Persephone's Orchard (The Chrysomelia Stories) (20 page)

As he felt the pang of grief, he acknowledged with gloom another downside to being basically young forever: there wasn’t much point in getting involved with someone who wasn’t.

Not that this stopped him or his new companions from dallying with mortals from time to time, whether chastely, romantically, or carnally. It rarely ended well.

After several years of comparing personal histories, they discovered that immortal women had no trouble conceiving or giving birth—as with other physical traumas, there was no permanent danger in it for them. But there was heartache, as they always gave birth to mortal children, who were no healthier than the average. And for the mortal women who became pregnant by immortal men it was far more dangerous: those women nearly always miscarried or underwent stillbirths, and frequently died themselves in the process. Hades’ young wife had been just one of many sad examples. The blood of mortals and immortals, it seemed, did not mix well when the mother was the mortal.

“I’m not saying we can’t have companions,” Demeter insisted to the group after they had digested this conclusion. “But for mercy’s sake, men, don’t get the girls with child.”

“It’s not as if we meant to kill anyone,” Apollo said quietly. His latest paramour had died earlier that month in a miscarriage—one of the final clues that brought the truth home to them all.

“I know,” Demeter said. “But your sorrow and apologies won’t bring them back. There are other things you can do as couples. Just do those, or we’ll have young women’s angry fathers and mothers forming an army against us.”

“All the more reason for us to live among them,” Hera pressed. “If they knew us better, they’d be less likely to fear or hate us, and likelier to forgive us our mistakes.”

“I think you just want a mortal bedmate yourself,” joked Zeus. “What, I’m not enough for you?”

The rest stayed tactfully quiet. They all knew the situation was rather the reverse: Hera was unlikely to dally with anyone, but Zeus did so almost shamelessly. If she wanted to be down among the bustling towns on a more permanent basis, it was probably to keep a closer eye on him.

Hera and Zeus performed the experiment themselves: they went to a few distant villages and pronounced themselves gods, proving it by shows of strength and invincibility. Fear soon turned to awe and delight among the villagers, especially as Hera and Zeus promised to use their knowledge and power to help the citizens improve their crops, their health, their war-waging, and whatever else concerned them, as long as the people showed them proper reverence and didn’t attempt to overthrow them. The deal was struck, and Hera and Zeus returned to Olympos to tell the happy news. It took only a few days before the rest were all convinced, and the pack of immortals descended to live among humans in a new and much grander house on the outskirts of a prosperous city, farther south on the shores of a warm gulf. They sent word to Rhea in Crete, and she soon turned over her title to one of the junior priestesses, and sailed to join them.

Hades was now in his mid-twenties, with a thicker beard and stronger muscles than before, but otherwise he looked nearly the same as he had at seventeen. And he was already being hailed as a god, and living in a more regal house than he ever expected to, with immortal and fascinating companions. Life dazzled him.

In the next several years, their searches turned up another half-dozen immortals, whom they brought back to add to their household.

Athena found Hestia, a quiet, humble servant who’d been living without aging in a rich household for decades, and emancipated her at once. Hestia, in turn, led the group to a lonely blacksmith she had heard of. He was named Hephaestus, and kept turning out beautiful jewelry and knives year after year, his skin rapidly healing all the burns he suffered from his work. Artemis brought home Ares, a soldier whose tendency to stay alive even after being run through with spears or swords had begun to look suspect in the eyes of his fellow warriors.

One morning Apollo shot an arrow through a young ruffian trying to steal his cattle. He watched in surprise as the lad climbed to his feet, yanked the arrow out of his back, and walked off without even a limp. The thief’s name was Hermes. Apollo chased after him and dragged him to meet the rest of the group—bloodstained tunic, healed arrow wound, unrepentant smile, and all.

Though Hera, in particular, raised loud objections about keeping a common thief in their midst, Zeus and Apollo talked her down. Hermes was immortal—better to have him on their side than working against them.

The immortal women accepted with a mixture of interest and irritation, for Hermes enjoyed nothing more than teasing, flattering, and attempting to seduce them, generally making himself a nuisance. Actually, Hades could attest, he did the same with some of the men. Hades shoved him off his bed more than once in the middle of the night, to which Hermes always laughed and said, “You’ll give in someday.”

No one could even ascertain his age. To one person he said he was eighteen, to Hades he claimed thirty-five, and to someone else he said seventy-two. But Hermes’ roving eye did win them a great treasure. He went out traveling soon after meeting the other immortals, and was quick to discover Aphrodite, on the island of Kypros. His charm succeeded: she agreed to come back with him.

The pair then reduced half the household (including Hades) to shocked blushes, and the other half to peals of laughter, by relating the story of their meeting.

Aphrodite, having abandoned her home village decades ago like the rest of the immortals, took up solitary residence on Kypros, and became a local legend. It was said that adolescent boys desiring to be turned into men could journey to her hut of clay and leaves near the crashing surf, and call her out to see them. If she liked a lad, she would invite him inside for the night, and dismiss the others. Her invitation was the only way into her bed. Men trying to sneak in and forcibly take what had not been offered had suffered maiming injuries or quick death at the hands of the usually gentle woman.

Those were the irresistible stories Hermes heard when he landed on Kypros, tales of beauty laced with danger, whispered to him by adolescents with lust-glazed eyes. Fearing nothing, and desiring everything, Hermes strolled out to where this legendary lover lived—a full day’s walk from the nearest town on the island—and found the hut of clay and leaves, just as promised. He circled it at a distance for a while, until a tousle-haired youth backed out of the hut, smoothing down his tunic and speaking enraptured to the person who followed.

She was stunningly beautiful, and completely naked. Even the unflappable Hermes was caught off guard. Untangling her long dark hair with a comb, she leaned forward to kiss the lad one last time before turning him toward home. As the youth walked off down the beach, looking back to wave every few steps, Hermes regained his breath and approached the woman.

“You’re early,” she said when she saw him. “It’s only morning.”

“I’ve traveled a long way to meet you. But I can certainly wait until you’ve recovered from the night’s adventures.”

She smiled. “I need no time to recover. I’m immortal. I can last as long as you need me to.”

He stepped closer. “I’m also immortal. We shall have a contest of stamina.”

She laughed, slipped her arms around him, and accepted the challenge, not believing he really was immortal until (Hermes claimed) three days later, by which time she and he were both duly impressed.

Hermes being a habitual liar, Hades would have been skeptical of his story if she hadn’t been there before his eyes, across the room, helping to fill in the details as he related them. In figure and face, standing still and fully clothed, she was no more beautiful than any of the other goddesses. But there was something in the flick of her eyes, the lilt of her smile, and the movement of her limbs that made it distractingly easy to picture her without clothing.

A giant contest of male vanities ensued. Nearly all the gods vied for Aphrodite’s attention day and night. Hades tried not to get involved, but couldn’t help glancing at her whenever she was near. She noticed and took pity on him. He awoke one night to find her slipping into his bed, kissing his face and whispering sweet invitations. He needed no further convincing.

He later thought he could have lasted three days too, if it hadn’t been for Artemis pulling him away at dawn to help her go hunting as he’d promised.

After that, not fancying the competitive attitudes his friends were taking toward him, Hades counted himself contented with one night with such a lover, and detached himself from the scene.

It was a wise choice. Romantic turmoil kept stirring up trouble among his companions. One evening after dinner, he walked down to the seashore and found Demeter sitting alone on the beach, tears on her cheeks.

He sat beside her, recounting in his mind all the possible reasons she might be crying, and came up with several. But having reached the age of thirty-six now, he knew he was better off asking than assuming when it came to a woman’s mind.

“You haven’t been at our meals lately,” he said. “We’ve missed you.”

She smirked, dabbing the corner of her white cloak against her eyes. “I’m sure Hera hasn’t.”

Yes, that was one of the rumors he’d heard. He gazed at the clouds over the sea, dyed red by the sunset. “She’s over-jealous with every woman. I wouldn’t let it worry you.”

“Nor would I. If I weren’t carrying Zeus’ child.”

Hades winced. “Ah. So that rumor’s true.” They exchanged rueful smiles, and he added, “How are you feeling?”

“Nauseated. Being immortal doesn’t guard against that, probably because the cause of the sickness never goes away until the birth. It’s why I haven’t been at meals.”

“And Hera’s making you feel unwelcome? That’s unfair. You’re hardly the first Zeus has done such things with.” He realized a moment later that it wasn’t gallant to speak of someone’s lover that way, and amended, “He’s a good friend to me, of course. To us all.”

She chuckled wearily. “I’m not in love with him. I only gave in to his attempts because…well, I can’t marry the one I do love.”

Poseidon, a few years earlier, had gotten a mortal woman pregnant, and by some miracle she delivered the child safely. Feeling it was his duty, and also perhaps because he loved the woman and his daughter, he had married her. Hades supposed all Demeter needed to do was wait a few decades for Poseidon’s wife to age and die, but a few decades felt just as long to an immortal as they did to anyone else. He easily understood her bitterness.

“Well, your child will surely be beautiful and smart,” Hades said. “And no matter what kind of snit it throws Hera into, I’ll always be a friend to you and to the little one.”

“Thank you.” They watched the sky darken to twilight. “Zeus will never acknowledge it’s his, you know. Just to placate her.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re more than enough parent for any child. And the baby will have lots of aunts and uncles, plenty around to help you.”

“A child of two immortals,” she mused. “Has that been done before? I wonder.”

He wondered the same thing, though neither voiced it: would the child be immortal?

But the baby, a girl named Persephone, turned out to be as prone to fevers and injuries as the average mortal. It increased Demeter’s anxiety, but the love and delight she found in her daughter outshone her concerns. And as Hades predicted, all the other immortals (with, perhaps, the exception of Hera) loved the little girl as a niece, and regarded her as part of the household.

Zeus, also as predicted, treated her as if he were a fond uncle, but never claimed the role of father.

Demeter’s anxiety over the inevitable death of her daughter, and Hades’ affection for his friends and for young Persephone, led him further into deep consideration of his life and his own losses. He learned to practice meditation when he was thirty-nine. An old woman taught him the poses and chants. She was tiny and skinny, with straight gray hair, and eyes like shining dark beads. She hailed from a country so far to the east that none of them had even heard of it. Enamored of Greece, she had stayed in the region several years and learned the language, and explained to Hades that meditation was the only known path by which humans could look into the world of the spirits—a world which, she attested, did exist.

The longer he practiced, year upon year, the more he sensed some other realm hovering behind that of the living. He felt if he reached just a little harder, he would slip into it. While his immortal companions debated material-world issues, he took to sitting alone on a mountainside, eyes closed, stretching his mind toward the unknown.

One autumn evening, in crisp, calm air, he sensed a hill or crest hovering just in front of his mind. Eyes shut, he reached with his whole consciousness toward the hill. With a sudden rising-and-falling feeling, he felt himself slip over the crest and slide a short distance down the other side.

The feeling had been so physical and concrete, he opened his eyes with a start. The sea, mountains, clouds, and forests were all still there. But the harbor city had vanished. A field below, which had been cleared for the planting of crops, was now a tangle of bushes and trees. In short, everything human was gone. And in the dwindling twilight, as the sun sank below the hills, Hades caught glimpses of green glowing streaks just above the ground, all flying toward the southwest.

In awe, he rose on unsteady legs, knowing he had entered the spirit realm.