6. Underworld: Birds don't die in cages
Part 2: Chapter 6
This is Part 2: Chapter 6 of the serialised YA Fantasy Fiction novel ‘Underworld’, a reimagining (not a retelling) of the myth of Persefóni. Use the button below to access the Table of Contents and navigate back a chapter, or begin at the beginning. For SHORT STORY content click here instead.
CHAPTER 6: Birds don’t die in cages
We reach the citadel in the late afternoon and, as soon as I’ve returned my horse to the stables, I leave the palace and head across the meadow and into the trees. The dark pines almost blot out the sky above, cocooning me in the heavy silence of the wood. It’s a contrast to the palace, where everything is white and hard, and every sound echoes as it bounces off cold stone.
It’s easy to find the place the nymph Armónia told me about. She’s already waiting there, kneeling by the spring, her hands splayed beneath it as she lets the clear, cold water run over them. Water is streaming from the tips of her hair now, and her eyes are closed. I find her expression hard to read. She isn’t crying. It looks like whatever she is feeling hurts too much for tears, like the way I feel when I think of Arkadía. It’s terribly painful, but I don’t want to stop.
“Armónia?” I say tentatively, not wanting to disturb her, but not wanting to watch her either in this very private moment.
She looks up. “Come here,” she says, holding out her arms. “Give me your hands.”
I do, and she pulls them into the clear flow of water along with her own. It’s so cold that my fingers quickly begin to ache. I don’t pull away, though. I have the feeling that she is sharing something almost sacred with me.
“Where are you from?” I ask at last.
“The Akmonian Wood,” she replies, and in her voice I hear all the pain of loss and longing. “I guarded a well-spring there for a thousand years. It was my home.”
“What happened?”
“The gods are liars,” she says, as if this explains it.
“Tell me about them.”
“Everything is a game to them - one they always have to win. Maybe they will decide to start a war between mortal kingdoms, maybe they will set two lovers against each other and sit back to watch what happens. Maybe they will hurt you, Kóri, for their own entertainment. Perhaps your body, but here” - she touches her temple with the tip of her finger - “and here, too.” She places her hand over her heart.
This time, after my encounters with Áris and Poseidónas, I believe her.
“I’m strong - I’m a warrior,” I say. “I can fight.”
She doesn’t raise her eyebrows or look at me incredulously, and I realise that she believes me too, without my having to prove myself, and I like her all the more for it. She nods briefly.
“You can fight,” she says. “You wouldn’t be the first. But it will only make you more of a target. Whatever you were before, here, you will always lose. And if you refuse them too many times, they’ll make you pay.”
“But surely they wouldn’t …” They wouldn’t hurt me - that’s what I want to say, but my sentence trails off. “Ífaistos,” I say instead. “What happened to Ífaistos?”
Armónia shrugs.
“Who knows? I’ve heard ten different whispered tales, and probably none of them is true. You have to understand that the gods are living legends and they write their own stories - truth rarely comes into it at all.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask suddenly. “I’m the daughter of Días and Dímitra. I’m one of them.”
She shakes her head. “No, Kóri, you aren’t. I can see it in your eyes: you’re one of us. You have been stolen from your home, you are out of your depth and you have no one on your side.”
Her words sting, although she is right. Here, on Ólimbos, in this citadel swarming with people, I am utterly alone.
“Why don’t you run away?” I ask. “Go back to your spring in the Akmonian Wood?”
She doesn’t answer my question, not directly. Instead, she says, “Not long after I first came here, two nymphs ran away together. They didn’t get far. Ártemis brought them back.” Armónia looks into my eyes, and her own are very wide, as if she is only now learning what happened. “They were dead,” she almost whispers. “She hunted them down like animals and killed them.”
I make a small sound in my throat.
“They made sure we all saw. It was a lesson. I’m sorry, Kóri.” Armónia takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. “I don’t think they will let you leave either. There is a reason your mother has brought you here after all this time.”
“Do you know about the prophecy?” I ask, and she gives me a strange look which I take for confusion. “The Pythía gave Dímitra a prophecy,” I explain. “She thinks I’m important somehow, but she’s wrong. I don’t have power like the gods, and no desire for dominion over mortals. I just want to go home.”
“Remember that,” she says. “Whatever happens now you’re here, remember where you are from and who you once were. Many of my brothers and sisters have forgotten, or have buried their memories too deep.
“Birds don’t die in cages,” she continues. “But they cannot fly, cannot build nests or find food to eat. They still look like birds, but they are birds no longer. That is what we are like on Ólimbos: nymphs and dryads and satyrs in name, but what is a nymph without her waters, a dryad without her trees, or a satyr without his animals? It leaves a gaping emptiness inside us, and some of my brothers and sisters try to fill it with all that Ólimbos can offer people like us … but it is better to be empty. At least, that way, we remember.”
I feel the cold weight of comprehension settle in my stomach like a stone as I contemplate an eternity of emptiness; an endless pageant of feasts, intrigues and games.
“I can’t,” I tell her. “I can’t live like that, among such people.”
“You must, daughter of earth and thunder,” she says, stroking my hand to soften the impact of her words. “At least for now.”
We walk back to the palace together, taking a different route from the one I came by. On the way, we pass a clearing that contains a single stone building. Smoke is curling out of a hole in the roof, and the door is ajar. I catch a glimpse of a woman with wild dark hair moving about inside.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Ekáti.”
“Who?” I have never heard of her.
“She is older than the gods of Ólimbos, I think.”
“A Titan?”
Armónia shrugs. “Maybe. She has old magic. They call her the witch-woman. Sometimes she’s here, sometimes she goes away for a long time. She doesn’t come inside the palace, at least I’ve never seen her there, but I’ve heard she treats the mortals when they are sick, and helps my people too.”
“How?”
“We are immortal, Kóri, but we don’t heal like you do, especially not so far away from our homes. Sometimes, in this place, we get hurt. Ekáti is the only one who will help us without agenda.”
I glance back at the house, and I see the witch-woman is watching us. She raises a hand in greeting, and I wave back.
When I reach my chambers, I’m tired from the riding and swimming, and from all the things I have been shown and told. I want only to wash the salt from my skin, lie on that feather-soft bed, close my eyes and forget about sea-gods and prophecies. But there is someone in my chamber when I open the door, sitting on one of the couches: Íra.
It’s she who has come to me, but the expression she turns on me is hostile.
“Where have you been?” she demands.
“Walking in the forest,” I tell her. “And before that, to the sea.”
“With Poseidónas?”
I nod. I see no point in denying it, although why it matters to her I don’t know.
She stands, steps towards me and holds my face between her hands. Her touch is gentle, but her eyes are fierce. Jealous Íra, that’s what one of Érsi’s playwrights called her. Could she be jealous of me?
"Why did Dímitra bring you here?" she asks abruptly.
I don't know what to say. Does she know about the prophecy? Should I tell her? When I don't reply, she huffs impatiently. "Fine - keep your secrets, it matters not.”
She releases my face, but holds my gaze. “Devotion is admirable,” she says, “but I will give you some advice about it: obedience is rarely rewarded with respect. If you bend to your mother's will, you will stay on your knees forever."
Is she talking from experience? Is that how things are between my father and her? Or is she trying to goad me into doing something I will regret? Until very recently, I took everything that was said to me at face value. Between Ánitos and I, there were no hidden meanings. But here on Ólimbos, I'm already becoming wary; I'm beginning to understand how slippery words are, and how they have many different meanings, depending on the motives of the speaker. What are Íra's motives? She hates Dímitra, that much is obvious, but does she hate me also?
To be continued …