Thank you so much to the Zorpisuttle for your constant reviews (and Maguerite Blakeney--I do love your Hades and Persephone story) The poem is the first stanza of Emily Dickinson's "One Need Not be a Chamber to be Haunted"
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Chapter 21
Demeter.
I could tell she was hiding something from me. I'm a mother. I notice these things. The dejected stares off into the distance, the quiet sighs, her slumped shoulders—she thinks that I can't see the sadness behind her eyes when she looks at me. My poor little princess, I sighed to myself. She puts up a valiant effort: I say her name and something tangibly shifts in her air. She graces me with a cheerful smile and assures me that nothing is wrong, sometimes she even acts confused at why I would ask such a question. But as soon as I turn away, I can see from the corner of my eye that she has gone right back to the way I found her, exhausted from the effort of feigning happiness for my benefit. What is it that she will not tell me?
I sat on the great marble throne just inside the second tier of columns that made up the front of my temple. An afternoon breeze blew warmly into the shade of the sanctuary, but my thoughts were still distracting me. I ran my fingers back and forth over the smooth marble of the armrest as I wondered what to do. This was something I had no experience with. My daughter seldom looked troubled, and why should she? I made it so that her life was perfect; it lacked nothing that a young girl could ever want or need. And even when she came upon the occasional bump in the road, she always turned to me for guidance. It itched in the back of my mind, this foreboding sense that this something that she wouldn't tell me about, had everything to do with Hades. Why else wouldn't she tell me? She's obviously trying to keep me happy by pretending to be all right, but I would much rather she tell me directly. That way, I can do whatever needs to be done to make sure the person responsible for my daughter's pain is punished appropriately. I was working my temper up to an angry fever when I heard footsteps enter the throne room from the back garden entrance. I composed myself in an instant, taking a quick breath to calm the fire in my head. I looked straight ahead; chin high, in case the footsteps belonged to a servant.
But I softened when Persephone appeared before my throne. She briefly bowed her head in respect, and when she lifted her eyes to mine, her mask was perfectly in place. "Persephone, have you decided to finish your work early today? Why, it's still light outside. I wasn't expecting you for at least another eight hours." I asked, surprised.
She smiled at the mention of the grueling hours she had been keeping lately, "Very funny mother" she joked, "But I think I'm going to go talk a walk to visit some of the nymphs, you know how they get when they don't feel they're receiving enough attention…" I had to give her credit; her expression seemed whole-hearted. I wondered sadly, how long she could keep it up. I eyed her a moment longer, seeing no reason why she shouldn't go—it might actually do her some good, "Of course, love. I'm sure the girls would love to see you. Anyway I can't keep you all to myself every day, now can I!" I watched.
Her smile faltered a fraction. I probably would have missed it had I not been looking: her eyes went flat and though the corners of her mouth remained high, the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Ha…I don't suppose you can…" she trailed off, more to herself than me it seemed. She recovered, and I watched her performance with the rapt attention of an enamored audience. "Oh, well, I'll be back just after sunset." She gave me a parting smile before she turned and left the sanctuary.
I promised myself I would ask her what was upsetting her before the night was over. I ducked in my throne to look out from under the roof at the sky. I noticed stormy gray clouds rolling in from the north.
Persephone.
I rushed to my room to drop off my working shawl. I rushed back across the terrace to the garden. I rushed through the garden to the winding stream behind that garden that seemed to scowl at the pace I was keeping. I rushed anyway. I rushed everywhere, pursued by thoughts I wished I could wash away with the dirt and sweat from my work. Everywhere I went I was chased by tireless specters of doubt and grief. I wondered if I had made the right decision, and even worse I wondered if anyone else thought I had made a bad decision and wished I would reverse it. I hoped that if I ran, and hurried and kept busy, all the ugly feelings roiling in the pit of my stomach would give me some sort of peace. So I ran. I ran from the tears in the corners of my eyes, from my mother's gaze, from the gnawing in my insides.
And now I was running to a place I used to come to be on my own. I had lied when I said I was going to visit the nymphs I used to play with, a part of me knew that my mother saw through my façade, but it didn't stop me from putting it up. As long as I could keep on acting, I would never have to tell her about anything but what she wanted to hear. Because I think that's all she would listen to anyway. So everyday, I strove to let her know that I was happy and content. I smiled, chattered with what I thought was animated excitement when she came outside to work with me on the gardens and only let my guard down right before I sank into another night of fitful, nightmare-filled sleep. Every morning I woke up with gray tear stains on my pillow and a headache from clenching my teeth together so tightly.
I was tired. Tired through my skin to my muscles and down to my bones. I felt hollowed out from anxiety, like any moment I might break down. It was too much to be around my mother, I needed a place to fall apart.
A drop of rain plopped wet on my cheek and rolled down my jaw. I looked up and saw the mass of gray clouds brewing where the sun had just shone. I shivered as the wind kicked up around my ankles and wreaked havoc on my hair. I crossed my arms over my chest and continued on.
A little bit farther and I was at the place I remembered from my childhood. I had abandoned it for a time, thinking that I had outgrown the need for such hide-aways. I shook my head silently.
Along the stream, there was a thick cluster of weeping willows on either bank that blended with the other trees that lined the stream. Their branches swept low concealing the middle of the stream. Slowing for a moment, I carefully parted the branches and stepped inside, looking over my shoulder one last time to be sure that I was alone. And suddenly everything was a cool, quiet green. The stormy light from outside filtered in through the millions of tiny green leaves that lined each weeping bough. The arms of the trees formed a rounded out middle that felt a lot like being inside a tiny speckled bird's egg, it created a complete curtain; protection from the outside—sounds were faraway and muffled, everything sat serenely green as one might suspect it had for years untouched and undisturbed. In the middle of the stream, a stout granite boulder divided the water that flowed around it. I stepped carefully down the steep, muddy bank and moved the inner scrim of willow limbs from where they dipped low into the stream to reveal a smooth and shiny stepping stone only barely above the water level. I jumped from stone to stone, crossing the stream, and climbed on top of the granite boulder in the center.
I tucked my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. Unable to completely let myself go, I squeezed my eyes shut. If I relaxed even for one second they would come back. The awful voices of doubt, guilt, suspicion and pain would come storming back into my head and begin clawing at the inside of my ribs. I sniffed, as I felt the long days and sleepless nights compounding into one inevitable wave of emotion.
As I was sitting there on the rock and on the verge of tears, I didn't notice the soft squash of steps coming down the bank of the stream. I didn't hear the light splash of the water as dripping branches were moved aside. And my eyes were so tightly closed I didn't notice when someone's broad figure blocked the gray light that fell on me. Another step. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes flew open in anticipation, though they only stared down at my knees. I didn't dare to believe it could be him; it couldn't be, could it? A strong draft broke in from the outside, and I felt a hand lightly touch my shoulder. I bit down on my lip to keep the tears from spilling over; still not quite believing this could be real. I pictured his face the way it looked the last time I saw him smile down at me. It wasn't an excited expression, but he was happy. I could read it in his eyes, the way they burned with a strange sort of light when he looked at me, with the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly turned upwards. I finally got brave enough to look up, and I saw…nothing.
A branch had swung over and draped itself over my shoulder, moved by the wind from the coming storm. Nothing and no one was there. And that was it; silly, futile hopes and disappointment flowed out of my eyes with the tears that had already begun to form. My whole being was weary of struggle and wanted so badly for everything to be out in the open, understood and accepted by all. I sobbed for what I had lost, for what that horrible woman said to me, for the thought that it might be true and for the possibility that I may never know. I sat there on the boulder as the rain began to fall from the turbulent sky. And as I cried, the rain began to seep through the layer of leaves that protected me, and soon I couldn't tell which were my tears and which were the raindrops.
Demeter.
I had been pacing back and forth in my bedchambers. I decided that tonight would be the night that I confront my daughter. When she got back from her visit, I would sit her down and have a talk about what in the world was going on with her. I talked myself up, prepared speech after speech, believing each one to be better than the last before scraping the whole idea and starting anew.
By the time I heard my daughter's footsteps in the main hall, I had fashioned myself quite the sermon on being forthright and honest. She walked in; I opened my mouth. But the second I saw the expression on her face, every sentence I had planned flew out of my head. She looked devastated, and soaking wet as she trudged through the sanctuary to her rooms. As she passed she cast such a look of weariness at my feet. I called to her, "Persephone, what is the matter?" She stopped as a boulder stops when it hits a wall, as if it had no will of its own, "I just need some rest is all, those nymphs…their energy is incomprehensible." She finished with a feeble smile that we both knew convinced nobody. I shook my head, and let her go. I didn't know what else to do. That, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I began to wonder about what exactly happened to her in the Underworld. I just assumed that her joy at being home would override any unhappiness she experienced there—to have everything right again would surely solve her problems. Yes, I will give it time. This is an adjustment phase that will pass…it will go away soon enough and then I will have my old Persephone back. The way things used to be.
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