The Dark Wife (15 page)

“What’s wrong, Persephone?”

The question jarred me.

What
was
wrong?

Was it the brutality those heroes had meted out in Zeus’ honor, or their endless suffering? Was it Zeus’ cruelty, or was it my own self-pity?

Was it the fact that, some nights, I dreamed of my beloved
Charis
, but, more often, I dreamed of Hades…and hated myself for it? Why did I dream of Hades? It was too cruel. I had loved completely, and I had lost terribly, and I knew better than to love again.

And Hades—Hades was protective of me, gentle with me, but she was gentle with the dead in the village, protective of them even though they despised her.

“I’ll leave you, then,” Pallas said, and I could hear the hurt in her voice. I wanted to call out to her, but she left too quickly, and I closed my eyes, squeezed out the last of my tears, as my thoughts looped around and around, twisted into knotted circles.

I fell asleep.

I dreamed of a river filled with souls caught like flotsam by the current. A boat poled across the river’s expanse, navigated by a fluid, patchwork creature who stared at me with a single blue eye. He held out a hand, but when I reached to take it, he drew back so that I lost my balance, fell into the water,
dragged
away and down deep by the desperate, hopeless dead.

I opened my eyes, rose, and pressed my hot face against the cool marble of the wall.

I had to see Hades.

I found her in her chamber, stretched out on her side upon the bed. Her long hair was unbound; it lay like silk over her pillow. Her black eyes caught me, held me where I stood.

The silence yawned between us, but it crackled, alive.

“You’re resting,” I whispered. “I’ll go—”    

“No. Tell me.” She beckoned with her hand for me to sit down beside her.

I crossed the space between us and seated myself slowly, on edge, self-conscious.

Whenever I sat next to Pallas and our knees bumped together, I hardly noticed. When she touched my shoulder, embraced me, brushed my hair, I felt nothing but comfort, the easy rapport of friendship.

But now, as I sat so near to Hades, I was aware of every sensation; my body tensed, as if in expectation, and it was more than I could bear. She drew up her legs, curled them beneath her, and positioned herself even closer to me, peering at my face. The black curtain of her hair gleamed beneath the torchlight.

I looked at her, swallowed, my mouth dry as papyrus. I didn’t know what to say. I was warm, too warm. I felt like a traitor to
Charis
, to myself.

“Everything is so complicated,” I said, finally, because the silence was suffocating me, and because I wanted to hear her voice.

“Sometimes I think we imagine things to be more complicated than are.”

She leaned against me. When her arm snaked around my shoulders, I pillowed my head upon her heart.

Seven:
Charon

“It's easy, Persephone,” Pallas said. “Just put your hands into the water, feel around for a bit until you grasp the string, and pull.” She finished lacing up her sandals, stood and stretched her arms over her head.

 Hades would be busy with her duties all day long, and Pallas was determined to speak to the villagers again. Her crusade to convince them that Hades was not their enemy, that the Elysian Fields was a place of horror, not hope, was not going well. The anger and bitterness that permeated the village of the dead was palpable now, and there was a sense of bated breath, as if something were about to happen—but it never did.

Rather than spending another day alone, Pallas suggested I pass my time with Ebon and Evening, but I had never summoned the boat before, and my nerves jangled at the thought of dipping my fingers into the roiling Styx.

But I was lonely, and I couldn’t endure any more hours wandering the palace, tormented by my thoughts.

When I arrived at the riverbank, I sat down on the stone and stared hard into the murky water. I couldn’t see it, the string, though Pallas had sworn to me, again and again, that it was there, was always there, no matter where or when she searched for it.

I watched the river, my eyes mesmerized by the rippling black sheen of it, until a face surfaced with the rise of a wave. Sallow eyes ogled me, and then, crazed, a pair of white, pitted arms splashed upward, hands clutching at the air.

I scrambled from the edge and swallowed hard.

The soul fought the river’s flow but soon enough gave up, drifted off, far beyond my sight. These waters teemed with the dead, I knew, and I pitied them their fate. But I was one misstep, one slip-up, one moment of inattention away from sharing that fate, and the knowledge froze my feet in place.

Still…

The Underworld was my home now. I couldn’t depend upon Hades and Pallas forever.

I set my jaw. It would be easy, just like Pallas said. So easy that I’d laugh at myself afterward, mock my own cowardice.

And I missed the horses, the sweet, lovely earthiness of them.

Resolute, I crouched down on the ground, crawled up to the edge of the water—close, but not too close.

I couldn’t see anything, or anyone, lurking under the waves.

Do it. Do it now.

I plunged my right hand into the dark shallows, and my fingers quested madly for the string.

It wasn’t there—I couldn’t find it… What if the boat obeyed only Pallas? What if it wasn’t there for
me,
couldn’t be there, because it was hers alone? Like Hades and the Elysian Fields…

I was so focused that I didn’t notice him until he was nearly upon me. Panicked, I thrust myself upright so quickly that I lost my balance, fell onto my knees in the water. The cold of it rippled through me as I scrambled, undignified and panting, away from the river and onto the bank.

Charon
stood at the front of his boat, pole stuck in the river bottom. The blue eye of my nightmares was lost in a maelstrom of bones and flesh, churning.

“What were you doing, Persephone?” he asked, and the words repeated in a child’s voice, an old man’s voice, a shrieking girl’s voice—echoing.

“I was going to swim across,” I lied.

“That would have been unwise.”

 I stared at him. I wanted to look away, needed to, but I refused to show him any of my weaknesses.

“I will take you across if you ask me to, Persephone.”

Goosebumps broke out over my arms.

I should say no.

I should go back to the palace, sit down on my bed and wait, wait hours and hours, for Hades to return.

I had done it before. And it was safe there. I would be as safe as a bird in a cage, and just as lonely.

My skin prickled. I thought,
Well—
I won’t take his hand. It will be all right as long as I don’t touch him. And then I’ll be free. I’ll run with the horses…

I couldn’t think about it. I simply had to act.

I stepped into his boat, and he said nothing, though a squeal of laughter uncoiled from somewhere within him. The floor rocked beneath my feet as I moved to the farthest edge of the barge, opposite
Charon
, and he began to pole across the great expanse of black waters.

I stared ahead, watched for the appearance of the riverbank on the other side of the Underworld.
Charon
startled me when he whistled, strung together a high-pitched, discordant melody, and voices—male and female—sang along in thin voices. I couldn’t make out any of the words, but it seemed a sad song.

“How are you getting along at the palace, Persephone?”

The question came from nowhere and everywhere, a chorus of it, repeating again and again, as if spoken by ten different people. I glared at
Charon
, at the roiling pieces of mortals’ bodies that floated within his shape.

“Very well,” I murmured.

“That is good to hear, good to hear.” It was a young woman’s voice this time, sultry and slippery as silk. “I’ve heard that things are…unstable now in the Underworld.” The whisper slithered over my arms, and I shook it off, sighed deeply, but he was no longer looking at me, instead staring at the departing shore.

“What have you heard?” I asked him. “What do you know?”

“I know what I know, and I know what you know,” he answered, and continued poling, whistling a tune that reminded me of a child’s lullaby. “I know that the dead are unhappy. But they should be unhappy. They’re dead.” Laughter threaded the air like filament; I felt it, a ticklish spider’s web, clinging to my face.

“It is hard to feel happy in a place devoid of light, rife with death…isn’t it, Persephone? Have you ever lost someone to death? There’s never an end to death. It goes on and on and on and on…”

I craned my neck, searching for the riverbank, willing it to appear. I wouldn’t speak to him, encourage him. I had made a mistake, boarding this boat, and I ached to feel earth beneath my feet again.

“The dead are angry,” he hissed. I recoiled at the harshness of his words, leaning back slightly over the water. “They want equality, release and relief, and they will never find those things under the rule of Hades.”

My hands clenched at my sides, but I refused to take
Charon’s
bait. The boat tilted dangerously; I clung to the sides of it while he laughed.

“Be careful, Persephone.” It sounded like a warning, and he repeated it over and over in a chilling, singsong voice.

I dug my nails into my hands deeper and deeper as we rolled along, trying my best to ignore the ferryman and his nonsensical ramblings, multiplied, amplified, by a hundred different voices.

Dark thoughts agitated me further: He could push me overboard at any moment. He could tip the boat sideways, shake it until I let go.

I couldn’t help it—I cried out when the shore appeared, a dark, wet swath of emerald gleaming under the torches’ glow.

The boat collided with the riverbank, and I flew out of it as if my sandals were winged.
Charon
did not grab for me, as I feared he would, but he did not turn to go, either, and his blue eye stared.

“Please leave,” I said.

He began to whistle again; the sound shivered through my bones.

“Farewell, Persephone,” he whispered above a cacophony of terrible, mocking laughter. “Be careful. Be very careful.”

I had to watch him maneuver the boat around, pole through the dark waters until he vanished, finally, consumed by the blessed blackness. I stood and stared for a little while longer, to assure myself that he was truly gone, that he wouldn’t turn and come back.

I felt filthy, tainted; I wanted to scrub my skin clean.

When my heartbeat steadied, I inhaled deeply several times and then followed the edge of the riverbank, chirruping for the horses.

I heard their hooves, distant at first, then nearing. I clasped my hands in front of me, waited, and then Ebon and Evening appeared, shaking their black manes. I laughed at the sight of them, buried my nose in their shoulders,
breathed
deeply their good, earthy smells. They whinnied at me, and the sound, after
Charon’s
mad music, was like a balm.

I needed this. I needed the wildness of them. When I was with them, I remembered things I’d almost forgotten—clover, honey, clouds.

I scrubbed their backs with my fingers, and I petted their soft noses, and I chased them up and down the riverbank until my chest ached from the exertion.

I lost track of time.
Had it been hours or minutes?
Lying on my side on the stone, watching the horses frolic together, I began to feel tired, but I couldn’t sleep here. And I couldn’t cross the river. I would never ask
Charon
to ferry me back. My skin hived at the mere thought of him. Besides, he might ask for payment again, and I had nothing at all to give him.

The horses came to me, as if they sensed my anxiety, and they nosed me with their beautiful, gleaming heads.

I would have to wait. Sooner or later, Hades would realize I was missing, and Pallas would tell her where I’d gone. Exhausted, both of them, after a trying day, they would rescue me from my foolishness. And I would feel like a bothersome child and
hide away
in my room.

I didn’t want Hades to think of me as a child.

I bit my lip and traced my hand over Ebon’s silky muzzle.

What if I could find the silver string, after all? Maybe I hadn’t done it properly the first time. Maybe I’d given up too soon, distracted by
Charon’s
uninvited presence.

It would be cowardly not to try.

I stood up on the bank, gazed down at the opaque waters, and I felt very small and limited. The dark waves crested; the wretched souls wailed. To me, these people were indistinguishable, a mass of waterlogged faces, swollen, grasping hands. But they had lived once, loved once. I wondered about their stories. I wondered who missed them now.

The river raged before me as if furious at its own fate, a wet, dark pit of sorrow. I stared down at it, into it, spellbound.

This time, when I dunked my arms into the water, I was calmer, more patient. I bent my back so that my elbows were submerged, and I felt around, grabbing at pebbles. Pallas said the water could not harm me as long as my face stayed above it. It seemed a strange law, but so many things were strange here, and I had to believe it was true—for the sake of my peace of mind.

But this wasn’t working. There was no string. Not here, not in the shallows.          

So I waded into the water. I’d seen Pallas wade in once, when she’d been frustrated and unable to find the string right away. I had gaped in terror as the river licked at her thighs, but, almost instantly, a silver strand floated to the surface, leapt like a fish into her hands.

I didn’t know what else to do; it was my last hope for saving
myself
.

The water engulfed my hips, no string appeared, and my soul screamed that I must turn back. I was so afraid that, for a moment, I forgot how to walk, how to coordinate my movements. My teeth clacked together from the cold, and there were things—long, loathsome things—brushing up against my legs. Were they snakes, limbs?

I swept my hands around beneath the water, searching for the string, and took another lurching step.

There was a drop-off, and I lost my balance. I floundered, kicking up great arcs of water, but my head sunk down, into darkness. With a moan, I surfaced, gulping a mouthful of the fetid liquid. I swallowed it, spit, bobbed gracelessly, kicked with my legs, thrust outward with my arms, but I was confused, and too cold, and I’d wandered too deeply. Devoured by fear, hair plastered to my face, I realized with horror what had just happened: I’d plunged underwater, completely underwater. What did that mean—was I trapped now, forever? Was I stuck in the Styx, with the river souls?

A rush of water rocked me backward, and I was submerged again, and I struggled but couldn’t rise, couldn’t open my eyes, and now I felt hands, hands, hands—soft-skinned, plucking hands—grabbing at my legs and arms, pressing down on my head, holding me under. I thrashed, screamed, choked on water,
lashed
out with all of my immortal strength against the groping horrors surrounding me.

Gods can’t drown. But this was the river Styx, and I wondered if customary rules applied to it. Within moments, the dark water swallowed me. I sunk down and down, arms stretched over my head, making useless motions.

I missed my mother.

I wanted Hades.

I drifted, weightless.

There was a tug and a push. More souls, I guessed, nudging at my yielding body. But then I heard a scream, and it wasn’t human, and I came back into myself, found the will to fight again, and I thrust my hips hard, like a sea nymph swimming, and my hands entangled in something fibrous—it felt like hair.

I heard the scream again, but it wasn’t a scream, no. It was a neigh.

I wrapped the hair around my wrists, and I soared to the surface. My mouth gulped at the air, and I coughed until I felt my chest split in two. My eyes were bleary; I tried to rub at them, but my hands were too caught up in his mane—Ebon’s mane. Only his eyes, his nose were visible above the water, and, below, his powerful hooves churned. I clutched at his neck as he pulled me along.

On the shore, we both staggered out of the shallows. My legs gave way beneath me, and Ebon dragged me further inland, since my hands were still entangled in his hair. Finally, I fell free, my shoulder blades jarring against the stone.

Ebon stood quivering, snorting, huffing water through his nose, eyes rolled back, tossing his massive head back and forth, over and over. Evening, out of sight on the other side of the river, tore the air with his scream, frightened for his companion.

I couldn’t breathe properly, so I coughed on my hands and knees until I had spat out the black water, and I spit until it was all gone, though a slime coated my mouth, my tongue. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the earth and breathed in and out, deep, ragged inhalations, while I tried to understand how it was possible—why I had been permitted to escape the river Styx.

A gentle nose nudged my stomach, once, twice, and I gazed up at the dark, dripping creature. “Thank you,” I whispered, reached up my hand. He placed his nose beneath my fingers and rooted upward as I stroked him. Turning, then, he waded down into the deeper waters and began the long, treacherous swim back to Evening.

I watched him go, shaking, in shock. Could I have died? Really, truly died? Or would I have simply been trapped, lost in a sea of corpses forever, and never again see Hades, lose myself in her infinite eyes… 
A fate so much worse than death.

But I had been spared. I was soaked and stunned, but I was well, whole, thanks to Ebon.

It was a slow, fretful walk to Hades’ palace. I was too fatigued to hurry, but I had to get back before Pallas, before Hades, had to wash and make myself presentable. I didn’t want them to know how foolish I’d been, how recklessly I’d behaved. I didn’t want Hades to know I’d broken my promise to her to stay away from the Styx.