Radiant Darkness (10 page)

"What are you up to? Taking up cooking?"

   I'm still too befuddled by the feel of his hand to answer. So he goes on. "Ah. I see you've got the roots, too. Why?"

   "So I can plant it," I say, finding my voice. "I'm making a garden."

   Now the second eyebrow goes up to join the first one.

   "A garden? Where, near the palace?"

   "I need it there, Hades. We need it. The building is full of pillars and frescoes, but no one ever bothered about what's right outside the walls. Look at this!"

   He follows my gaze.

   "Just scraggly, dry grass and rambly weeds," I say. "Why? It isn't that plants won't grow here. This rosemary's healthy enough, and the riverbanks are crowded with bushes." I smile, teasing him now. "No, it's plain laziness on your part."

   He gets the strangest look, almost like a child staring at a plate of cakes, eager to reach out and grab one.

   "Where will you put it?" he asks.

   "Near that oak tree halfway down the hill, where it flattens out. There's an easy path from the palace forecourt, and I can use the little stream that runs nearby for a fountain. There are lots of young trees near the Lethe; I'll dig up a small one. Maybe I can even find berry bushes or some mossy rocks for the stream."

He's hardly listening. He reaches up to run his fingers

along one of the rosemary's spiky little swords.

   "A green garden near the palace. Perfect," he says. His voice is almost dreamy.

   Then he catches himself, shakes his head, and some kind of shutters come down over his eyes. When they come up again, he's all practical.

   "I'll call workers to prepare the soil for you. They can get started on that fountain."

   "I want to do it myself, Hades."

   He gives me that strange smile again. "So it will be all yours!"

   "So I can listen to what it wants to be."

   As soon as I get myself a decent spade.

As I walk up the hill, I can't stop thinking about that eager look on Hades' face. I suppose he just wants me to be happy here. After all, he wouldn't do any gardening himself. He practically ran back to his new horse, those broad hands itching for reins, not a trowel. And he didn't offer to come but to send workmen. Workmen? I want to prepare the soil with my own hands. And it would feel funny to do this with strangers.

   Now, if my friends were here, that would be different. Kallirhoe would show me where to place rocks for the stream, and Admete—Admete never did a purposeful day's work in her life, but she'd brighten everything with her laughter. Ianthe could tell me what each flower likes best, and Galaxaura would waft, calm and clear, among the bushes, cooling us down as we worked.

   Between us, we'd have water running and paths curving in no time. And a riot of leaves would spring up, dark green and yellow-green and gray-green. We'd search for golden crocuses and orange-red poppies and bring them back to brighten the foliage, like stars across the sky.

   I reach the oak and walk under its leafy branches, leaning against the trunk in heavy shade. A breeze rustles the leaves, sighing low and sad. Then the sigh is mine.

   Kallirhoe, Ianthe, Galaxaura—I gave you up to come here. And Admete, already gone. I miss you all. I miss your voices, the way you know me through and through.

   What did you think when I didn't come back?

   The wind shifts the leaves, deepening the darkness around me. Outside the circle of branches, the sun blinds the world into nothing but glare.

   They don't know where I am. I never told them.

   How did they learn I'd left the vale? Maybe it was my mother. I can almost see her striding down to the lake, her lips taut with anger, storm clouds billowing over the cliffs. I see her interrogating my friends, and when they try to say they don't know where I am, her face winches tighter—

   Enough! The oak's deep shade must be making me moody.

   I blink my way out from under the branches so the light can burnish my doubts away. I pull out the feeble spade and start digging a hole, pushing the dark down deeper, where I don't have to look at it.

   What am I worrying about? Everyone must know where I am by now. I'm sure someone saw me flying overhead in the chariot, and the gods gossip together all the time. Besides, my mother, care that I'm gone? Enough to be that angry? I don't think so. Oh, she felt obligated to instruct me and improve me, but I don't think she liked me very much.

   I swallow, trying to get rid of a bitter taste in my mouth. Then I plop the rosemary in its new home and scoop the soil back around its roots.

"S
horter steps," he says. "You don't want to look like you're rushing."

   Hades is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back a bit, his hands on the covers behind him. I take a few jerky steps, and the crown slips over my eyes.

   "That's one way to do it," he says, laughing. I wind my loose hair up into a knot and shove the crown back on. Better. I go back to my starting point across the room.

   "Again," he says. "Shoulders back, easy stride, a look of confidence."

   I take a few steps and then stumble again.

   "It's these stupid shoes!" I cry, leaning down and yanking

them off. I throw them at him and he catches one.

"Look at them," I tell him. "Solid gold soles!"

"Distinctly opulent," he says. "Nothing but the finest."

   "Opulent or not, they're too slippery. That's why I can't walk. I need new shoes."

   "Practice barefoot for now," he says. "All the way to the throne this time and then turn to face the audience. Sit down slowly, your back straight. If you hold the arm of the throne, it's easier to do without looking."

   "Where's the throne?"

   He sits upright at the edge of the bed, legs together, elbows bent into the arms of a chair. "My lady, your throne awaits."

   I try to put on a regal expression as I walk over with neat, precise steps. I stop in front of him, turn to face the door, put my hands on his forearms, and my back ever so straight, slowly sit down.

   The arms of the throne wrap around me. "Very well done," it says in a most unthronelike voice.

   "Let's do it again."

   The throne sighs and releases its hold. I walk back to my starting point, adjust the crown again, take a step, and stop.

   "Hades," I say, thinking. "This is all show."

   He shrugs. "Perhaps, but show is important. It's half the work."

   "That's just it." I take off the crown and walk back to him in my normal walk. "What's the other half? Other than sit upright and look pretty, what does a queen do?"

   I plop down beside him on the covers.

   "Greet shades in the throne room, of course." He relaxes back on his hands again. "Make them feel welcome. In time you'll grow more comfortable speaking in front of crowds, and then you can help with the explanations if you like."

   "Is that all?"

   "You can run the palace any way you please. I've never entertained much, but if you like that kind of thing, go ahead. And ladies like to weave, don't they?"

   Something is missing. "Shouldn't I do more than that?"

   He tilts his head to the side, looking thoughtful. "You could help shades settle their conflicts, I suppose. I don't enjoy it so I tend to send them off to the Lethe. If you took over, I'd have more time for other things. Borders. Inventory." He smiles. "Horses."

   I twiddle the crown around and around in sparkling circles. Hades looks from my hands to my face.

   "Look," he says more seriously. "There isn't one way to be a queen, any more than there's one way to be a woman."

   "You said you'd teach me!"

   "But you want more than I can teach, so you'll have to sort it out yourself. Having you by my side in the throne room and the mere fact that you're here—that's enough for

me. If you want to do more, figure it out and take it on."

"Damn," I say. "That's harder."

   "Then let's work on the easy part first." He bends his arms back into armrests and looks at me with a rakish smile. "How about a little more throne practice?"

M
y fountain is running beautifully, the water cascading into a narrow streambed. Chamomile and thyme are already creeping eager fingers across the soil, but I need something with more height here, like river reeds. There aren't any by the Lethe, with all its silky green grass, and anyway I can't go wading in there. It's time I explored the River Styx.

   I toss my new trowel into a collecting bag and head toward the low hills. Before long I'm at the top of the curving road, where the trees cluster in copses and I can hear the river. Its song is so different from the Lethe's: low-voiced, like thick, dark strands of thread twisted together. A rope for hangings.

   A few more steps and I can see the river and its pebbled shore. The banks are crowded with reeds, some knee-high, others stretching above my shoulders. Swamp irises tangle among them and vines tendril in and out among the stalks. It will be good collecting here.

   I pull my chiton up to my knees and wade a few inches into the wide river. Cool water tingles my skin, and there's a strong, remorseless current. I don't see any animals around. This isn't a river that would pause to reunite a stray duckling with its mother, or even wait for me to regain my footing if I slipped. I'd better watch my step.

   I look up the pebbly shore. Something's peeking out from a clump of bushes. I walk closer and find a boat pulled up on land, oars tucked neatly along the sides. Someone's kept her paint in good trim, cleaned the hull, fixed and filled her scrapes.

   It reminds me of the boat back home, and how we'd slip the rope off the trunk where she was tied, push her toward the middle of the glassy lake, and lie flat in the bottom. We'd float like that, not even steering, drifting wherever the water wanted us to go. On our backs we were part of the wood, the water, and the clouds overhead.

   I wouldn't mind feeling like that again. Even though the sturdy little boat is on land and not gently rocking water, I climb in and lie on my back, staring at the sky.

   I watch the clouds for a while—ten minutes? twenty?— and then I hear an old man's voice rasping out a raucous tune. I don't want him to see me. I try to flatten myself down so I'm invisible, but the voice gets louder and pebbles crunch closer, and suddenly a gnarled, ruddy face is leaning right over the edge of the boat. Bushy eyebrows hoist up like a sail, disappearing under a woolen cap, and hands like old leather freeze in midair, leaving a bag suspended.

   "What the—" A strong scent of ouzo wafts my way. "And just what do you think you're doin' in my boat, girl?"

   I sit up guiltily.

   "A man goes off for a little drink and a quick toss of the dice, and look what happens. You're lucky my four-legged partner's across the river right now, that's all I can say."

   He's gruff, but I don't think there's any bite in him. So I venture to say, "It's a very nice boat."

   "Aye, she's a beauty." His hand caresses the gunnels as if they were silk.

   I give him my best smile. "Is there any chance you'd take me for a row?"

   "Listen here, girl. I can't take you nowhere. Look at you, all smilin' and innocent-like. You know as good as I do, I only take 'em in one direction."

   The Styx, a sailor's cap . . . Suddenly I remember my earrings with the ferryman and the boat dangling stars into the currents of time.

   "Oh, you mean you're—"

   He nods. "Aye. Charon at your service. Or not at your service, if you get my drift. I only take people in one direction. If you're on this shore, this here is where you're stayin'."

   What luck! Charon is the first one shades see when they arrive in the underworld. He can help me.

   Here's the thing. I've been back to the throne room a number of times now. I haven't tripped again, and the last time, I was even calm enough to hear myself think. But that's the part Hades himself calls "show." For the other part, the half Hades says I have to figure out for myself, I need to know more about mortals. And here I am dressed like one of them, so Charon is talking free and easy.

   I wish I had some ouzo to pour out and keep his words flowing. Instead I say, "I'd love to hear more, Charon. It must be very hard, what you do."

   "No, it's fine work," he says with a shake of his head. He points to the far bank. "I start out over there and the shades climb on all slouched-like, just starin' at the ground, shufflin' like there's no energy left in 'em at all. Like slaves taken in battle and shoved into the victor's boat, that's how they look, like everything they'll ever love is back behind 'em. I used to smile, tell a few jokes, but it never made no difference. So now I let 'em be. Help 'em into the boat, show 'em where to sit. While I'm rowin' across, they start to sit a little lighter. Not that they say anything, not that they ever smile or laugh, but it's like the heaviness in 'em starts to let go."

He takes off his hat and scratches some thin gray curls.

   "You know how a sleepin' baby weighs like a lump in your arms, but then it wakes and holds up its own head and all of a sudden it's lighter? It's like that in my boat. There's less weight in their shoulders. The water helps 'em let go."

   "Still, you're at the oars all day, and every day, too. Death never takes a break, does he?"

   "And it's been busier than usual lately, too. Some kind of drought up there, I hear. But still, I don't mind rowin'; I like it. Done it so many years now, my arms know the rhythm. They need it. You pull against the water and the water resists you. So you convince it you're gonna go, and it hears your oars, lets you go easy. I think on that, my oars in the water. I let them shades be."