Radiant Darkness (15 page)

   "Don't you recognize me?" she hollers. "It's me, your sweetie pie!"

   Melita's shoulders are shaking like leaves in a windstorm, and my eyes are watering. Our laughter finally explodes, blasting our hands away. After a while I begin to catch my breath. Then I see Melita hugging her sides, gasping, "It's me, your sweetie pie!" And I'm off again.

   It feels so good. I wish I could laugh like this forever.

   "Well, it
would
have been a nice place for him to rest," says Melita, collapsing on her back in the grass.

"W
e've done wonders here, Melita."

   I'm sitting near the bush with spiky leaves. The red flowers have all fallen, giving way to a single, bulging fruit. A few days ago Melita finally recognized it. It's called a pomegranate.

   At first, the fruit was yellowish green, speckled with just a few red dots. Its tiny body, hard as a pebble, was overpowered by the spiky crown of a calyx it wore on the dangling end. But the calyx stayed the same size while the fruit grew and grew, and now the pomegranate is as big as an apple and turning redder by the day. Soon it will be nothing but a great stretched belly with a teeny tiara perching on top.

   I run my fingers along its rough, uneven hide. "Come on, Melita, admit it. This garden is amazing. Mo—I mean, Demeter herself couldn't do better."

   "Hush!"

   I plop over on my elbows. "What are you so worried about? Everything is growing in the most amazing way. There's no denying it."

   She nods. "It does seem like everything sprouts or blossoms the second we touch it. The soil must be really rich. Still . . ." With nervous fingers, she smoothes her chiton over her knees, rearranging the folds so it looks orderly again. "Still, it's dangerous to boast. The gods might hear us."

   "So what?"

   "Oh, Persephone, don't! Think about what happened to Arachne when she boasted."

   "Who?"

   "Arachne, the weaver who said she was as good as the goddess Athena. You know the story."

   "As a matter of fact, I don't."

   "Where on earth did you grow up? Everyone knows this story."

   All right, so maybe I didn't always pay attention. I'm listening now.

   "Hurry up and tell it to me."

   She smooths her skirts again and sits up straight,

composing her face and her thoughts. When she starts to talk again, it's in the singsong voice of someone reciting from memory.

   "Once there was a girl named Arachne, who was born knowing how to weave. From an early age she spun the smoothest thread and pulled the shuttle in true, straight lines. When other girls her age were just learning to wind yarn into balls, she was already weaving patterns so complicated, even the old women came to stare in wonder."

"Quite the prodigy," I say. Melita shushes me, then continues.

   "News of Arachne's talents spread, and by the time she was a young woman, even the nymphs snuck out of the forests to watch her work. As the crowds grew, so did Arachne's pride.

   "One day a flower nymph, lured from her field by the pleasure of watching Arachne's quick fingers, said, 'Oh, great is Athena, who gave you this gift!'

   "Arachne turned and glared. 'Athena? She had nothing to do with it. The gift is my own. Why, the goddess could take lessons from me.'

   "With a gasp of alarm, the crowd stepped back. Only one person stayed close to the loom: an old woman shrouded in black. 'Beware,' she croaked. 'Athena watches over the ways of the loom and the household; her talents put yours to shame. Give the gods their due respect.'

   "Arachne put one hand on her hip and smirked. 'I don't think the gods are due a thing. If Athena really thinks her weaving is better than mine, she should come here and we'll have a contest. Then we'll see whose fingers are nimbler.'

   "'Have your wish, foolish girl!' cried the old woman, dropping her black cloak.

   "Now the crowd shook and fell to its knees, for the woman grew younger and more beautiful before their eyes, until finally she stood towering over their heads, shining with an inner light. Yes, it was Athena herself."

   Oh, no. Not the towering, shining thing. "The showoff," I say.

   Melita gives me a little shove. "Do you want to hear the rest or not?"

   I fold my hands meekly in my lap and nod like a good student.

   Melita takes a deep breath, then resumes her singsong voice.

   "Two looms sprang up before them. The woman stood at one, the goddess at the other. They wove and they wove and they wove some more, and the crowd gasped in wonder at the pictures flowing like magic from their hands.

   "Athena's handiwork glowed with the gifts she gives to mankind. The owl, reminding us of her wisdom, stood in the center. Surrounding the intricate feathers of its wings, women cooked and wove and sewed. Each was so lifelike, you could almost see her breath.

   "The goddess was tying off her last string when Arachne cried, 'There!'

"And on Arachne's loom . . ."

Melita stops and shivers, so I prod her on with a look.

   "On Arachne's loom, gods debased themselves with lust and greed and jealousy. Zeus, the greatest god of all, was shown in ridiculous disguises stealing mortal women away. Hera, his wife, was goggleeyed with accusations, and Poseidon romped about in compromising positions with various creatures of the sea."

   I start to laugh, then turn it into a cough. She keeps going, staring at me hard so I'll listen.

   "But that wasn't the worst. No: Arachne had dared to create a finer weave and more vivid pictures than the goddess herself. Every detail, every expression on every face, every strand of her work was perfect.

   "Rage darkened Athena's eyes. She raised her shuttle, suddenly as sharp as a sword, and slashed Arachne's work to shreds. Then the goddess turned to Arachne herself.

   "Once, twice, three times the shuttle came down on Arachne's head. With the first blow, the girl's skin turned hard and shiny. With the second blow, she began to shrink smaller and smaller, until her body was no larger than a pea. With the third blow, her arms and legs sucked up into the bloated, round little body, until only eight fingers waved at her sides.

   "'If your fingers are so nimble, then weave!' cried Athena.

   "And Arachne began to create the finest silk ever seen. To this day, her fingers never stop weaving, for she's the lowly spider. Each time we sweep her webs away, we remember her terrible sin."

   Melita's words hang in the air, and for a minute everything is still. She nods, glad to have imparted this wisdom. But when she finally looks at me, her eyes narrow, because I'm angrily ripping leaves into a pile of jagged shreds.

   You see, I've met Athena a few times. She used to come spend an afternoon in the vale every now and then, and she was always friendly and clever. I even looked up to her. Now, my image of her lies as shredded as these leaves.

   "How could a goddess be so petty?" I ask.

   "Persephone! Arachne deserved everything she got."

   "Just because a mortal does something as well as a god—"

   "Stop it! They might hear."

   "So power grants the right to be selfish, is that it? To win every contest and be best every time? Don't mortals count for anything at all?"

   "The gods can do with us what they like. Why would you want to bring that anger down on your head or on those you love?"

   She stops for a moment, staring at me, and when she starts again, her voice is as taut as a bowstring. "What if I angered the gods and they took it out on my daughter? What if she went hungry? What if she became somebody's slave, and I heard she was being beaten, or worse? I couldn't stand it. I think I'd lose my mind."

   She shakes her head firmly. "That's why I always play by their rules. You'll do the same if you know what's good for you. You may be dead, but you're not out of their reach."

   "But that doesn't make it right. Gods demand respect from you, but they don't respect you in return. It isn't fair. Go on, admit it: it isn't fair."