The Queen of Flowers and Roots

By Io

The myth of Persephone (and Hades), narrated by herself.

There is nothing that regards me, despite this being my story.

What is told is about the passion of my husband, the desperation of my mother, of my father’s decision. It speaks about the suffering of the mortals and of the rites once followed, so that what happened would never again be repeated. There are stories that run parallel and in contrast, they recount suggestive details, but anything about me, of what happened to me, it seems they knew too little. And yet this was my story.

This is not the story of Hades, the lord of the Underworld, of the souls of the dead and of all that grows underground. Nor is it the story of Demeter, Mother Earth who, in the world of research, was her only daughter, lost in the darkness of Erebus; and certainly, it is not a story about Zeus, who allowed all this to happen, until the mortals forgot, as a result of their own mortality, what they had to do. They are also here in this story, but it is not their story.
It is mine.
It is the story of the goddess of spring and the queen of the Avernus, the strife between the two worlds, until that suffering forced me to make a choice.
Almost nothing is known of what this means, for everyone. At least it made the world what it is. 
This is because I am the queen of the flowers and roots.

I am Persephone.

Genre: FICTION / Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Secondary Genre: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic

Language: Italian/English

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Sep 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781507190678

Book preview

Contents

Contents

What Feeds the Flowers

Bitterness

The white narcissus

Where the Roots Are

The Cruel Equilibrium

The Realm of Alabaster and Obsidian

Unknown

Buds that blossom, buds that shine

Six Pomegranate Seeds

Music for the Dead

Theseus and Pirithous

The Divine Thread

Hestia’s Hearth

The Goddess Cut in Half

The cap of invisibility

Hymn to Persephone

The Twelfth Labor

The Triple Goddess

Nothing to do with Olympus

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

P. S. (Kore)

What Feeds the Flowers

In one of my earliest memories - and I know it is one of the first because, in those that follow, grass and the fragrant soil are seen from the height of a maiden and not of a little girl - a flower fell from the bunch.

I had gathered too many daffodils and lilies, large yellow daisies, baby’s breath, large melancholy violets, and some that I still don’t know; even orchids, with their complicated forms and sophisticated colors, and the roses of Pieria, which mortals cannot see. There were even leaves and shrubs, which had struck my fancy, so I had to carry the bounty with both arms, chin up to see the other side.

It was inevitable that at least one flower would fall from the exaggerated bunch I wanted to give my mother.

I watched with dismay as the stem slipped away and the corolla of the daffodil, yellow and white rimmed, tilted down; flew from my helpless little hands, because if I had stretched out an arm to grab it, I would have caused my entire bounty to fall.

Oh, mother! I said, annoyed. That flower doesn’t care for me, she wants to run away from me, and now she will return to her field!

My mother smiled and stroked my face, her fingers as delicate as the spring breeze. She smelled of cut grass and ripe corn, and her hair was the gold of the fields, with the same waves that the wind drew when he delighted in playing overhead.

Don’t worry, dear, you have so many that one less won’t make your bunch any less. Is it for me? You are really kind.

When she took the bundle from me I found myself with arms free; but in doing so, other flowers fell to the grass, and another exclamation escaped me.

Oh, mother, even those are running away! Why don’t they want to stay with us?

The smile, in my mother’s voice, was the sun that touches you. I was clumsy and it fell, that’s all. It’s nothing: I’ll pick them up and put them back in the bunch.

I looked at the petals in the grass.

No, I said, If they don’t want to come with us, we should not force them. They will be happier going back to their plant.

My mother said nothing, and even then, I knew that her silence was deeper than any words from a mortal.

Won’t they be happier, mother?

My dear, was the reply, they can’t go back to the plant: after they’ve been picked, they are like the wires cut by Atropos, one of the goddesses of fate.

I was so upset, that I took a step backwards. What! I have cut off their lives and killed them! The bunch was lush in my mother’s arms, the tall leaves, the petals fully open. She wore ripe ears in her hair, which were less gold than her golden tresses.

Flowers don’t live very long. If you want to gather them, go ahead and don’t worry; in the end, though they fade, and you can cause them no more harm than will time.

But my eyes were focused on one of the fallen flowers: a red poppy that had quivered with life, when I’d gathered it, and now, lying on the grass, it seemed like a motionless little body.

It will die, I repeated, with a trembling voice, it will die because of me.

Not because of you, daughter. In the end, the reign of the eldest son of Cronus opens his doors to all mortals.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. The flowers are mortal?

Anything that is not descended from your father is mortal, Persephone.

I put the fallen flowers in a small bouquet. It was tiny: a narcissus, a poppy, and the daisies, a few large and velvety burdock leaves. I hadn’t known that by picking them they would be killed, when I plucked them off the plant.

I didn’t want to hurt them, I whispered, I didn’t know I’d be sending them to the Unseen. I promise you, mother.

Have no fear, was the reply, no suffering, pain or cruelty exists in the Underworld, and no one will ever trample them. I’m sure they have already forgiven you, dear.

But I thought of the Avernus where, in the end, everything goes, and I was wondering how many flowers bloomed in the Elysian fields beyond death; all those of each spring and every summer, since time began, since the lord of death had existed. Now, the bouquet was already fading in my hand it would be added to that endless multitude. I thought that the god of the afterlife was really lucky.

I set the flowers carefully down among the roots of a sapling that had grown that year.

Do you think the King of the Underworld will like these few flowers, even if they are not as beautiful as those I gathered for you?

For a moment, my mother’s dark eyes, as deep as the earth, narrowed, turning them into two deep fissures.

Don’t mention the sovereign of the Avernus, she warned, his power is equal to that of your father, and his kingdom one hundred times greater. Everything you see, sooner or later will end up belonging to him, and he has no need of our gifts. Look, Persephone.

Without leaving my flowers, she pointed to the moss growing on the north side of the rough trunk of a very old cherry tree. On the side, where there is almost no sun, the wood was black; I touched the moss, in the shadows of the underbrush, and it felt wet and cold, although it was a hot day, with the rays of the sun shining on my mother’s hair.

You cannot give him something that already belongs to him; he may think you are one of those arrogant people who believe they can snatch away his rights. His power is great, his pride boundless. He denies all that you are, and all that I am.

Even my mother was proud. I was silent, out of respect for the teaching given me, but in my heart I thought if the god of the dead were such a powerful ruler, he would not be so petty as to believe that I wanted to steal from him. He reigned over the heroes of ancient times and the immortal singers: the Invisible, the Inexorable, son of Cronus. The Rich one, or Pluto. He boasted more titles than all the other gods. What did he care about a few wild flowers of the field? Probably he hadn’t even noticed.

My mother took my hand, and I felt the rings on her fingers. Gold and silver were always lukewarm on her as if they had been out in the sun. It was only later that I discovered, surprisingly, that metal is cold, and that its sparkling is not from the heat of the day, but the frosty starlight. In surrounding ourselves again in the heat of summer, the fields and the nymphs’ laughter, I turned one last time to look at the shadows under the trees.

The flowers under the cherry tree were dry.

Not withered, they would still be able to recover if they were set in fresh water sweetened with honey, they were stiff and blackened, devoid of any life, as if a flame had suddenly dried them.

The king of the Underworld had accepted my gift. 

I felt sad for the ephemeral flowers, but I thought that now they were in paradise, where they could bloom for eternity. I was glad that the Invisible had not felt I was arrogant, as my mother had feared. I thought I had done well to believe in him.

Then, for a long time, I gave it no more thought.

I began to ask myself what nourished the flowers I loved so much when I was very young, and yet it was already too late. My fate had already been inevitably decided and, with it, the fate of all those who were attached to me.

My mother smiled, combing my hair where she inserted my favorite flowers, the humble daisies and bright dandelions, to hold the braids. Growing up, my tastes would change, but I never stopped decorating my wrists and ankles with the wildflowers of my childhood.

She said: They are the roots.

The roots?

She bent down and closed her hand around a clump of mugwort, which grew up without permission on freshly tilled soil. The earth was soft, and the plant came out easily, still attached to its soil. The roots were thin hairs sticking up here and there. She shook the plant to remove the earth to expose the pale strands.

Are these, she said, they are nourished by the soil, and the force rises from it as far as the buds and flowers over which you preside, daughter. Without its roots, the plant will most probably quickly die.

I thanked my mother for the explanation and asked her to put the Mugwort back in its element, before it died. With a smile, she pleased me, as she always did, because my mother has always loved me and I’ve always loved her.

Strange, to think of the fact that all I loved would cause me so much suffering.

She finished combing my hair and told me to go and play with my sisters, which I did with great pleasure, but continued to think about the roots that feed the plant. It was a little as though I had discovered my own origins.

I want to be beautiful and half as wise as my mother. I said when we were playing, and my sister Artemis smiled. Even then she didn’t smile much, and I was always happy when she did. I cared so much for her.

Artemis replied, I would also like to have my mother’s wisdom, she has never avenged our father’s consort, for the misfortunes that have been brought upon her. If it happened to me, I would strike without hesitation.

Artemis was taller than me and was already beginning to blossom into a woman, but wore a chiton and held a short spear, which she would not allow me to sweeten with garlands of flowers. I had no doubt that she had the strength to abide by her intentions, now and in the future.

I don’t care if something bad happens to me, I said, but I think I’d do anything to protect those I love. But apart from my mother, I don’t really see who else I could love if not my sisters, and I’m sure that neither her nor you will ever suffer injury.

Artemis laughed. You can be sure of that! I won’t be getting married, and I won’t allow anyone to insult me, as no one dares harm the forest thickets, if you value your life, and your mother blesses the earth with fertility. Nobody would ever raise his hand against her, at the risk of unleashing her wrath.

True, I said, pleased with the compliments received, my mother presides over everything on earth, no matter how big it is, and we can feel safe to walk on it. My mother has full control as deep as the roots reach.

Artemis stopped laughing.

Sister, it’s not true, don’t forget the subsoil doesn’t belong to your divine mother, or even to our divine father. The roots are not part of your kingdom.

I frowned, not because she had disagreed with me but because I didn’t understand very well.

Athena, who was also taller than me, but still flat and lean, just like I was, intervened to explain:

Our sister wants to say that the surface of the earth, turned by the plow and the patient ox, belongs to your mother; but further down, where the sun does not reach and only precious stones bloom, is someone else’s... realm.

This made me curious about everything. It was strange that my mother had left such an important detail out of her teachings.

Our father governs the sky, Athena said, softly, Poseidon, our uncle, the seas. But there is another realm and another uncle.

Oh!

I was so glad to have understood that I clapped my hands, and in response to my joyful movement, all the birds in the surrounding trees began to sing.

You mean Hades!

My sisters, and the surrounding nymphs, silenced me with commanding gestures.

Don’t pronounce his name! Artemis scolded me.

Don’t talk about him, stipulated Athena, he rules the Avernus and beneath the earth and reigns over a vast realm, where all mortals must go at the end of their earthly cycle. They fear him in a way that they don’t fear even Zeus.

For a fleeting moment I remembered the dried flowers. But I was the one to gather them. If anyone was guilty of killing them, it was I, certainly not the god who had only had the credit of having accepted them into his own realm.

I don’t understand why, then I said, mortals die on their own, I believe he doesn’t hurt anyone... I’ve never even seen him. He doesn’t willingly leave his dominion.

Athena always knew something more than us.

They say that when Typhon shakes the earth, causing earthquakes, the king leaves his kingdom, because the mortals turn imploringly towards him; it happens in the darkest nights, in Samothrace, or Elis, on top of mount Minthe. The ones who follow him offer him black bulls and rams, because so that he will return and chain Titan to his torment, before he causes our cities to collapse.

This is a good thing, I said, and if they ask our father or Poseidon instead, who also shakes the ground with his trident, it means that he listens to their prayers.

Artemis scowled expressively, but Athena never left only half an explanation:

He accepts the tributes, but does not listen to anyone’s entreaties, and the officiating priests, keep their heads turned, because to look at the lord of the Avernus, without his consent, means death. This is why he always wears his helmet, which makes him invisible to the eyes of gods and mortals. And now enough talk about him.

I became a little sad. The roots feed the plant, but no one ever sees that; confined in the darkness and silence, motionless and in complete solitude, they don’t take part in the rapture of life and joy that exists thanks because of them.

Once my mother told me that the most beautiful flower Mirabilis that exist grow in Elis; on the darkest nights, when the moon disappears to search for her lover and the stars recline on the soft curtain-like clouds, they must be marvelous.

With a sudden movement, of those not used to gentleness and therefore truncate their action to move quickly, Artemis picked up the spear and put it in my hands.

You can decorate it as you want, let me see, but just this once.

It was her sincere wish to comfort me after the scolding, as she believed she had saddened me I smiled at her.

You will like it so much that you will ask me to do it forever.

I doubt it. Flowers are not for me, though I like to look at them, but only yours, because they are the most beautiful.

Yes, Athena said, sitting down beside me, show me how to plait the stems, little sister. I want to learn how you do it.

It was me, who taught Athena the swallowtail weave, and she taught it to the mortals, so they give her the credit. It doesn’t matter, of course. Someone teaches and someone learns, you can only count on this.

Someone taught me that roots exist, and I learned.

When you discover you have roots, it is not possible to continue to live pretending that you do not know about them.

On the darkest night, when the moon disappears in search of her lover, and the stars recline on soft clouds like curtains, I left my mother’s home and ran to Elis, in search of the scent of the Mirabilis and of the roots on the ends of the stems.

Bitterness

I looked away when I saw the flashing blade, but I could not help but hear the lowing of the bull, or the spasmodic pawing at its death.

I lamented inwardly and covered my ears. I was a fool not to have done so at once, and now it was too late. But I didn’t care for the sacrifices, and I had never been present. I found them repulsive, even though I had never expressed my thoughts out loud. I was probably the only one on Olympus who thought so. The sacrifices are much appreciated by the gods.

I often thought of not having much to do with Olympus. What did spring have to do with the harsh and steep summit, always hidden by clouds and pierced by the lightning, of my father’s Sky? Everything I loved flourished in the soil, that fed them. High up on the peak, there was only cold air and bare rock, the only smell was that of the sacrifices of the mortals, which made my stomach tighten with disgust. I was sure there were no roots, on Olympus.

Beyond the edge of the poplar grove, before me, the ritual continued. The men, holding their heads turned towards their shoulder and not to what they had in front of them, they devoted themselves to skinning and quartering the victim; the sounds of slaughtered meat caused me to scowl again. Blood flowed on the altar, made of naked and cold stone, in rivulets like small streams, dyed black by the night. The earth drank, she noticed. I wondered if it would feed the roots, and concluded yes. But the ceremony continued to disgust me.

It all took place in the most perfect silence. The priests wore a dark hood that fell over their eyes; they didn’t light fires to burn the offerings to the god. The bull’s bones, wrapped in its black skin and soaked with blood, were only put to one side and left there. The men were a little scared, their silence was filled with tension, but they did not neglect to make the blood drip from every quarter of their victim, before cutting it and putting it away.

For my part, I decided that I’d had enough of that sinister way of honoring the Lord of the Avernus, and I moved into the shadows of the poplar grove, in search of the flowers that pleased me, the humble Mirabilis with its sweet perfume. But I found only long spikes of asphodel, whose pale pink was colorless in the dark, and reluctantly I returned to watch the mortal’s ritual.

Despite myself I was attracted to it, although the ceremony was not for my benefit: when a mortal honors one of us, he honors all of us, and as much as that way of honoring me aroused revulsion, even aversion, I knew that the hooded men were engaged in an act of devotion. Before they had finished tearing their victim into pieces, I broke away from that place, as I found it too difficult.

Nor was I the only one. The nymphs of the mountain whispered excitedly in the undergrowth, and while the priests continued their work – it seemed that it was the blood being offered to the god – I saw the immortals were also near the altar. The mortals ignored their presence.

One of the invisible spectators touched one of the streams of blood, and put his fingers to his lips, with an ecstatic expression. It was, I thought, a lesser god, with thick dark curls on his neck and the regular features of my half-brother Apollo, a solid and well-made body, covered with a short hunting tunic, and thick boots over tight calf muscles. I could have blushed, if I had not been horrified to see him greedily licking the bull’s blood. I blindly fumbled among the plants with my hand. My fingers found the sweet leaves of wild mint, and I brought that perfume to my lips, drawing a little relief.

There was someone else, among the priests. 

In the midst of their dark head coverings, he towered over them by at least a whole head, and was not wearing a hood, but a helmet with tall plumes, so black that it contrasted even with the night. His mantle was closed in front of him, without leaving the slightest opening. He was a figure carved from the darkness of night, beneath which was revealed an even more intense darkness, absolute. He did not touch the sacrificial blood nor prowl around the alter; his stillness was complete.

The mortals avoided bumping into him, it was impossible to me considering where he was standing, as if there was a column, or a crevasse, in short, something insurmountable, immovable. Even the lesser god, moved around him, without giving any sign of their being aware of him.

Squeezing the mint stem between my fingers, with its insignificant flowers but evocative fragrance, I felt my heart beat quicken. While the priests cut the meat into smaller pieces and smashed the bones to bring out the marrow, I realized that I was standing on my feet. I wanted to see the dark figure better.

Even beneath the new moon, in front of that bloodied altar, my nature was displayed: the red gold of my hair braided with flowers, my skin like a velvety peach, in a girl’s simple tunic, which fell over my still narrow hips, over my thin legs. My bare feet that no plant or rough soil would have dreamed of hurting, or dirtying. My wrists bound with garlands of forget-me-nots, tied with the first buds of the year. My breath was the gentle breeze in the trees, and even the mortals straightened their heads for a moment, interrupting their horrible task.

That scent of spring, one of them said.

Quiet! replied his neighbor, but softly, not reproachfully. Don’t speak of it, before this alter.

They returned to lean over the slaughtered beast, but without the rigidity of a moment before, no longer keeping their heads turned away, as if they had lost their fear. I was glad for them; but I saw, with sudden fear, that the god dressed as a hunter had turned and looked at me. When our eyes met, he smiled.

Come closer, beauty. Take part in the banquet.

The very thought made me shudder. I shook my head and stepped back into the shadows of the poplar grove.

Don’t go, cried the other, without worrying that the mortals might hear him, the lord of this altar is not jealous, he’s not even here. Death has room for everyone always, and so it is for the ceremonies in his honor. You need have no fear!

The cloaked figure was motionless. In the darkness cast by his shadow the grass was dry and gray as ash. I knew, without having to see the face hidden by the helmet that he was looking at me.

Mirabilis, I thought. They came for the Mirabilis. The rest, the one that feeds the flower, down in the darkness and the gloom, does not concern me. It mustn’t bother me.

I had been a fool to give in to curiosity. My mother would scold me when she found out that I had been so far away, on the light wind of spring, together with the dandelions and the swallows returning home.

I turned and walked away. No, wait! Long steps, heavy. The lesser god wore hard shoes of boiled leather, he was a hunter, and the euphoria of the sacrifice, the blood had stimulated his senses. He was in the shadows of the poplar grove even before I realized what was happening.

Take part in this festivity, beauty. Honor my father Apollo with me, and celebrate life, instead of death. Come to Aristaeus.

I was too young to understand the particulars of that invitation, but the danger was very clear. With a cry of fright, I ran away.

Among the poplars, before getting into the thick of the forest, I saw the tall black figure beside the altar, and I thought that my anxiety had deceived me, because I had the impression he was turning, so as not to lose sight of me. But I did not pause to look. The footsteps behind me were fast and heavy.

Leave me alone! I screamed, so loudly that the owl