Dead Beautiful (19 page)

“But the God of Death in the birthing room?” she protests.

“He’s not the God of Death,” I reply. “He is the God of the Dead — a whole different thing. And he’s good at it. And he’s my husband. And I love him. Can’t you understand that?” I break off, then I turn and leave as fast as I can. I’d like to imagine I’m striding gracefully, but I suspect it’s more of a waddle.

I feel like crying. How did we end up here? I missed her so much; I really wanted to see her again. I imagined it would be like it used to be; we’d spend time together, do the same old things, only they would feel new and better this time, and we’d be getting ready for the baby’s arrival.

But now that I’m back we seem to be squabbling about Hades all the time. Why can’t she just give him a chance? Doesn’t she see that when she criticizes him, she criticizes me? I can’t go back to before, and if I could I wouldn’t, but it was easier in the old days, before we knew winter’s depredations, when it was eternally spring, when love was what it had always been, the easy, warm, comfortable feeling I had for my mother, before I knew you could love someone and be angrier with them than you’ve ever been at anyone, both at the same time.

Cyane

Something’s up. I’m a water nymph, but I’m not stupid. Persephone and her mother spend time together, but they don’t look like they’re having a good time they way they used to.

When I went to visit Persephone the other day, her mom came back and practically stepped on me to get to Persephone. But when she was talking to her, I could tell it wasn’t like before. There was this current between them. The same current that runs between mom and dad when dad’s been out hitting the ouzo for three or four nights in a row, and mom’s ticked off but she’s not going to fight in front of the kids. She’s going to bite her tongue and give him a chance to clean up his act. And if he doesn’t — kaboom — there’s going to be a BIG fight.

That’s what it was like.

Hades

For days and days I hear nothing.

I wait.

I want Persephone to have a chance to recover her health, to get reacquainted with her mother, and to straighten out all this talk of abduction and rape. I am not going to wear this; I am not going to be the Bad Guy. I get enough of that already.

But I need to know how my wife is. I summon Hecate.

Zeus

All I want to know is, what does it take to get a little peace and quiet around here? I tell you, this Jesus guy, his talk of being in the world but not of it, I can relate to that. I would love to be of this place but not around it — around here, it’s just one thing after another. There’s no getting away from it.

I was sure we’d sorted out the Persephone thing. Hades turns her over to her mom, everyone’s back together again, all happy, turn the page.

But no, it can’t possibly be that easy, can it? People can’t just get on with their lives. It’s always got to be more complicated, doesn’t it?

A month, maybe two, after the happy reconciliation, I and Hera are sitting down to a nice dinner — the first quiet time we’ve had together since Vernal Equinox festivities began earth-side — when suddenly Demeter materializes right beside me. Her hair’s a disaster, she’s wild-eyed, distraught. I glance surreptitiously beside me to make sure the thunderbolt supply is good — who knows what to expect — slip a glance at Hera, who raises her eyebrows almost imperceptibly. I shrug, as imperceptibly as I can. I’ve been busy managing sacrificial offerings, etc. I have no idea what’s eating Demeter.

“Well,” I say in my calmest (I hope), most welcoming voice. “To what do we owe —”

“She’s stopped eating.” The words run together so fast and breathlessly that I can barely understand what she’s saying.

“Slow down,” I say. “Just slow down.” I stand, pull out a chair for her. “Do you want to join us?”

But she hasn’t even heard me. She’s pacing up and down, glancing around wildly, acting in general like a — like a Bacchante.

“She won’t eat, she can’t sleep —” I’m not even sure Demeter knows where she is. I glance at Hera again, she looks puzzled. “She’s wasting away,” Demeter continues. “I can’t just stand by and watch my daughter and grandchild die.”

“Grandchild?” O.k., so maybe I speak a bit more loudly than I meant to, but wouldn’t you if you had a bomb like this dropped in your lap? “Grandchild?”

At least it snaps Demeter out of herself. She freezes, staring at me. Then promptly bursts into tears.

Now I see where Hermes gets his speed from. In a blink Hera is beside Demeter, her arms around her shoulders, making soothing little noises.

“There, there,” she says, maneuvering Demeter onto the chair I pulled out and pulling up another beside her. “Just calm down and tell us everything. A grandchild — that is good news. I’m jealous.”

“But not if Persephone dies.” Demeter breaks into great, shuddering sobs, her words becoming almost incomprehensible. Her nose is running, her eyes are red, her face is blotchy. Hera would never collapse like this, thank Me.

“Of course she’s not going to die,” Hera coos. “We won’t let that happen, will we?” She shoots me a warning glance.

“Die? My daughter? What sort of talk is that? Tell us what the problem is and I’m sure we can come up with a solution. We’ve been doing it for millennia — just part of the job description.” I figure a little humour can’t hurt, but the little woman frowns at me above Demeter’s bowed figure, shaking her head.

“Who’s the lucky father?” Hera coaxes.

“Hades,” Demeter mumbles.

“Wow. Fast work,” I say. The look Hera gives me, I think her head’s going to explode. She runs her hand across her lips in a zip it gesture, even though zippers won’t be around for — oh, forget it.

Demeter’s sobs grow louder.

“But I don’t understand why you’re upset,” Hera says. “Hades will be a fine father. He’s even-tempered, he’s wealthy — your grandchild will want for nothing.”

“But I’ll never get to see it.”

“What nonsense is this?” Hera asks.

“She’s going to go back and live with him,” Demeter wails.

“But she’s just returned from him. It’s you she can’t live without.”

Demeter shakes her head. “She can’t live without him. She’s pining away for him. She doesn’t eat —”

“— can’t sleep — yes, yes, we were listening,” Hera says, sitting back. “An interesting problem.”

“Problem?” Demeter bursts out. “My daughter dying, and you call it a problem?”

“Calm down,” Hera replies, patting Demeter’s hand. “A problem because we must find a solution. Of course, we can’t let Persephone die.” She shakes her head.

“But if she goes below permanently —” Demeter begins.

“Oh, no. No, no, no — one mother to another, I will not stand for that. A mother separated from her child? No, no,” Hera says. “But nor can we deny Hades the right to see his wife and child. You must acknowledge that.”

Demeter’s tears have ceased. She is patting her hair, straightening her gown, wiping her streaming eyes. Hera pulls a handkerchief from somewhere and hands it to her. Demeter blows her nose noisily. “Yes, I can see that.” She nods. “I just don’t know —” she says, wringing the handkerchief.

At which point there’s a loud pop, a burst of smoke, and Hades appears. This place couldn’t be any more crowded if it was a freaking airport, and all the flights cancelled.

Hades

“You called?”

I am sitting in my office staring into the fire when Hecate appears. A lady beetle falls from her gown and scuttles under my desk.

“Yes, I did,” I reply. “Thank you for coming.”

She smiles and dips her head.

“I need news of my wife,” I tell her. “She has been gone for several weeks and I have had no word. I could go up myself and poke around, but I promised not to.”

“Ah, so you have not heard.”

“Heard what?” I demand, my voice sharp. “How is she?”

Hecate shakes her head. “Not well.”

Anger burns in my veins. “Why not? What has happened?” My voice is loud against the usual quiet of this place.

Hecate raises a hand. “Hades, I am only the messenger.”

“Yes, yes.” I turn away. “I’m sorry. Tell me about my wife, please.”

“Well,” she says, shaking out her skirts and settling near the fire. “At first all went well. Demeter and Persephone were elated to be together again. Persephone bloomed; she was fairer than any of her flowers. She and her mother were always in each other’s company. Demeter went back to work. Soon everything was getting back to normal again; weather patterns, temperature fluctuations. Droughts eased; floods abated. Seeds began to grow, trees to leaf out. Humans returned to the fields and planted their crops.” She pauses.

A small caterpillar has been easing itself down from her hair in slow jerks until it hangs at eye-level. She wraps its silk around her right index finger and transfers it to her other hand, cradling it gently.

“And?” I prompt.

She glances up from her seat on the hearth. “It began with bad dreams, dreams of traveling down narrow, dark tunnels in search of something. Every night at the same time, the same dream.”

As I sat here longing for her, I think.

“Possibly.” Hecate nods. “Then she began to have trouble sleeping — too much noise.”

“I always take along ear plugs when I travel up there,” I say. “Never a moment’s peace.”

“It always takes me a while to adjust after I’ve been down here for any length of time. Anyway,” Hecate continues, “one thing led to another, poor girl, and about a week ago she stopped eating.”

“What?”

“Her mother is distraught. Persephone seems to be withdrawing, moving further and further away and nothing Demeter says or does can call her back.”

“Why has no one told me this?”

She shakes her head. “They don’t know what to do. They are reluctant to upset Demeter and have her go AWOL again.”

“Thank you, Hecate. You have always been a good friend.” I bow in her direction. “If you will please excuse me, I must be going.”

Zeus

“She is my wife,” Hades storms.

“She is my daughter,” shouts Demeter. “I want her on earth with me.”

Hades turns on her. “So you can watch her starve herself — and the child — to death?” he demands. “No, she comes with me.”

Demeter crumbles into sobs.

Hera and I stare at each other across the table.

“Now guys —” I start, but Hades rounds on me.

“Don’t ‘Now guys’ me,” he growls. “You know as well as I do that if I stop working, your toga’s torqued.”

“Are you threatening me?” I demand.

Hera steps between us. “Dear,” she says to me. “Hades. Demeter. Please.” We all fall silent. “I believe both you,” she turns to Demeter, “and you,” she turns to Hades, “have valid reasons for wanting Persephone to be with you, but we won’t solve anything by shouting at each other. Please,” she gestures towards the chairs, “have a seat.” She snaps her fingers. “Mead,” she calls out. “For four.”

When we are all settled at the table, each with a golden chalice of mead, Demeter mumbles to Hades, “It’s all your fault. You abducted her.”

“I did not abduct her,” he says. “She came to me of her own free will. I assumed she’d discussed it with you. When I found out she hadn’t, I tried to tell her that it would be a good idea for her to do that. But she wasn’t listening to me.”

“No.” Demeter shakes her head. “She doesn’t always listen. She’s a bit headstrong that way. Like someone else who shall be nameless,” she says, glancing in my direction.

“Hey!” I say, but Hades talks over me.

“But sharp as a whip,” he says.

Demeter, who has been staring at her chalice, looks up at this remark. A smile crosses her face. “She is, isn’t she? And she can be so thoughtful.”

I note some impatience in Hera’s voice when she says, “So it’s agreed, she’s strong-willed and thoughtful —”

“— and smart,” adds Demeter.

“ — and beautiful,” Hades throws in. He is wearing an expression that, in the millennia I have known him, I’ve never seen on his face. I might almost call it smitten.

“Yes, yes,” says Hera. “But none of this is to the point. What are we going to do about her?”

“ ‘Do about her?’ ” echoes Hades. “What do you mean, ‘do about her’? She’s an adult. I think we agree on that at least, don’t we?” he turns to Demeter.

She sighs and nods wearily. “No matter how much I would like to deny it, no matter how badly I want my little girl back, yes, I think I must agree with you. She is an adult.”

“She is,” says Hades. “She made some very mature decisions while she was living with me. You would be proud of her,” he says to Demeter. “And as such we don’t go making decisions for her. For humans, yes. But she’s one of us. I think we have to ask her what she wants.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Demeter demurs. “I think that’s going a bit too far. She’s not ready yet —”