same half-light that illuminates this realm. His back is bowed, his shoulders hunched, his neck sticks forward like a vulture’s. As he walks images flicker, one flowing swiftly into the next, a flame dancing in the wind; I see a young man, upright, with a firm, confident gait; then the old man again, soon replaced by a youth with long, clean limbs moving with quick impatience, then the old man again. But something connects all these images, some resemblance that runs through them and tells me these are different versions of the same person — the way he carries his shoulders, how he views the scene around himself through narrowed, measuring eyes.

The old man shuffles with weary resignation down the gangplank onto the quay. Once on land he stops and glances around as if he is searching for someone or something. A shadow gathers from the surrounding gloom; a woman, not as old as he is, lights beside him. Like him, she is a quick succession of always-changing images, one flowing into the next: an old woman, a young girl with her hair in plaits, a middle-aged woman, thicker around her middle, with a care-worn face — all these images shimmer past. The old man smiles when he sees her, the uncertainty and anxiety lifting from his face. He reaches towards her, their arms link. It seems as if she lifts him, they rise lightly as dandelion fluff borne on the wind, and drift away.

Behind the old man comes a middle-aged man, his outline clear and sharp. He stalks down the gangplank, reaches the bottom and glares around with a pugnacious air. No spirit arrives to meet him. He stands, muttering in irritation and shaking his head, then stomps off through the crowd gathering, alone, into the surrounding murk.

After him, men, women and children stumble, amble and shuffle down the gangplank until the dock is teeming with flickering shapes — the babies, carried in the arms of other spirits, flicker not at all, the young children flicker only a bit more than the babies. Teenagers sparkle and pop like a display of fireworks. Some individuals look around in confusion, others in fatigue, some are calm and composed, a very few seem curious. As the crowd grows, the atmosphere thickens around them with shadows that hover near each spirit.

Some of the newly-arrived wail, some sob, one or two laugh. Some tear their hair, their clothes, others collapse on the ground, apparently insensible to the shadows that crowd close trying to calm and comfort them. In their agony, the newly-dead are blind to those who would help them.

Many of the new arrivals rush off into the darkness shrieking, others wander aimlessly, their blind eyes wide with terror, holding their arms up as if to guard their faces as they stumble along, pushing through and past the spirits that gather around them calling, “Open your eyes. I am here. I have been waiting for you.” Only a few of the newly-dead stand still, listening, looking around. They seem neither frightened nor upset. As I watch, these fade, like smoke thinning, and are carried off.

One spirit draws my eyes, a young man, tall and slender, not yet grown to manhood. His hair still has the golden sheen of youth, his cheek is still smooth. His limbs are long and he moves somewhat awkwardly, as if he hasn’t fully grown into his body yet, is not aware of his power and strength.

He stands looking around. Expressions flash across his face; I can read what he is feeling. He must not break down in tears — that is not manly — and yet, he wonders what this place is, so dark and unfamiliar. I watch hope and confusion battle on his face. Then understanding registers. I see a touch of fear in his eyes. No spirit comes to him. He takes a shaking breath, pulls his cloak tightly around himself and lifts the hood over his head. Before its shadow falls across his face I see all his young hopes die, I see an expression of deep sadness, of weariness settle there. He straightens, walks through the chaos and disappears into the darkness. His simple dignity, his courage tear at me. I want to go after him, to catch his arm and say, “Don’t be sad, don’t be frightened. Let me help you, let me guide you ” but he is gone and I am left staring into the darkness after him.

Hades

After she has spent a week or so making herself scarce and generally moping around, Persephone shows up in my office one afternoon. Not the best time. I and Thanatos are knee-deep in processing the flood of new arrivals we’ve been getting lately.

“I want a role to play,” she says, “a job, a position of some sort.”

“Job,” I say, chewing on a stylus, trying to estimate exactly where I’m going to billet the 837 souls due tomorrow. The lodges near Lethe are already overcrowded — we’re pushing the bylaw regarding population density there at this point. Maybe one of the palace’s outbuildings?

“At home —” she begins.

“Isn’t this your home now?” I ask with some asperity.

She takes a deep breath. “Before,” she amends, “upstairs, I had responsibilities, projects that required my attention. Here there is nothing.”

“You are my consort,” I remind her. “There will be functions to attend, official dinners, receptions.”

“I mean something real,” she says. “Something that matters.”

Something real. A thought springs to mind. “Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking the place looks a bit drab, you know, could use some brightening up, new draperies, maybe new slipcovers on the couches.”

She looks at me. I can see she’s getting excited at the prospect of going through fabric swatches, chips of paint.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, clearly overcome by the idea that I would be willing to entrust such a demanding job to her.

“You know — interior decorating.”

She draws herself up, seems to grow before my eyes, gives me a look no one has ever given me before — I might almost call it contempt. Her eyes flash just the way her father’s do when he’s worked up. The resemblance is uncanny, except she’s missing the beard, thank Zeus.

“I am Persephone,” she says. “Daughter of Demeter and one of the Immortals of Olympus.” A current of anger throbs beneath her words. I have never seen her like this before, so self-possessed, so regal. So angry. She is hot. “I am not an interior decorator.” She practically spits out the last two words.

I push the paperwork aside, nod curtly to Thanatos, who glides swiftly and silently from the room. “What exactly did you have in mind?” I ask.

“I’ve been down by the arrivals area.”

“Yes?”

“It’s chaos.”

“Chaos? Great-grandfather? What’s he doing there? I thought your father and I had sorted him out.”

She shakes her head. “No, I mean it’s disorganized.”

“Oh.”

Absent-mindedly she picks up a sheet of paper off my desk and starts to fiddle with it, rolling it into a tube. I reach over and gently extricate it from her hands. Don’t want anyone’s records getting lost.