She sat up. Was Demeter contrasting Aidoneus favorably with the Olympians?
“You know what I speak of.” She looked away from Persephone’s questing eyes in the mirror, her own filling with tears as bile crept up her throat. “Whatever… whatever else he is, he is not like them.”
Persephone turned, clutching her mother’s hands in hers. She was not expecting to hear this mere days before the Pomegranate Agreement would send her back to the Underworld. She’d wagered that a thousand years would pass before she heard anything like this— even an inkling that her mother accepted her marriage. Persephone lifted her mother’s hands and kissed Demeter’s knuckles, happy tears clouding her eyes.
Demeter tried to stop herself from crying. “At least by… by marrying him, you don’t have to be at Olympus as often as I. At least you are saved from their lies and gossip and endless affairs when your father calls up the members of the Dodekatheon. You’re not forced to witness his…”
Demeter shook her head, unable to finish her sentence. Persephone wrapped her arms around her mother’s shaking shoulders. Tears ran down her face and she buried a quiet sob in the warm folds of Demeter’s mantle. “I’m going to miss you too, Mother.”
“I only have three days left with you.”
“We don’t have three days.” She squeezed her mother’s shoulders. “We have forever. I love you. Married or not, I’ll always be your daughter.”
21.
“Sing! You maidens and you mothers, sing with them: Demeter greatly hail! Lady of much bounty, of many measures of corn!” Diocles said aloud, walking along the Sacred Way with a pitcher of milk. He poured it on the ground as they walked, offerings to the earth itself. Demeter and Persephone followed, crowned with diadems of wheat and barley. The village women laid down the husks and stalks for them to walk across, and priestesses held a painstakingly embroidered linen canopy over their heads on wood poles. Persephone resented the honor— it blocked her view of the sky, and she had very little time left to see it.
Triptolemus and Eumolpus walked closely behind them, followed by Celeus and Metaneira holding Demophon, who delightedly chewed on his finger and wriggled about, twisting his head this way and that, watching everyone gathered at the sides of the road. A procession of Diocles’s and Eumolpus’s students trailed after, holding fresh and full stalks of wheat and barley, swinging censers filled with frankincense.
As the procession passed each field, the menfolk of Eleusis picked up their sickles and started reaping and threshing, piling the mature grain onto oxen-driven carts bound for the mills. A single cart stayed in the fields with them, filled with barrels of barley mead, and men lined up to quench their thirst each time they hauled away a heavy bundle of grain.
Elsewhere, young girls and boys scaled the trees, picking figs and pomegranates. The sweet scent of over-ripened juices filled the air whenever a fruit fell from their small hands. Goats and chickens made short work of what tumbled to the ground. A portion of everything gathered was set aside, and several of Eumolpus’s students carried sacrificial baskets of pomegranate and figs, barley, dates, and olives to the Plutonion. Diocles’s followers carried bushels of wheat and barley, as well as a few piglets and lambs to the Telesterion.
Diocles continued as they walked, pouring out more milk. “Save this people in harmony and prosperity, and in the fields bring us all pleasant things! Feed our kin, bring us flocks, bring us the corn-ear, bring us the harvest! And nurse peace, that he who sows must also reap.”
Persephone glanced up at her mother, who smiled at her and squeezed her hand. They walked on, the rustle of wheat sheaves, the slice of sickles keeping time with the songs sung by the Eleusinians. The fresh cut stalks were bundled, the Eleusinians’ stores stacked high in the agora. Women shook the wheat and blew the chaff from the corn, the empty husks scattering across the roads and floating through the air. By nightfall, the exhausted workers had retreated to the center of town to celebrate the brewing of barley. Flutes and lyres played as drums pounded out a rhythm, the laughter became raucous the more they drank, and fires blazed against the chilly air.
“If you don’t mind, my lady, I think I’ll turn in early.” Triptolemus gave Demeter a kiss on the cheek.
“Of course. I’m tired as well. I shouldn’t be long.” Demeter and Persephone sat on their thrones, crowned with wheat and surrounded by offerings of grain and fruit. Pomegranates were the only things missing— piled in great numbers at the Plutonion, but not allowed inside these halls by Demeter. Persephone understood.
“I’m glad we’ll be together tonight and tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” She smiled, but her eyes were cast down, and Persephone could see the line of her lips tightening.
“I know we only have a short time left,” Persephone said, grasping her mother’s hand. “But when I return, we’ll spend more of spring and summer together. It won’t be so hard for the mortals while I’m away this time, right?”
“This bounty will carry them through the winter while you’re gone,” Demeter said. Persephone sighed. “Kore, you understand why I must do this, don’t you? Why Zeus cannot be trusted unless I hold him to his word?”
She nodded, her forehead tightened. “I do.”
“Things are going to change for them.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are beings that grow when change occurs; not by passage of time. The Titanomachy changed us, having children changes us, but little has done so since. I worry about what this cycle of seasons will mean for all of us, now. We… Me, you, him… We are responsible for that.”
Persephone contemplated her mother’s words. It had taken her aeons to grow into a young woman, and such little time to mature into her role as the Queen of the Underworld once she arrived there.
“Are we in danger?” Persephone said, alarmed. Had Zeus introduced her to Apollo to try to keep her in the sunlight and away from Aidon for more time each year? To circumvent his oath and keep the deathless ones from being affected by a cycle of seasons?
“I hope not. Your father is opposed to all this,” she said waving her hand at the Eleusinians celebrating around them. “That much I know.”
“They will have to adapt.”
“They won’t like it. Their children will grow up faster, they will receive fewer offerings each winter. Everything… everything is different now.”
“I don’t see change as a bad thing.” Persephone smiled. “And I wonder what else the cosmos has in store for me.”
“In what way?”
“Once… I have children.”
“You mean by…” Demeter slowly turned to face Persephone and blinked.
She had taken a calculated risk by bringing it up, and expected a measure of disapproval or anger. Not the confusion and concern twisting Demeter’s features. “What’s the matter?”
“He didn’t say… Hades didn’t tell you…” She tightened her jaw and snapped her head forward.
“Tell me what?”
“That selfish… that self-centered…” She spoke through clenched teeth.
“Stop, please. You promised.”
Demeter set her jaw in stony silence.
“Just tell me.”
“Aidoneus cannot sire children. I thought he would have at least told you that.”
She grew cold. A king as infertile as his kingdom, the God of Prophecy had said. The room started to spin.
“Come,” Persephone said, standing.
“Where? Why?”
“Anywhere else. I don’t want to discuss this here,” Persephone said, nodding her head at the mortals. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Demeter must be lying. Her mother was angry that she was going to leave the day after tomorrow. Persephone knew that these three months of peace were too good to be true. She steeled herself for an inevitable fight. “For both our sakes. And theirs.”
Demeter nodded and stood. They bowed to their attendants and the celebrants, then walked to the small ro
om behind the great dais.
Persephone shut the door, muffling the music outside, the beat of drums making the wood door vibrate on its hinges. She wiped away her tears with her shawl and took a deep breath. “I know you hate him. I accept that you hate him. But to say something like this—”
“I swear on the Styx it is true.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That is… quite the oath, Mother.”
“Daughter, I have no reason, no desire to lie to you about this. Not when I could be so easily disproven.” Demeter gave a heavy sigh and lowered her head. “I don’t want to fight. Please. There is no need.”
Persephone turned from her mother, her eyes and throat burning, arms folded tightly around her chest.
“I don’t want to stop you from having children— I can’t. I don’t even want to discourage you. I would care for any children you bore as though they were my own.”
“You need to tell me everything, then,” Persephone said, her stomach dropping as she faced Demeter. “Surely you understand why I find it hard to believe you.”
Demeter averted her gaze from her daughter’s palpable hurt. She could feel Persephone’s eyes boring into her. “Please, Daughter. You and I have had a very long day. Can we discuss this tomorrow?”
Persephone relaxed her shoulders and tried to breathe evenly. “Tomorrow, then.”
Demeter’s mouth was set in a grim line, her eyes filled with compassion. “Get some rest, dear.”
Demeter left the greenhouse and quietly shut the door behind her. Persephone stared at the beds of fallow soil, her ragged breathing the only sound in the room.
***
Aidoneus cannot sire children.
Persephone walked through the fields. It was her last day above ground. In the distance, she could hear Eumolpus joking with Minthe, who managed a titter at his words. She turned in their direction and saw Minthe clasp her hands behind her back and rock on her heels, and Eumolpus nervously tousle the curls of his dark hair. Soon enough, she mused, they might become lovers and have piles of fat curly-haired children.
I thought he would have at least told you that.
Perhaps Minthe would be with child when she returned. Minthe finally saw Persephone staring at them and nodded to her. She forced a smile and nodded back, then looked up at the sun.
A king as infertile as his kingdom.
What did that arrogant Olympian know anyway? What did any of them know? No one knew anything about her husband, but her. The sun was starting to drop in the sky, just past noonday, and Persephone knew that in a matter of hours she would see Aidoneus again.
I want to give you a child, Aidoneus. A son. I want to fill our home with your sons and daughters.
He’d said nothing that night. Persephone took long strides to catch up with her mother. The menfolk were clearing the last patches of wheat from the field, the women shaking the heavy grains in wide woven baskets. Translucent husks drifted away on currents of air, as surely as snowflakes would in a month or two, as surely as petals and pollen would when she returned. Soon silos would be filled. Mills would grind all winter long. The people would eat. Their winters would be spent planning, weaving, making babies.
“It’s tomorrow,” she said, words catching in her throat. Persephone paced next to Demeter, along with Diocles, who carried a censer in her wake, and a student who poured kykeon onto the fallow ground as an offering.
“So it is.”
“Are you going to explain what you said last night?”
She motioned to the Eleusinians. “Leave us.”
Diocles bowed to her and skirted away, avoiding eye contact with Persephone.
“Daughter—”
“Before you begin,” she said, “I need honest answers. If I had a child by Aidoneus, would you accept it as your grandchild?”
“Yes,” Demeter said, without hesitation.
“And if I wished to raise it in Chthonia, would you still love it?”
“Yes.”
“Can I trust what you will tell me?”
“Yes, Daughter,” Demeter said, starting to grow exasperated.
“Then you need to swear it. To me. If you love me, swear to tell the truth.”
Demeter took in deep breath. “I, Demeter Anesidora, daughter and inheritor of the bounty of great Mother Rhea, swear on the River Styx to tell you the truth about your ability to bear children. All of the truth.”
She expected Demeter to flinch, but her mother stood resolute. Persephone faltered, her heart beating out of her chest. “Why can I not have a child with Aidoneus?”
Demeter sighed. She was sworn to answer, but knew the truth would hurt her daughter. “He rules the Realm of the Dead. He is Hades and Hades is him, and there is no life among the dead.”
“But that’s not true,” Persephone said, the corner of her mouth peaking into a hopeful smile. “There is a grove of pomegranates there now. And they are very much alive.”
“It is not a part of that world. If they grow there, they arrived with you,” Demeter said, shaking her head, trying to gentle the news. She could still see a spark of hope in Kore’s expectant eyes and it pained her to know that Persephone herself had asked her to extinguish it with her answers. “The grove you say grows there is not possible in that world. These are laws that have existed since Chaos formed that realm from the Void.”
“But… Thanatos… Hypnos… Charon, the Erinyes, Morpheus, all the children of Nyx… they were conceived and born, all the thousands of them, while Nyx ruled the Underworld—”
“And the night sky. Her domain was more than just the world below. And there was no Death until Thanatos came to be.”
Persephone sunk, and anger buoyed her up. Her throat started to sting again and words became painful. “But there is life there now. It could happen, and everything you think you know—”
“My dear, if it were to be, it would have happened as soon as you…” Demeter could barely say the words. “…had congress with him.”
Persephone ground her teeth together.
“You were conceived on your father’s and my first time,” Demeter continued. “Most divine children are. And yet… all the time he had you down there… no doubt you engaged in many opportunities to…”
Go ahead, Persephone thought, balling her fists. Ask. I'll tell you everything, she fantasized, her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. In detail. Congress indeed! We made love. We made love twice a day. Three times. Once we stayed in bed all day until I was raw and he couldn’t bid himself to rise again— and we could only lie in each other’s arms, exhausted. I loved it. He loved it. And we loved each other with hands and lips and tongues, and still have a thousand other things we want to try. We would flirt and make one another blush when we spoke of how much we wanted each other. And when we didn’t make love, Mother, we fucked. He fucked me sweetly. Gloriously. Hard. Until I screamed his name! He wasn’t satisfied until he brought me to ecstasy and I wasn’t satisfied until he cried out and filled me with his seed!
But that was the crux of it. His seed. It was the truth of what Demeter had left unspoken in her passionless dismissal of their conjugal delights. Her father’s pursuit of nymphs, goddesses, and mortal women seldom lasted beyond a single coupling, yet his children were strewn about the earth like wild oat grass.
Eight months had passed since Aidoneus had first taken her in his chariot— outside the boundaries of the realm of the dead. Even if Hecate was correct and conception wasn’t possible in the Underworld, she’d been at her peak of fertility on the way there. They had met at midsummer in the Plutonion. But they had coupled when the moon was waning and she was past her cycle’s fertility. And surely something as momentous as conceiving a god didn’t always happen at the first opportunity…
“We’ve never actively tried to conceive a child,” Persephone said demurely.
Demeter pursed her lips and shook her head. “It happens if it’s supposed to happen. If it can happen. There’s no trying about it, Kore.”
She clenched her teeth. Her anger rekindled and flared into a roaring fire. “I’ve asked you so many times, Mother, to please stop calling me that. Kore means maiden. And if we’re talking about my— my marital life with my husband— then obviously—”
“You asked me about children. About your duties as his wife.”
“My duties as…” she looked away and shook her head.
“Yes, your imagined duty to bear him a child. Because honestly, I have no idea why you would willingly do so, since you must divide your time between worlds. Besides— the last time a god from below begat on a goddess of the earth, they brought forth Typhoeus, who nearly destroyed—”
“Enough!!” She stilled when a few villagers looked up at them and then hastily returned to their work.
“Kore, you asked me to swear to tell you—”
“I’m not speaking about this anymore! You’ve proven over and over that you know nothing about my husband.”
Demeter softened. The last thing she wanted was for her daughter to leave upset with her and have Aidoneus whispering hatred and lies in her ear until the snows retreated. “Daughter, forgive me. This must be very difficult for you, knowing that tomorrow you must leave the sunlight and all life behind.”
“I—”
“You’re overwrought, and here I am making it worse.” Demeter grabbed Persephone in a tight hug, her daughter’s arms pinned to her sides, before drawing back and resting her hands on Persephone’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
Overwrought? I’m the Queen of the Underworld and I’m not a little girl anymore! She looked down at her bare, mud stained feet, her toes curling in the drying grasses. “I’m… The past few days have been long.”
Triptolemus was trudging toward them, a broad smile on his face. He carried a dark clump of dirt with cutting from the strongest wheat crop sticking out of it. Demeter gave him a wide grin and Persephone forced a smile.
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