chapter two

I've lived many mortal lifetimes. Witnessed wars and revolutions and empires overturned and innocent men hang from the gallows. And in all of history and its abundance of gore and afflictions, I have never heard of such horrors. Pain congealed through the air and fear would slash through it. I could only tremble amongst them, nourish them as best as I could. For many weeks I did just that. Applied on their limbs an ointment of dill herbs and ichor threaded with my insipid florakinesis. But it was simply not enough. Their wounds would suppurate, touched by no normal fire but a sacred weapon of destruction.

Of course, my wish had come with a catch.

Their beautiful undying souls had returned to charred, wounded forms, and I had confiscated their only escape to peace. I had no doubt they would all have found a place in Elysium if I had just let them go. Mistake after mistake I make. Guilt festers within me, and I fear it would plague my dreams for eternity.

My little Anthousai sisters, thrash in their agony, and they weep. I fall before the eldest, Kalligeneia. An infant flower that had begun her metamorphosis. Her hair, which had been the prettiest hyacinth mauve, now a withering brown, and her eyes which had been home to skies and rivers were ashen in turmoil.

Almost a century ago I had discovered their seeds from the shores of Plymouth, nestled in the crevices of beach rocks. Lit from within like a star, I recognized Demeter's lesser daughters at once. I collected them tenderly, a constellation against the dark, oil-sheened stone, until it is as if I held the stars in my pocket. The seawater would have killed them, if the moon held the tide a little closer. A sign from my mother. A reminder of what I am. They would not have survived long in England either, in the sunless, volatile weathers. I hear her message clear as day: set sail to the west. I would bring to the new lands an old religion, not a church or deity, but fertility and life—a much more desired bible.

I nursed them in my cottage, until the opportunity arose. For months I sang to them in the dark gloominess of the ship cabin, which smelled of mold and where the rats ran amok. Many of the other passengers were prisoners in their previous lives, thieves, political saboteurs, and others which were prisoners of poverty. A second life, they called it, though they would serve their sentences for some years. I could not count with both hands the number of lives I've lived. As the others, this new life was not so easy. It was difficult in the settlement, though less with my coin. The fevers have no cure and Rome was not built in one day. I found a spot by the streams a couple kilometres from the settlement, and planted my sisters there, where they could feed from the fresh waters and bask in the sun. And I assumed a role as a seamstress in the town, as you could not be a maiden from Athens without at least the skill to weave. They would turn you to an insect. Or, as history proves, if you're much too good at it—you could be turned into an insect just as likely. Life was mostly content, if not for the perpetually hollow stomachs. But my sisters are happy, having no stomach for edible nourishment yet. Most of the time. The winters in the colony were very unlike Greece.

"Persephone, Persephone," Kallie had whinnied. "It is so very cold. The frost has bitten through my leaves and the snow heavy on my hair."

So for Kallie and her sisters I had darted through the halls of Mount Olympus, disguised as a servant. I had wrapped a shawl around my face and hair, which flamed brighter than the sun at times. I was already small and coarse having smuggled across the ocean, travelled across the continent, and scaled the mountains of Mount Olympus, and could have passed as a homely bum at that point, much less a servant. In the midst of a feast, as the gods were whisked away by distractions of ambrosia, spirits, lust, and music, I crept into Hephaestus's workshop, its seclusion working to my favour. It was more of a factory, which was expected of the god of blacksmiths. Its ceilings arched so tall it could not be discernible, with endless rows and rows of weapons lining its cavern walls. I headed straight for the forge, and shoved a generous piece of ember into my asbestos lined pocket. Then I ran like hell hounds were at my heels. I thought I heard Prometheus's laughter travel through the winds. My, my, they never learn.

My eldest now, she is not as badly hurt as the others. Kallie sits amongst the others, leaves weeping, and her plump rounded face red and angry with blisters. "Persephone," she wails, unhappier now than she has ever been. "What have you done to me?" She looks down at her wounded arms, fat droplets of tears coaxed from its river depths. "I am mutilated and hideous. I am ruined. What purpose would I ever serve?"

I could not answer. Words would not console them, nor return her beauty. I sit down beside her silently and begin to reapply a fresh layer of medicine onto her skin, listening to her cries.

"–a monster. That's what I've become. Broken. I will die a lone weed."

"No Kallie," I tell her softly. "First—you will never be alone. You have your family. And," I suck in a deep breath. "I will fix this. For you and your sisters...I promise."

She sneers. "How human of you. You forget. We are nymphs, creatures to be desired and scarcely more. What are we without our beauty? It's your fault you know," I recoil, pained, "How?" she demands. "How will you fix this."

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I did not know. There was nothing more despicable than false promises. For weeks, I had wracked my mind for possibilities. How? I'd pondered ceaselessly. I conjure ancient tales from my learnings, of powerful artifacts lost in time that could restore such damage. The objects I contemplated of tirelessly: The Rod of Asclepius, staff the patron god of healing. Apollo's bow, with the sun in its nock. I could bargain for either. Yet what power could return the light her eyes? Beyond Hellenism...my mind drew to a void. I had little knowledge and even less of an idea on where to start. It all seemed so beyond reach.

"The golden fleece," she says with certainty. "Only the golden fleece will do."

I almost choke.

"The golden fleece." I repeat, stunned.

"Yes," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"But I will die," I say. "I am only a nymph."

"And I will be grotesque and scarred," she answers plainly.

Silence ensues. Kallie's eyes pierce me, they are demanding, it is a lot. To seek an object so grand gods have killed and mortal men have died for less. An item so ancient and passed through so many hands—mortal and immortal alike—that it could be in the depths of Tartarus or sitting amongst the stars. And it would be guarded by fearsome creatures with a sole purpose, and it would not be to lend a helping hand to a powerless nymph.

She begins to grow angry, face twisting, spurned by my protestations. "You owe us that," she hisses scathingly, "You burn your sisters. You kill us. You trap us in these repulsive bodies. Now you dare reject our simple request? For shame, Persephone."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I tremble, overcome by a current of emotions.

Then she delivers her ultimatum. I see from the glint in her eyes that she has hidden this beneath her tongue for a while. "We will call on Demeter," she says lowly, "and she will punish you. If not her, then the council. Thief." Pain pulsates through me for a minute. Or is it fear. I cannot tell the difference.

My need to please Demeter, my yearning for her validation, has always surpassed any sense or my need for survival. I have followed her across the continent, then oceans, abandoned warmth of homes I've built and its familiarity, for even traces, smidgens of her presence—to be a little closer to my religion. Kalligeneia knew this better than anyone.

So along the long list of foolish things I have done, I add another. "Okay," I whisper. "I will retrieve the golden fleece." I doubt it will be the last.

-

I begin packing straight away.

I lay my few clothing folded on my cot, coarse linen and wool, and stuff them into my leather pouch. Then I reach beneath my thin mattress and curl my fingers around the familiar grip of my dagger. Under the light, the black steel glinted. I run my fingers over swirling designs of the hilt. Simple as it was, but god-touched.

A knife that Hecate had gifted me many centuries ago. In more ways than one, I considered her my guardian. For the first century of my maturity, she had raised me in the outskirts of Athens. Bandaged the scrapes on knees when I fell, taught me our ancient language, lulled me to sleep with stories of heroes and fame. And when I left, she understood, because before anything else, I was Demeter's daughter. And in our world, nothing ran thicker than blood.

But I still feel her motherly love press against my skin as I held the hilt of the dagger, and strapped it safely to my thigh.

I hear the soft footfalls at the door of my cottage before I feel the surprisingly strong grip around my middle. Amelia, a servant from the sculleries of some squire. I turn in her grasp and look down at her endearingly. As usual, her brunette curls defy her carefully plated braids. She is much shorter, coming to only my shoulders, where she laid her sweet head. Her spine is slightly curved, like a strained candle in the morning, and when she smiles I notice her uneven teeth are loose and tinged pink. Oh Amelia...But it is as bright as ever, and she throws herself around me with an unmatched vivacity. She smells of fresh pastries and stale sweat.

For years, she favoured my companionship, as we were the few young women in the frontier. Now we looked about the same age—barely adults—although I had worn the same face for centuries.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she cries, looking over my face critically. "You look fatigued. What ails you?"

"So observant," I tut, pulling away.

She turns her attention to the pouch on my bed, and sifts through some of my clothes. "Are you going somewhere" she asks, puzzled. When I pause, she presses. "Kora?" She calls me by my human name, a name I've bequeathed myself that masqueraded age and culture.

Finally I say, "I'm going on a journey."

"Where?" Her auburn eyes are round.

Home, I tell her. It tastes bittersweet in my mouth.

"But this is your home." A pang of sadness reverberates through me. Many homes I've found and abandoned, yet the ache never departs. When and if I return, I think, her hair will be gray and her body bowed with age. Perhaps I will find her in a bed surrounded by grandchildren, or beneath a tomb wreathed with flowers. There is a certainty, that I will not find the youth in her blossoming cheeks again. That was the woeful truth in living amongst mortals, you could watch them live their entire lives, their children, and then their grandchildren, yet not lived a single one yourself.

"Yes," I answer simply.

As if she notices my sadness, she twins her fingers with mine in comfort, and her smile returns as bright and lively as spring itself. "An adventure then," she cries excitedly. "How entirely thrilling!"

Her exhilaration is contagious, bleeding into my trepidation. Unable to stop myself, I envelope her into my embrace.

Take care of yourself. I say as farewell.