Underworld: Mirror, mirror

Part 2: Chapter 2

This is Part 2: Chapter 2 of the serialised 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 2: Mirror, mirror

We ride under the hot sun during the day and, saddle-sore, we sleep on the cool ground at night. Everyone else is bored and irritable, but I don’t find the travelling monotonous. On the contrary, I’m fascinated by the lands we’re riding through, but I’m also filled with a creeping misery, and the further we ride, the heavier it weighs on me. Despite my curiosity, I would give anything to be back in Arkadía with Ánitos, hunkered down waiting for a deer in the forest, or skinning rabbits for our dinner. I keep looking back, turning my favourite memories over in my mind. I cannot look forward. Dímitra is kind to me, but there is something about her, about all of them, that doesn’t sit right with me. I feel very much the outsider - as if they all know secrets I’m unaware of, which they probably do. It puts me at a disadvantage, this not-knowing; I feel I’m walking unawares towards an ambush, straight into a trap. I don’t want to think about what awaits me, in a palace full of people like them. But, all too soon, we are there.

The Citadel of Ólimbos is visible from miles away; a vast complex on a spur jutting out from the slopes of the mountain. It is white marble, with columns and arches, towers and balconies. It gleams in the sun and I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen more than the homesteads of the mortal farmers in the valleys near our cave. I stare and stare, caught between curiosity and trepidation. I know that, for me, Ólimbos is a cage - but it is a beautiful one. I’m desperate to see it up close, see what and who is inside. I feel Dímitra watching me, and I know my eyes are wide, trying to drink it all in, trying to see everything.

She laughs and leans from her horse to rest a hand on my knee. She gives it a squeeze. “I believe your new home pleases you,” she says.

I don’t reply. However much this fantastical, shining citadel intrigues me, I will never think of it as home. My home lies miles and miles to the south, and I cling stubbornly to that thought as the track we are riding on becomes a wide path leading directly to gates that stand open in a wall of smooth, white stone.

As we enter the citadel, its inhabitants - some mortal and some immortal - stop and watch as we ride by, and I know they are looking at me. I keep my back straight, my chin raised, and I fix my eyes on the back of Dímitra’s head as she rides in front of me through the narrow streets. I hope I look dignified. I don’t feel dignified. I feel like a fawn alone in the forest at night as the wolves begin to close in.

The palace - the seat of the gods - is at the highest point of the citadel. We ride in through an arched doorway as high as the tallest olive tree, crossing the central courtyard and going through another arch, narrow but high, to the stable yard. There, we dismount and our horses are led away to be rubbed down, fed and watered by the satyrs who work there. They are looking at me, whispering and nudging each other. A few flash me shy smiles and turn away, while others are bolder, trying to catch my gaze and hold it.

I look behind them to the stalls around the yard. They are full of the largest and most beautiful horses I have ever seen - hunting horses, trail horses, even warhorses - their coats glossy, their eyes gazing out passively from beneath long lashes. There are enchantments on every one of them, I am sure.

I want to stay among them - I understand animals - but Dímitra leads me by the hand into the palace, along glittering passageways and up stairs of the same white marble. At length, we come to a huge, bright chamber - my chamber, she tells me, and I am overwhelmed by the size of it; I have never seen a room so large. Four of the mud-brick homes from the valley could fit inside it. There are enormous windows with curtains of some fine material billowing in the breeze. Through a door, I see an antechamber with a pallet wide enough for a family to sleep on, and it’s not on the floor, but raised on a wooden platform. In the main room, there is a long couch by the window, several carved wooden chairs dotted about and a low table in the centre. There are cupboards taller than I, for clothes, I suppose, and a table covered in clay pots and tiny amphorae. Above it, a shiny rectangle is fixed to the wall. I am drawn to it, and when I come to stand in front of it, I am transfixed.

I look at the woman who is looking back at me with eyes that are bewitching - luminous and liquid. I have never seen such eyes. I touch my hair, and she touches the thick, shining tresses that cascade over her shoulders and down her back, reaching to her waist. I touch my face, and her fingers brush against the flawless skin of her cheek. I press my lips together, and her perfect mouth moves in unison with mine.

“What is it?” I ask, thinking of witchcraft.

Dímitra laughs. “A mirror,” she says. “And you are not the first to be enchanted by its reflection.” She stands behind me, hands on my shoulders, and my eyes meet those of my mirror-mother in the picture on the wall. “You are already beautiful,” she whispers in my ear. “Now you will see what magic my dryads can work.”

I twist around to look into her real face, and she laughs.

“Oh, no. It is not real magic. Powders and oils, jewellery and elegant clothes. But even those things have power, Kóri, if you know how to use them. We will make you look like a goddess, and then I will take you to meet Días.”

“Días?” I echo. “Today?”

“Of course! I’m sure he is eager to meet you.”

But she does not sound sure.

Dímitra claps her hands and two dryads come into the room - they must have been hanging around outside the door, probably listening to every word we said. I steal glances at them, wondering if they think I’m stupid for not knowing what a mirror is, and thinking they would use magic on me, but they are expressionless.

I don’t recognise them from the party that rode with us from Arkadía, but they too are dressed in fine clothes and shoes. They are nothing like the naked, wild dryads of my valley. Their dark skin is dull and, dressed up, they look more like mortals than forest spirits. I wonder what has happened to their trees and woods, now that they are here. Do other dryads watch over them? Or does no one watch over them at all?

The dryads don’t speak to me, but they nod to Dímitra as she issues them with instructions I barely understand: “The green chiton with the gold girdle - pull it tight … malachite for the eyes, of course, and kohl, but not too much … pink for the lips.”

They undress me and help me into a great tub of water. I’m not sure how to feel, being washed and dressed like a young child, but the dryads and Dímitra don’t pay much attention to me - they go on talking, debating what I will look like when they are finished with me. “Oils?” “Yes, for the skin and the hair.” “The hair?” “Down, of course, but with plaits here, and here - and some adornment. Gold, I think, and gold bracelets.” “Something for the neck too?” They scrub me until my skin is pink and beginning to be sore. They pour water over my head and rub strange-smelling things into my hair.

I’m reminded of the boars I hunted for feast-days back in Arkadía. I would hang them snout-down from a tree branch and peel back their skin. That is what I feel like now - as if I am hanging there, immobile, and they are peeling back my skin. But instead of butchering me, they will dress me in someone else’s skin - in green and gold.

When they are done, they leave with Dímitra to dress her, but I remain standing in front of the mirror. What I see is magnificent - the face that looks back at me is unearthly in its beauty, painted with highlights and shadows - but it cannot be me. Those are not my clothes, the arms from which the heavy gold bracelets hang cannot be mine. My fingers, which were made to hold a knife, should not be weighed down with rings.

I had always imagined that I looked like the young mortal women in the valley, but I see now that it isn’t so, and I understand why Ánitos placed those enchantments upon me; I could not have attended wedding feasts on the threshing floor or walked into King Níkandros’ camp looking as I do now. For the first time, I really believe that what I have been told is true - that I am the daughter of Días and of Dímitra. I do not look like the mortals, and I do not even look like Ánitos. I look like one of them - flawless and eternal.

As Dímitra said I would, I look like a goddess.

The people of the valley would fall on their knees if they saw me now - they would worship me like they worship the gods of Ólimbos. But inside, I am no different. I am only Persefóni and the sight of my reflection, looking the way it does, adds to my unease. I feel as if I no longer know who I am, but everyone else can see quite clearly.

It hits me then, how much I don’t want to be here, and how little I understand. I was never nervous when I heard the howl of a wolf close by, or when I fought men hand-to-hand or helped women give birth, but my stomach is in knots of anxiety at the thought of leaving this room and going down to meet my father. Will he approve of me? Will I disgust him the way I disgusted Dímitra when she first came to Arkadía? Does it even matter what he thinks of me? I don’t need a father, after all - I have Ánitos. But Ánitos is far away now, and in truth I am alone, because there is no one here who knows me. I’m no longer sure I even know myself.

When Dímitra comes back to my room, I’m still standing before the mirror, still staring. She laughs because she thinks I’m vain. She doesn’t guess that I’m mesmerised by something more than vanity. No matter how long I look, I can’t tell if my true face is beautiful or terrible. I stare into my own eyes, and I don’t understand what is staring back - what it is that swirls in their depths. Power? Revolution? Death?

Dímitra links her arm through mine and pulls me away from the mirror. She leads me down from my chamber, through more passageways that widen into galleries, to a great hall. If I was amazed at the size of my chamber, this room makes it look like an alcove. The high, vaulted ceiling arches above us, and two rows of marble pillars run down each side, their bases and tops carved with ornate designs. There are murals on the walls; painted scenes from stories, some of which I recognise: the war against the Titans, the birth of Athiná. On a dais at the farthest end of the hall, Días sits on a carved wooden chair. Irá is by his side, seated on a throne of ivory and gold. She is radiant in a peplos that looks as if it, too, is made of tiny discs of gold. Dímitra walks directly towards them, dragging me in her wake.

“So this is our long-lost daughter?” Días booms, before we even reach the foot of the dais. “Let me look at you, child.”

He motions for me to come closer, and I gather up my long skirts so that I don’t trip over them and climb the steps to stand before him. I incline my head respectfully and then raise my eyes to his. While Días studies my face, I look back at him. I find myself searching for something, some feature that resembles what I saw in the mirror upstairs - the same nose, the same eyes, perhaps - but nothing seems to match. I am not disappointed. Neither, it seems, is he.

“Yes,” he says, nodding to himself. He looks over at Dímitra. “It seems we make beautiful things together.”

Irá, on his left, snorts.

“What do we call her?” he asks, again addressing Dímitra as though I can’t understand, as though I don’t know the answer to this simple question. Which, I suppose, I don’t, because the name she gives him is not really mine.

“Kóri,” she says, and he smiles.

“A fitting name,” he replies, and Irá makes another noise of derision. “And has she…?”

His voice trails off as Dímitra shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says.

I suppose he is asking, as Dímitra did the first time she came to Arkadía, if I have exhibited any traces of real power. Dímitra’s response makes me feel utterly useless. I want to tell him there are things I can do - lots of things - but I daren’t speak out of turn to the ruler of the gods, even if he is my father.

Días turns back to me.

“We shall see what you become, in time. We have high hopes for you, daughter.”

I bow my head again, but Días leans towards Irá and begins to murmur in her ear, so I assume our audience is over. It was so brief; it’s clear my father takes little interest in me, and lays no claim to me: I belong to Dímitra alone. I make my way back down the steps to her side, where she immediately seizes my arm again and propels me back down the hall.

“Did you see how jealous she was?” she whispers gleefully in my ear. “Oh, she’s an envious one!” She nudges me as if we are sharing a great joke, but I don’t smile. I don’t like the idea of upsetting Irá.

I let Dímitra lead me through the maze of galleries, paying little attention to where we’re going. I find I’m left deflated by my meeting with Días. I saw nothing of myself in him, and although I’m glad, I feel, if possible, even more lost than before; even more convinced that there is no one here like me. If I feel no connection to my own flesh and blood, then who will I have anything in common with? But I suppose all the gods and goddesses are my family, to some extent. Perhaps the others will be different.

We go down a set of steps and enter another enormous hall. The ceiling of this one is lower, and it seems somehow darker, although there is daylight coming in through the windows. There are no murals on the walls, just rows and rows of mounted weapons. I know who this hall must belong to: Áris, the one the mortals call the god of war. I spot him, not on the dais as Días was, but pouring himself a cup of wine. He looks exactly as I expected him to: tall and broad, with muscular arms and a thick neck. Beside him is another god, shorter and slight, and I know him too. He is Apóllonas, the god of foresight. It is from his temple at Delfí that the Pythía made her prophecies about me. I wonder if he knows what she said - if, perhaps, he made her say it.

My instinct is to avoid Apóllonas. I don’t need any more people looking at me as if they expect something. But Dímitra is in her element, like a child with a new toy to show off to her friends. She waves at Áris and Apóllonas, calling their names, pulling me over to them and introducing us.

“So this is your feral daughter?” Apóllonas says, looking me up and down, but clearly addressing Dímitra. “She looks tame enough to me.”

“I did not say she was feral,” Dímitra insists, although I don’t believe her.

“Did you not?” he asks. “My mistake.” He grins at me, unabashed, as if he hasn’t just likened me to an animal.

I glance at Áris to find he, too, is looking at me. He interests me more than Apóllonas. What would it be like to spar with him - the god of war? Of all the deities at the Court of Ólimbos, I imagine he is the most like me in skill, but I don't know about temperament. I've heard stories of his violent temper, and the joy he takes in wanton destruction. Looking at him now, I can't tell if those stories are true. There's no trace of cruelty in his features at this moment, only curiosity, and that greedy look that I have come to recognise. His eyes travel over me, and then he smiles, warm and welcoming, taking my hand in both of his.

"Welcome to Ólimbos," he says, and I mean to smile back, but he squeezes my hand tighter; so tight that it hurts. Suddenly, incongruously, I feel a flash of that euphoria, that battle-maddess. I gasp and pull my arm back, and he smirks, leaning down towards me.

"What is it, Kóri mou?" he asks. The smile is still on his lips, but there is something else in his expression now, as if, in that brief second, he learned something of me and it pleased him.

Dímitra places an arm around my shoulders, protectively.

“Come, Áris,” she says. “Don’t harass the girl. Kóri is tired. We have been travelling for days. Let us sit.”

She gestures to an alcove where a couple of couches have been placed facing each other. We move towards them but, as soon as I sit, I jump to my feet again.

“I’m thirsty,” I say, and dart back to the table with the wine on it.

I’m not sure what just happened. What did Áris do to me? How did he make me feel that way? And why?

I stay a long time at the table, pouring a cup of wine as slowly as I can. But when I turn to carry it back to the couches, I am immediately surrounded by three stunning goddesses. They introduce themselves as Athiná, Afrodíti and Ártemis. Of course, I think. Of course that’s who they are. They touch my hair and comment on my eyes, my figure, my cheekbones, my clothes.

“Such a beauty,” says Athiná.

“Yes, but I heard she was like a wild animal when Dímitra found her,” Afrodíti comments, twisting a lock of my hair around her finger.

“I was not!” I interrupt angrily.

“Oh, there is nothing wrong with that,” says Ártemis placatingly. “I love wild animals. … They are so good for sport.”

“Arty, don’t,” says Afrodíti, giggling.

“Yes, be nice, Arty,” adds Athiná. “I know! Why don’t you take Kóri hunting with you tomorrow?”

I’m not sure why Ártemis elbows Athiná in the ribs at this point, but my heart leaps at the mention of hunting and I blurt, “I would love to join you.”

Afrodíti cackles, but Ártemis looks me up and down critically. “Can you ride?” she asks. “We ride like the wind on my hunts.”

“I can keep up,” I tell her.

“Can you?” It is Apóllonas. “I do not know how you ride, but a mortal could live and die in the time it takes for you to pour a cup of wine.” He takes the cup from my hands with another impish grin. “Come on, princess,” he says. “There is someone your mother wants you to meet.”

It is Ermís, the messenger god, and the god of mischief. I can see it dancing in his eyes as he talks to me, although he is nothing but polite. We make small talk about my journey and where I’m from, and I find myself sounding almost apologetic for my humble upbringing, although I’m not ashamed of it at all. I become annoyed with myself, for all the wrong words that are coming out of my mouth, as I try to describe my first impressions of Ólimbos without sounding like the rustic peasant everyone so clearly believes me to be. Ermís waves me into silence.

“You have seen nothing as yet,” he says. “Tomorrow night there will be a feast in Diónisos’ hall, and then you shall see the true face of the Court of Ólimbos. It will dazzle you, little cousin. There is no mortal court like ours. When it comes to feasting and revelry, nowhere can surpass Ólimbos. This is the home of the gods, after all. And your home, now, too."

I smile, as if I am glad to be here, but I know I will never think of this place as my home. I’m enthralled by the grandeur of the palace, the sweeping marble staircases, the echoing halls and their legendary occupants. But I only want to look at all the hard and shining and beautiful things, to satisfy my curiosity, and then I want to get back on my horse and ride for Arkadía and Ánitos.

---

It is late when Dímitra decides it is time to leave Aris’ hall. Darkness has fallen outside, and the room is lit by sconces along the walls. The light flickers on the decorative weapons mounted there, and I see someone lifting one down and inspecting it. I pull away from Dímitra, certain I know who it is; certain it is someone I very much want to meet.

“Ífaistos, god of craftsmen,” I say, by way of greeting. “I’m … Kóri.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, placing the broadsword he is holding back on its mount and turning to face me. His voice is deep and warm, like his eyes, and he looks at me sincerely as he speaks, not wolfishly as the other gods did. In fact, he seems almost shy.

Although I'd heard he was horribly disfigured, he doesn’t seem so to me. His left shoulder and leg are twisted, it is true, but his face is handsome. There is something else, though; he looks older than the rest of us, his hair greying and fine lines branching like spiderwebs from the corners of his eyes. I suppose, to immortals, this nod to the passing of time is a deformity too.

“Did you make all these?” I ask, gesturing to the weapons which, now I look closely, I can see are like none I have ever encountered before. Each one is a work of art, engraved and embellished, and humming with enchantments.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “Metalwork is my gift. I can make trinkets for you beyond compare: a coronet of gold that glows like the sunset, earrings that hold the light of the stars. This bracelet you wear, it is one of my creations.”

I glance at it - an intricate piece of gold twining around green stones, almost as if the metal had grown there like a vine. “It’s beautiful,” I say, and it is truly the most cleverly-crafted piece of jewellery I have ever seen, nothing like the bangles Érsi wore. Next to this, her fine adornments would look rough and poorly-made. But I don't really care about ‘trinkets’, as Ífaistos called them. They are beautiful, but useless in my eyes.

“You don’t use bronze for the blades of your swords?” I ask, my gaze resting on the broadsword he so recently held in his hands.

“For short swords, I do, but for the longer blades I favour iron. It is more durable and does not dull as quickly.”

“I’ve never used an iron blade,” I say. “I should like to.”

He smiles at me, clearly not sure what to make of this statement, but he is cordial and polite.

“You are welcome in the forge any time you should wish to visit,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, inclining my head.

“If you would like to see some more of my work now, there are a few pieces hanging in the gallery outside that I’m rather proud of.”

He gestures to the entrance, then proffers his arm. I take it without looking at Dímitra, who I know has been watching us the whole time. As we walk across the room, I notice Ífaistos has a pronounced limp. I pretend I don’t see it, while at the same time subtly trying to support his weight when he leans into me. I wonder, too, what can injure a god.

To be continued …