Chapter 12 The Asphodel Meadows #2
In a few quiet moments during her year of searching, she’d allowed herself to escape into fantasy.
She had imagined walking up the dusty path to her hut, the smell of her mother’s honey cakes wafting from the yard.
Eleni would wave at her as she pushed open the gate and scold her for staying away so long.
Her pa would have just returned from fishing, and his nets, still wet and gleaming from the sea, would be piled on the table inside.
Alea would be there too, bouncing Arius on her hip, asking their father about his day as he lowered himself into a chair by the hearth.
Both would smile at Danae as she entered, then carry on chatting about the tides and the mercurial nature of red tunny.
Danae would be happy just to stand there and let the ordinariness of them wash over her.
Allowing herself to remember her life before came at a heavy price.
When she returned to reality, the pain was almost too terrible to bear.
Yet she kept remembering. Like an old drunk who cannot stop themselves reaching for their cup.
Now, in that dark, windowless room beneath the earth, she closed her eyes.
Perhaps, this time, she would not have to come back.
Perhaps, if she concentrated hard enough, she could stay in her dream forever.
But as she trod the familiar path to her family’s hut, voices drifted through her mind that had no place there.
One, cold and aloof, she recognized, the other, lilting and boyish, she had not heard before.
‘Where is the creature you sent to plague us?’
‘Which creature?’
Slowly, she began to regain her senses and realized that the voices were not inside her head but wafting from beyond her room. Her bones grating with effort, she opened her eyes and rolled away from the wall. Her door had been left open.
‘The one with godlike powers you disguised as a mortal girl.’
A harsh, brittle laugh: Hades.
‘You flatter me, Hermes. I wish it was in my power to craft such a creature, but alas even my talents do not stretch that far.’
‘But she is from the Underworld. Father said …’
‘If it looks like a lion, roars like a lion and has a lion’s teeth, then perhaps it is a lion.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Your father is a liar.’
The sound of crashing furniture reverberated through the palace.
‘How dare you slander the King of Heaven –’ Hermes suddenly fell silent, and Danae heard a faint choking sound, then in a strangled voice, ‘If you give her to me, I will do whatever you ask. Name your price.’
A pause.
‘The girl you seek is not here. Fly home, messenger boy, and discover the truth. Now go, before I decide that Persephone could do with some company.’
Danae heard a clink, followed by a humming sound like the rapid beating of wings.
Somewhere, in the ruined caverns of her mind, a question echoed.
Why was Hades hiding her from the Olympians?
Her gaze drifted to the candle on her table. It had burned down to a waxy soup in its silver dish. She squinted at the brightness of the little flame, her eyes unused to the light after staring for so long at the dark wall.
There was a story her mother had told her and her siblings when they were children.
The tale of Pandora, the first woman made by the gods.
It was said that she was given a wedding gift by Zeus: a jar she was told never to open.
But Pandora was curious, and one day, while her husband was away, she opened the lid.
A terrible, blood-curdling shriek ripped through the air, and the daimons of worry, sickness, jealousy, greed and all the evils that now plague the mortal race came pouring out.
Pandora fell back, covered her face and wept at the terrors she had unleashed.
Then a gentle hand came to rest upon her head, and a soft voice said, ‘Do not mourn, child. Despair can never rule your heart while I am here.’ It was Elpis, the spirit of hope.
Danae closed her eyes. She was so tired, so very, very tired.
Then she thought of what Manto had said in those final moments before they pushed her over the side of the ship to save her from the harpies.
I know you’re scared, but you must believe me, you are the last daughter. You are the hope of mankind.
Danae opened her eyes and whispered into the gloom, ‘When the prophet falls, and gold that grows bears no fruit, the last daughter will come. She will end the reign of thunder and become the light that frees mankind.’
She thought of all those who had died at the hands of the gods. All those mortals suffering in despair beneath the Twelve’s tyranny, slaving under the false hope that one day they would be reunited with their loved ones.
If Prometheus was right about the afterlife, then he was right about her.
She must become the flame and light her own way out of the darkness.
With a colossal effort, she curled her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself to standing. She took one small step, then another, until she stood before the table, looking down at the silver tray of bread, olives and cooked meats.
She picked up a piece of bread, lifted it to her lips, and took a bite.