Quicksilver (3 page)

EIGHT

Demeter and Kore embraced with the kind of ferocity that wins wrestling matches, sobbing as they rocked back and forth in each other’s arms.

It was a touching sight and it went on for a long time, long enough for Ascalaphus to begin a slow advance toward Zeus’ throne. With his dirt-encrusted hands and leathery feet, his ragged kerchief and sweat-stained apron, the gardener looked distinctly out of place up here, and my father threw me a questioning look. I raised an eyebrow, indicating that I would keep silent until Ascalaphus had spoken.

Which, once Kore and Demeter had retreated to a corner with their arms around each other, he proceeded to do.

“Almighty Zeus, Father of Heaven, Leader of the Fates, hear me!” he began. “I am Ascalaphus, Hades’ gardener, and I have a complaint.”

“Yes?”

“That woman”—he pointed in Kore’s direction with a gnarled finger—“has ill-treated my master. She lied to him. Then she left him!”

Zeus’ expression was not exactly one of moral outrage. He was often guilty of the very same behavior. “She lied?” he asked mildly. “How?”

Kore burrowed deeper into her mother’s bosom, and Demeter clutched her daughter even more tightly.

“She said she had not eaten while she was with us. But she did. She ate five pomegranate seeds out of my garden!”

“You saw her?”

The gardener nodded.

“He lies!” wailed Kore.

“No!” cried Demeter.

“Be sure you are telling the truth,” Zeus said to the gardener, with more than a hint of menace.

“I am, I swear it!”

Knowing the dire import of Ascalaphus’ vow, Zeus began to lose his equanimity. I knew the signs—a slight narrowing of the great dark eyes, a sudden flare of the nostrils, a tensing of the broad hands. If his fingers twitched (Thunderbolt Reflex), we were all in for trouble.

Our eyes met. He summoned me by lifting his chin and I hurried to his side, standing so that Ascalaphus could not see my face. Demeter and Kore, now coiled in a loose embrace, watched us intently. Fortunately they were out of earshot.

Nevertheless Zeus kept his voice down. “Did Hades send him?”

“He jumped onto the chariot!”

“You should have pushed him off.”

What would
that
have solved?
I wondered, but I knew better than to ask.

“Did she eat the seeds?”

There was no point in lying. “I’m sure of it,” I said. “She really had no right to leave.”

He scowled. “I can’t send her back. Demeter would never forgive me.”

“You don’t want that,” I said, and he rolled his eyes in agreement. “I wonder if they’d compromise,” I added, as if I’d just thought of it.

“Hades and Demeter?” He looked skeptical, and with good reason. Gods don’t compromise; they consider it demeaning. Gods say what they want and get it, and if they don’t, they do terrible, vengeful things. But this was an unusual situation, and it required an unusual resolution. “What do you have in mind, son?” he asked.

I loved it when he called me that, as if I were unique, not one of thousands.

“Say that Kore has to stay with Hades half the year because she ate the pomegranate seeds but that she can spend the rest of the year with Demeter.”

His face brightened. “Clever!”

I maintained an air of modesty, though I agreed with him. It
was
a clever solution, and I knew it. “Thank you,” I said, imagining myself vaulting into the blue behind his magnificent horses, with Kore at my side.

He patted my shoulder. “Let’s hope it works.”

Well, it did work, in a mixed-blessing kind of way. Since that time, mortals have had to put up with winter while Kore is with Hades, but they forget their woes as soon as she rejoins Demeter. The instant the two of them get together, the air warms, the earth turns fragrant, and green shoots start poking up out of the ground. The change makes mortals positively ecstatic. Since it began, they’ve become more generous—and more punctual— with their offerings.

Hades is happier now, too. I heard a rumor that he almost smiled once.

As for Father, he’s been very generous with his horses. “Go! Enjoy!” he says when I ask to borrow them. I’ve taken them out dozens of times.

But Kore (who’s taken to calling herself Persephone, now that she’s married) won’t come along. “I can’t,” she always says. “I’m just too busy. I don’t know how Hades ever ran this place by himself!” Then, with a shake of her head, she rejoins her dryad assistants. She’s got a dozen of them.

I was beginning to fear that marriage—and ruling the Underworld with her husband—had changed more than Kore’s name, but I didn’t want to believe it, so I kept trying to entice her away.

I made another attempt in late winter, on one of those sweet, sunny days that cry out for celebration. I found Kore sitting near the garden (which now included beds of tall, solemn black flowers), surrounded by her dryads. Every time she spoke, they nodded. When I landed the chariot, they stared, then turned back to their conversation.

“Care for a ride?” I called, trying to sound offhand.

Kore looked at me. Her hair was bound up in the manner of a young matron, and her gown was rich and severe, a garment of deadly respectability. “I really can’t,” she said. I cringed; her voice rang with the insincere regret of an adult denying a child.

I never asked again.

PART TWO

Medusa’s Cave

NINE

After I rescued Kore, Zeus took to calling me “Head Psychopomp.” It was a silly title—there’s only one psychopomp, or guide for the dead, on Mount Olympus, and that’s me. But the way he said it made me feel important and mysterious, so I never dreamed of objecting. I did dream of going on another mission, however, just to break the routine of my trips to Hell.

So when Zeus summoned me to his audience room one golden summer afternoon, I tied on my sandals and flew over at hawk-chases-sparrow, one of my faster speeds.

I was eager to hear why he needed me.

Zeus, however, took his time getting to the point. Perseus, a young prince, was seeking his help. Like many young mortals, he was Zeus’ son, and this gave him an advantage. Zeus liked to help his offspring.

“I suppose you know he’s mine,” he said.

I nodded. We were sharing a tot of ambrosia while Helios, the Sun God, drove his chariot west. It sank below the horizon, and the sky sang a raucous hymn to red, purple, and gold.

“He’s turned out rather well, considering,” Zeus murmured.

Considering the grief you caused his mother, Danae?
I thought.
Yes, he has
. Danae’s troubles began when her father, King Acrisius, heard a prophecy that his yet-unborn grandson would kill him. Foolishly hoping to outwit the Fates, he locked Danae in a bronze chamber, where no man could reach her.

No man did.

Zeus was another story.

Ever resourceful when it came to lissome mortal girls, he changed himself into a shower of gold, poured in through Danae’s window, and seduced her.

When Perseus was born, Acrisius feared for his life more than ever, so he locked Danae and the baby into a wooden box and put them out to sea. Eventually they washed up on the island of Seriphos, where they were taken in by Dictys, a good-hearted fisherman whose brother Polydectes ruled the island.

“I look in on them sometimes,” Zeus confessed in a whisper. His wife, Hera, might be near, and her jealousy was volcanic. “Perseus has grown into a fine boy. He’s been trying to fend off Polydectes for more than a year.” The king was infatuated with Danae and kept proposing marriage. She kept refusing. After plying her with sweet words, a heifer, and olives from the mainland, he had resorted to threats.

Perseus was young, strong, and fearless. He told Polydectes defiantly that Danae would not be coerced into marriage. Polydectes had no desire to fight Perseus man-to-man, so he lied, saying he’d decided to marry another woman.

“All my courtiers,” he added, “are giving me fine horses as wedding gifts. You will do that, too, I trust?” He said this knowing how poor the boy was, and how proud.

Perseus fell into the trap. “I cannot give you horses,” he said, “but will give you any other gift you wish.”

“Then bring me the head of Gorgon Medusa,” retorted the king.

Medusa, with her snaky hair, poisonous talons, and lethal glare, lived in a cave in Arcadia. She did not welcome visitors, so this was like telling Perseus to go kill himself. Fully aware that the king had tricked him, Perseus accepted the challenge without a blink. Then he went home to tell his mother, and she fainted.

“Polydectes is a swine,” said Zeus.

I agreed.

“And you’re not too busy right now, are you?”

I shook my head. I did not need my gift of prophecy to know what was coming.

“Good. He needs the Adamantine Sickle.”

“Ares has it.”

“Just take it.”

Easy for you to say,
I thought. I may be the Prince of Thieves, but Ares, God of War, is three times my size and as touchy as a caged badger, especially in peacetime. As far as I knew, the world was at peace today, so Ares would need delicate handling. But I was foolishly eager for the adventure, so all I said was, “Fine. Anything else?”

Zeus put his hand on my shoulder. “Can you spare your sandals? They would help Perseus a lot.” My winged sandals are my dearest possession. I value them even more than my Cap of Invisibility or Caduceus, my spell-casting wand. My father knew this, of course.

I nodded and he patted me. As always, his approving touch warmed my skin and quickened my heart, so that all I wanted to do was please him.

No wonder you have so many children,
I thought.
You’re irresistible.

“And keep the boy out of trouble till he finishes the job, won’t you? Make sure he gets back to his mother safely?” Again his voice dropped to a whisper. “Danae—”

He still had a soft spot for her. He was like that. “I know,” I broke in. “She worries about him. Well, he’s perfectly safe with me,” I said, draining my goblet.

I believed it when I said it.

Ares’ weapons room is as scrupulously clean as a shrine to Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth. All its contents are in perfect working order, which is more than I can say for the God of War himself. He’s loud, messy, red-eyed, and restless, and when he’s not fuming over some imagined slight, he’s shouting or cursing. When he takes offense— which is often—he bristles like a porcupine and the dark, wiry hair on his shoulders stands straight up. I have seen this. It is a repulsive sight.

Nobody likes him, least of all me, and I confess that when I rapped on the armory’s tall bronze door, I was hoping he wouldn’t be there. Ares wouldn’t dare disobey Zeus’ request for the sickle, but he’d be sure to give me a hard time before handing it over.

I knocked again and there was no response.
Lucky
me,
I thought, opening the door. I’d take the sickle and Zeus would tell Ares why—easier all around.

I stepped inside.

The armory was as I remembered it, a serene place lined floor to ceiling with countless tools of war. Helmets—plumed, gilded, studded, skull-topped. Sheathed swords. Two-headed axes. Towering stacks of metal greaves and breastplates. Cuirasses of cloth, hide, and reptile skin, wrinkled and stained with battle sweat. Poisonous decoctions. Massive gold and silver shields, some adorned with grinning shrunken heads. Throwing lances and thrusting lances, all tall as men. And, on its very own gilded stand in the center of the room, like a menacing, razor-sharp smile, the Adamantine Sickle.

Hephaestus, Fire God and master artisan, had made it long ago, forging it in secret out of nobody knew what. He called it Unconquerable, and after he demonstrated how it could slice an airborne flower petal, cut three sheaves of wheat with one stroke, and behead a snake as quietly as a whisper, everyone agreed it was a fitting name. When Ares saw the sickle, he wanted nothing else, and after days of haggling, pleading, angry demands, and lavish bribes, he finally got Hephaestus to sell it.

The price was so high that Ares wouldn’t reveal it.

I do not like weapons, even when they are as beautiful as the sickle. This is very ungodlike; all the Olympians bear arms. Ares has his arsenal, Apollo and Artemis their bows, Zeus his thunderbolts. Athena likes to be called the Goddess of Wisdom, but she is never without helmet, aegis, and armor. Even Love Goddess Aphrodite has a little golden dagger tucked into her magic girdle (don’t ask me how I know).

I have always thought this ridiculous. Why should we Immortals carry weapons? Nothing can kill us. Nevertheless, the habit persists. Of all the gods, I alone rely on my wits for protection. It has always been a point of pride with me. Having said this, I’ll confess that when I lifted the sickle off its stand, I fully understood why Ares had craved it so. The thing was as light and supple as a willow switch, falling into the crook of my arm as if it longed to be there.
My new death-dealing friend
, I thought. It made me feel utterly invincible, as cool and implacable as its silver moon blade.

I will not lie. I liked the feeling.

TEN

Arcadia is an easy trip from Olympus, due south over Thessaly and the Gulf of Corinth. Even carrying the sickle, I got there quickly—the day was clear, the winds were helpful, and my spirits were high. Apollo had given me excellent directions to Medusa’s cave—he’s good at that—so I found it easily.

I first saw Perseus from the air. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Athena’s great shield, lobbing pebbles into a hollow tree trunk some twenty paces away. His aim was good.

So were his reflexes. Coming down, I placed the sickle against a tree. It touched a branch, a leaf rustled, and he was on his feet, sword in hand. He looked around warily and I thought,
He’s quick. Excellent.

I took off my cap so that he could see me. “Perseus,” I said in greeting.

“Hermes!” He was sixteen or so, nearly full-grown, with a boy’s tremulous voice and a smooth, fine-boned face. Except for the white-gold braid that hung down his back, his pale hair was clipped to the skull. At first glance he looked more like a shepherd than a king’s grandson—his hands were rough and his garment was country-spun. But his manners were good. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees instantly, bowing his head.

“Rise,” I said, and he sprang to his feet with the awkward grace of a fawn rising out of a nest. “Let’s plan our battle.”

“You’re coming? The goddess didn’t tell me!” Surprise and pleasure transformed his face. Smiling, he was handsome.

“At least she remembered to give you her shield,” I said. Athena’s memory is terrible—except for grudges. Hearing of Perseus’ mission to kill Medusa, she had quickly volunteered her favorite weapon. The shield, polished to a mirror shine, lay on the forest floor, giving us a bright blue oval of sky. “She told you how to use it, I hope?”

He shook his head. “I know I can’t look at Medusa, or I’ll turn to stone like them.” He pointed to a spot through the trees, about a hundred paces away, where a motionless parade of Medusa’s victims approached the cave entrance. They looked startled, incredulous that her stare was lethal, even as it killed them.

“Poor fools,” I said.

I backed away from Perseus. “I’ll be Medusa. Come at me, but look at my reflection in the shield.” I scowled hideously, wiggling my fingers around my head as if they were snakes. He forced a smile, but we both knew that battling the real Medusa would be no laughing matter. She, who had once been a pretty young girl with beautiful dark ringlets, had remarked that her hair was lovelier than Athena’s, and the silly boast had ruined her.

Hearing it, Athena had turned her into a monster, with live snakes for tresses. Grotesque and miserable, Medusa had retreated to a cave deep in Arcadia. Whatever kinship she had felt with mortals had long since turned to searing hatred. Those who found her found death also: her stare was so frightening that it turned mortal onlookers to stone.

Have I mentioned that the gods can be spiteful?

Now Perseus hoisted the shield with his left hand, grasping his sword with his right. Looking into the shield as if it were a mirror, he came toward me sideways, sword raised.

I hissed as Medusa might, slipping beyond his reach. He lunged at me again, and again I evaded him. He took a deep breath, preparing for another try. To his credit, he kept his dark blue eyes on the shield. This time I screeched and pretended to claw at his shoulder. He would have struck me if I hadn’t used my winged sandals to leap high out of range.

“You have the right idea but the wrong tools,” I told him. “Your sword is too short for the job.”

“It’s all I have,” he said, without a hint of self-pity. I liked that.

The Adamantine Sickle was propped against one of the stone bodies near the cave. I retrieved it.

“Here,” I said, offering it. “Try this.”

He took it and his watchful, rather serious expression went from interest to downright wonder. He looked as blissful as if he’d just received one of Aphrodite’s warmest smiles.

“Better than your sword, don’t you think?”

He hefted it. “Much better,” he said slowly. Then, without warning, he took a quick swing at me that I just barely managed to avoid. When I ducked, he actually laughed.

I was amazed by his lack of respect. I might look his age, but I was ageless and divine; he knew that. “Careful!” I snapped. “You won’t last long in there if you act like a buffoon.”

At my rebuke I saw his hand tighten around the weapon’s shaft possessively.
It’s the sickle,
I thought,
bewitching him!
Remembering how the weapon’s mere touch had made me giddy, I realized that it could do much worse to Perseus. He, being mortal, lacked the strength of mind that comes with divinity. What if it made him mad? Zeus would never forgive me.

“Don’t get too attached to that thing,” I said sharply. “It belongs to Ares. He’ll want it back.”
There’s an understatement,
I thought.

“I won’t.” He sounded sincere. But I resolved to watch him very closely.