Radiant Darkness (12 page)

   She tells me her name is Melita and she comes from a mountain valley by a river. Back there she was married, and her daughter, Philomena, was just starting to toddle. That's why she's glad she didn't go in the Lethe, so she can recognize her family when they come. She asks if there are more tools at the palace and I say I'll check, and then she turns to me and says, "Listen to me, rambling on. What's your name?"

   Without thinking I answer, "Persephone," then catch my breath.

   "Persephone? Just like the queen? That's funny."

   What am I going to say? Do I tell her and have her go all scared and formal on me? I don't think so.

   "Just like the queen."

   "Two Persephones in one place! I guess you call her 'my lady.' And I bet she doesn't even know your name. Still, it's funny, isn't it?"

   "Yes," I say. "It's hilarious."

So now I have a friend. And she's a mortal.

   Is it so wrong, letting Melita think I'm mortal, too? She doesn't know who I am, and I don't want to tell her.

   I came barefoot, holding my sturdy new spade. I saw her glance at my dress, its weave immeasurably finer than hers, and at the engraved brooches on my shoulders. But she thinks it's because I'm a servant in the palace, and I don't want to tell her otherwise.

   She even said she saw the queen once, when she was finally called for greetings, but the throne room was so big and she felt so scared, all she noticed was a crown and a purple chiton.

   Even then, I didn't tell her who I am. Because I've heard all the stories, how mortals act when they meet up with gods. They cower and swoon, or they try to win your favor. The last thing I need is someone fawning all over me like an overeager puppy begging for approval. I need a friend.

   Still, sometimes I think of Zeus disguising himself as a swan, and I start to get a queasy feeling, the one that comes with questions I don't like. If I let Melita think I'm a servant, doesn't that make me one more opportunistic god in disguise?

   And I always answer myself the same way. What I'm doing is completely different. I would never try to manipulate Melita. I just want someone to laugh with and work next to in the garden. Zeus left Leda laying an egg, but nothing I do could change Melita's fate: she's already dead.

   No, everything will be fine. I can keep my immortality to myself. I'm not exactly brimming over with special powers, anyway.

I
'm combing my hair when Hades walks into the bedroom. He comes up behind me and puts his warm hands on my shoulders, then leans down and kisses the nape of my neck.

   "Someone's here to see you," he murmurs.

   I put down my comb and stand up, turning to face him. I put my hands on his waist.

   "Hello, someone," I say.

   He chuckles. "No, not me! Hermes is back, and he brought you something. A gift. He won't show me what it is until you come down."

   "Let him wait a little longer," I say, snuggling close.

   But Hades whispers, "Later," and leads me to the door.

Hermes is sitting on one of the golden couches, unbuckling the wings from his sandals, when we come in. He looks up and smiles.

   "Found you something interesting," he says.

   He puts the wings in his sack, rummages around, and hands me a small woven bag. Hades and I sit on the couch opposite him and I open it. Inside is a wooden box tied with string.

   "Didn't want them to squish," says Hermes, grabbing a cup of nectar from the tray and chugging it down. Hades offers me a drink as well, but I shake my head, intent on the box in my palm.

   The string has a knot. Hermes pulls out his knife and hands it to me. When I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to proceed, he laughs.

   "You look like Pandora," he says.

   "Who?"

   "It was that eager expression of yours," he says. "Pandora was a mortal whose curiosity got the better of her. She opened a forbidden box and out flowed disease, poverty— all the woes afflicting mankind."

   "What exactly have you put in there, Hermes?" jokes Hades.

   "Stop it, you two," I say. "Let me open my present."

   I flick the knife through the string and lift the lid.

   "Hermes! Seeds for my garden! You're wonderful! What are they?"

   "Damned if I know. Found them on one of my journeys. Those tiny black ones look like poppy seeds."

   I poke around with my finger. "And this is definitely a plum pit. Oh, I'd love to grow a plum tree. Wait, there's one more stuck in the corner."

   I wiggle something loose, then pick it up carefully and lay it in my palm: a pointy-edged oval, glistening and fat with shining red juice almost like blood.

   "That one looks good enough to eat," says Hades, reaching over, but I close my fingers and pull my hand back.

   "Oh, no you don't! That's getting planted. Let's see what it grows."

   I make my grateful good-byes to Hermes, stop to grab a spade, and rush out to my garden.

H
ades gave me a beautiful, ebony gaming table inlaid with ivory. My warriors are flat, round rubies. Hades' are onyx, carved with open gates. He rolls higher, so he gets the first move. As usual.

   He places a piece on the board. Soon my men are trooping toward the center of the table, and Hades is building a phalanx at one end.

   "Cowering at the back of the field!" I joke. "That's not like you."

   "Nothing wrong with a good defensive position," he says.

   I roll again. All my men are in and the board is wall-to wall pieces. "It looks like the throne room," I say.

"You're doing very well there, by the way."

   At first I think he means the game, but obviously not: I've left a gap and he moves in, isolating one of my men.

   "I thought your words on the Lethe were nice and clear," he continues. "Much more informative than I tend to be. It's an improvement."

   The praise tastes delicious. And maybe it's an opening for something that's been on my mind since I met Melita.

   "You know," I say, "some shades are here for days before they come to the throne room."

   I pause, examining the board. I realize I don't want to mention Melita's name or our friendship. Hades doesn't have friends among the shades. He might disapprove.

   I move my piece. "That's a long time. I bet they feel lost and confused. I bet some of them end up in the Lethe by accident."

   "We do greetings when we've got a roomful. It's a simple matter of managing our resources."

   "Managing resources!" I put both my hands on the table and lean toward him. "Shades aren't resources! They're individuals, with thoughts and feelings. Haven't you ever wondered what it's like for them when they first get here?"

   I look at his confident face. No, he hasn't thought about it.

   He moves a man. "What are you proposing?"

   "We need to do throne room greetings every day."

"Every day!"

   "It doesn't take that long. And after the greetings, we could have guided tours, so shades learn where everything is, in case they're too nervous to hear what we say. And I'm thinking about a new arrivals list. Some of your 'resources' spend a long time waiting for those they love."

   "Is that
all
you want?" He's raising that eyebrow, smiling.

   I look at the board. How should I proceed? "It might make your work easier," I say, moving a burst of red into his crowd of onyx men. "The more comfortable shades are, the less trouble they'll cause."

   He puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. Is he thinking about my ideas or examining his position? Finally he says, "You have a point. With the scale of this drought they're more agitated than usual."

   The drought.

   "Your turn," says Hades.

   But I don't move. I'm trying to see something bigger than the board. This isn't just about the crowds in the throne room or whether we have tours.

   "What
is
happening on Earth?" I say. "We never talk about it."

   "Are you going to roll?" he asks briskly.

   I move a man for the sake of moving. "When you saw Hermes last night, did you discuss the drought? Or what's happening with the crops? Did he mention my mother?"

   Hades hurls down the dice. Doubles. He forces a dark piece behind my open man.

   "It doesn't matter," he says, "because we're not going to talk about Earth." With his next roll he cuts off my escape. "And I'll tell you why."

   He lets go of the man and reaches to take my hand. He lowers his voice, softening it so it wraps around me. "I don't even want your thoughts up there. When it comes to you, I'm a very greedy man. This is your home now. You belong here by my side."

   The game is over.

   "Now," he says. "About those daily greetings . . ."

M
elita is straightforward and practical with plants, like a brisk mother duck keeping her ducklings in line. There's no nonsense in the way she trims a branch or plops a new plant in its freshly dug hole. It's so different from the way my mother caresses every leaf as if they were getting drunk together.

   Now Melita is standing, hands on hips, in front of the bush that burst from the juicy, red seed.

   "What do you want to plant near this?" she asks.

   A hummingbird zips in front of her, hovers near a scarlet trumpet-blast of a flower, then darts its beak into the flaming center, searching for the sweetness hiding inside.

   You've never seen anything grow as fast as this bush. It's already chest-high, with spiky little leaves jutting off everywhere. Green suckers crowd greedily from the base, as if it's too eager to settle for one trunk. Everything about it is uneven and sprouty, but I can't bring myself to trim it back. I love its exuberance—flowers already! It needs to keep sprouting and stretching until it figures out where it's going and why.