CHAPTER TWO

BALTHAZAR OF THE

UNDERBUSH


Wales was wet, damp, and grey-clouded. It was a consistent repeat for Persephone, she would begin her day with checking on the vegetables; small hands cupping at the potatoes and tomatoes, checking their leaves and roots, the same was done for the grapes and oranges. She spent most of her days amidst the garden, and the long looming hills that covered the grounds. Then, with wrinkled skirts, a blouse, and a silver and blue tie that hung from her neck, she attended school. It was a small place, tucked neatly in the corner of Llangynidr village, a sleepy little place of no consequence. But it had been her home for the past four years. A quiet little place, one that possessed a bare minimum of twenty students. She returned home to St. Joseph's after that, her backpack bulging with books and rolled up pieces of paper. Her favourite parts were her small collection of drawings, mostly of the long, green meadows that grew outside her window.

Persephone was expected to help around the Orphanage, boiling potatoes, and chopping up onions. The children all worked together, even the pre-schoolers helped put away the jars of jam and home-made juice. It was quaint, a peaceful kind of life that brought relief to Persephone. Or, as much as it could. St. Joseph's was a lonely place, brimming with children bred from crushed hearts and desolated spirits. There was a seething spitefulness that grew in them. Cold and brittle, a wretched thing too, one that clashed in the halls and the meadows.

Persephone jolted, her hands jumping as Madeline cleared her throat, those dark blue eyes peering down at her. God, she thought, I hate her.

Madeline Smythe was a disturber of the peace. She couldn't quite help herself.

"Hurry," she snapped. "Sister Maria wants the tomatoes in by seven."

"I know," said Persephone, scowling down at the plum tomatoes as she tugged them from the vine. "Leave me alone."

Madeline sniffed. Imperious and damning, a disdainful glance of ocean-blue eyes.

"She won't be happy if you're late. I won't get in trouble for your laziness," she said primly (despite not doing anything herself), "We're having fried tomatoes and avocado for breakfast. We can't have it if you're too late!"

Persephone groaned.

"Move it!"

Madeline shoved at her shoulders, sending the girl toppling head first into the bushes below. She didn't see her leave, her pale hands frantically tugging at the old sticks of wood as she pried herself from the branches.

"Ugh," grumbled Persephone. Her small fingers trailing along the edges of her small cuts, sharp and fierce, marred from the little thorns that were embedded in her pale flesh. "Fucking bitch."

Madeline Smythe was the worst of the children; entitled and stubborn, left behind in the shadows of her sister. Madeline had once been Maddy, an elder twin sister to Franny. The sister had fallen ill, as filthy Mundanes were want too, the cold claws of death prying open her chest as she suffered from the onslaught of Leukaemia. The Smythes' had left Madeline behind in the dust, whispering murmured promises that they'd return, once her sister's hospital bills had been paid. Persephone was almost sorry for the daft bint, but her intolerable arrogance and conceited manner made it near impossible.

Madeline Smythe had never liked her, from the very moment she'd stepped through the old rickety doors. As if it was Persephone that was intruding on her life, as if she owned every hallway that spun and twisted through the house. Not that there were many, it was a small place, after all.

Persephone grumbled, brushing off the dirt from her jeans, a torn pair that she wore in the gardens every morning. They were a perfect match, worn down with age, torn and patched over with uneven stitches. She'd done them herself, ten years old and anxious of the silent wrath of Sister Maria for ruining her evening jeans. They were crooked lines, barely held together by a piece of loose string.

Madeline was gone, her small feet kicking up dirt as she ran for the house. Smythe was a vicious brat, the kind that was cowardly and audacious in her lesser manners (the kind of savagery of brutal fists and bared teeth), she was a child of learnt behaviour. They were all like that in the Orphanage.

"Persephone!" Screeched Sister Maria, her banshee-like call echoing across the fields. "Girl! Get in here!"

The Nuns of St Joseph's were proud creatures, as much as the children were, defined by their beliefs and faith. Persephone was a strange child, born from the ashes, twisted and deformed in the darkness of her cupboard, of the basement of the Dursleys that had broke her until there was nothing left.

Persephone Potter was magic. She could do things; unsettling miracles that terrified the nuns in their dark skirts, and the priests in their white collars. She was ten when Sister Maria had caught her growing seedlings to flowers in the palm of her hands, an aberration was what she was called. A vile cretin of the devil, a girl born in the wretched sins of the flesh and bound-spirit, a daughter of ill-born satanists. She hated them all too, but her shadows hadn't spoken since the fire.The nuns were not a threat, nor were the priests in their robes of arrogance, and prideful vanity in their precious God.

Persephone knew they blamed her, the Sisters' in all their holiness, that the walls of the Dursleys' had came tumbling down because of her wretchedness. They wouldn't be wrong, she knew they weren't. But they had no proof, she'd burnt her home to ashes, her family with it. Magic had been her sword, a magnificent thing that was weilded with power. She had wanted more of it in that moment, a sudden flash of what she could be, what she could do. In her blood was a power that man-kind had not seen in generations. She was strong, life flowed with a veracity that the mundane had no claim to.

'Stupid two-leggers, ruining my home, yesss, get out!'

Persephone blinked, her gaze stared down at the hissing that echoed from the bushes, a small black scaly head popping out from beneath the leaves. The snake coiled around the branches, a thick body of scales that rustled amidst the dirt and twigs.

It was beautiful. She'd never seen one before, snakes weren't all too common in Wales, the few Persephone had heard about were Adders and Grass Snakes. She'd heard about them plenty, in class where their teacher had an old snake skeleton, and on the television in the common room in the Orphanage. It was a common point of fascination for the boys, wide-eyed in awe and wonder at their beauty. Majestic creatures of elegance and poised danger. Persephone often liked to think she was like them, a body of elegance, bound in the dark prisms of danger that lurked beneath the softness of her pale, pink flesh.

'Foolss! Get out! Get out! Balthazar will crush your bones, oh, yesss, he will!'

Persephone stared, gaping at the large creature that slithered across the grass, it was massive. A creature truly bound by the need for blood-violence, and, she thought in fear, it was talking. She knew it was. She could hear it. That echoing syllabus hiss that wound its way past sharp fangs, and a forked-tongue. She knew it was impossible, to understand a tongue that was so clearly not her own.

'Hello?'

It was a quiet question, whispered softly from her tongue. Persephone gasped, stiffening as she felt sharp teeth brushing against her lips. Her palm slapped her lips, pressing against fangs. Fangs that were hers.

The snake recoiled, dark black eyes blinking up at her. Persephone knew it was in shock, as much as she was, the black scales winding its way across the cold, damp grass, as if it was tugged by a string. A noose towards her. She felt it in her bones, a drenching feeling that consumed. A brittle thing.

'Speaker? Speaker!'

Her brows furrowed, frowning down at the creature, she bent down cautiously, her knees digging into the dirt as she peered at it. The snake didn't appear violent, all signs of agression had bled away. It was as if it was as curious of her as, as she was of him. 'You speak English?'

'What iss this english? No! Balthazar the Great only speakss Serpent-Tongue.'

'Serpent-Tongue?'

Balthazar nodded his head, a tongue flickered across her knuckles, as the scale-covered head nudged at her fingers.

'My tongue. You speak! I have never met a Speaker!'

'Oh,' huffed Persephone in bemusement. 'And what exactly is a Speaker?'

'Two-leggers Magicae that sspeak Serpent-Tongue! My Great-Mother told me of your kind. I never thought the Godss would bless me.'

She froze, air stilling in her lungs as she stared, her fingers trembling.

'Magic?'

Balthazar nodded, eyes narrowing, as if it was her that was stupid, an ignorant little girl thar rested beside the tomatoes and grapes. Was she? Persephone felt as if her world was tilting once more, the earth cracking open and swallowing her whole.

She knew she was different. It was a stilling knowledge that had burdened her as a babe, as a toddler, and had continued well into her childhood. Leaking into every corner of her life. Persephone was something else. Something ancient.

'Two-leggerss call it… wizard? Balthazar does not know, Speaker, Greath-Mother knew.'

'That's alright,' her hand caressed the small scales on his head. 'Thank you, Balthazar. That is your name?'

Balthazar perked up, tail wriggling against the ground as twigs snapped under its weight. Oddly enough, to Persephone, in that moment he looked remarkably like a puppy. Eagerness and all.

'I am Balthazar the Great, the Lord of the Silent Land, of the Underbush! The Soothslayer of Blood-Bane. I am--'

She coughed into her palm, her shoulders shaking as giggles slipped past her lips. Balthazar was a drama-queen, a dangerous one. The little beast revealed a glistening mouthful of venom as he hissed at her shuddering-laughter.

The creature snarled, Persephone doubted it would've favoured her from consistent thoughts on the beauty of its majesty. But then again, coiled around the old wood from the fallen trees and leaves, perhaps the little beast would appreciate such compliments to scale and fang. Balthazar seemed the type. She couldn't help but regard him as odd, a wonderous little thing that had a name. Persephone paused, a frown tugging at her lips. Did all snakes have names? Were they all crafted from the prisms of odd-places, were like all so Tolkien-esque?

'Your name is… great? Thank you, Balthazar. I'm not laughing, I promise. My name is Persephone, named after the Goddess of Spring.'

Balthazar nodded his small head, scales winding their way around her arm as it came closer, a wide-gaping mouth of teeth. Two, sharp and deadly. Persephone cared not. He was beautiful.

'Persephone. Perssephone. It is good. Powerful,' slitted pupils blinked up at her. 'You are powerful, yess. I can taste your magicae.'

She had always been proud of the name too. Most girls in the Orphanage were named such silly things; Marigold, Olivia, Mary, and Annabelle. It was a consistent theme, of simplistic mundane names. Bound in the feminine form, perhaps, but mundane all the same. Persephone was power, it was blood, and it was magic. She was named after the Golden-One, the Woman of the Flowers, the Lady of Spring, and the Queen of the Underworld. Persephone wasn't mundane, she was other.

"Persephone!" Raged Sister Maria, she could hear her feet stomping over the flowers and little saplings as she made her way to the Grove. It was just like her too, a woman of technology, of the cars, oil and grease. Of the kitchen fumes, and medicine crushed into small pale little pills. She was mundane. Tripped and destroying the precious flowers that sang and bloomed.

Persephone seethed.

"Persephone Potter!"

'Quick. Hide!'

Balthazar blinked. Surprised. She almost expected him to crawl back into the underbush. His home, and a most bemusing title that clung to the little beast. He slithered up her arm and under her sleeves, she watched wide-eyed as his scales began to glow, an etheral golden light that seeped from beneath her sleeves as he shrank. Smaller than the common grass-snake. An inky black, but no larger than her wrist. It was a wonder, a force of magic.

"Girl! What on earth are you doing?! You have school in thirty minutes, and where are my blasted tomatoes?!"

Persephone gritted her teeth, biting sharply at her lips.

"Oh for pity's sake, Persephone! Look at you! Your covered in dirt. What were you doing? Rolling around in the hedgerows!"

"Madeline tripped me," said Persephone, gritting her teeth. "I just got out of the bushes. I think I'll need some plasters--"

Sister Maria grasped at one of her palms, blinking down at her torn hand, where the blood had dried. Her skin had already healed, sealing up after the sharp thorns had been ripped away. She had always healed quickly. Ever since she was a girl, raised in the dark, damp pits of her cupboard. In those days she knew nothing else but the bitter scars and bruises that marred her body.

Sister Maria sighed, grasping at her wrist as she tugged her back, over the hills, moors, and towards the cobble-stone path that led towards the Cottage. It had barely enough room to fit all the children, old and withered from time, but it was still hers. Persephone groaned, tugging at her wrist, but Maria wouldn't let go.

"You and Madeline will be doing the dishes tonight," scoffed the Nun. "I won't have any fights in my halls!"

She doubted there was anything in the world that could acheive that. Most of the children despised one another, and if they did not, they tolerated. It was all that could be done. Each child to another was competition. Who would br adopted? Who would be fostered? It was consistency that lingered in the halls. Persephone had since lost hope of family amidst the ruins of her childhood home, and she was far too old, if anyone was to be embraced by the love of a new life and family, it was the todderls. Young and malleable to the traditions of another mother and father.

"Go and get dressed. In clean clothes, Potter. I expect you down here in fifteen minutes."

Persephone huffed, climbing the rickety old stairs as she made her way to the top, pushing past Madeline. The fucking shrew stared back at her, a smirk pulling at her thin lips as she grinned gleefully.

"Awh," she cooed. "Is pretty sephy in trouble."

She glared, slamming her old dark oak door with a loud bang. She hated them all. Every single one of the. One day, she swore violently, one day she would burn them all. Every Nun and Priest that worked in the Home and Chapel. They were prideful creatures, filled to the brim with cruelty as they dismissed one child after the other. Even the little ones, Persephone had held far too many babes as they crept into dream-land, mouth gaping open from the peircing cries that had shook her home. The Nuns never attended to them.

("It's better they learn, Miss Potter. Better to know they're alone in the world. They will only survive, then.")

'Terrible. Terrible,' muttered Balthazar, sliding from her arm and onto her soft mattress. 'This is a terrible nest, little one.'

"You don't need to tell me that," snorted Persephone, grumbling under her breath as she reached through her wardrobe. 'I know it's terrible. But I have no where else to go. It won't be forever.'

It wouldn't. Persephone had a hundred plans. Each more marvellous than the other. She would be a Professor, a dedicator to the Occult, perhaps she'd start her own Coven? She would live in a golden glittering mansion with mundane servants waiting on hand and foot. She would be the best. The most powerful human on the savage, broiling, polluted earth.

'Is sscreeching-mortal nesstmate?'

Persephone wrinkled her nose at the thought.

'No. All my family are long gone. The ones that cared, anyhow.' She grinned, a wild and feral thing that stretched far. 'The rest are dead. They were unworthy.'

Balthazar hissed, his tongue tasting the air as he nodded, there was a sad sombre tone to his tongue. As if he knew. As if-- Persephone shook her head. He was a smart little snake, she wouldn't be shocked if he did know.

("It's fine," Persephone croaked, blood and ash stuck to her feverish flesh, "It's fine. It's fine, fine, fine!" The dead bodies of her family gazed back at her, wide-eyed, charred, and lifeless.)

'I'm better off without them.'

Balthazar nodded vigorously.

'Why did you follow me in, anyway?'

The snake hissed, coiling around the edges of her cotton blankets with a pleasant quirk from his lip-less mouth.

'The Great Balthazar sees you, Goddess-Persephone. You are worthy.'

She blinked in bemusement, shrugging into her white top, school-tie, blazer, and skirt.

'I am, am I? Well.. that's good… What am I worthy of, exactly?'

Her new friend chuckled, or as much as a Snake could, little hisses slipped from its tongue.

'You are worthy of my greatness.'

"Ah," grinned Persephone. 'Of course, My Lord. It's a pleasure.'

The snake perked, his scales moving against the blankets excitedly. As if such a notion of his superiority was a well known fact of life. That, in truth, there was no greater creature in the world than him.

Persephone sighed, hands flicking at the last button on her blazer. It was a simple uniform, unlike the rich and decadent colours of the schools in Cardiff. She'd been there once; a loud and bustling place, filled with glass-covered towers, the roaring crash of waves, and the salty spray of sea-air. It wasn't London. Some would call it lesser, but Persephone had always liked it. Cardiff wasn't a place of hectic, frantic rush. It was calm, and busy. An aberration, switching from one insistent nature to the next. The schools were the same. Rich, vibrant, and filled with uniforms that bred civility. They weren't made from cotton, but firm better materials.

Persephone's school was in the middle of nowhere, in the endless hills and meadows. Amidst the small town and its simple chapel, where the Father resided in his dark robes and white collar. The townsfolk loved him. Awed at his joyous manner and piety that seeped from his gentle old bones.

"PERSEPHONE!"

The house shook from Sister Maria's wrath. The Italian woman was fierce as she was kind, when she wanted to be. Persephone cursed, swinging her school bag over her shoulder as she rushed towards the door.

'Stay here,' she hissed, her tongue almost appearing forked, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. 'I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't let her see you.'

Balthazar stared, eyes narrowed, as if she were a foolish upstart of a girl.

'I am magicae. If I want no one to sssee me. They won't. Balthazar of the Under Bushes is great. Ohh, yesss he isss.'

Persephone gaped, shaking her head as she fled from her room, mind racing as a hundred thoughts consumed her, was Balthazar a magical snake? It was odd to even ponder. Sister Maria scoffed, whacking her head, as if it was Persephone that was the wild and wilful child. She was not. That had always been Madeline. Wretched, foul girl that she was.

The walk to school was a simple one, down the lanes, across the Pikes' cow fields, and through the centre-square. The school was almost as old as the cottage, torn and scorched from the makings of storms and an accidental fire. Persephone hadn't started that one, but she sometimes wished she had. It was a different place from the school in Little Whinging, in some ways it was the same. Nobody liked her.

("She's an orphan! Another one of those Freaks from the Church!")

She supposed it was a comfort to know that none of the children liked the other orphans either. Not that Persephone could blame them for it. They were all rude, insipid little creatures. Every single one of them. If it were not Madeline in her perfect little plaits, with feral fists and sharp teeth, it was Adam, a cruel and imperious boy, the kind that liked to pick his nose, kick unsuspecting girl's shins, and spit at their upturned, wrinkled noses.

"Come on," clapped Sister Maria, dressed in her morning-dress, dark as her evening robes. There was never much of a difference. "Girls and boys! I want you to walk in an orderly line. I'll be walking with you today," her gaze narrowed cruelly on Persephone and Madeline. "In case either of you decide to take a short cut."

She groaned, there would be no walking through the Pikes' fields. It at least cut the journey short by five minutes!

Otherwise it took forever. An endless period of aching feet, of clenching calf muscles, and swollen ankles. The hills were rough, and the road as old and torn up as the rubble-reduced cottages that marred the farmland, old echoes from the Wars.

God, she thought, I'd rather be anywhere than here.