Persephone's Orchard (The Chrysomelia Stories)

by Ringle, Molly

  “But…” She frowned. “If we were gods, how could we have died?”

  A chill shivered through Adrian. How he wished he could spare her that memory. “That, I shouldn’t explain. You’ll trust the memories better if they come from your own head.”

  “Oh, fine.”

  “You’ll know soon. Really. So…” He dropped the fern and laced together his fingers, taking on a humble expression. “You forgive me for the pomegranate stunt?”

  “I’m going to need more time for that,” she grumbled. But the flicker of teasing in her tone gave him hope. She sighed, and pulled out her phone to glance at the screen. “I need to get back soon, if you’re not going to tell me anything else.”

  “All right. I’ve given you enough to think about today.” He clambered down the tree’s trunk, and held up his arms to her.

  She sat at the edge of a branch, swinging her legs down. “Do I jump?”

  “Sure. I can catch you.”

  Still frowning, she sprang out of the tree. Adrian caught her around the middle, her arms colliding with his shoulders and head, her breasts in his face for one pleasantly distracting second. He lowered her to her feet, and they dusted bits of moss off their clothes.

  “Did you used to be in a wheelchair?” she asked abruptly.

  Caught off guard, he felt the old defensiveness lock across his face like a shield. “How’d you find that out?”

  “The Internet. There was an article from a while back, about you and Kiri, and other assistance dogs.”

  “But how? I mean, I never told you my last name or what city I was from or anything.”

  “I saw your name and address on Kiri’s dog tags, in your bathroom. In the Underworld.”

  Realizing he’d left those in plain sight, he spread his palm over his face. “I am so bloody stupid.”

  “So when you got your superpowers…that made you able to walk?”

  Ugh. This was a can of worms he did not feel like reopening. “Yeah,” he said, dropping his hand and looking off at the horizon.

  “Sorry. Maybe it’s none of my business.”

  It was kind of her to apologize, when she was under no obligation to do so. He pushed a smile to the surface. “I think I did nothing but run for about two weeks when I got cured. Must’ve run a thousand kilometers in all. Gave Kiri a nice workout.”

  She smiled down at the dog. “I can imagine.”

  “Come on, let’s take you back.” He reached out and clasped her hand, not even thinking what he was doing until he felt her fingers tense in his grasp. Rather than pull his hand away, though, he lingered to see what she’d do. And in a moment she relaxed, and allowed him to hold her hand as they walked back to the stake with the orange flagging.

  When they reached it, she gasped and dropped his hand, staring at him.

  “What?” he asked, alarmed.

  “I slept with you!”

  “Oh. Which time are you thinking of?”

  “As Grete and Karl—I was married and I slept with you!”

  “Just the once. I was leaving forever. It was our only chance.”

  “Hang on, what do you mean, ‘which time’?” She sounded shocked. “How many other times—other lives—”

  Now he couldn’t keep from grinning. “How many? In all the lives together? Oh, my. I’d have to be counting a long time to come up with an answer to that.”

  With a short shriek of outrage, she turned away.

  “You’re only just remembering this?” he asked.

  She spun around to him again, shaking her fingertips as if to get something off them. “This is weird! You have no idea how weird it is to remember doing something you haven’t done.”

  “Actually, I have a good idea what that’s like.”

  Sophie scowled. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, or at the memories. In fact, I quite like those memories. But I don’t mean that in a sleazy way.”

  “I know. You’re a guy.” She grumbled the words in resignation.

  “Well. I’m human.”

  She lifted her face to study him. “Yet you’re Hades.”

  He gazed into her eyes, almost shivering at how familiar they were. “Pretty much.”

  “You’re Hades and you kidnapped me—Persephone—and dragged me away to the Underworld in a chariot pulled by black horses. Then you tricked me into eating a pomegranate so I’d have to come back to you.”

  “Funny how that worked out, isn’t it?”

  “Is that how you did it the first time around?” she asked.

  “Go to sleep and find out.”

  Chapter Ten

  WHAT ADRIAN REMEMBERED OF HADES’ life, he was at first inclined to doubt, because how could anything so far-fetched, from so long ago, and so influenced by his own knowledge of mythology be accurate? But comparing his memories with those of Rhea, Nikolaos, Sanjay, and others showed him it was real, for they all matched up. Soon Sophie’s memories would fall into place too.

  Hades was born on Crete sometime around 1700 B.C., to Adrian’s best estimation. Adrian knew the island was actually called Keftara by its citizens at the time, and his own name was Aidisi—or those would be Adrian’s guesses at the spelling, since he rarely wrote at all back then, and when he did he used his civilization’s hieroglyphs rather than the modern Latin-based alphabet. But the familiarity of mythology and geography led him and the other immortals to refer to their past selves and countries by the names found in modern books. “Hades” had a certain cachet to it and Adrian had come to like it.

  Besides, he didn’t fancy an eternity of correcting people: “Actually, it’s ‘Aidisi.’”

  Hades’ parents grew barley and figs, and kept pigs and goats, in a village half a day’s walk from the palace city of Knossos. Hades was married at age fifteen in an arranged match, and, following the local custom, moved to his wife’s village on the other side of the valley. His bride was nearly a stranger when they underwent the rites together, but they quickly grew fond of each other. So it devastated him when, barely a year later, she died in childbirth, and their baby son with her.

  Hades blamed himself, and suspected his wife’s family blamed him too. Hades had always been unusually and unnaturally strong. He had never once been ill. A huge sow bit into his wrist when he was a child, and everyone expected his hand would be crippled for life. But it healed completely within a day. At age ten he could lift the sow by himself. It frightened his parents and cousins to see him do such things, so he hid his abilities whenever he could. He knew his family loved him, but they seemed relieved to see him go when he married and moved away. Having him around made them uneasy.

  His strength grew along with him. When a scaffold broke during the construction of the house he was helping build for his new wife, and a giant cube of stone went tumbling down the slope, Hades leaped forward and stopped it before it flattened a little boy. His new neighbors appreciated his strength that time, but they still feared him. He heard muttered invocations to their household goddesses, thanking them while requesting protection from eerie forces—which he knew referred to him, not to whatever force made the scaffold break. The accident wasn’t unnatural; that kind of thing happened from time to time. But Hades’ invincibility most certainly didn’t.

  So couldn’t his bizarre strength be the reason his son was too much for his wife to bear?

  It was a bad year already for the island. The winter had brought only a few showers of rain, the spring even less, and now, in the baking heat of summer, the springs and wells were drying up. Animals, crops, and people languished. The usual supplications to the goddess of the harvest and the god of weather garnered no divine response. So the high priestess at the palace of Knossos took drastic action, and put out a call for a human victim to be sacrificed.

  In Hades’ memory this had only happened once before—when he was a small boy—to end a series of earthquakes that had rattled the island. A young woman, one of the junior priestesses
, had stepped forward to offer herself. Hades and his parents had joined the crowd in the palace grounds to witness the rite, and his father had held him up on his shoulders so Hades could see over the heads of the citizens. But when the high priestess had raised her knife and the masked male attendant had stepped forward with his shining axe, small Hades covered his face, shuddering so dramatically that his father lost his grip and the boy fell to the ground. He was, of course, unhurt. Meanwhile the crowd’s voices rose in a wail as the young woman collapsed in a pool of blood.

  And the earthquakes, as far as he remembered, stopped.

  When he was a child he could not fathom why anyone would volunteer to become the sacrifice. But now, not quite seventeen years old, widowed, lonely and dispirited, he did understand.

  After the two palace messengers delivered the announcement and moved on to the next village, Hades spent the afternoon in thought. While the rest of his wife’s family took their daily nap, he lay awake, making his decision.

  He grieved for his wife and child. Her family mourned them too, and made no effort to embrace him as their own son. He felt shunned and alone. Rather than viewing his extraordinary strength as something to be cherished and explored, he felt it a curse that would forever set him apart from others. If the goddess could destroy his body at last, and summon him to the spirit world where he might find his young wife and child, then she was welcome to do so.

  When his wife’s parents awoke, he told them he wished to offer himself as the island’s sacrifice.

  They showed the shock and fear anyone might upon hearing a person say this, but made only weak efforts to dissuade him. He held firm. They relented. Then he went out to the road and awaited the return of the palace attendants, on their way back to Knossos. When they came, he stepped forward and volunteered.

  The two attendants, a man and a woman some fifteen years older than himself, stood and talked to him in concern a long while. Was he sure? Would he not wish to stay, be of use to the village, perhaps marry again and have children?

  “No,” he said. “This is the only way I can be of use.”

  So he said farewell to his wife’s parents, and accompanied the attendants to the palace.

  In Knossos they let him bathe, and brought him fine food, and gave him a private room with rugs on the floors and a deeply soft bed, in which he tried to sleep without much success. He felt as if he had already died, and was numb to the world.

  The next day they gave him a feast. Four attendants, two male and two female, wrapped him in linen robes and strings of flowers as if he were a new bridegroom. He was brought to a table full of priestesses and city officials—including the island’s king—all talking and celebrating. The king, a proud middle-aged man, summoned Hades to him. Hades knelt before his chair, eyes turned down and hand upon his own forehead in obeisance. But the king bade him rise, and thanked him in ringing tones for his courage. Smiling, he then waved the surprised Hades off to take a seat along the table.

  Hades tasted the roast lamb, the figs and grapes, and the excellent wine, and paid close attention to the sounds of the flutes and lyres, knowing he wouldn’t have full enjoyment of his senses anymore in the afterlife. The religious leaders always had been quite clear on how the afterlife worked. Those who had been good or heroic—which certainly must include his wife and son and himself—went to a beautiful island, bathed in gentle sun and resplendent with gardens and mountains, where they needed do nothing but relax in comfort, feeling forevermore as if they were drifting in a dream. Those who had been wicked went to a dark realm at the bottom of the sea, but Hades didn’t bother worrying about that. One who offered himself as a sacred sacrifice would no doubt end up on the island of cherished souls.

  It was a pleasing image. Still, dread of the transition from life to death chilled his entire body, and rendered him mute with terror.

  The following day was the sacrifice. The same attendants prepared him at dawn. They bathed him and massaged scented oil into his skin. They combed out the tangles in his hair and sliced off his black curls above his neck, to make it easier for the executioner’s axe. With an adroit touch, the elder of the men shaved Hades’ still-thin beard off his face. They dressed him in a tunic, sleeveless and knee-length like the ones he’d always worn, but of the snowiest white he had ever seen, and tied an embroidered cloth belt around his waist. They slipped clean sandals onto his feet, and fastened a long purple cloak by a slender silver chain around his neck. Then they led him outside for the procession through the open court.

  People filled the court and lined the wide steps that rose to the palace, their cries of appreciation drowning out the thumps of the drums. Two shining black bulls, his fellow sacrifices, walked on either side of him, snorting and tossing their horns while the attendants guided their reins.

  Young women wept as if Hades were their own doomed sweetheart, and reached out to touch his bare arms as he passed. Children, wives, and grandparents stepped forward and placed their offerings upon him and upon the bulls. They slipped rings onto his fingers and draped necklaces around his neck. Households who couldn’t afford precious metals or jewels brought garlands of poppies, which still bloomed in the meadows despite the drought, and placed them upon his head or around his shoulders. Soon both he and the bulls were ablaze in blossoms with red petals and black hearts.

  The procession descended the steps and moved between the rows of desiccated olive trees. The cloak stretched out behind him, dragging along the pavement and growing heavier as he walked, for people tossed their offerings upon it. Plates, knives, silver cups—all were for the temple, the goddess, not for him. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t need riches where he was going. He only felt, through his frigid shock, a whisper of gratitude that so many people finally appreciated him. As the procession turned and began climbing the steps back to the palace, the attendants gathered up the cloak’s corners and helped carry the net of offerings to the high priestess.

  Before Hades knew it, he was kneeling on the step before her. He smelled the incense and the bulls, and heard his heart pounding and his ears ringing. The open court, though packed with hundreds or even thousands of people, went silent as the priestess raised her voice in her eerie, supplicating song, of which he understood not a word in his mental haze.

  He had seen her only rarely, and always at some distance, even during last night’s feast. He knew her name was Rhea, and that she was tall and frightening. She usually wore a live venomous snake wrapped around her arm, its tongue flicking in chilly interest at anyone who came near. That alone would have made him keep his distance. Today she looked taller than ever in the high cone-shaped headdress she wore, its gold bands and jewels glittering in the sun, making her unearthly and fearsome.

  But when she placed a cool hand under his chin and lifted his head to look at her, he found her face was that of a kind young woman, her brown eyes sorrowful. “Don’t fear,” she whispered. “The goddess will carry you home soon.”

  The snake looked him in the face and flicked its forked tongue at him. From behind, someone’s hands lifted away the necklaces and garlands, leaving his neck bare.

  The masked attendant stepped up beside Rhea, cradling the axe in his muscled arms.

  Rhea raised her knife. The snake glided its head back and forth just behind her knuckles. In the moment before she slashed her own arm, Hades noticed how smooth her limbs were, how completely free of scars; and he thought it strange, because she regularly drew her own blood for ceremonies.

  Then her blood began to drip upon his forehead, and she swung the reddened knife and plunged it into his heart. The pain took his breath away. As he gasped and stared down at the hilt sunk in his chest, Rhea stepped out of the way to make room for the masked attendant. The axe went flashing. The world tumbled upside-down. Hades’ mouth filled with hot blood, and his consciousness passed from pain into darkness.

  HADES OPENED HIS eyes to the starry night sky. Straight walls closed off the horizon on all sides. He seemed t
o be in a small courtyard open to the air. The taste of blood saturated his mouth. Pain throbbed in his chest and throat with each beat of his heart. He desperately wanted to draw a deep breath, but upon trying to do so, coughed so violently that fresh blood gushed up against the back of his tongue. He rolled over to spit it out, gasping for air, and found he was lying on a raised stone platform, rectangular and just large enough for a body—a slab for cleaning and dressing the dead. He had been stripped of all clothing except a blanket that covered him from navel to knees, as if his body were indeed being prepared for the funeral pyre.

  But he wasn’t dead.

  “It’s all right,” whispered a female voice. “Lie down. Rest a little longer.” The woman knelt and clinked something metal near the ground. A flame flared into life, and she stood again, holding the oil lamp. It was Rhea, now without her snake or her ceremonial headdress. She wore a simple dark gown and a crescent-shaped pendant on a leather string. Her hair was braided back. She could have been any woman selling grapes at the market.

  “Am I dying?” he asked.

  “Actually, for someone whose head was cut almost clean off, you’re doing quite well.”

  “How…”

  “I suspect you are what I am. I heard stories about you, your strength, your power. Your village fears you, yes?”

  He nodded. “But…I wanted to die. For the land. To be with my wife.” Tears filled his eyes, stinging and then cleansing.

  Rhea touched his neck. “You were very brave. Believe me, what we did should have sent you to the spirit world. But the goddess sent you right back. As I expected, your neck has joined itself together again.” Her fingers moved to his bare chest and traced the line of the wound over his heart. “Yes. You’re healing. That’s what I suspected would happen. That’s why I ordered you to be left alone during the night.”

  Blinking away his tears, he examined her warm brown face. Now that he thought about it, she looked too young to be the priestess who had presided as an adult since before Hades was born. “You said you’re this way too?”