Host of Many: Hades and His Retinue

By Terence P. Ward, Rebecca Buchanan, Anna Schoenbach and 12 more

Death.

 

As mortals we long for those who have been separated from us by the veil of death. We venerate ancestors, known and unknown; we grieve for love ones lost; we ready ourselves for death, or fear it deeply as the ultimate unknown.

 

In Hellenic tradition, the god who rules beyond the veil is called many things. Most often, He is referred to as Hades, a name also given to His realm. He is a somber god, for the most part, one too aware of the responsibilities He bears. But He has a queen by His side to share the burden, His beloved Persephone; and a host of attendants, such as the Ferryman, the Lord of Dreams, the Lord of Sleep, Mother Night, and His great three-headed guard dog.

 

In this volume, you will find poems and short stories, essays and rites which honor the God Below, the Lord of Riches, the Bearer of the Helm of Invisibility. For to fail to honor Him, to fail to recognize His inescapability, is to court disaster; even madness. For there is no avoiding death, and someday we shall all find ourselves His subjects.

 

Xaire, Haides and your host of many! May our inevitable knowledge of you not come too swiftly, or be delayed overlong past when mercy is preferable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bibliotheca Alexandrina
• Release date: Nov 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393544722

Book preview

Dedication

To the Host and His Hostess,

and all those who have gone before

and wait for us beyond the gates.

pasted-image.tiff

The Gates of Hades — Memento Mori

by Nightshade Purplebroom

Table of Contents

Dedication

The Gates of Hades — Memento Mori

by Nightshade Purplebroom

Table of Contents

Introduction

Poetry

Hypnos

For Melinoe

by Jennifer Lawrence

Hymn to Melinoe III

by Rebecca Buchanan

Three Weeks in the Underworld —

by Nightshade Purplebroom

Hymn to Charon I

by Rebecca Buchanan

Library

by James B. Nicola

To Hypnos

by Ariadni Rainbird

Insomnia

by James B. Nicola

Prayer to Hypnos I

by Rebecca Buchanan

A Prayer for Life

by Anna Schoenbach

Birth Song

by Rebecca Buchanan

Hades' Lament

by Jennifer Lawrence

The Flowers Were Dark

by James B. Nicola

A Rainbow in the Shadows

by Hayley Arrington

To Plouton

by Ariadni Rainbird

Pluto

by Ashley Dioses

Hymn to Hades V

by Rebecca Buchanan

Remains

by Anna Schoenbach

Sisyphus Revisited

by James B. Nicola

To the Oneiri

by Ariadni Rainbird

Rites and Recipes

Cerberus

by Nightshade Purplebroom

Honoring Hades as a Household Patron

by Jamie Waggoner

Meeting Hades: A Meditation

by Rev. Amber Doty

Mint and Stone:

by Rebecca Buchanan

Pathworking to Face Kerberus

by Ariadni Rainbird

Yule: King in the Darkness

by Rev. Amber Doty

Myths

Pluto

by Jacopo Caraglio (1526)

Death’s Argument

by J. K. Bywaters

Fortune Teller

by Mark Mellon

The Haunting of Vipsania Licinia

by Rebecca Buchana

Essays

Thanatos

From the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus

(325-300 BCE)

The God at the Gate:

by Rebecca Buchanan

Hades the Sophist

by Edward P. Butler

Meeting the Ferryman

by Rebecca Buchanan

Wrestling with Thanatos:

by Iona Miller

Lethe

by Nightshade Purplebroom

Appendix A: Publication Credits

Appendix B: Our Contributors

Appendix C: About Bibliotheca Alexandrina

Introduction

Death is central to most mystery traditions, because it's the most obvious barrier preventing us to gather evidence about a particular question. As such, it is the figures who cross that barrier and return who are central: in Hellenic tradition Persephone, Orpheus, Dionysos, and others possess knowledge that the rest of us might ruminate upon but cannot fully comprehend until we experience it personally. Even Kerberos, guarding the gates, and Charon in his ferry know more about what lies beyond death than any living mortal.

The ancient Hellenes seem to have paid less attention to Haides than to his siblings. Perhaps it was out of fear of attracting his attention, as I'm sure I have seen written, but I think it was because he wasn't tinged with mystery in their eyes. This son of Rhea and Kronos never chooses to walk in the sunlit grottoes dear to his wife Persephone; nor does he snatch soul from expiring body, a task left for one of the psychopomps. Haides is so fully of the world beyond our own that his very name is sometimes given to that place.

As mortals we long for those who have been separated from us by the veil of death. We venerate ancestors, known and unknown; we grieve for love ones lost; we ready ourselves for death, or fear it deeply as the ultimate unknown. Death may be the mystery, but without a point of reference, I think the Hellenes preferred to cling to those who were passingly familiar: people and gods who passed into death, and returned. Certainly there are similar fixations in other traditions.

Curiously, the cult of Haides could well be stronger now in the twenty-first century than ever it was in the ancient world. What has changed? Are we rejecting the hope that is offered by those who cross that veil, or are we choosing instead to look more deeply at the universe, and direct our curiosity to that god who is central to death? I cannot say what the answer might be, but in the contributions to this work I see hints of an answer. Other clues might be present in the world itself: while these skilled writers and artists made their contributions before the pandemic during which I write these words, there have been signs and portents about powerful change spoken about by polytheists and pagans for some years.

The bodies pile up in my home state, and I expect this cycle will continue around the world for quite some time to come. I will not attempt to speak for those with better subtle senses than my own, but I look upon the sheer number of contributions to this book about a god seemingly neglected in days gone by, and I think this may itself be a sign.

Xaire, Haides and your host of many! May our inevitable knowledge of you not come too swiftly, or be delayed overlong past when mercy is preferable.

Terence P Ward

New Paltz, New York

April 27

In the year of Apollonian plague

Poetry

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Hypnos

Currently on display at the British Museum

For Melinoe

by Jennifer Lawrence

you

following me through my dreams

through mirrors

through shadows

through doorways others left open

always half a step behind

always of the steady tread

never running, never halting

[pale as almonds dark as molasses

slow but swift calm in frenzy

whirlwind's shriek, snow's slow melt

calling madness, whippoorwill's cry

and under all the steady hum

the endless moan

the sound of dripping water

as tears collect in pools

in the cupped and hollow hands

of mourners who bend their heads to sip

and there is no contradiction

between the sorrow and they who sorrow

between the madness and the mad

between the terror and the fearful

because all are made one in you]

and i do not want to look behind

because that will be all that it takes

for you to catch up with me

and i don't yet know

who you are

why you follow me

and what you want with me

but at the same time

the me that is not the me in my dreams

but the me that watches that me in my dreams

recognizes that while you might inspire fear

in all your many shapes and forms

[leaping dolphin roaring leopard

tiger with sharp, bloodied claws

unnamed thing of shifting form and changing face

wraith revenant ghost specter shade monster]

that i need not fear you if i acknowledge you

turn to face you

wait for you with catching breath

honor you for who you are

[stepping silently through sun and shade

half of light and half of darkness

photo and negative in the same print

and sometimes in that darkness a pale sun

so bright it might blind those who gape too long]

and though you may wreath yourself round

with all the forgotten dead

though you may dance in nightmares

revel in terror

send shudders down my spine

wait patient and quiet in that hazy limbo

between deep sleep and whole awakening

still you do not need to exert yourself

to wreak terror on those who know you

and are unknowing alike

for when you step out every night

while ignorant mortals sleep

you have a more important task

than putting the fear of you into them:

[and let those fools sing honor to you

let the ones who know you not toil

with the need to learn of you

as i have toiled to know you,

you who understand my terror

you who knows the cause of my rage

you who comprehends my pain

you who recognize my despair]

you wander the world to gather to you

those who have passed on,

unwanted

outcast

forgotten

unlamented

unknown

maddened

bereft

and so there is no need to run from you

no need to try to hide my face from you

because eventually you will be there

on the night my pains and terrors end

the night my rage finds its target

the night my grief comes to its predetermined end

so you may collect me, too

Hymn to Melinoe III

by Rebecca Buchanan

a pale-faced woman

rides the back roads of midnight

the headlights of her motorcycle

sizzling and sparking

with infernal light

she wears saffron-bright silk and black leather

she smells of coal dust and sulfur

she carries a silver flask in each pocket

if you should meet her

at a bar or a crossroads or an interstate rest stop

surrounded by tired long-haul truckers and

screaming toddlers

and if

with a smile

she should offer you a sip

from one of her flasks —

— well

my advice

turn her down

but be polite about it

very polite

tell her your favorite dream

or your worst nightmare

there at the bar or the crossroads or the interstate

rest stop

surrounded by tired long-haul truckers and

screaming toddlers

and if

with a smile

she should turn and drive away —

— well

you’re safe

for now

Three Weeks in the Underworld —

To Cerberus

by Nightshade Purplebroom

*I*

On the night of the dark moon, I gathered the flowers of seven poisons:

The Murderess,

The Queen of Toads,

Dead Man's Bells,

Melampode,

The Herb of Circe,

The Devil's Pinwheel,

And that most elusive one of all —

Hecateis*

I sang to them of my sorrows and desires

Opening my heart to these wicked, grinning

blooms.

With a whisper of a kiss

I placed them under my pillow so that I may hear

them whisper back.

They edged their way into my dreams like demons

Curling and coiling around me.

All manner of ghoulish things crawled upon and

underneath my skin like shadows.

And as the shadows grew thicker, I began to fade

into blackness.

*II*

I spent three weeks in the underworld,

in the chasm that I would come to know as your

eyes.

Cerberus —

Menacing Hound of Hell.

I can still feel your hot breath upon my cheek

and your fur against my skin.

*III*

It was strange, walking through these infernal lands

So familiar to my senses-

Giant oak tree's bowed by the wind

Roadways twisted and curving

like ancient vines.

I stepped upon the leftwards road,

The path was filled with hissing serpents,

darkly poisons and brittle bones.

Shades clung to me as I walked

Their grave voices murmuring in my ears like croaking toads.

Maybe this was madness.

But still I walked along the crooked path.

*IV*

For three weeks I wandered in this dark abyss

searching for something that I had lost,

But I could not remember what it was.

Mighty hound of the deep, black pit

I could hear you pacing back and forth,

Your breath heavy and ponderous

Your monstrous claws upon the dirt.

*V*

I was lost in the stygian blackness,

Unable to find my way.

Filled with despair

for my trespass into these forbidden lands

I began to weep.

In the darkness I saw a flame but dared not take a step closer,

afraid of becoming consumed like a moth in the

fires of hell.

But I should have known

You cannot go to hell without getting burned.

It was then that I saw you and your gaping maw.

You were all hound,

Fur as black as the night

With jaws dripping aconite where you stood.

Hell-born Hound of the underworld,

I could feel your hunger.

I ripped out my own heart to glut your voracious

appetite

And you tasted my soul full of desolation and

longing.

*VI*

I stayed three weeks in the underworld

Tangled in the threads of fate,

Lost within your soft fur and poisons.