by Cassie Day
SOON, THE MEADOWS SPRAWL in waves of flowers farther than I can see. Souls move slowly through the fields, hips swaying in a steady rhythm. Some chatter to themselves, their voices low.
The brush of cloth against plant stalks from souls wandering the fields. River splashing against the rocky shore. No cicadas or crickets. No birds. No shrieks of carefree children.
The sheer size and how far the fields stretch—I swallow around a dry throat at the thought of failing my bargain. If life as a servant doesn’t claim me quick, the sickness will.
I wander through flowers reaching past my hips. Petals scatter across my dress. My hem muddies from the soil beneath. Another layer of grime on my one bit of clothing.
I can’t count the minutes or hours trickling by without the aid of the sun or moon. Though Nekros is a usually dim place, light bathes the meadows from a golden sky above.
The shore is a distant line far down the hills when I stumble upon a fountain. Children pat at the clear water within, giggling softly. A woman sits upon the stone ledge. Her hair is the precise shade of dark brown to match mine.
Stumbling forward on aching feet, I gawk at her back. “Mother?”
The woman hums but doesn’t turn.
I reach out, stopping just short of her pale shoulder. “Mother.”
Perhaps her soul senses life. Perhaps my voice breaks through the calm haze settled upon her as it settles upon all in Asphodel. Regardless, she turns her head.
She’s wrinkled and aged. But her nose is all wrong, her mouth too generous. The sprinkling of gray in her hair is too noticeable despite the braided hairstyle knotted close to her temples. Nothing like the loose waves my mother preferred.
All wrong.
Silly girl, I chide myself. There is hope and then there is foolishness.
I stifle a sob and trudge around the fountain, then past. Soon, it’s in the distance.
The woman doesn’t call me back.
The black eating away at the edge of my vision only grows the longer I walk. I don’t stop until I reach a man toiling away over an open cooking fire just beyond the flowering fields.
“Excuse me,” I say.
Huddled beneath a plain rectangle of a building, he’s cooking an empty wooden stick. No meat or fish. The simple wood doesn’t char and the fire is free of any heat. Yet he gazes at the fire with intent, not lifting his head no matter how much I clear my throat.
“Hello,” I say. Then again in a shout echoing across the fields.
He looks up. Instead of recognition sparking in his watery eyes, he looks through me. “Who’s there?” he asks in a croak.
I cross my arms. “Me. I’m standing right in front of you.”
His scraggly gray beard wobbles. He lifts the stick, taking a bite of air. He groans as if tasting something delicious, then wipes a hand across his face.
I tap my foot in the dirt. He startles, falling off his low stool until he’s shuffling in the dirt. “Where’d you come from?”
“I’ve been standing here for minutes.” I rub a hand against my forehead, trying to stave off a brewing headache.
He hums and crawls back onto his stool, grabbing the stick from where it fell on the ground, and takes another empty bite.
“Have you seen a comb?”
He chomps again.
“It has a stone of shifting colors.”
He says nothing beyond the wet smack of him biting into nothing at all.
“A comb!” I shout.
Eyes wide, he glances around. “Who’s there?”
I throw my arms into the air, irritation swarming while heat blazes in my cheeks.
All the souls I walk past, I ask the same questions: have they seen a comb? One with a stone of shifting colors? And each time, they ignore me or act like they can barely comprehend my presence. None of them answer my questions, too lost in their tasks. Thatching a roof, piling a thin wall with mud, or stirring an empty iron pot.
At least this man sees me for a moment. Yet even now, he’s back to his not-food, oblivious to my presence once more.
I move on, ignoring the souls I pass. Sweeping a hand along the prickling top of the tall grass, I walk, lost in thought.
My mother is here. Somewhere. She’s one more oblivious soul in the unremarkable fields.
I should have saved her from this place. What was I thinking? To squander away my one chance for her back, to allow Nyx’s honeyed words to creep in—has grief twisted my mind?
“Stop thinking so loud.” A whisper in my ear, breath tickling the shell. “I could hear you all the way in Tartarus.”
I spin, stumbling. Nyx stands behind me in her shroud of shadows. At her side, a man waits. Proud from the tilt of his head to how he meets my stare directly. He, at least, doesn’t undulate like Nyx.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
With a twinkling laugh, she spins, her dress made of smoke becoming a sheet of night sky complete with glittering stars. “To help you, my dear.”
“Help?” I release my clenched fists. Blades of grass linger in my sweating palms, tickling the sensitive skin. Warmth surges in my chest beneath Nyx’s regard. “You know where the comb is?”
Another wave of dizziness hits. By the time this one vanishes, I’ve staggered backward in the grass until the stiff strands give way to petal-soft wildflowers.
Nyx tuts. “Of course I know. Hades is predictable.” She watches my shaking knees. “But Hades will void your bargain if I help with that. No, I’ll help you another way.”
Plucking a soft yellow flower, I spin it between two fingers. The man doesn’t move, his stare boring into Nyx. His hair shines white in Asphodel’s golden light.
I sigh, glad to be free of his gaze. “Hades knows you’re in his realm.”
She laughs, stars sliding together in her voice and dress. “Yes. The night sky gives it away, I’m afraid.” She stares upward briefly, nose wrinkling at the gilded sky above. “He likely knows I’m here now. I suppose I have my moments of predictability, too.”
She elbows the man, amusement coloring her voice.
He says nothing.
“So serious, my son,” Nyx chides.
“What can you help with?” My stare turns to the man. “And who is this?”
I’m forever grasping for answers in her presence. I’m mortal. Naive. With my stained clothing and salt-streaked hair, I’m filthier than any mortal in Kyma.
Thoughts of Bion and Cosmas swell unbidden. Are they well? How nice it would be to have Bion chattering at my side! Or Cosmas, his boundless stories offering aid in my bargain.
I shake the errant thoughts away.
“This is my son, Thanatos. Though I suppose you’d know him as the god of death.”
I don’t know a thing about him. Aunt’s stories are rich with detail, true, but there’s a set number of them. In her old age, she can’t venture ashore as easily as the younger sirens to gather more, and no one in my family is eager to take her place as family storyteller.
But I say nothing of my naivete to them. Instead, I nod, spinning the flower along my fingertips.
Nyx waves her hands. “Well, get started. She’s on a strict time limit, dear.”
What time is it? The shore and Charon are lost to the endless fields. Win or lose, I’ll need to find my way back eventually. Yet even now the echo of the river lapping against rock reaches this far. I’ll follow the sound back.
Thanatos steps forward. His expression is hard but his hands are gentle against the sides of my neck.
Flinching, I try backing away. The god of death touches me, skin on skin. Shouldn’t I be dead? But I’m alive enough for the calluses on his palms to scratch at my skin.
“Relax,” he says. “If you were meant to be dead, you would be already.”
“Hurry, darling,” Nyx says, looking at the light above.
Thanatos sighs. “Of course, Mother.”
I can’t help but crack a smile. He pulls away. His fingertips, once tan, stain
inky black. Yet the longer I stare, the more the staining fades to his normal skin.
“The sickness won’t bother you any longer.” He shakes his hands, backing away to stand at Nyx’s side.
I take a step. No knees knocking together. No black lingering in my vision. No waves of dizziness. He’s rid me of the sickness cursed onto my kind by Zeus himself.
“Thank you,” I say, blatant relief coloring my voice. “How...?”
“You’re welcome. Your life will continue to diminish but you’ll feel none of the symptoms.”
My shoulders fall. Not gone, after all.
His gaze lingers on his mother while he speaks—did she ask for his help or command it? Yet I can read nothing in his fathomless black-brown eyes.
Nyx claps. “Wonderful work, dearest.”
Thanatos pulls his shoulders back, expression all haughty pride. Her attention shifts to me. He deflates, the frown stretching his mouth nearing a pout.
“Agathe.” She leans in, stroking my cheek with her hand. “I’m proud of you, my dear. You’ll attain what’s rightfully yours soon. And then we can be true equals, yes?”
I soak up the warmth in her words. My heart slows. I lean into her palm, some starved part of me finding comfort. “Yes,” I breathe.
She smiles. Flawless squares of teeth all in a row. Between each blink, she dissolves into a tight ball of shadow. Her palm becomes a tendril, then retreats to become another layer in the shifting ball.
“You will succeed,” she says.
So strong, so sure, and I can’t help but believe.
Nyx shoots upward through the warm sky, sinking through the golden light until she’s gone somewhere beyond.
When I bring my head back down, Thanatos still lingers. He holds my stare with a tilt of his head.
“Son!” Nyx shouts.
With a sigh, he fades. One blink and the next and he’s gone altogether.
The distant chattering of souls fills the ensuing quiet. I walk, edging around a mass of children playing a clapping game, and continue on.
I can’t look back any longer. I made my choice. My mother is lost to this place and lost to me. A weight lifts from my shoulders.
Nyx helped. For all the tricks the gods play, she’s been kind.
The flower in my hand stills. Tricks. In all the stories, the gods play tricks. But Hades?
Hades doesn’t.
And if Hades wants to hide an item, he’ll put it with a soul clear and obvious. So obvious I dismissed the thought before it came to fruition. He’ll do anything to ensure our bargain fair, even pry into my life. I stop, wildflowers surrounding me on all sides. The sound of clapping children echoes.
My mother is gone but she is not lost.
The flower falls to the dirt. I run back toward the children, laughing. My dress rubs smooth and clean along my skin. My hair streams in luminous curls in my wake. Nyx’s last gift.
Chapter 15
THE CHILDREN DON’T notice me standing in their midst, too engrossed in a clapping game full of hushed songs. The clapping doesn’t match, each child more likely to hit a shoulder instead of a hand. The same dazed oblivion settles over their faces.
Clearing my throat, I step further into the throng. They twist and turn around my taller body but don’t pay me any notice otherwise.
“Excuse me,” I say.
A smattering of giggles but not one lifts their head.
“Hello,” I say.
Again as a shout, “Hello!”
Their heads swivel upward. The clapping and singing tapers off.
“Who are you?” a girl covered in freckles asks, craning her head to squint at me.
“Agathe,” I say.
Already some of them lift their hands, forgetting my presence. Even the freckled girl’s eyes glaze over, her expression falling to blankness.
“Agathe!” I shout.
Their shoulders jump. Their eyes clear.
I must be quick and loud with my questions. The children are more aware than the adults but not by much.
I pull my hair over one shoulder, bending to their level. “Have you seen a woman with hair this color?”
The freckled girl laughs with her head thrown back. A boy to her side rolls his eyes. He’s smaller, less freckled, but the resemblance is clear. He’s her brother. Both dead so young.
“You,” he says, pointing a chubby finger at me.
I shake my tumble of hair, twisting about so all of them look. “Besides me. An older woman with streaks of gray in this color hair.”
Furrowed brows and pursed mouths. Moments tick by. The older children are lost to clouded expressions and incoherent mumbles by the time the boy opens his mouth again.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
His sister snaps out of her daze to nod. “Yes, her name.”
Of course. Here I am showing them a hair color when a name works better.
These children aren’t sirens beneath the Akri, where hair color is easier to discern who you’re headed toward in the churning waves. Not all of the sirens can handle mind-speak from farther distances, especially the children.
“Her name is Elpis.”
Her name doesn’t hurt like it used to—no matter how much I chant it in my head, the familiar pain doesn’t come.
The boy grabs my hand, his palm dwarfed in mine, and tugs me free from the other children. “I know Elpis!” he says. “She sings with us sometimes.”
His sister jogs to keep up, her hands grasping at the waist of my dress. “We’ll take you to her. She likes the frog fountain when she’s not playing with us.”
My mother befriended these lost children. Even in her afterlife, the same grasping need drives her. All at once my decision to leave her dead rings true. She would’ve kept trying for another child no matter how it destroyed her returned life. She’s better off here in the meadows, at peace. These children need a mother.
I stumble after the siblings, trying for a smile. It falls flat. In moments, I’ll see my mother again. In moments, she’ll know I’ve chosen immortality over her life.
A stone fountain appears around the gentle curve of a hill.
“Elpis!” the boy exclaims.
A woman sits on the fountain edge, her back facing us. She trails a pale hand in the clear water within. I know that shining scar along one shoulder where a sharp barnacle caught skin. In the warm light, her hair is the precise shade to match mine.
Holding my breath until my chest burns, I don’t dare hope. What if I’m wrong?
She turns.
And oh, there’s my mother’s sharp nose and ice-chip irises. Her mouth lifts into a blinding grin. “You’ve come to play so soon? And you’ve brought my daughter.”
The girl nods, all seriousness, while her brother giggles. “She wanted to see you.”
“Such wonderful children you are,” she croons.
Her voice is wrong. Worse, her eyes hold the same dullness as everyone else here. They glimmer with recognition upon seeing us but it’s lost in moments.
I swallow the tears stinging my throat. “Mother.”
The children rush forward to slap their hands in the fountain water. Their attention wanes. The spell takes over.
My mother smiles and pats the stone beside her. I sit. If I don’t, I’ll collapse. I take in her face, the gray in her hair, and catch the glimmer of a jewel nestled deep in her loose bun.
The comb.
She reaches to touch it. “You like it?”
She pulls it free but keeps it close to her body. Her brows furrow together. Her hair tumbles down to her shoulders. “I’m sure someone gave it to me. A man.”
“Mother,” I choke out.
But she doesn’t hear.
“Oh!” she says. “Perhaps it was your father. Yes, he was an affectionate sort. Always giving me gifts and trinkets before I returned to the sea.”
My father? Not once in all our years together has she mentioned him. Nekros and Asphodel Meadows—what have t
hey done to her mind? But Aunt’s story of Orpheus venturing into this realm returns. The dead find peace in their afterlives, whatever peace means to them.
She sighs. “I had to find different sires for the other children. He became too attached and unwilling to see me leave, but I regret that.” She turns the comb over in her hands. The jewel gleams purple-green-blue. “He was a good man.”
Time is running out. I won’t win until the comb rests in my hands.
I clear my throat. “I need the comb, Mother.”
She frowns, curling it closer. “I can’t give it away! He gave it to me as a gift.”
I should lunge forward and wrestle it from her hands. But I won’t. This isn’t my whole mother but enough of her is there. I won’t risk hurting her even in the afterlife.
“He won’t know.” I grasp my hands in front of me like I’m a child begging for a trinket.
Her voice shrill, she leans away. “He will! It’s bad enough I’m on land without him at my side—I won’t give away his gift, too.”
A sob hitches in my chest. She thinks herself alive. How far has her mind warped?
Worse, my siren song may not work on the dead. Besides, Hades and his entourage are watching, tracking my trek through Asphodel, and I won’t spoil my one advantage. Bad enough Nyx guessed correctly.
“Mother.” I pass a hand over her head. Her tense shoulders go lax. “He sent me to retrieve his gift.”
She hisses. “He means to take it back?”
“No!” Softer, “No.” I pet her head. “He means to make improvements to the comb. He wants to add more jewels. Ones to match your eyes.”
She smiles. “He always did like my eyes.”
“Yes. And he’d like to add a touch of their color to your comb.”
I place my hand over where it’s clutched in her palms.
Her fingers unfurl one spindling bone at a time. “I suppose that’s all right. But make sure he works quickly! I won’t be kept waiting long.”
“Of course.”
“And tell him to visit me again.”
The comb slides into my hand, yellow mixed with brown in the sleek set of tortoiseshell prongs. The jewel glistens beneath the light.
“Yes,” I say. Glance up when she pats my head. “Remember that I love you.”