The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer
Page 20
Chapter 20
The Grove of Persephone
Jack awoke somewhere else, grasping Stephone and Becky's hands. He let go, stumbled forward, and fell to his knees. He kissed solid ground in gratitude, then laid down and curled up in the fetal position, shuddering.
“Wh-where were we just then?” asked Jack, as he was helped up onto unsteady legs. “I felt like I was . . . everything. But nothing, all at the same time.”
Stephone smiled over at him. “Yes, it's quite a sensation. Sex can't hold a candle to sailing the Ocean of Myth, which is all around us, as well as within us, encompassing all things in existence. It is the Stuff of Life. It is the Water of Life. The Ocean is a hodge-podge of the imaginations of all sentient beings. It is the creative thought-energy of Creation, liquefied. It is the pool from which all fable, myth, legend, and story derives.” She paused and clicked her tongue. “Or is it the other way around?” She shrugged. “Let's just say it's a working relationship.”
Jack observed the surroundings with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Wh . . . where are we? Is this the Underworld?”
The dark wood they stood in was dead and lifeless; no wind rustled the brittle leaves of the trees above. The sipapuni was a brackish puddle behind them. Blackened poplars snarled up from the ground like the twisted claws of some dead and buried beast. Weeping willows oozed a clear, mucousy fluid from their pustule-infested bark. Black-petaled daffodils gleamed, blue roses glowed, and asphodel flowers glimmered a ghostly whitish-gray, as if infused with polluted magic. Dead-looking pomegranate trees clustered about, twinkling red fruits clutched within their dessicated branches like macabre Christmas lights. An eerie pinkish light refracted off the fog-bank that lay across the forest floor like a wispy shroud draped over Mother Nature's corpse. The stench of rotten eggs hung about the whole dismal woods.
“Yes, Jack,” said Stephone. “The sipapuni of this World lies within my garden, often called the Grove of Persephone.”
“Ah. So this is your place, then,” said Jack, doing his level best not to look around in distaste.
“Yes. When I'm sequestered in the Underworld for the winter months, I spend a lot of time here. I plant death-daffodils, reap-roses, asphodel, and tend the pomegranates, black poplars, and weepy willows. My Grove is by far the nicest place on this side of the Stygian Marsh. The Elysian Fields are also located in the Underworld, but we won't get to visit them on this trip. The Unseen Palace marks the entrance to that blessed realm, and the Palace is as far as we go.”
“And how far is it to the Palace?” asked Tom Sawyer. He observed the surroundings through squinty eyes, as if by not seeing in full he could restrain himself from running around, berserk, and surveying all with furious curiosity.
Stephone bit her lower lip. “It's hard to say, exactly. Directions and distances are funny here. The best way to navigate is by landmarks. They call out, being hubs of activity. If you follow their resonance, you will inevitably reach them.”
“So how long d'you think it'll take?” said Becky Thatcher, glancing warily about the Grove.
“It would take us many weeks, Underworld-time, by foot. The Unseen One and the Judges of the Dead have flying chariots, but they're the only ones around here with any kind of high-speed transportation. Some of the gods and monsters have free run of the place, but that's because they have wings. But I've got a friend or two who might help us cut down on travel time.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “Just curious, but what does weeks down here in hell amount to back there on Earth?”
Stephone shrugged. “A day or two.”
“We gonna hafta stay hid during this cross-country trek?” said Tom, examining a crimson-illumined pomegranate with spellbound interest.
“It would be nice, but it won't be possible. We will be crossing vast, empty stretches of wasteland and will be easy to spot from above. We'll just have to be careful and hope we don't run into any trouble.”
“So which way do we go?” asked Becky, peering at a death-daffodil whose stamen was quivering and leaning towards her, as if sensing nearby flesh and wanting a quick fuck of life.
“We'll head to the Elm of False Dreams. From there, we'll follow the queue of shades until we reach the Stygian Marsh. The Asphodel Meadows, Tartarus, and the Elysian Fields—the true Realm of the Dead—lie on the Marsh's far bank.” Stephone glanced between her companions, who all stared resolutely back at her. “So let's not waste any more time. To the Elm!”
And Team Myth departed the Grove of Persephone.