Radiant Darkness (11 page)

   He finally puts his bundle down in the boat. "Well, looky here." He pulls up a coin and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands with a clink on a mountain of identical coins piled farther up the shore. "Still don't know why they think I need these."

   He reaches out a craggy hand, pulls me up, and helps me over the side of the boat. "I found out a long time ago, I can't make no difference to 'em. Got to trust the water to do that. I just give 'em a hand out on this shore. Lately I've been rowin' back and forth all day. Bring one over; take back the empty boat for the next one. My boat practically flies back when it's only her and me."

   He starts to push the boat back into the water. The hull scrapes across pebbles, underlining his voice like untuned lyre strings.

   "But I just brought one over a little while ago, and see over there, across on that bank? No one waitin'. So then I get a little break. I round up my friends, share a few, have a laugh. Then I come back to my darlin'."

   He pats the side of the boat, then hops in lightly and sits at the oars. "But no one ever rides back over with me. Ever. It don't matter who you are, or who you were, back there: king, queen, war hero, best athlete. Sometimes women beg because a brand-new baby's back on the other side. It don't matter. No one goes from this shore to that one except me and my dogs. I don't care how pretty your smile is or who you got to see or what you got to do. Once you're here, girl, you're here."

   He says good-bye with a nod and a wink. He's already digging his oars into the water and pulling away.

   I turn back toward the reeds. As I open my collecting bag, I'm surprised by a twinge of sadness. No one goes back across, no one. That goes for immortals, too.

   Oh, I don't regret coming. I'd make the same choice all over again. It's the never going back that's just a little hard.

T
hanatos brings me a just-awakening sapling of a lemon tree.

   "Here," he says, "I think you dropped this."

   "Very funny."

   He never lets me forget the time I tripped on my way to the throne, when he helped me up and handed me my crown. It's an old joke now.

   He grins, pleased with himself, and the stark planes of his face burst into light. He's a handsome fellow. His muscled shoulders shine almost as brightly as his breastplate, and the legs under his short tunic are strong, like those of a warrior back from months on the march. That's not why the calves behind those bronze greaves are so shapely, though. After all, he flies everywhere. Wings like an eagle's fold gracefully behind him.

   "Do you like it?" he asks.

   "I love it. It's lucky for me you get to travel between the worlds. And that you're so thoughtful."

   Thanatos. His name means death. Mortals know all about him, how he frees the soul birds to fly from their earthly bodies and introduces them to Hermes, their guide to Charon's boat. But do they know what a handsome man he is, or how eager to be helpful?

   Come to think of it, they probably wish he were a little less helpful.

   He gazes approvingly at my garden, now densely carpeted with thyme and chamomile. The fountain burbles in the center, spilling water onto mossy rocks, and reeds sprout from a small pool.

   "Isn't it time you took a rest, Persephone? You're always working out here in the garden."

   "This isn't work. This is my idea of fun."

   "All right. Just so you don't go collapsing from exhaustion," he says. "Wouldn't want to have to pick you up."

   "Ha-ha."

   He grins and turns, raising a hand in farewell.

   "And Thanatos—thank you."

   "It's entirely my pleasure."

   His easy stride swallows up the path to the castle. He's probably on his way to give Hades another report about conditions on Earth. Apparently it's a very dry season and harvests are so scanty, people don't have enough to eat. There's more sickness, even starvation. When I first came, I was in the throne room once a week, dressed in an elaborate chiton with the jeweled crown perched on my head. Now it's twice as often, and so many shades are coming, they pack the room from wall to wall.

   The weird thing is that Hades doesn't seem tired by the extra work, or cross to be called away from his horses. He actually seems invigorated by the hordes of new arrivals. I try to follow his lead, but there's a part of me that keeps getting stuck. Maybe it's because I know what it's like to leave something behind forever. Every time I look out over the throne room, I think, each one of these shades misses someone, and is missed in return.

   I hope the dry season ends soon.

   I look at my rosemary bush; it's already waist-high. When I first got here, it never occurred to me that the underworld could be greener than Earth. But my garden is thriving. Everything I plant seems to sprout and spread the instant I put it in new soil.

   I worried for a while that I was being selfish, making this as a refuge for myself, some kind of greedy pleasure. But then I realized the garden isn't just for me. It helps everyone in the underworld. I've put a bench in a private little spot near lavender bushes. Shades come wandering over and sit, resting. I can see the pleasure on their faces and how relaxation softens their shoulders. They find peace in my garden, without having to lose themselves in the Lethe. It's good for them.

   And it's good for me, too. You see, people only realize I'm a queen when I'm wearing my royal regalia, as if they're honoring the trappings themselves:
Hail to the golden brace
lets! Bow before the purple chiton!
That's why everyone is so stiff and formal in the throne room. But out here I work quietly in my plainest clothes and people ignore me, talking with each other and saying what's on their minds. I'm finding out a lot about mortals this way.

   Like yesterday. I was weeding on the far side of the lavender bushes when an old man pulled a younger man down beside him on the bench.

   "Sit," he said, "and tell me what brought you here before your time."

   The younger man mumbled something, and the old one shouted, "Speak up! I could have sworn you said something about birds."

   "You heard me right!" shouted the young man. I could have been halfway to the palace and still heard him. "Birds!"

   He then related the strangest tale. He'd saved a little grain, he said, and decided to sow it even though the soil was bone dry. But no sooner did he toss out a handful of seeds then crows swooped in and started pecking. Flocks of songbirds fluttered down to join them. Dark clouds appeared on the horizon, and he thought, Rain! But no, it was clouds of seabirds swarming inland. Soon the soil was seething with birds, their claws digging up the dirt, their beaks remorselessly plucking out every last seed.

   And birds kept coming. They landed on the plow, and the shed, and then finally all over the young man himself, digging their claws into his flesh. He tried to run; wings blinded him and he tripped, striking his head on the plow.

   "That's the wildest story I ever heard!" shouted the old man. "What a way to die! Sounds like you could use a good game of dice to distract you!"

   Grasping the young man's arm, he hoisted himself, and they headed downhill toward the green grass, where a lively game was in the works.

   So you see? I wouldn't know any of this if it weren't for my garden. Or if I told everyone who I am. The more I hear people's voices, the better I understand them.

   I have to wonder about that young man. He must have done something outrageous to anger the gods or why would they punish him in such a bizarre way? All right, not just the gods in general. My mother—because those birds made sure he'd have no harvest. And she always said mortals are like children, needing us to show them right from wrong. I wonder what he did.

   The whole thing is making me uncomfortable somehow. I cross my arms, warding off the sensation. It's probably just that I'm thinking about it from down here, and it's a new perspective, so everything looks different. That's all. Like lying on your back and staring at the sky, dizzy with the feeling of falling into the clouds.

   I shrug my hands back down and set about planting the sapling. Earth is in other gods' hands. I live here now.

S
everal days later, I'm working in my garden when Hades and Hermes come strolling down the path.

   They have a good time together, those two. When Hermes is done guiding shades to Charon's boat, he often stops by and lounges with Hades on the golden couches, sipping nectar, and they talk and laugh until all hours. That's how we get most of our news about the other gods on Mount Olympus, and about mortals, too—their heroic feats, or their ill-fated challenges. Gods live forever, after all, and when you live forever, you need novelty to catch your jaded eye. From the way these two talk, mortals are good for that.

So I'm glad to see Hermes. He takes off his broad-brimmed

traveler's hat. His curly hair pops up, and he runs his fingers through it, trying to get it to lie down straight.

   He grins at me. "Your garden grows as lovely as its gardener."

   Did I mention he's a bit of a flirt?

   Hades puts his arm around my shoulder protectively. Doesn't he know he'll never need to worry about me? Other women may cast appreciative glances at Hermes and his winged sandals, but for me there'll never be anyone but Hades. I nestle into his arm.

   "It's a relief to see green again," Hermes goes on. "I can't believe you have grapes. Everything is brown up on Earth."

   "How bad is the drought?" I ask.

   "One of the worst I've seen." Hermes tosses a few grapes in his mouth.

   Hades nods. "Charon's been rowing so much, I had to order liniment for his shoulders."

   I pull out from under Hades' arm. My hand strays to the vine, but instead of plucking a grape, I start worrying a leaf between my fingers. The unease that I've been trying to ignore suffuses the air around me. Crops failing, birds eating seeds before they can sprout . . .

   I lift my head, staring at Hermes. "It's my mother, isn't it?"

   Hermes runs his hand through his curls again. "Well, I've heard that—"

   "Who knows what the mortals have done this time!" interrupts Hades, staring intently at his friend. "Droughts come and go. They always have and they always will. This is nothing new."

   Hermes gives him a strange look. Then his face goes blank.

   "You've heard what?" I ask.

   "Sorry," says Hermes. "I forgot what I was going to say."

   "And it's all my fault!" proclaims Hades, clapping a hand vigorously on his friend's back. "They call me the host with open arms, and here I've forgotten to offer you a drink. Look at you! You're so parched, you're picking the vines clean. I got in some particularly sweet nectar. Let's go back to the palace and I'll pour you some. Persephone, will you join us?"

   I shake my head, feeling confused.

   Hermes looks at me and shrugs. "You know me, always traveling between one place and another." He smiles an apology as his hand strays back to the vine. "Tell you what, though. Next time I'll bring you some plants or something. Before everything shrivels away on Earth."

   He pops another grape, then catches sight of Hades' face. "Just joking! It's bound to rain soon."

T
he day dawns clear. I get dressed as quickly as I can, grab my gardening gear, and head out toward the oak. As I approach, I see someone kneeling in my garden. She's working the earth around some new plantings, pulling out stray strands of grass and loosening clods with her fingers.

   I clear my throat, and she jerks her head up like a deer hearing a twig crack. She runs her eyes over the spade in my hand and my simple chiton. A smile illuminates her face.

   "Are you the gardener?" she asks. "I was hoping you'd come."

   She scrambles to her feet. Her chiton is coarse linen and very plain in style, as if she never had the time to weave a pattern. She's sturdy looking and brown skinned. Her arms are muscled, and as I come closer, I see her hands are rough. I think she's about my age. A mortal shade, and newly here, I'd guess.

   "Is it all right if I work here?" she asks. "This garden is so pretty. Someone's been doing a beautiful job. I bet it's you. You're the one to ask, aren't you?"

   I'm tongue-tied. What do I say?

   "At home I was always working," she goes on. "I love keeping my hands busy, but here everyone seems to think I should be happy lazing around doing nothing. As if that's fun! I need to work or I'll lose my mind. I bet that's why so many people end up in that river."

   She glances toward the Lethe. "I almost went in by mistake. I didn't know it erased you! I was here for days before there were enough of us for the throne room, where they tell you these things. Was it like that for you?"

   I'm still frozen. Misinterpreting my silence, she sighs. Her shoulders slump. "I understand. If I'm not supposed to be here, I'll go."

   As she starts to walk away, a panicky feeling clutches me:
I'm losing her
.

   "No, no!" I call out. "Stay! I
am
the gardener. You're right."

   I don't know which is back in front of me faster, her body or her eager smile.

   "I, um, I don't know many people here," I say, scram bling for words. "I think I'd like working with you. And I can tell you know your way around plants."

   "Really?" She waves a hand toward the palace. "Do I need to clear it with someone official?"

   "No. It'll be fine."

   She grins, looking ready to burst with energy. Then she sits back down and starts pulling weeds again, chattering away. As I kneel to work beside her, I'm surprised by how light I feel.