Underworld: Chimera

I am only Persefóni.

This is the first chapter of the fantasy novel ‘Underworld’ - a reimagining (not a retelling) of the myth of Persefóni. You can read the Prologue here.

PART ONE: ARKADÍA

CHAPTER 1

In the heat of the afternoon, I stand perfectly still on a heap of boulders deep in the pine forest, the bare face of the mountain at my back. Below me is a shallow pool, fed by some spring inside the rock. I scan the undergrowth around the pool intently, but it is hard to rely on my eyes, goddess-sharp as they are, when the light is constantly changing. The wind blows through the branches above, moving the patches of sunlight and shade on the forest floor. It is hard to trust my ears either; although the heat hangs heavy over us, it is never silent in the wood. Cicadas trill and chirp and water runs down the rocks beneath my feet and trickles into the pool below. I try to listen beyond those sounds. I shift my spear from one sweat-slicked hand to the other, and wait.

Soon, I hear it; the tell-tale snapping of branches and crunching of pinecones. Few creatures except mortals move so carelessly through the forest. My body tenses, my eyes sweeping the low-growing shrubs below me - there! The leaves of a kermes oak shudder and a chimera emerges.

Chimeras are primeval monsters, abominations spawned from Éhidna’s twisted imagination, and few things more vile have ever walked the Earth. They are four-footed beasts with three heads - a lioness flanked by a red-eyed goat and a scaled serpent. This isn’t the first chimera I have seen, but nonetheless I am transfixed by its grotesque appearance. Its fur is matted with clods of earth and dried blood, saliva drips from its jaws and smoke drifts from its nostrils. Even at this distance, I can see the jagged, yellow teeth of the lioness and the curving fangs of the serpent.

We have been tracking this particular monster since sunrise, since the first frightened homesteader brought us a report of livestock mauled in the night. Next, it was a shepherd who didn't come home. We found his charred remains later on the mountainside. That is the most terrifying thing about a chimera; its ability to breathe fire. But it is also the thing that makes it most predictable. Because of the fire constantly burning in its insides, it has an unquenchable thirst. It will always seek out the nearest water source, and its quest for cool, clear water has led it here, to me.

I watch as the heads bend in unison to drink from the pool and, never taking my eyes off the beast, I shift my weight on the rocks, slowly drawing back my throwing arm. I feel the muscles strong in my shoulder, my core, and for a moment I am pure potential energy - a bowstring drawn taught, an axe raised high in the air. Then, with a movement as swift as lightning, I let the spear fly. It sails through the air and strikes the chimera between the shoulder blades.

The lioness' head arches back and then crashes into the clear water of the pool as the chimera’s body slumps to the ground. The other heads continue to writhe for a moment and then they, too, become still. When I’m sure the creature is dead, I climb back down the rocks, my hands and feet easily finding purchase on the rough surface. A mortal’s height from the base, I drop, landing squarely on my toes on the prickly carpet of dry pine needles, knees bent, my fingertips barely brushing the ground.

I turn towards the fallen chimera and see Ánitos is already standing there, his hand on the spear shaft that is still protruding from the monster’s back.

Ánitos is my guardian and the only family I have ever known. It has always been just the two of us, and we have always lived in this valley. It is a high place - the sea lies far below and far away - but the mountains rise higher still about us, their lower slopes thickly forested with poplars and planes, pines and firs. Further up, the trees peter out as the ground becomes too steep for soil or roots to cling to. The peaks are nothing but bare rock; jagged fingers forever clawing upwards towards the sky.

We have made our home in a network of caves on the lower west-facing slopes, a forest of trees separating us from the valley floor. But we are not alone here; the soil is fertile and the flat land dotted with smallholdings. The inhabitants are mortals. They live in mud-brick buildings and work the land. But there are others who dwell here - immortals like us; nymphs, satyrs, dryads and hamadryads. The mortals don’t know much about them, these spirits of the water and wood, but the mortals know Ánitos and I. We hunt for them, we heal them, we work with them in the fields at harvest time, and we protect them.

Ánitos was a warrior, and he fought in many great campaigns, but he gave all that up to raise me. He sometimes tells me stories of those days, although I can never tell if he yearns for them, or if he is glad they are gone. He is a master of the sword and spear, the knife and hand-to-hand combat. He is a skilled archer, foot soldier and cavalryman. He can kill a thousand men in a thousand ways, but he doesn’t take life lightly, and he has raised me to be the same. After a hundred lives of men, I am just as skilled, just as deadly a fighter as he is, and, like him, I neither relish killing nor seek out the opportunity to deal out death. I only do what is necessary. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

For me, the joy is in the dance - the way my body moves and twists, the strength and agility it requires, how my weapons became an extension of myself. To me, there is nothing more perfect than the blend of speed, control and fluidity hand-to-hand combat requires, and I excel at it. Ánitos is the only one who can match me.

Now, he looks down at the chimera I have killed, at the place where my spear-tip penetrated its hide.

“Good,” he says, and his dark eyes twinkle his approval at me.

I know it is better than good. Anyone can hit a creature that size, but it is nearly impossible to throw a spear so that it finds and penetrates that half-inch gap between the shoulder blades that allows for an instant kill. Ánitos knows that too, but he will say no more. He isn’t given to bestowing lavish praise on me, but he isn’t given to criticism either. Whenever I fail - and I have failed many times at many things - he makes no remark. We simply try again and again until I succeeded. We are, after all, immortal. We have all the time in the world.

Ánitos places his foot on the creature’s flank and, with a sharp tug that seems almost effortless, he removes the spear. Then, the two of us drag the carcass away from the pool and I wait beside it while Ánitos goes to find a suitable pole to carry the animal, for it is huge - far heavier than I. I feel the forest-quiet close around me once more; all the sounds are familiar, and every tree and stream and rocky outcrop is known to me. This is my valley, these are my mountains; untameable and unpredictable as they are, I have lived here for a hundred mortal lifespans, and you learn something of a place in that time. My earliest memories - almost all my memories - are from this place. The first thing I really remember is Ánitos taking me deep into the trees of this very wood. He lifted me into the low-growing branches of an oak - I was still small enough to be picked up and carried then - and then he walked away.

I shouted after him, but he didn’t come back. I clung to the branch he had placed me on, yelling his name, until I realised he wasn’t going to return. I had to climb down the tree by myself, scraping my hands and legs and snagging my shift on the rough bark, and find my own way home. Even then, I knew he didn’t do it to be cruel. He did it to make me strong, to let me know that there’s no one I can truly rely on but myself. It was a harsh lesson, and a necessary one. But, deep down, I know I have never really learned it, because I have never been truly alone, never been truly afraid. Part of me knew Ánitos was concealed in the trees that day, watching so that no harm would come to me. He has always been there for me, and he always will be.

Ánitos has not only taught me to hunt and to fight, but to make clothes, catch fish and dress wounds. On long winter nights, we plan fictional attacks and sieges in the darkness of the cave. In summer, we lie on our backs outside it and learn the dance of the stars. He teaches me about plants; which ones taste good, which ones heal, and which ones can be deadly in the right quantities. We make salves for the villagers, and poisons, just to practise. Sometimes, when raiders or bandits come to the area, we ride out with our swords. We never attack unarmed men, and we always bury the dead.

I think that perhaps Ánitos hungers for something more. He has warrior-blood in his veins, after all. I have never asked him, though, because I know he won’t answer. Training me is the task, and like a true soldier, he will see it through to completion. But I hope that one day, when he decides I have learnt enough, we will ride from here, together, and face more than raiders. I am ready to follow Ánitos to the ends of the Earth, and I believe that someday I will.

Now, I think of the places he has seen - marble temples, walled cities, the wide expanse of sea. That in particular fascinates me; the way it is sometimes calm and sparkling in the sunlight, sometimes storm-tossed and treacherous. I have never seen it up close, only a pale blue haze on the horizon, but I have made Ánitos describe it to me many times; his journeys across the Aegean on wooden ships with billowing white sails, the times they lay becalmed off the coasts of islands, the moments he thought the wind and waves would dash them to pieces on the rocks. I am so familiar with his descriptions that, when I close my eyes, I can almost taste the salt spray on my lips and feel the rocking motion of the boat beneath my feet.

The screeching of gulls in my imagination resolves itself into the call of a sparrowhawk overhead and I look up to see Ánitos returning. He is dragging a long branch thicker than my thigh and we lash the chimera to it by its feet. Then, together, we heft the branch onto our shoulders, one at each end. Between us, it is no great weight, but it is quite a way from the forest glade to the flat valley floor, and before long I feel beads of sweat gathering on my upper lip and running down my body inside my chiton.

In the valley, near the threshing floor, some men have built a pyre. When they see us approaching, they greet us with shouts of enthusiasm and thanks; we have saved their animals, and quite possibly their lives, and we have done it swiftly - before the planned wedding of Dioklís and Loukía the next day.

Ánitos and I fling the chimera unceremoniously onto the pyre, and the men light the fire beneath it. A hideous stench soon arises, and we all beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the threshing floor, upwind from the burning corpse of the monster.

By then, the sun has dipped behind the mountains and the valley is in shadow, but the air is still warm. I wipe the sweat from my face, and gratefully accept a cup of water one of the men hands me. He inclines his head, respectful but not obsequious. I may be immortal, a hunter and a warrior, but the people of the valley have no reason to grovel before me. I am not a legendary goddess of the Court of Ólimbos, like Afrodíti or Ártemis, Irá or Dímitra. I am not even a mysterious creature of the forest, like the nymph of the waterfall, or the hamadryad of the Great Oak. I am only Persefóni, the ward of Ánitos. I am ordinary. I have their respect not because of who I am, but because of what I can do - hunt for them, heal and protect them - side-by-side with Ánitos.

The two of us go up the slope of the mountain in the fading light, back to our cave. It isn’t cold, even though night is approaching. We sit outside the entrance, eating some bread and olives that the men have given us, looking up at the wide expanse of sky above and watching the stars come out. I point out the centaur-shaped constellation.

“Do you remember the story?” Ánitos asks.

Of course, I tell him - I never forget stories.

“Tell me,” he says, lying back on the soft grass of the hillside, his arms pillowing his head.

“Heirón was a centaur, a great teacher and healer. He taught many immortals and heroes, but one day he was wounded by a poisoned arrow. He was in agony, but could not die. So, as he was already in torment, he agreed to exchange places with Promithéus.”

“And who was Promithéus?”

I roll my eyes at the simple question. “The Titan who was being eternally punished for giving the secret of fire to mortals, of course.” I flop down on my back next to Ánitos. “Why did the gods punish Promithéus for giving the mortals fire anyway?” I ask. “How could they live without it?”

“The gods do not want the mortals to learn too many secrets of that sort,” he replies. “As long as their lives are hard and uncomfortable, they will continue to make sacrifices and send pleas for aid to Ólimbos, and they will always be ready to do whatever the gods require of them.”

I frown. “But that is cruel.”

“Have I ever told you the gods are otherwise? Now, tell me what happened to the centaur Heirón.”

“The gods saw that he was suffering, through no fault of his own, and they took pity on him. Días, the god of thunder, allowed him to die. Then, he placed his spirit in the heavens and that’s why that constellation of stars looks like a centaur.”

Ánitos nods. It is the correct answer, the one he taught me.

“Is it true?” I ask. “Are those stars really the spirit of Heirón?”

He makes a dismissive noise. “I doubt it.”

I say that I suppose stars cannot really be the spirits of dead immortals. Although we can die, very few of us do, and there are far, far too many stars above us; more stars than sky.

“It’s not that,” Ánitos replies. “It’s just that I have been to the Court of Ólimbos, and I saw nothing there that made me believe the gods would show mercy to anyone.”

To be continued…