Radiant Darkness (21 page)

   Hades, so careful to make sure it was what I wanted, too, even if he couldn't spell it out for me with Hermes in the room. I hear his whispered words again; I feel his breath warm in my ear.
If you truly want to return to my side, and
only then, eat.

   Knowing food would bring me home to him. Tactician. Ruler. Husband. Love.

   I close my eyes, seeing his face, feeling his arms, his broad hands. Hades.

"He didn't have to let you leave, after that," my mother says softly. "He loves you enough to let you go. And that's what I need to do, too."

   "Damn it all," says Zeus, stamping his immortal foot. "Back and forth, back and forth, like a bunch of love letters. All right then, Persephone returns to the underworld. But I'm telling you, this is absolutely the last time, and only because of the pomegranate. Don't think you'll get anywhere by changing your mind again, Demeter. She's going back for good, regardless of what you want."

   "But this
is
what I want," says my mother, looking at me, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Because it's what Persephone wants. And it seems she's capable of making her own choices."

   I smile, grasping her hand. But then I see her eyes staring at me, and I realize she's trying to soak up as much of me as she can, enough to last her . . . forever.

   "Off you go, then," says Zeus. "Immediately."

   I think of how rich the earth used to be and could be again. Groves crowded with fat, ripe olives. The way black soil smells when it's been turned. I think of my mother trying to save me and Melita risking the fangs of Cerberus for her daughter.

   And then I remember.

   "I can't go right away!"

   They both turn to me sharply, heads cocked sideways like birds.

   "Before I go, I need some time on Earth." I stride toward Zeus and grab the brittle grapevine from his platter. "This is what I've got to fix! I need to get my hands in the soil and help make it bloom again. And there's something else. In the underworld, I was friends with a mortal, and I made her a promise."

   "A promise to a mortal? Never a good idea," says Zeus.

   "Let her speak," says my mother.

   "I promised I'd find her daughter and make sure she's safe. If I go back now, I can't keep my word."

   "Promises must be kept," says my mother.

   "No," says Zeus, pointing his finger at me. "You need to leave this minute. You shouldn't even be here. Someone else can help the mortal child."

   "I promised to do this myself!"

   He shakes his head. Light glances off his hair like golden feathers. Eagle feathers. He's parting his lips to speak again when an idea flies into my head, fully formed.

   "Zeus—"

   "Don't argue," he says. "There are rules to be followed."

   But I keep going. "The rule says food is binding. But there are different ways to bind. A bird leaves its home when frost falls. It spends the winter in a distant land. But come spring, the bird returns to its first home."

   "So?" says Zeus.

   "Don't you see? The bird is bound to depart each year but not to stay away. It always comes back again to its first home. I can be bound to the underworld and still return to Earth each year."

   A smile warms my mother's face.

   "I have a home in the underworld, and a husband, and work I'm learning to do. But if I stay there forever, my mother will keep grieving. I don't think a grief-stricken goddess will create abundant harvests, do you?"

Zeus is looking thoughtful.

   "I'll fulfill my promise, and maybe . . ." I look at my mother. "Maybe I could work for a while by my mother's side. I did a lot of gardening in the underworld. Some people think I have a knack for it."

   As I speak, I lift my hand, and Zeus's mouth drops open. A gasp escapes from my mother's lips. I follow their eyes.

   From the shriveled bit of grapevine, tiny green leaves are springing. There, amidst the brown remnants, are two ripe grapes, a juicy, intoxicating purple.

   Hades was right. He saw it all along. I do have power.

   "Here's what I want," I say to Zeus. "To stay here part of each year and then spend the rest in the underworld, ruling by my husband's side. Every year I'll return to Earth. That should fulfill the requirements."

   "Hmm," says Zeus, still eyeing the grapes. "Very clever. I like it."

   "As do I," says my mother.

   "So be it," says Zeus, his voice booming. "Persephone's sojourn on Earth will begin now, to help the land heal. Hermes, perhaps you'd like to let Hades know."

   Hermes grins at me. "This should put me back on good terms with the old rascal," he says.

   "Stop talking!" I say. "Go! Tell him!"

   
Fly like the wind to my husband and tell him he'll hold me
again.

   "I'm going, I'm going," says Hermes. "I'll be back for you in a few months. Maybe next time we'll have a smoother ride!"

   He wheels around and out the door. In a moment there's a roar from the crowd as the black horses rise, pulling a chariot as light as air.

A
nd now I need to find Philomena.

   My mother and I walk side by side out the doors and into the shadowy anteroom. Beyond the pillars, a huge crowd stands in the blazing sun, staring up at a tiny dot disappearing into the sky.

   I start to walk forward, but my mother puts her hand on my arm. "Give them just a moment," she whispers. "They'll move on."

   The blind bard plucks out a few bold notes on his lyre, and everyone gathers around him expectantly. Has he already immortalized today's events in a song? Now the crowd stills, and the white-bearded bard begins to sing, his voice deep and confident.

"Hideous Hades ripped her away

From her mother's arms that fateful day, When all she wanted to do was stay

Safe in her mother's arms, oh!"

   He nods at the crowd expectantly and they echo the last line back: "Safe in her mother's arms, oh!"

   Wait! That's all wrong! My mother's hand tenses, and she glances at me.

"Down to the sulfurous lands below

He forced the cowering maid to go,

Not heeding her tears, their endless flow—

He only saw her charms, oh!"

   "He only saw her charms, oh!" roars the crowd in unison.

"Demeter, the goddess of grain and good

Reacted as any mother would:

Denied her daughter, she sent a flood

Over the valleys and farms, oh!"

"Till Zeus, he heard the clamorous cry And said, 'Then bring Persephone nigh!' And back with the maiden did Hermes fly,

Answering all the alarms, oh!"

"Answering all the alarms, oh!"

"Sweet girl-child, no longer chafe,

In Hades' arms, his captive waif.

Demeter's strength will keep you safe, Safe in your mother's arms, oh!"

   "Safe in your mother's arms, oh!" the crowd sings one last time, before bursting out in a thunderous round of applause.

My mother's eyes narrow. "The mortals are mistaken," she says. "I'll tell them the truth."

   This time I'm the one pulling her back into the anteroom. "Wait."

   She stops. There's a long pause while I gather my words.

   "These people have been through drought and famine and flood," I finally say. "They've lost crops and homes, buried those they love. With this song, people are saying they suffered for a reason: so you could save me. But if they're told it was for nothing, because I couldn't speak my mind . . ."

   I hear her breath.

   "Mortals need something to believe in so they can get back behind their plows," I say. "If this is the story they need, shouldn't we let them have it?"

   The darkness in here makes her eyes look like bottomless pools.

   After the bard has been raised onto men's shoulders, after he's strummed and sung the crowd downhill, my mother turns to me. She takes a step, I take a step, and then our arms are wrapped so tightly around each other, there's no space between us.

"I
'll come with you," says my mother.

I shake my head. I have to do this on my own.

   I've told her about Melita and Philomena and my only clues: a mountain valley, a river and goats, and a crag with five points like a rooster's comb. Now my mother closes her eyes, thinking so deep it looks like she's summoning information up from the earth. Her eyes snap open.

   "Yes," she says, "I saw it, when I wandered the land searching for you."

   She points to a haze of mountains rising in the distance. She asks if I want a chariot, a horse, but I have a feeling I need to go on foot, even though it will take longer.

   She takes the dark-blue cloak from her shoulders and wraps me in it to keep the brisk spring breeze at bay.

   "When the time comes to act, look inside yourself," she says. "You'll find what you need."

   Her hands lift reluctantly from my shoulders and she watches me stride away, leaving the temple far behind.

   Fields, valleys, and now mountain paths—everywhere I go, mortals are working from dawn to dusk, fighting to reclaim the land. Their strength amazes me. And everywhere I go, the earth begins to shimmer with a faint, incandescent green as the first hints of growth take hold.

   
Let it mean Philomena is safe. Let me be in time.

   Now, climbing up a valley by the side of a lively stream, I see the crag with five points: Melita's cockscomb rock. My heart catches. The mountainside is dotted with small farms where women are scrubbing, men are rebuilding, and children are clearing away rocks and sticks. How will I know which of these farms is the right one?

   I see a woman vigorously spading a patch of ground just the right size for a vegetable garden. Hiding my face beneath the cloak's oversized hood, I approach and ask the way to Melita's farm. She straightens, putting a hand on her sore back.

   "She's long dead, that one," she says.

   "It's her baby I'm looking for."

   "Not such a baby anymore, is she? Poor thing." She

sighs, shaking her head. "They say an old widow moved in up there, took it over as her own. In these times, who could stop her? Says she owns it all, I hear: the farmhouse, the goat, and the child."

   "Owns her?" I ask. "You mean—"

   She nods, turning back to her plot of earth. "That's the way of it," she says. "In these times, what can you do?"

   I take off at a run on the path she showed me. The trail grows narrower and rougher. I round a bend and now the rooster rock is looming almost directly overhead. There, in a clearing near the banks of the river, stands a small house. Part of the roof has fallen in. A goat, all ribs, rummages in the mud. And in front of the house, a little girl is lugging rocks toward a big pile. They must weigh almost as much as she does.

   She lifts her head. I push back my hood a few inches so I can see her better.

   The eyes looking back at me are a deep, warm green, like olives hanging on a tree in the sun. The child's hair may be bedraggled, but it's curly and dark. And there, on her shoulder, is a birthmark shaped like a flower with four petals, the mark that made her parents call her their little blossom. It's Philomena.

   But how fast human time passes! Melita talked about a toddler on pudgy legs. This child has already been set to work, although she looks young for it and too thin. Her elbows jut out overlarge from bony arms. She's daubed with layers of dirt; she hasn't been bathed in weeks.

   "Philomena," I say softly, pushing my hood back all the way so she can see my face. I don't want her to be scared. "Your mother sent me."

   She plops her rock back down and starts to walk toward me, as if she knows me. I bend down, opening my arms toward her smile, and she rushes right into my embrace. I wrap her up close and warm, gratitude filling me from head to toe. Gratitude for having found her. For her big, warm eyes. For the way she came into my arms. Gratitude that she's Melita's daughter.

   "Get away from that brat!"

   An old woman clumps out of the house, anger darkening a face lined with cruelty.

   "You ain't takin' her," she says.

   I stand up, still holding Philomena. She wraps her arms and legs around me and burrows into me. I can feel her thin body shivering.

   "This is Melita's child, not yours," I say.

   "You ain't Melita, neither, far as I can tell," rasps the crone. She reaches down for a heavy stick. "I got food invested in this girl. I been keepin' her in line. That means she's mine, same as if I bought her."

   I look down at Philomena's skinny arms. They're black and blue and yellow with old bruises.

   My head flies back up and my eyes blaze at the woman who did this. "How dare you beat her! How dare you! She needs love, not your brutality!"

   The woman barks what's meant to be a laugh. "Love? Who's got time for that? I been feedin' her, and I'm goin' to get the work out of her. She ain't good for much yet, but in a few years she'll earn her keep. Put her down."

   She starts walking toward us, holding the stick in both hands. I tighten my arms around Philomena. Anger rumbles up through me. I never felt this determined before.

   And now I feel energy surging up from the earth, through my body, until it fills every part of me—blood, bone, skin, breath—and a huge voice roars out of me, more powerful than the voice that stopped Cerberus in his tracks.

   
"You will not touch this child!"

   Her eyes widening in terror, the woman drops the stick. She plunges to her knees in the dirt.