Dead Beautiful Read online

  Shall I tell you where it started? At my mother’s knee.

  We didn’t live upstairs with the rest of them. My mother has the care of fertility, weather, agriculture, like that, and she didn’t want a long commute. Close to the job site was better, too, in case of emergencies. Plus there was a little friction between her and Hera since Hera was Dad’s first wife. I mean, part of this is Dad’s fault. Couldn’t keep it in his chlamys, could he? Messing around with Leda and who-all. It was bound to make Hera grumpy and a bit jumpy. Anyway, Mum thought out of sight, out of mind was the best course, so we lived on earth.

  Which was cool with me. I’m not big on Pantheons, everyone swanning around in formal dress, fancy architecture — all marble and gold, it gets a bit uncomfortable after a while. I think that’s one of the reasons Dad can be such a grump sometimes, he has to sit on that golden throne all the time. If he had a nice soft chair, or a swath of grass to relax on he’d probably be in a better frame of mind. And there’s a lot of infighting that goes on up there.

  I like the earth. I love the sun on my skin, the wind. I love the way the soil crumbles in my hand, the way it smells. Even now, after all this time, I am amazed by the way green life springs from it.

  So we made our home among humans. Some of the others upstairs are contemptuous of people. They think since humans can’t move with the speed of Hermes, can’t carry the world around on their shoulders like Atlas, they’re not much better than ants: puny and squishable. Some of the relatives like to torment humans.

  But I’ve lived among humans and I’m fond of them. In the face of disaster, pain and hardship, people keep going. They get up, plow the fields, raise families, build cities, wage wars (often because of something stupid that’s gone on upstairs, although not always by any means). Humans are resilient and resourceful. I enjoy their cleverness. They’re always observing the world around themselves. I love their inventive tools, their shrewd solutions to problems. I respect how well they know their world. I have seen how often it comes close to defeating them but it never fully does. Upstairs, if Aphrodite breaks a nail we hear about it for a week — no joke. Down here, plagues, famines, droughts: the humans take these blows, stumble sometimes under their impact, pick themselves up and carry on.

  Mum homeschooled me at first. Took me to work with her. Things were good then, just the two of us. We ate when we wanted to, ate whatever we wanted — we didn’t have to accommodate anyone else, and our tastes were pretty similar. We were tight; we hung out together, liked doing a lot of the same things. We even liked the same plays, which made deciding what to do on a Friday night easy. It was like one mind living in two bodies.

  She let me have pets. I had some pet worms once; I kept them in a jar full of dirt. Unfortunately I left the jar sitting in the sun one afternoon and the poor worms were cooked by the end of the day. Apollo did it. Like he didn’t know what was going on — no, he’s just the exception that proves the rule about males, he thought it would be a good way for me to learn about consequences. Typical of him. He is so super-ego. Who suffered as a result? Not him, not me — the poor worms. Let’s teach someone a lesson and who ends up dealing with the fall-out? What’s the term? Collateral damage — in other words, no one’s taking responsibility. Standard for the upstairs bunch.

  After that it was baby frogs. But they’d jump and jump, bouncing against the walls of the jar in what looked to me like fruitless attempts to gain freedom. That was when mum told me, “Don’t anthropomorphize, Persephone. That’s a bad habit to get into in this line of work. They’re just frogs and they can’t see the glass.” That made me feel much better. Anyway, I let them go.

  Then I collected about a dozen praying mantises. Have you ever looked at them closely?

  They’re really beautiful, so long and elegant. But day by day there were fewer and fewer of them.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked mum. “Are they sick?”

  “No, hon.” That’s when she told me about the birds and bees and the female mantises’ post-coital snack.

  “Ew. Gross.”

  “It’s not gross. It’s nature.”

  They were my last pets in captivity. From then on I walked the earth with mum and enjoyed watching animals in their natural habitats. That was when mum sprang her saying on me, When you enter nature take only curiosity with you; when you leave take only memories. She’s full of these pithy one-liners.

  So even though I am one of the Olympus dwellers by right, I’m out of the loop. We’d go visiting on major feast days — Zeus’ birthday and the like. We’d sit at the big table, drink mead. Mum would sit as far from Hera as she could, with me beside her on a slightly lower stool, to keep me out of Hera’s line of sight. The adults made small talk. Mum caught up on what was happening. Big whoop.

  I guess of all the relatives I like Dionysus the best. He liked a lot of the stuff Mum and I liked, although he was a bit wilder than us. Sometimes he sent stuff our way. I mean, vinegar’s a no-brainer; leave some grape juice standing around for a while and — bingo! — you’ve got vinegar. But wine? It doesn’t happen by accident. Dionysus invented it and it’s nice for taking the edge off a rough day.

  When we went to visit Olympus we’d often take along new discoveries. Some successful, some not so. Nectarines were a big hit right away, but no one likes turnips, not even boiled, mashed and baked with brown sugar and marshmallows on top and anyone who tells you so lies.

  I didn’t get to know Hades well at these bashes. He kept pretty much to himself, stayed on the periphery. Ever since he and Aphrodite split up it was like he had a little dark cloud over his head, it sort of kept people at a distance. You couldn’t call him the life of the party, either. He was more of a loner. Attractive in a dark, broody way. Not a big talker. You would never call him cute — too chiseled for that, too many angles in his face, too many shadows.

  Once in a while he’d say something. Not much, but when he talked there was always this charge of electricity. “Hello, Persephone,” he’d say. “How are you? That’s a very nice diaphanous gown you’re wearing” and you knew he wasn’t talking about the gown at all. In fact, he was talking bout the non-existence of the gown, if you know what I mean, but not in a threatening way, in a way that made it clear he was interested and amused and challenged. In a way that implied he was more interested in what was happening inside my head, in fact, than under the gown. I know that’s a lot for 13 words to communicate — it was something in his eyes that added the context.

  Which was a change from Ares’ conversation: “Did you see me in action in that last war? I was a real hero,” or “Did I ever tell you how many people I slaughtered in this battle?” or “How do you like my new armour? Makes me look pretty ripped, eh?” And I don’t think he knows the word bath.

  Or Hermes, who was such a chatterbox. Yakkety, yakkety, yak. You could not get him to shut up.

  Hades wasn’t a big talker, but he asked me what I thought about life, death, our purpose in life, thoughtful things, and he really seemed interested in what I had to say.

  Plus, it turned out he had a sense of humour. Black, admittedly, but I preferred a few jokes to Apollo always going on about art for art’s sake and the epic form vs. the lyric. Yawn.

  One of Hades’ jokes: “How many Gods does it take to change a light bulb?”

  “How many?”

  “None. Light bulbs haven’t been invented yet.”

  O.k., so that’s not the best example, but it beats listening to Apollo come up with yet another paean to himself.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Mum would say after one of my little chats with Hades. Because of the Hera thing she wanted us to keep a low profile. “Make nice with your father, and as soon as we can do it politely we’ll leave.”

  Dad was always glad to see me but because of Hera (she’s got a short fuse — I’ve seen it in action, turning people into spiders, that sort of thing — oh, sure, she tried to pass it off on Athena, but I was there) mum figures the less attent
ion he pays me the better, and definitely no special treatment. That would really cause problems. So while all the other cousins had departments to run, he hadn’t assigned me anything and mum hadn’t asked him to. Which means I helped her. She gave me projects — develop new flowers, tweak some of the existing plants (nectarines were my idea).

  So mum really didn’t like the idea of Hades singling me out for attention.

  Which I understand, but who am I supposed to talk to — ten minutes with Hermes would turn anyone into a Bacchante.

  And am I going to spend the rest of my existence living with my mum?

  Zeus

  This whole father/uncle thing has gotten out of hand. Yes, Hades and I are related, but not that closely.

  The problem is the records are sketchy, and then there are all those similar names: Crios, Cronus, Themis, Thia. People’s handwriting is awful; it just takes a slip of the stylus to transform Thia to Rhea.

  That said, Cronus was my father and Chronus was Hades’, which makes us something like second cousins. We’ve been trying to get the records fixed since I took over from the Old Man, but you know how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turn.

  I’ll admit there’s a certain family resemblance: blue eyes, curly hair, and he will wear his beard the same way I do. But it’s not difficult to tell us apart: he’s a bit weedier than I am, a couple of centuries older, and you wouldn’t call him an extrovert. I’ve got nothing against serious-mindedness — some of us, and I’m not naming names but I hope Pan is listening, could use a bit more of it — but we can all agree that sometimes you can have too much of a good thing.

  Anyway, I just wanted to put that rumour to rest. I mean, we can’t have those folks on earth thinking anything goes. You just have to check out my family tree — Cyclops, or the fifty-headed Sons of Earth — to understand bad stuff can happen if you get too close for comfort.

  Hades

  This whole uncle/father issue. I know Zeus says we’re second cousins or some such, but who can tell with that guy? I mean, it never occurred to me, but how can you know? He’s a notorious philanderer — there’s the whole Leda episode, right?

  I can’t say I understand his wandering eye. Hera’s a nice woman, a bit short-tempered, but who wouldn’t be with a husband like that? The minute her eyes are off him he’s cavorting with any nymph who takes his fancy, or one of his own sisters, for Gods’ sake.

  A relationship has to be built on mutual trust and respect, and in Zeus’ case, where’s the trust? Hera, I know, is upstanding. No hanky-panky on her part. For one thing, she’s too busy. She keeps him stocked in thunderbolts — I heard they changed suppliers recently, some environmental concerns, and things have been a bit bumpy in that department. She handles all the feasts, and when you consider that’s upwards of 150 guests, well, that’s a challenge for anyone, even the most organized. And who do you think is responsible for keeping Olympus neat and tidy? I mean, those guys can be real pigs. Not that Hera does the cleaning herself, no, she delegates it, but the place is spotless, which means she’s on top of it all the time. So it can’t be easy. And then to have to wonder what your other half is up to — it’s enough to make anyone out of sorts.

  Zeus

  Oh, we’re back to that again, are we? Can’t trust him when he’s out of sight. Cavorts with any nymph that takes his fancy.

  Let’s get this straight: I am a busy God. On the one hand, do you seriously think I’ve been involved with half the women who claim to have been with me? It’s impossible. If I were out boffing that many nymphs, maenads, mortal women, whatever, nothing would get done.

  Hasn’t it ever occurred to anyone that some of these individuals might simply be making up these stories to inflate their own reputations? I mean, it looks pretty good if you’ve bedded a God, doesn’t it? And not just any God, but the top dog God. And if you convince yourself your kid is the son or daughter of a God you feel entitled to claim lots of extras for them. “What do you mean, he didn’t make the soccer team? He’s the son of Zeus. Maybe you should reconsider. You don’t want to bring down the wrath of Zeus on the soccer team, do you?” As if I have time to keep my eye on every little soccer team — although Becks did well, didn’t he? Chip off the old block, that boy. Good looking, too. Even though you’d think it was his wife who was related to us, the way she struts around.

  Plus consider the costs of having that many offspring. The annual dental bills alone would be equivalent to the GDP for several small African countries. And as I’ve said before, this job comes with no benefits.

  On the other hand, this is a high-pressure position, sorting out everyone’s demands — the folks’ on earth, the other Gods’. I mean, it’s no cakewalk. I’ve got Helios and Apollo jockeying for the position of top God of light. Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos — they’re a handful. Stubborn doesn’t begin to cover it. Eris is always creating snafus — how difficult is it to guess her favorite vacation spots are the Baltics and Israel? And Nemesis — don’t get me started. I suggested she try that mega-vitamin anti-PMS therapy and she just about bit off my head. Plus there are always the up-and-comers nipping at my heels. I know how I got the job.

  So who’s going to criticize me for taking a little well-deserved R&R? Listen, Hera and I have discussed this. She knows the pressure I’m under. Every once in a while we sneak away for a weekend. But she’s busy, I’m busy. I have to go on business trips. Our rule is: what happens on the road, stays on the road. She’s fine with that. And when one of these rumors pops up we sit down and talk. Usually I can demonstrate there’s no way I could possibly have been involved.

  As for the Leda episode, can you seriously see me dressing up as a swan? I don’t know what that Leda was smoking or what she’s into to come up with a story like that. A bull, sure, or a stallion — but a swan? How well is that going to play with the other guys? I can just imagine Poiseidon. “Ho, ho, ho, dressing up as a swan, are we? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.” He’d never drop it. I’d be getting feather boas for my birthday from here until Gotterdammerung.

  Demeter

  I shouldn’t have let her go to that private school. That was where she fell in with the water nymphs and naiads and all those lesser deities.

  It’s the water nymphs that are problematic. They’re moral relativists. Most of us, we know right from wrong, but not them, with them it’s always a question of context or motivation or background. They’re slippery. A lot of lawyers from that stratum of the hierarchy.

  Not the sort of individual you want influencing an impressionable young mind. First, teach them right from wrong, then, teach them to think for themselves. Not the other way around.

  Persephone wanted to go, she argued for it. I said, “Hon, I can keep homeschooling you. It’s going well. Why wreck a good thing?”

  But she wanted to be around people her own age, which is understandable. I suggested Olympus S.S. but she’s not really that close to her cousins and, as she pointed out, they’ve all been together since kindergarten. It would be difficult to be the new one in class.

  She was quite persuasive. It wasn’t just simply, “All the other girls are going,” because she knew I’d say, “And if all the other girls were going to jump off Mount Olympus, would you?” We’ve been down that road before.

  No, she said she wanted to meet other individuals who would be working in the same area, pick up technical information, which was a compelling argument. In my day you could learn on the job, but these days there’s all this new technology to master, a lot of knowledge is quite specialized. When she presented it that way I had to agree.

  Hades

  And what’s with all this “my white armed daughter”? Her arms weren’t that white. She spent a good deal of time traipsing around outside and those diaphanous gowns don’t give much SPF protection. Persephone could be looking at melanomas down the line.

  And this “torn from my arms” nonsense? She came to me, and willingly. Kidnapping is not my style. And it’s not as if this was our firs
t meeting. This situation didn’t arise out of the blue.

  Let’s back up a little.

  I probably saw Persephone for the first time when she was no more than an infant. I don’t remember. But we’re a tight bunch up on Olympus, we get together pretty regularly. Not that I’m there as much as the rest of them.

  To be honest, it can get a little claustrophobic up there. The air is pretty thin, they all spend way too much time together and they’ve all got egos the size of Mount Olympus. Things get blown out of proportion; personalities clash. Everyone’s competing for market share, sacrifices.

  Every time I leave I’m glad to be out of there. I get back to my place, it’s quieter, I’ve got my routine. Olympus can be a total circus at times; centaurs trotting in and out over the marble floors all day long, Dionysiacs singing and dancing and dismembering some poor soul. I have no idea how Zeus can think sometimes.

  Anyway, Persephone didn’t really register initially. As a rule, I am not interested in little girls; they’re silly and giggle and have as much substance as Aeolus.

  She first caught my attention about three years ago — Saturnalia, was it? (Renaming that particular holiday has been an improvement. Just try saying Cronusalia — it sounds like a demented flower, or a foot problem, or some activity involving necrophiliacs.)

  Aphrodite and I, well, that was old news by then, long over. I realized after the fact that Aphrodite’s modus operandi was to love and leave. More accurately, to love. She simply isn’t good with follow-up. You might say she has Attention Deficit Disorder in that area; once the first flush of passion has abated, she’s no longer interested. That’s her job description; it’s her nature. You can’t really blame her. I understand that now, but pain is still pain, and understanding its cause doesn’t mitigate the suffering it creates.