Harvest Moon (9 page)

“For the humans, a week, perhaps two.” Hecate nodded. “They will be frightened within a few days when blossoms wither and fruit and vegetables do not ripen. For animals, the grass-eating ones at least, it will take a bit longer before they begin to starve. For the Otherfolk…I am not sure.”

“Who's in charge of wild animals?” he demanded, looking around at the bewildered deities. “You're all gods, so presumably you have the duties and patronage all divided up. At least, that's how things usually go.”

“Ah, I suppose that would be me,” replied a young woman in an abbrieviated tunic, her hair cropped short, with a bow and arrows on her back. “And Pan, perhaps. Crius is in charge of domestic animals. I'm more of a huntress, but I'd better work with Pan to be sure he doesn't get distracted and forget what we're supposed to do.” Her brows furrowed. “So what
are
we supposed to do?”

By this point all of the gods had gathered about him and Hecate; it was very clear that while they were completely willing to do what he told them, none of them had the faintest ideas of their own. At least they'd all seen the gravity of the situation at once. They could very well have taken the attitude that “what happens to the mortals doesn't concern us, there will be more along soon enough if this lot dies.”

“You'll have to come up with some sort of way to awaken the wild things' instincts about winter,” he told her. “Maybe you can borrow the memories of animals from outside your borders where there are seasons, but it has to be done if you don't want all your wildlife dying off. Can this be done by means of a spell or something?”

He looked to Hecate, who nodded.

“I think I can do that, with Pan and Artemis taking part in the ritual,” she replied. “And I will tell Crius that we must do—what, with the flocks and herds? The pasturage won't last long once the grass stops growing.”

“Let me think…” He massaged his temples with his fingers. He considered himself a quick thinker, but this
was a bit like being thrown into the deep ocean and told you were going to have to reason your way to land. “Your neighbors…are they friendly?”

“Mostly absent,” Zeus answered immediately. “The lands around Olympia are largely wilderness. Not nearly as lush as our land, nor as fertile, so mortals who are near the border tend to decide to join us,” he added with great pride—but then his face sobered as he remembered who was responsible for the lush fields.

“As your land
was.
It won't be in a few weeks. Well, that is perfect. Tell Crius he must speak with the herders—and with the herds to get them to cooperate with their keepers. Some sort of pronouncement from the clouds or something outrageous to get the attention of the mortals. The point is, they need to be impressed with the urgency of this situation and begin to move the herds of this land across the border until you have gotten Demeter back to her duty.” He spoke, and suddenly realized that he didn't sound like himself at all. His air of authority, his steadiness, were not like careless Prince Leopold, but rather like his father…

Hell. I'm turning into Papa.

“It will take time, of course,” he added, quickly driving that uncomfortable thought out of his head, “but they can afford to go slowly, and take what grazing they can find until they reach a good place to stop. It's late spring out there, so they'll be all right for several moons. Let us hope this situation doesn't persist until winter.”

Instinctively they were
all
turning toward him, as to the only person who seemed to have any ideas about what to do in this situation. Even Zeus.
I am standing here giving orders to gods…
It would have been a heady
thought, except that this lot of “gods” seemed to be as feckless as a lot of young squires.

“As for the inhabitants of Olympia, I suggest you inform those creatures that are not mortal to seek the Fae realms for now, unless they want to begin starving. They can come back once Demeter returns.” He made a wry face. “I don't suppose any of you have Fae allies? Or still are in contact with your parents?”

Zeus flushed, a few of the gods looked puzzled, as if his words made no sense to them. It was Zeus who answered.

“We…” He coughed. “As a whole we have tended to avoid the Fae.”

“
You
have,” Hera replied tartly. “Not all of us are so shortsighted.” She turned to Leo. “Would you have us seek out our relatives, mortal?”

He nodded. “You're going to have to get food from somewhere. In the short term, see if you can find some Fae to supply something that mortals can eat safely. They're Fae though, they won't have the patience to put up with this for too long, you gods are
supposed
to be taking the place of Godmothers, not mucking things up. The good ones will wash their hands of you pretty quickly. The bad ones…well, I understand you fought them once already. So you know they'll take advantage.” He rubbed his temples again. “You are going to have to find a way to buy food from outside your borders. And transport it.”

“I can help there.” The lively fellow with a look of mischief and little wings on his sandals and odd flat helmet had lost his smile, trading it for a look of determination. “I am the god of merchants as well as speed.
I myself have never bargained before, but you might say it is in my blood.”

“I'll bring that out in you with another spell, Hermes,” said Hecate. “And I am sure Hephaestus can come up with all manner of things you can barter with. Gold certainly.”

“We can get the Giants to help with moving the food you buy.” The speaker was a voluptuous woman that Leopold was resolutely
not
looking directly at. The moment she had joined the group, he'd had to keep himself under very tight restraint, because it was pretty clear what this lady was the patron of. “They won't say no to me.”

“Nothing male will say no to you, Aphrodite,” Hera replied with a touch of venom. Aphrodite just smiled lazily.

“And right now,” she purred, “even you will admit that is a very good thing.”

Leo decided that he had better get between the two of them before something erupted that would distract all of the gods. “All right then. The sooner you get going, the least harm will come of this,” Leopold interjected. He gave Zeus a look. “And your king and I will sit down and work out more detailed plans, while the rest of you take care of the immediate situation.”

Zeus nodded. “Winter…we just never had to think about such a thing before,” he said weakly. “Demeter always kept things under control.”

“If I have learned one thing in my short mortal life, King of the Olympians, it is that nothing lasts forever,” Leo retorted. “And if I have learned another—it is that those who rule a land are
responsible
for it. Especially when things go wrong.”

“You should be a philosopher,” Zeus said glumly, and motioned for him to follow.

 

Demeter had experienced many emotions in her long life, but
grief
was new to her, and so painful that it overwhelmed her in every possible way. And now she was so lost in her grief that she was not sure where she was going, only that she needed to leave Olympia, for it had become a terrible and alien place to her. The other gods, who should have been her allies, were clearly not going to help her get her Kore back. Zeus had probably been in favor of this from the beginning!

Her grief was deepened by that betrayal.

She could not believe that her golden girl had gone with grim Hades of her own free will. He
must
have bewitched her somehow, and they were unwilling to admit it. Perhaps some of them had even helped him—she wouldn't have put it past Aphrodite to work her magic just for the sake of the mischief it would cause.

And as soon as Kore was carried beneath the earth, such enchantment would never last. How could Kore, who loved to laugh and frolic in the sun, ever find Hades and his sunless realm attractive, even under the most persuasive of Aphrodite's magics? She had never seen Hades so much as crack a smile in all the years she had known him. Surely once the magic wore off or was broken, he would terrify her poor child. And as for his realm, his “third of the earth”—

She shuddered. Oh, the Fields of Elysium were all right, but he would never allow an attractive girl like Kore to go there, populated as they were with all manner of the shades of the so-called “Heroes.” Most of those “Heroes” were as lascivious as Zeus, and most of them
regarded women as disposable playthings—no, Hades wouldn't allow his stolen bride anywhere near
them
. So Kore would find herself mewed up in Hades's gloomy palace in the Asphodel Fields, without sun, without music or laughter, where nothing grew except the lilies of the dead, and nothing moved but the shades in their dull, bleak, never-changing afterlife, condemned to be bored in the netherworld because they had been boring in their mortal lives. Not that Demeter had ever been there herself, since only Hecate, Hermes, and the gods of the Underworld could journey there, but Hades had complained about it often enough in her hearing.

By now, surely, she was learning the truth of this; by now she must be weeping with fear and loneliness, and longing desperately for her mother and home!

Demeter's throat closed, and her tears fell faster at the thought. How did mortals bear this dreadful emptiness, this aching sorrow? She was consumed with it, swallowed up, until grief was all that there was. And it was all the worse for being sure that Kore was wrapped in the same agony.

The Tradition held that a goddess was not bound by the restrictions of mortals or even Godmothers; she did not need a spell or magic sandals to make the miles speed beneath her feet. As Hecate did with or without her torch, Demeter only needed to desire to be somewhere—or away from somewhere—and it was so. So her feet took her, as only the feet of a goddess could, across the breadth of the Kingdom in moments; she rejected the fields of Olympia, and the gods that had been her companions, and her feet bore her swiftly away from their knowledge. The gods had not helped her, would not help her, and the fields that no longer would be
the playground of her daughter could wither for all she cared. She suffered—so let all of Olympia suffer with her! She mourned—well, all of Olympia, if it would not mourn
for
her, let it mourn
with
her.

She knew, though, the moment when her path crossed the border. Behind her, the land was already showing the signs of her sorrow and neglect, as flowers faded and died, fruit dropped unripened and ripe fruit withered. But here…

Here there was something Olympia never saw.

Spring.

Confronted with this living exemplar of the renewal of life, Demeter sank to the ground beside a pure spring that welled up out of the greening earth, sobbing, grieving. As she grieved, she deliberately threw off her beauty and ripeness, transforming herself into the likeness of a barren old woman, withered without, as her heart and soul were withered within.

She cried until her eyes were sore, wept until her voice was no more than a hoarse croak, and thought,
Let it be so.
When she heard footsteps approaching, and the soft laughter and chatter of young women, she did not even look up.

The chattering suddenly stilled, and silence took its place. Finally, Demeter
did
look up, to see four pretty young maidens with bronze pitchers in their hands, clustered together and looking at her with faces full of pity. Their clothing was not unlike that of the mortals of Olympia, but they wore wool rather than linen, and were wrapped in the rectangular cloak as well, to keep off the chill in the spring air. They reminded her, in their grace and charm, of Kore, and she was about to burst into tears again, when one of them stepped forward.

“Old mother, we see that there is great sorrow in your heart,” the pretty thing said as the others filled their pitchers. “Why do you lament beside the spring, alone with your grief, when there are many houses in our town that would welcome you, and many who would help you with your burden of tears?”

Demeter listened to the maiden's words with a faint sense of astonishment. Was
this
how mortals coped with loss? By sharing it? Was that even possible?

But her heart warmed a very little, because they were so young and pretty and so like Kore, and spoke out of hearts that were clearly kind. “I should not be welcome in your town, dear children,” she replied. “My people are far away, and there are none who would care to be near me in my loss.”

The maiden shook her head. “You are gentle of speech, old mother, showing a noble heart and birth, and clearly rich in experience. If your own people would not welcome you in their houses because you mourn, then the more shame to them. We honor the wisdom that comes with age, and cherish those who achieve it. There are Princes in this land who would be glad of one such as you as nurse to their child, and help you to temper your grief with the joy of an infant's smile.” The maiden offered a shy smile of her own. “Indeed, my own father, Celeus, would gladly give you hearth-room for such a cause. My mother, Meitaneira, has given us a new brother, and she would rejoice to find such wise help with Demophoon. I feel sure that your heart would grow lighter with him in your arms.”

It took Demeter a moment to realize that the girl was, essentially, offering her a
job,
that of nursemaid to a young Prince. And rather than feel offended, as
Hera might have, she actually did feel a little of her grief pass from her. They meant it kindly; the girl who had spoken had understood, instinctively perhaps, that having an infant in her arms again might well be the balm that Demeter needed to keep from going utterly mad with grief.

So Demeter bowed her head a little. “I am called Doso, maidens.”