Dead Beautiful

by Melanie Dugan

  Celeus nods. “Yes, times are tough. I can’t remember such a difficult period, can you?” he asks his wife. She shakes her head.

  “Callithoe is betrothed, and is to marry this fall,” he continues, leaning forward. His voice falls to a whisper, “We haven’t told her yet, but we may have to postpone the wedding. Her dowry is 100 cattle. Usually I have four or five times that, but this year the cows do not breed well, so …” He throws up his hand in helplessness. “She will be disappointed. But at least we have enough to eat — for now. Who knows how long we can survive if Mother Demeter forgets us.”

  “But we understand,” Metaneira says quietly. “We lost a daughter ourselves.”

  “We did,” says Celeus. “Doso, born between Callithoe and Callidice. Callithoe was a baby herself, and does not remember. It was before the others were born. Doso was a sweet girl, with shining eyes, always full of mischief.” I hear the sadness in his voice.

  “What happened?” I ask. “If it is not too painful to talk about.”

  Husband and wife exchange a glance. Metaneira smiles sadly. “Now that the worst has passed, we don’t mind talking about her. It brings her back to us.

  “She had a fever and then she passed into the realm of the Rich One. It was very quick. And afterwards it was as if Helios had withdrawn his light. The world seemed dark. We understand Mother Demeter’s grief in some part.”

  Later that night, lying in their bed, which they insisted on giving up for me, I think about these people, how generous they are and how, even in the hardship I have brought upon them, they bear me no ill-will. I think of their daughters — lively, clever and kind — and how they are burdened as a result of my grief. How easily unhappiness grows, like throwing a stone into a still pond; the first ripples are small, but grow larger and larger as they spread further from the centre. I sigh and turn on my side wishing Persephone were back with me. Then, maybe, there would be an end to unhappiness.

  Persephone

  I stand on the wharf. I feel as if a huge, dark spirit approaches from over the water, a cloud of fear and despair that bears down on me like the Furies.

  It is a vessel, a looming shape cutting soundlessly through the ragged, murky waters, moving slowly and inexorably toward the shore. They call it Charon’s ferry, but it’s really more like a big dinghy. Hades has got to upgrade.

  The sounds of wailing and sobbing carry over the waters, so many voices as to be incomprehensible. Now and then a word or phrase floats above the general clamour — “Zeus, help me,” “Helios, give me light” — but then, like a wave in a choppy ocean swamped by other waves, the word is swallowed and sinks beneath the chorus of voices.

  The cloud of unknowing that surrounds the vessel presses on me, a great swirling vortex of pain, fear and doubt. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and call up images of my mother, the sunlit world above, buds spinning open under Helios’ caress, the noise and unruliness of the upper world. I sense the cloud halt and pull away from me as shadows withdraw from a flame.

  The boat glides up to the dock. A gangplank appears and, lowered by invisible hands, floats down to settle weightlessly on the wharf. Passengers emerge.

  They are less than living beings and more than mere shades. As they make their way to the wharf, each seems to change and shift unceasingly.

  The first to emerge seems at first glance to be an old man, his outline wavering and glimmering with the same half-light that illuminates this realm. His back is bowed, his shoulders hunched, his neck sticks forward like a vulture’s. As he walks images flicker, one flowing swiftly into the next, a flame dancing in the wind; I see a young man, upright, with a firm, confident gait; then the old man again, soon replaced by a youth with long, clean limbs moving with quick impatience, then the old man again. But something connects all these images, some resemblance that runs through them and tells me these are different versions of the same person — the way he carries his shoulders, how he views the scene around himself through narrowed, measuring eyes.

  The old man shuffles with weary resignation down the gangplank onto the quay. Once on land he stops and glances around as if he is searching for someone or something. A shadow gathers from the surrounding gloom; a woman, not as old as he is, lights beside him. Like him, she is a quick succession of always-changing images, one flowing into the next: an old woman, a young girl with her hair in plaits, a middle-aged woman, thicker around her middle, with a care-worn face — all these images shimmer past. The old man smiles when he sees her, the uncertainty and anxiety lifting from his face. He reaches towards her, their arms link. It seems as if she lifts him, they rise lightly as dandelion fluff borne on the wind, and drift away.

  Behind the old man comes a middle-aged man, his outline clear and sharp. He stalks down the gangplank, reaches the bottom and glares around with a pugnacious air. No spirit arrives to meet him. He stands, muttering in irritation and shaking his head, then stomps off through the crowd gathering, alone, into the surrounding murk.

  After him, men, women and children stumble, amble and shuffle down the gangplank until the dock is teeming with flickering shapes — the babies, carried in the arms of other spirits, flicker not at all, the young children flicker only a bit more than the babies. Teenagers sparkle and pop like a display of fireworks. Some individuals look around in confusion, others in fatigue, some are calm and composed, a very few seem curious. As the crowd grows, the atmosphere thickens around them with shadows that hover near each spirit.

  Some of the newly-arrived wail, some sob, one or two laugh. Some tear their hair, their clothes, others collapse on the ground, apparently insensible to the shadows that crowd close trying to calm and comfort them. In their agony, the newly-dead are blind to those who would help them.

  Many of the new arrivals rush off into the darkness shrieking, others wander aimlessly, their blind eyes wide with terror, holding their arms up as if to guard their faces as they stumble along, pushing through and past the spirits that gather around them calling, “Open your eyes. I am here. I have been waiting for you.” Only a few of the newly-dead stand still, listening, looking around. They seem neither frightened nor upset. As I watch, these fade, like smoke thinning, and are carried off.

  One spirit draws my eyes, a young man, tall and slender, not yet grown to manhood. His hair still has the golden sheen of youth, his cheek is still smooth. His limbs are long and he moves somewhat awkwardly, as if he hasn’t fully grown into his body yet, is not aware of his power and strength.

  He stands looking around. Expressions flash across his face; I can read what he is feeling. He must not break down in tears — that is not manly — and yet, he wonders what this place is, so dark and unfamiliar. I watch hope and confusion battle on his face. Then understanding registers. I see a touch of fear in his eyes. No spirit comes to him. He takes a shaking breath, pulls his cloak tightly around himself and lifts the hood over his head. Before its shadow falls across his face I see all his young hopes die, I see an expression of deep sadness, of weariness settle there. He straightens, walks through the chaos and disappears into the darkness. His simple dignity, his courage tear at me. I want to go after him, to catch his arm and say, “Don’t be sad, don’t be frightened. Let me help you, let me guide you ” but he is gone and I am left staring into the darkness after him.

  Hades

  After she has spent a week or so making herself scarce and generally moping around, Persephone shows up in my office one afternoon. Not the best time. I and Thanatos are knee-deep in processing the flood of new arrivals we’ve been getting lately.

  “I want a role to play,” she says, “a job, a position of some sort.”

  “Job,” I say, chewing on a stylus, trying to estimate exactly where I’m going to billet the 837 souls due tomorrow. The lodges near Lethe are already overcrowded — we’re pushing the bylaw regarding population density there at this point. Maybe one of the palace’s outbuildings?

  “At home —” she begins.

  “
Isn’t this your home now?” I ask with some asperity.

  She takes a deep breath. “Before,” she amends, “upstairs, I had responsibilities, projects that required my attention. Here there is nothing.”

  “You are my consort,” I remind her. “There will be functions to attend, official dinners, receptions.”

  “I mean something real,” she says. “Something that matters.”

  Something real. A thought springs to mind. “Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking the place looks a bit drab, you know, could use some brightening up, new draperies, maybe new slipcovers on the couches.”

  She looks at me. I can see she’s getting excited at the prospect of going through fabric swatches, chips of paint.

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, clearly overcome by the idea that I would be willing to entrust such a demanding job to her.

  “You know — interior decorating.”

  She draws herself up, seems to grow before my eyes, gives me a look no one has ever given me before — I might almost call it contempt. Her eyes flash just the way her father’s do when he’s worked up. The resemblance is uncanny, except she’s missing the beard, thank Zeus.

  “I am Persephone,” she says. “Daughter of Demeter and one of the Immortals of Olympus.” A current of anger throbs beneath her words. I have never seen her like this before, so self-possessed, so regal. So angry. She is hot. “I am not an interior decorator.” She practically spits out the last two words.

  I push the paperwork aside, nod curtly to Thanatos, who glides swiftly and silently from the room. “What exactly did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “I’ve been down by the arrivals area.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s chaos.”

  “Chaos? Great-grandfather? What’s he doing there? I thought your father and I had sorted him out.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I mean it’s disorganized.”

  “Oh.”

  Absent-mindedly she picks up a sheet of paper off my desk and starts to fiddle with it, rolling it into a tube. I reach over and gently extricate it from her hands. Don’t want anyone’s records getting lost.

  She looks up at me; our eyes meet. I read something there difficult to translate: a bit like sadness, a bit like resolve.

  “I have a suggestion.”

  Cyane

  I don’t know how it happened. It’s so cool how Darryl and I end up in the same places. It’s like we were meant to run into each other.

  Anyway, before I met him I had no idea hardware stores were so interesting. Now they’re my favorite places! I mean, you walk into a lingerie store and plunk down a whole handful of drachmas and all you get is one little frothy item and it barely weighs anything (although the right lingerie can make up for a multitude of sins, my mom says). You walk into a hardware store, on the other hand, and for two drachmas you can buy a whole bunch of bricks and they weigh a lot and you know you’ve got your money’s worth. At least, that’s what Darryl says. I’m not sure what I’d do with all those bricks, but anyway.

  So there I was in the local hardware store, just going up and down the aisles looking at all the really interesting stuff — nails and levers. There was this one short, old, bald guy standing in the lever aisle yelling, “Give me a lever and I can move the earth,” or somesuch. All the other guys there sort of gave him a wide berth, shaking their heads and muttering, “Yeah, yeah, Arky.” One guy says to another, “Off his medication again, eh?” The other guy says, “Yeah, he should take a bath, you know, cool down.”

  I was just so interested. This big muscley guy comes up. “Need any help, ma’am?” he asks. But I’m, like, “Not thanks, just looking.” Sales help can be so pushy. But I think he liked my diaphanous gown and I have to say he had a real nice smile and I was thinking about going back and asking him about tiles when who should I run into in the aqueduct aisle but Darryl! We had to laugh.

  “Never thought I’d bump into you here,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s my favorite place. There are so many cool things. Like, uh, this.” I reached out and pulled the first thing I touched off the shelf.

  “I never thought of gravel as cool,” he said, examining the bag in my hand. “But now that you mention it —”

  “So why’re you here?” I took the bag out of his hands and put it back.

  “Oh, I’m doing a little job for a friend of mine. He’s got rising damp in his house and I thought I’d try one of these new drains on it.” He lifted up a length of clay pipe. “It’s kind of cutting-edge technology and there isn’t a lot of data on how well they work, but I figure it’s worth a shot.”

  “How interesting. How does it work?”

  “Well, I bury one end of the pipe where the problem is and run the other end to where it’s dry — away from the house — and the idea is the pipe will carry the water away from the house.”

  “Sounds kind of complicated.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, well I try to keep up with new developments.”

  “Have you seen Pers lately?”

  He frowned. “No. Is she back? I haven’t heard anything.”

  “I don’t know … I just thought maybe …” I shrugged, kind of looked around. “I mean, I thought maybe she’d sent you a message telling you where she was, when she was getting back. It seems like the considerate thing to do. If I cared about someone, that’s what I’d do. I wouldn’t want them worrying.”

  “Yeah.” Darryl frowned a bit more.

  “I’d never call Pers selfish …”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “But it does seem a bit thoughtless to take off without saying something.”

  “Yeah, it does.” He nodded.

  “I mean, I would never do it.”

  He looked at me closely. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you would.”

  I gave him a smile, then said, “I am so thirsty.”

  “Me, too,” he said, as if he was surprised to realize it. “Want to go for a drink?”

  “What a good idea.” I linked my arm through his. “Tell me about your friend’s house.”

  Persephone

  I thought he took it well, once I explained my idea.

  “You mean, like a greeter? At a store? Someone wearing a smock with a name tag, standing around saying, ‘Haveaniceday’? I don’t see the point.”

  “No, not like that at all. May I?” I pointed at the chair directly opposite. He nodded. I sat down. “For the souls who are met by another soul, there’s no issue. They don’t need directions. For those who seem to know their way, again, no issue. But for those who arrive and are not met by anyone, and who seem lost or confused, I will welcome and guide them.”

  He tipped back in his chair, his hands fingertip to fingertip in front of him. He dipped his head, touched his index fingers to his lips consideringly. “To what end?” he asked finally, his eyes fixed on me above his hands.

  “You’re always trying to improve the quality of the souls’ experiences. Why should they wander, lost and uncertain, when I can so easily comfort them and set them on the right path? When word gets back, people will meet death with less horror. You won’t have them collapsing in hysterics as soon as Charon docks. You won’t have the piteous keening that upsets the others.”

  “If people don’t fear me, won’t it erode my power? Won’t sacrifices diminish?”

  “Quite the opposite, I suspect. People will always have due respect for death,” I told him. “It’s so irrevocable. But if they see that you have concern for their welfare, their affection may grow.”

  “Anything else?”

  I stood. “You must upgrade Charon’s ferry and you have to get rid of that three-headed dog,” I said. “He scares the daylights out of the souls.”

  “Cerb? He’s a pussycat. His barks are worse than his bites.”

  “He sheds everywhere.” I brushed off my gown; a small blizzard of dog fur silted through the air. “It’s a real problem for people who are
allergic to dogs, too. And you need to consider accepting foreign currencies at par. It’s a nightmare trying to figure out all the exchange rates. People can’t help it if they take the Big Dirt Nap while they’re out of the county on a business trip.”

  His glance was cryptic. “This is a lot to think about,” he said. “Give me a couple of days.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t forget,” he continued, “dinner with Radamanthys tonight. He wants to implement some sort of multi-culti introduction program for souls before they come to judgment to clarify cultural terms, or something. He wants to run through his ideas tonight.”

  “Sevenish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Formal?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “No. It’ll be shop talk. Wear something comfortable. That purple diaphanous gown you had on last feast day was very nice.”

  “I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “It really showed off your figure nicely,” he grinned. “You could make the dead rise in that one.”

  Hades

  I am in the middle of short-term population density projections — I usually file once a year but with the flood of new arrivals it seems prudent to make a semi-annual report — when Hermes materializes suddenly at my elbow. I am so startled I almost drop the clay tablet with my calculations on it. “Don’t you ever knock?” I demand.

  “Hail, Oh, Rich One, peace be up— ”

  “Hades — the name is Hades. Drop the formalities and cut to the chase. Why are you here?”

  “ ’k, unc —”

  “I am not your uncle.”

  He seems unable to keep still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His words tumble out in a rush. “Dad sent me to find out if you know where Persephone, Daughter of Dem— ”

  “I know whose daughter she is.”

  “Right, well Dad wants to know —”

  “What business is it of his?”