Chapter 1 #2
As the procession wound its way inland, the anticipation simmering in Danae’s stomach ignited.
She could see Demeter’s temple. Flanked by protective hills, the white stone pillars stood stark against the gritty golds and greens of the surrounding land.
It always made her think of the bones of a great leviathan, picked clean and gleaming after being washed ashore centuries before.
The crowd was funneled down a road lined by tall cypress trees.
Then the sun dipped below the hills, and a cavalcade of shadows stretched out behind the women.
By the time they reached the floral path leading up to the temple, darkness had fallen.
The braziers were lit, their smoke muddling with the sweet scent of the blooms to form a heady concoction.
The temple garden was an oasis of flora and foliage that would never survive without the dutiful care of the temple hands and the water they walked miles every day to fetch.
Opulent fuchsia flowers nestled in bushes of waxy emerald leaves, and beds of yellow and orange blooms were surrounded by clusters of tiny ocean blue petals.
Even in the brazier light the colors were luminous.
“Eleni, Danae, Alea! Over here!” Kafi, Danae’s sister-in-law, shouted across the garden, waving vigorously.
She’d saved their usual spot. Next to her was Calix’s wife, Carissa.
A pretty woman, whose appearance was rather spoiled by her mortification at the disapproving glances garnered by Kafi’s booming voice.
They fought their way through the crowd toward the two women.
Kafi grinned at Danae with her big, gap-toothed smile and drew her into a tight hug.
Danae liked her. She was loud, unapologetic and had chosen to marry Danae’s brother, Santos, because the first time they’d met he had—in Kafi’s words—made her laugh so hard she was almost sick.
Kafi released her, and Danae turned her attention to the temple.
A temporary altar had been erected in front of the sacred building.
It was piled high with bowls of ripe figs, crisp apples, pomegranates and stacks of vegetable-laden baskets.
Sacks of grain, barrels of fish, amphorae filled with olive oil and bronze dishes of wine mixed with water were nestled around its base.
The men of each household had delivered the produce earlier that morning in addition to the monthly temple tithe.
Every family gave more than they could spare.
Danae’s stomach growled. They’d fasted since dawn in memory of Demeter’s own refusal to eat when her daughter, Persephone, had been held hostage by Hades, God of the Underworld.
As she stared at the offerings, she noticed a quiver of movement to the side of the altar.
The air oscillated like something was distorting it.
For an unsettling moment, she thought she saw a pair of disembodied red eyes.
Then she blinked and they vanished. It must be hunger and the intoxicating aroma of the garden playing tricks on her.
Then the pounding of drums cut through the chatter of the crowd.
“This is it,” Alea whispered.
Danae took her sister’s hand.
Three women emerged from the temple. They walked slowly, with purpose.
The first priestess was dressed in green, a band of gold across her brow and ivy wound around her arms. She was Demeter.
The second wore a deep crimson robe, her face obscured by a fearful mask with twisted horns.
Hades. The third wore white, her thin dress fluttering in the evening breeze.
She was Demeter’s daughter, Persephone. Four temple hands kept pace behind them, beating wide drums fastened with leather straps around their necks.
As the procession reached the altar, the priestesses came to stand side by side in front of the offerings.
All three raised their arms. Painted on each of their palms was the all-seeing eye, the symbol of the Olympian gods’ omnipotence.
Demeter was the patron deity of Naxos, but all twelve gods shared dominion over mortal lives.
The priestesses lowered their hands to face the crowd, pointing the eye of the gods at the women of Naxos.
The congregation grew still as a windless sky.
Danae’s mouth was dry. This was the moment of judgment, when the Twelve would enter their souls and lay bare what was inside. They would know if anyone had held back something which should have been offered.
There was no hiding from the gods.
“May the Twelve see you and know you,” the priestesses intoned.
In response, all the women raised a finger to their foreheads.
The Demeter-priestess sang out a long piercing note. Her sisters joined her, their three voices melding into one. Then the Hades-priestess backed away into the shadows and Demeter and Persephone took each other’s arms and began to dance.
Danae grinned. The play was her favorite part of the ceremony.
The priestesses twirled and skipped, the drumbeat chasing their feet. Danae’s heart raced with their ever-increasing speed.
Suddenly Hades lunged out of the dark and grabbed Persephone’s arm, spinning her away from the altar.
Danae gasped, despite having seen the performance many times before.
The drums slowed, and Demeter made a show of searching the crowd.
Unable to find her daughter, she collapsed to the ground, her head in her arms. Then Hades and Persephone reemerged to stand in front of the altar.
Hades plucked a pomegranate from a bronze dish and gouged it with her fingers.
Wine-dark liquid trickled down her arms as she proffered half the fruit to Persephone.
The crowd screamed for her not to take it.
Everyone knew that by eating the fruit of the Underworld, Persephone would be condemning herself to remain with Hades for all eternity.
The cries reached a crescendo as Persephone took the pomegranate and lifted it to her lips.
Juice poured down the priestess’s chin, staining her white dress.
The women gasped again. A standard had emerged behind the drummers.
They parted, bowing as deeply as their instruments would allow.
On top of a long pole, carried by a sweating temple hand, was a golden eagle.
The symbol of Zeus, King of the Gods. A hush descended over the crowd.
Demeter prostrated herself before the great bird, then rose, her face wet with tears—that part always impressed Danae—and moved to stand beside her daughter.
“Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds,” said the Demeter-priestess.
“Therefore, the Father of Mankind, in his infinite wisdom, decreed she would remain on Olympus with her mother for six months of the year. During this joyous time Demeter blesses the earth with life and abundance. But for the remaining six months, Persephone must live in the Underworld, with Hades. During these terrible months the earth grows cold and withers with Demeter’s grief. ”
The crowd bowed their heads in recognition of the Harvest Goddess’s suffering.
“Tonight, women of Naxos, we give praise to she who blesses this fertile land. Praise to she who guards our crops from pestilence. Praise to she who provides for us, so we may bloom and our children may flourish. Demeter, we pray you continue to watch over us all here tonight, our families at home and those who have joined the Missing. We pray, one day, they will return to us.”
The Missing were the people who disappeared.
It had been happening ever since anyone could remember.
Every so often someone would just vanish.
The average on Naxos was around five people a year.
On the mainland it was far more. Even the priestesses couldn’t explain it.
Despite beseeching Demeter every year to bring back the Missing, so far no one had ever returned.
“Demeter watch over us,” the crowd murmured.
Two temple hands walked forward, guiding a large pig toward the altar. This was the part Danae liked the least. The drums returned, slow and steady.
The priestesses smoothed the beast’s back, cooing as they held it still in front of the altar. Another temple hand ran forward and dropped to one knee, a long silver blade balanced on his upturned palms. The Demeter-priestess curled her fingers around the knife and raised it high above her head.
A reflected sliver of moonlight slashed through the air.
The drumming reached a crescendo as the animal squealed.
Blood splattered the priestess. She sliced open the animal’s belly and reached into the incision.
Tugging out the intestines, she held them up to the moonlight.
The organs glistened as she ran them through her fingers, inspecting every single segment.
The crowd was so quiet, not a breath could be heard.
The priestess dropped the offal into a bronze bowl beneath the altar and turned to face the women of Naxos.
“The omens have spoken. Demeter sees all, hears all, knows all. She has looked into your hearts, and she has found you wanting.”
There were gasps. Someone cried out, “But we’ve given everything we have!”
“Your offerings are not enough,” the priestess continued. “Someone amongst you has kept back what should have been given to Demeter. Someone thought they could lie to the goddess.”
A few of the younger girls began to cry. Danae’s fingers tightened around her sister’s hand. Her mother wrapped her arms around them both so firmly her nails dug into Danae’s skin.
The priestess lifted one painted palm to travel over the crowd, while with the other hand she drew a smear of blood down her forehead. Danae’s ribs tightened around her lungs as that hand drew closer. Then stopped.
The priestess made her choice and pointed.
“No!”
Melia clung to her daughters as the priestess’s gaze settled on her youngest girl.
The temple hands barged through the crowd. The blacksmith’s wife sobbed, refusing to relinquish her daughter as they tried to pull her away.
A shriek ruptured the air. Startled, Danae looked around, but all she could see was her own confusion mirrored in the faces around her.
They appeared from nowhere, clambering out of bushes and leaping from behind trees, their hair tangled with twigs and bracken. At least twenty women, all completely naked.
They were the Maenads, the followers of Dionysus, God of Wine and Pleasure.
Women who’d forsaken their families to live wild in the forests.
They were said to give their minds over entirely to their god, drinking so deeply of his wine they fell into an ecstatic trance and performed frenzied dances to please his salacious will.
It was even rumored that during one of their rituals, they tore a baby limb from limb with their bare hands.
Like wolves amongst a flock of goats the Maenads scattered the crowd, their laughter echoing through the garden.
Statues were overturned, flower beds trampled and two Maenads even clambered onto the altar and stuffed offerings into their mouths.
They only managed to devour a few fistfuls before the temple hands dragged them away, but the damage was done. Demeter would be furious.
Eleni grabbed hold of Danae’s and Alea’s hands.
“Don’t let go of me, girls.”
She bundled them toward the floral pathway, but panic had infected the crowd and they were battered by frightened women, tripping over each other in their attempts to flee.
Melia hurtled past with her daughters, having freed the youngest from the temple hands, and barged into Danae with such force she was thrown to the ground.
A stampede of legs trampled her. She needed to get back to her mother and sister, but the onslaught of bodies kept her pinned down.
She raised her arms over her head and curled up to protect herself.
Then someone grabbed hold of her and dragged her out of the crushing mob.
She was helped to her feet and found herself looking into the face of one of the Maenads.
Her skin tightened, the breath imprisoned in her chest, as she waited for the woman to strike.
The Maenad’s eyes rounded with concern. “Are you hurt?”
Danae opened her mouth but was too stunned to speak. She shook her head.
“Good.” The woman grinned, slapped her shoulder, then darted off into the bushes.
“Danae!” Her mother came battling through the crowd. “Thank the gods, I thought I’d lost you.” She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. “Where’s your sister?”
“I thought she was with you?”
Her mother paled. She clenched a vice-like hand around Danae’s wrist then turned back to the crowd.
“Alea!”
Danae’s heart raced at a sickening pace. She too called for her sister, scouring every face that rushed past, but there was no sign of Alea.
They searched the garden until their throats were raw and everyone had disappeared, save the temple hands who were left to clear up the wreckage.
“Have you seen my daughter? White dress, green headband, looks like me,” Eleni croaked for the hundredth time.
The man shook his head and returned to sweeping a heap of broken pottery.
Danae turned to her mother. “What do we do now?”
Eleni, who always had an answer, said, “I don’t know.”