backward, tripping over the chair and nearly tumbling to the ground. Scrabbling at the edge of the table, she hauled herself upright, then raced for the safety of the light.
When she was some distance into the meadow, Persephone spun to look behind her. The blank, black eye of the cavern stared back, keeping its secrets as it always had. The rest of the day was serene; birds chirped and a breeze soughed through the trees as Helios’s chariot raced through the cloudless blue sky.
Air concussed against Persephone’s back in a soundless explosion. At the same moment, a violent gust of wind shook the trees. Persephone screamed again and whirled to face this new threat.
Among the long grass and nodding flowers stood a group of women unlike any Persephone had ever seen, save perhaps her mother. They all had long, graceful, well-formed limbs, smooth skin that seemed to capture Helios’s glow, berry-red lips, and magnificent crowns of hair. Rather than tunics, they wore tops cut below their breasts that laced tightly to their torsos. Long skirts in every color Persephone had seen, and some she hadn’t, fell in flounces from their waists. Jewelry draped their necks and wrists and hung from their ears, but the baubles couldn’t compare to the brightness of their gaze as every pair of gemstone eyes turned to her.
One of the women said something in a low voice and the others laughed, a clear, ringing sound.
At their merriment, Persephone surveyed herself. Mud from laying on the bank of the pool still spattered her tunic. Dust from the chair and table in the cave filmed her hands and arms, and her feet were black from her trek through the forest. Scurrying away as she longed to do would only increase their amusement at her expense, and might even, as it did in the village, lead to a pursuit and a hail of stones.
Persephone brushed down her tunic and smoothed her hair back from her sweat damp forehead. “Good day to you.”
“You can look upon us?” one of them asked in a voice as clear and lovely as her laughter.
The woman spoke in the language Demeter used with Persephone rather than that of Sicani, so they couldn’t be of Henna. Perhaps Persephone didn’t need to fear them. “I can. Should I be unable to?”
“Can it be her?” one of them whispered.
Another replied, “She does have red hair.”
And then another, “She looks so very . . . mortal.”
“As do we when in our earthly forms,” one with kind brown eyes chided.
Another woman with hair like gleaming black water said, “Strange tastes for a strange God, I suppose.”
Strange God. Earthly form. Their words were nonsensical, and Persephone wanted no part of their odd conversation.
She opened her mouth to take her leave, but before she could, the black-haired woman looked at her and asked, “Who is your mother, Little Sister?”
Persephone’s brows drew together. “My . . . mother? Demeter of Henna. Why do you ask?”
The women erupted into a furor of musical cries. Then the black-haired one broke away from the group, walked to Persephone, and took her hand.
Persephone gasped. This woman was the only person aside from Demeter and Doso to ever touch Persephone willingly and the warmth of her hand on Persephone’s skin was a wonder. However, the woman seemed unaware of the magnitude of her gesture. She merely introduced herself as Ianthe as she drew Persephone toward the others.
When Persephone joined their circle, the women folded their legs beneath them and sank to the ground with the airy elegance of falling flower petals. Persephone’s own descent, by comparison, was that of a branch crashing through the treetop canopy.
“Are you Kore, then?” one of the women with golden hair asked. Before Persephone could reply she continued, “For if you are, you’re one of us.”
Persephone looked from one lovely face to the next. “One of you? How can that be?”
They made no response to her but shared glances with one another, lips turning up and eyes twinkling.
Rolling to her knees in preparation to stand, Persephone said, “I know enough of mockery to recognize it well. I’ll bid you good day now.”
“No mockery, Little Sister. We only want to know you. Now, are you Kore?”
These women couldn’t be aware of her reputation as an outcast in Henna. If they were, they wouldn’t have welcomed her into their midst. Ianthe wouldn’t have touched her. Perhaps she could trust they meant no offense by their words.
Persephone settled herself back on the ground. “That’s what my mother calls me.”
Ianthe laughed delightedly. “We thought to seek you out, yet here you appeared to us, Kore.”
That name coming from such lovely lips was unbearable. “You may call me Persephone.”
“Persephone? Did you give yourself such a name?” a flaxen-haired beauty asked.
Face heating in a blush, Persephone looked down. “I am twice-named by my mother.”
“We need have no doubt as to how Demeter finds motherhood and mortality then,” Ianthe said.
The women tittered.
Persephone raised her eyes, tilted her chin. “Though it’s an unkind name, it’s the one I choose to be known by.”
“Very well,” Ianthe said. “We welcome you, Persephone.”
“Welcome, Persephone,” the other women said as one, and in their ringing voices it sounded like a blessing and their names, when they gifted her with them, were like poems.
“Do you not know us now?” one of them asked when they finished their introductions.
The women were so alike in their perfection it was hard to recall who was whom, but this one had a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder which set her apart from the others. She called herself Artemis.
“Should I know you?” Persephone asked.
A long moment of silence ensued as the women once again exchanged glances.
“Your mother has been neglectful,” Artemis said.
“Bitter,” Ianthe corrected.
“We are your dear ones,” another said.
“Your beloveds,” they chorused.
“Your sister Goddesses,” added one with hair of burnished gold, similar to Demeter’s, but her eyes were warm brown rather than austere blue. Her name was Aphrodite.
Persephone shook her head. “I don’t understand. The only Goddess I know of is the Mother Goddess, yet you say you are Goddesses as well.”
“I am,” Artemis said. “And Aphrodite as well. Ianthe and the others are nymphs. They’re free to come and go from Olympus as they like, but they have none of the power we Goddesses possess. All of us, however, are Immortals. The blood of the Titans, one of whom is Rhea, or the Mother Goddess, as you call her, runs in all our veins, including yours. If it didn’t you wouldn’t be able to look upon us without going mad.”
Looking from Artemis to Athena, Persephone repeated, “I don’t understand.”
Ianthe reached for her. “Lay your head, Persephone, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Persephone hadn’t been cradled in a lap and told a tale since she was a little girl curled up with Doso in her nest of blankets on the floor. It was an odd request for one grown woman to make of another. Much about these women was extremely strange, but they were offering her friendship, something that she had felt but little of in her life, and not at all since Doso’s departure.
Persephone allowed Ianthe to tug her down until her head rested on the warm curves of the woman’s thighs.
“We,” Ianthe raised her hand and gestured, encompassing the circle of women, “live in a place called Olympus, in a realm few mortals can reach. It’s a place passing fair, where everything is delightsome, lovely, and wondrous.”
Ianthe dropped her hand, plucked a few blossoms, and began to twist them into Persephone’s hair as she spoke. “In a place where beauty abounds, one Goddess stood out among all the Immortals. She had eyes as deep and blue as Poseidon’s Sea and hair of such beautiful, glorious gold that even Helios wept with envy. Zeus, ruler of us all, Immortals and mortals alike, desired her greatly, in the way a man desires a woman.”
“You’ll have a lesson in that soon enough, Little Sister,” Artemis interjected, her hazel eyes sparkling as she smiled at Persephone.
Persephone smiled back, but hers was quirked with puzzlement. “I don’t—”
“Hush now, Artemis. You know we aren’t to speak of that,” Ianthe said, then continued. “Zeus favored this Goddess above all others, even his wife Hera. He plied her with music, food, wine, laughter, and kisses, but she spurned him. This Goddess’s Immortal birthright included an affinity to plants. In a last attempt at gaining her affection, Zeus granted her dominion over all the green and growing things that spring from Gaia’s flesh. In return, the Goddess gave herself to Zeus. They hid their love from Hera, but after a time the Goddess found herself, as a woman will when she lies with a man, expecting a child. Zeus promised the Goddess that, should she give birth to a healthy Olympian son, she would replace Hera as his consort. To keep the babe safe from the prying eyes and jealous heart of Hera, Zeus asked his lover to leave Olympus, take on her mortal form and live in a cave on an island near the barbarian Sicani, those who know nothing of we Olympians. Zeus spent much more time with the Goddess on her island than he did on Olympus. His heart had grown cold toward his wife, for she had given him only one healthy girl child. Their second child, a boy, was so malformed Zeus hurled it from Olympus. Hera felt his coldness, noted his absence, and suspected her husband had taken yet another lover. She found Zeus and the Goddess in their hiding place and worked a rite to steal from the Goddess her immortality, trapping her in her mortal form. The Goddess gave birth to a girl. Zeus, in his disappointment, left the Goddess and her child in their exile.”
Ianthe stroked Persephone’s furrowed brow. “Can you guess the name of the cast-off Goddess, Little Sister?”
Persephone drew in a breath that coursed like flame down a throat gone tight and swollen. “Demeter.”
“Our lost one,” Aphrodite said.
“Our love,” the other women chorused.
“My mother,” Persephone said.
“And now you see how you are one of us?” Artemis said.
Persephone didn’t see. She couldn’t be one of them. She had nothing of their beauty, grace, or self-assuredness ... but her mother did. It was easy to believe Demeter belonged among them, easy now to understand why she was so different from the Sicani, easy to see why she resented Persephone.
No doubt when Demeter returned from Nadira’s birthing and found Persephone gone, she would waste no time grieving her daughter’s absence. Joy would speed her feet all the way to Olympus where she would regain the life from which Persephone kept her. The little hut where they’d lived together in Henna would be left to be reclaimed by nature, for no one would dare lay their head where the Goddess Breaker once slept. Even if the hut were habitable, the Sicani wouldn’t permit Persephone to live among them without Demeter’s mitigating presence. Persephone would have nowhere to go should life in the meadow prove too hostile.
Persephone tugged her hair out of Ianthe’s grasp and sat up. “If I’m truly one of you, take me with you when you return to Olympus.”
Ianthe’s violet eyes widened. She looked beyond Persephone at the other Goddesses.
Artemis’s warm hand encircled Persephone’s. Her expression was earnest, eyes soft with compassion. “Though you are a Goddess, you haven’t a place on Olympus. Zeus wasn’t best pleased with your birth. He won’t thank us for bringing you into his palace.”
Persephone’s heart was a hard, hot stone in her chest. The prickle in her nose warned of tears to come. She drew her hand out of Artemis’s and stood. Even if she was a Goddess, as they kept claiming, she had no place with them, either. The threatened tears sprang to her eyes.
Aphrodite also rose. She crossed the circle of women and settled her hands on Persephone’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, Little Sister. Though we can’t take you with us to Olympus, we’ll come to you again in this place.”
“We will,” they all agreed.
Aphrodite smiled, and it was so lovely Persephone’s heart cracked.
“You’ll visit me here? You vow it?” Persephone asked.
Giving Persephone’s shoulders a gentle squeeze, Aphrodite said, “You may soon find yourself resident in a different place, but until that day we’ll gladly visit you here. And none of us needs depart yet. Come, let’s make a game of the time we have left.” Aphrodite tapped her cheek with one elegant finger a few times then said, “I want to know which of the blossoms in the meadow rivals me for beauty, but not by sight. I want to judge only by scent and texture.” Removing her hands from Persephone’s shoulders, she looked around at the other Goddesses. “I command you all to gather one of each flower in the meadow, so I can compare them and choose.”
At Aphrodite’s pronouncement, the Goddesses erupted into laughter and chatter.
As they got to their feet, Persephone asked, “This is how you mean to spend your time? Surely you have other duties to which you must attend?”
Persephone’s life, from the moment she woke until the day was done, was a series of dull, onerous, and exhausting tasks. Immortals, with their duties stewarding humans, must have at least as much to accomplish. However, Persephone snuck away often enough for an hour or two to gambol in the forest with Phlox or to lay in the sun in the Mother Goddess’s Meadow. Perhaps that’s what this was, a small slice of time stolen from the arduousness of being an Immortal.
Artemis, still standing at Persephone’s side, chuckled. “Ah, Sister, there’s nothing we must do save please ourselves.”
This wasn’t then a bit of respite for them, but rather simply what it meant to be an Immortal. Is that why mortals toiled under so much strife? Because those who could lighten their burden chose instead to occupy themselves with seeking out pleasurable ways to pass their time? No, she had to be mistaken. These wonderful beings couldn’t be so indolent, so selfish. She need look no further for proof of that other than the kindness they lavished on her.
“Bring me the loveliest, Persephone,” Aphrodite commanded, her face robbed of its liveliness and individuality by the cloth now tied over her eyes.
“I shall,” Persephone called and darted away as the others scattered in their search for the most beautiful blossom.
Though the undertaking put before her seemed simple enough, Persephone couldn’t bring her mind to bear on it. Instead, her thoughts bumbled like a bee searching for more nectar. This strange day had exceeded all her hopes for a different life. She could be happy here in this place with the Goddesses’ visits to look forward to. The time they spent with her here would alleviate her loneliness, though she would still sorely miss Phlox. And, surely, they would help her should she find herself in any extremity. Given time, they might even convince Zeus to let her join them on Olympus. Perhaps that was what they meant when they said she’d soon be resident in a different place.
A trace of laughter floated to Persephone on the breeze. The Goddesses flitted through the meadow, consulting each other as they plucked blossoms. Persephone hadn’t picked so much as a single bud. It wouldn’t do to disappoint in the first duty they’d charged her with.
Persephone moved through the grass, dissatisfied with each flower until her search for the perfect blossom took her back to the cavern’s mouth. A lone narcissus bloomed there. It shone out startlingly white against the black of the cave at its back. Persephone stared. If it had been here when she arrived, she would have taken note of it. Yet, it must have been here. Flowers didn’t spring up fully formed in the matter of half a day. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps it was tangled up in the mystery of the sounds she had heard within the cavern, the touch she felt, the disembodied voice.
Regardless of its origin, the narcissus was the most beautiful flower by any criteria. Aphrodite was sure to be pleased by it and flower or no, Persephone had to make her peace with the cavern before nightfall if she meant to spend this night and those hereafter in its shelter.
Persephone moved toward the cave but paused a short distance outside. All was silent and still. She took a few more cautious steps, stopping just inside the cavern’s mouth. Then, after listening for some time more, she bent to pluck the flower.
She gave a gentle tug, but the stem resisted. Persephone doubled her efforts and still the stem refused to give. She didn’t want to slay it, but needs must. She grasped its base and pulled. The entire plant came up abruptly in a shower of dirt.
Persephone grunted and lost her balance. She laughed a little as she landed on her backside. With her dirt-bespattered skirt, filthy hands, and clumsiness, no one, least of all herself, would believe she was the daughter of two of Olympus’s chosen.
Holding the narcissus carefully, Persephone got to her feet. A sudden wind came up, howling over the meadow, flattening the grass, and churning the tree branches. Heavy thunderheads rolled in where only moments before the sky had been an expanse of serene, unbroken blue.
A boom ripped across the sky, strong enough that it shook Persephone’s bones. When the growl of it died away, the vibration continued in her feet and legs. Its source, however, wasn’t thunder but a low rumble which issued from the dark reaches of the cavern.
The sound from within the cave pressed on Persephone, growing more ominous with each moment. Sweat sprang from every pore, and her heart thudded in her breast.
Persephone turned and dashed away from the cavern back toward the Goddesses. They had gone far in the quest Aphrodite set them. Their mouths were open, in laughter or conversation, Persephone couldn’t tell. The crashing thunder and screaming wind seemed not to concern them as they traipsed about, filling their hands with flowers.
Persephone opened her mouth to call out, but all that escaped her throat was a low, hoarse caw. The rumble behind her grew unbearably loud, throbbing in her ears. She looked over her shoulder.
The red, flaring nostril of a horse filled her vision. To one side and behind the animal’s muzzle, a chariot wheel spun furiously.
Another boom split the sky. It mingled with the crack of a whip, and a man’s voice exhorting his steed to go faster.
The beast was almost on her. Persephone would surely be trampled. She jerked her head around. Her legs churned. Her breath pumped in and out. The heavens roared. The wind howled.
Despite her desperate burst of speed, the horse quickly pulled alongside Persephone. She saw then that there were four of them, great, black, gleaming beasts. In less time than it took to blink, they passed her, and the chariot wheel rolled by.
A hard hand closed on Persephone’s upper arm. Calluses rasped against her skin. Legs still pedaling, she was lifted into the air, swung around, and yanked backward.
The rear of her ankles slammed into the edge of the chariot basket. She sucked in a sharp breath. Her captor hauled her up. For a moment, she faced the cavern, before the man who had seized her once again spun her, his arm snaking around her waist.
The horses’ heaving backs and bobbing necks came into focus. Beyond them, the Goddesses still frolicked under the looming sky, unaware of her plight. Persephone didn’t waste breath calling out to them again. Her voice couldn’t compete with the cacophony of wind and thunder.
Still pinned to his side by a granite arm, Persephone looked at her captor. A swath of blue-gray wool stretched across a broad, muscled chest. She tilted her head back. A black beard covered the lower portion of the man’s face. Hair of the same color fell in curls behind the whorl of one pale ear. Turning his head, he looked down on her with slate-gray eyes that held not a spark of warmth or kindness.
Persephone twisted out of his grasp and lunged for the edge of the chariot. He grabbed her upper arm, halting her. Snarling, screeching, she clawed at his fingers but couldn’t break his grip.
The chariot wheeled and Persephone was thrown hard against him. His arm came around her again, anchoring her to his side once more. She strained and struggled, but he held her so tightly she couldn’t free either of her arms to fight. She spat at him all the Sicani curses that had been hurled at her over the years. He made no response. It was like doing battle with a stone.
The horses raced back to the cave. Without so much as checking their stride, they plunged into the darkness. Persephone craned her neck to look behind her as the light receded.
The churned earth of the meadow where the chariot had pursued her threw out tender shoots of grass at an astonishing rate. Inside the cavern, the dust resettled itself in their wake to fill in the indentations of hooves and wheels. Any who thought to find her would have no reason now to venture past the mouth of the cavern.
Persephone let the narcissus fall. The plant slid from the chariot’s basket and landed on the floor of the cavern. The white star of its blossoms shone in the black of the cave for a moment. Then its blooms withered and crumbled into dust. At the destruction of this last sign of her descent into the cavern’s depths, Persephone called on the God that the Goddesses claimed was her father, the all-mighty Zeus. If she was his child, surely he would come to her aid. If not, she was lost.