The Tower: Part 2: Mabon
Post #11: In which brothers reunite ...
(If you are a new subscriber, you might want to start at the beginning of the Webbd Wheel Series with The Hanged Man. If you would like to start at the beginning of The Tower, go here. If you prefer to read Parts 1 and 2 in their entirety, go here. For the next serial post, go here.)
While Ginger sat quietly and bore witness to Persephone’s and Clarissa’s grief, Rapunzel brewed tea and made toast out of oatmeal bread, setting a pot of jam on the table with it. In spite of their recent breakfast, she, Ginger and Persephone helped themselves, and Clarissa took two pieces and ate hungrily. Clarissa’s lashes still clumped together with her tears, but she’d blown her nose lustily and seemed, for the time being, to have shed some of her grief. A sticky smear of jam on one cheek made her look very young.
Rapunzel, who’d been holding back her questions since the night before, now gave way to her curiosity.
“Last night you said the twins send the spirit candles to the sailors. What twins?”
Clarissa chewed, swallowed, and said “Castor and Pollux.”
“Gemini,” said Rapunzel.
“Yes, but the constellation called Gemini is only a picture.”
“What do you mean, a picture?” asked Ginger.
Clarissa turned to her. “It’s like a placeholder for the twins. They can go into the night sky, among the stars, and be together, but they’re not always there. When they’re not there the constellation we call Gemini is an empty outline of stars, like an empty room. At least, that’s the way my father told the story.”
“Tell us,” said Rapunzel intently, almost urgently.
Clarissa looked at her in mild surprise. “I’ll try. I haven’t told one of his stories to someone else, though. I might get it wrong.”
“You won’t get it wrong,” said Persephone with confidence. “Retelling his stories and poetry will keep him alive and close. He’ll never be entirely gone while his words are remembered and passed on.”
Clarissa nodded, accepting this. She picked up a few last crumbs with a moistened fingertip, drained her cup, wiped her mouth and sat back.
“Well, first of all, we merfolk have always studied the night sky. We’re active during the night because it’s safer for us to stay hidden from humans. Most humans, anyway,” she said apologetically, looking around.
“For generations we’ve navigated by the stars, just as sailors do, and we’ve seen pictures and patterns among the stars and told stories about them. The sky speaks to us of cycles and seasons and a cosmos much larger than the world of the sea we know. Some of our elders say the night sky reveals an infinity of galaxies and nebulae, strung like jewels on threads of matterenergytime. The threads are called a funny name. I can’t remember it.”
“Yrtym,” said Rapunzel.
“That’s it!” said Clarissa, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Someone told me about it recently,” said Rapunzel. She nodded to Ginger and Persephone. “Heks.”
“Heks!” said Ginger, amazed. “But how--?”
“Later,” said Rapunzel. She turned to Clarissa. “Go on.”
“Well, I don’t quite understand, but Dad said our elders say Yrtym is everywhere, in the water, in the earth, everywhere, but its threads are so fine we can’t see it, even though all life is strung between it and supported by it. He said it connects everything and it’s alive and intelligent. It makes life possible. It’s like the mother of life.”
“I haven’t heard of this,” said Persephone, fascinated.
“It’s true,” said Clarissa, slightly defensive, “but I might not be quite right. I don’t understand it very well.”
“I don’t doubt you, sweetheart,” said Persephone, smiling at her. “I only meant I hadn’t heard about it, that’s all.”
“You were going to tell us about the twins,” prompted Rapunzel.
Clarissa’s slight frown cleared. “Yes, that’s right. I was telling about the stars, wasn’t I…”
“Once upon a time, before the moons and sea found one another and the silver tide ebbed and flowed with their passion, two boys were born from their mother’s dark, salty womb. This mother was called the Star-Bearer, for she collected planets and orbs and spheres, comets and cosmic dust, and sowed the night sky with stars. The Star-Bearer lay with the Sun, the Lightmaker, Yr, he of green and gold. He was a Seed-Bearer, and his seed entered the Star-Bearer and their sons swam in her belly like little glimmering fish, one silver and one gold, until they were too crowded to move, and then they fit themselves against each other and waited for the tide that would carry them into life.
The red birth tide came on the year’s longest night, when the snow and frost and stars lose themselves in one another, when the White Lady flies like ash on the wind and the black sky is deeper than the deepest sea. On this night the twins were born into the hands of the Queen of the Crossroads.”
“Hecate,” breathed Persephone in wonder.
“So they were born, and they had many mothers, their flesh and milk mother and foster mothers, among them the Wise Weaver, the Awakened One and the dancing trickster who sees through her nipples.
The twins are called by many names, but the merfolk and sailors call them Castor and Pollux. Castor was the silver twin and Pollux the golden one.
When their childhood was over, they parted, for each had important work to do and it was not the same work. Pollux went out into the world as a Seed-Bearer, like his father. He learned to wield tools and take life to provide life. In his youth he roamed the Green World, primordial and inescapable, calling winter into spring and searching for his mate.
Castor answered the road’s siren song and traveled uncounted miles with his cart and horse, through silver night and golden day. Story collector, peddler, piper, he wove in and out of the world’s threads like a comet trailing a jeweled tail. He had a special affection for travelers and became a friend to sailors, commanding the wind with his bone flute and sending spirit candles to light their way through storms.
Now and then the wheel of time reunited the twins, and they still fit together as they had in the dark night of their mother’s flesh-bound sea. But time is restless and must ebb and flow, and they reunited and parted, reunited and parted, until one day Pollux, exhausted and diminished with harvest, traveled in Castor’s jolting cart to rest in Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, and the twins parted again.
Pollux, on the last night of his life, journeyed to a forest filled with trees like gnarled hands on the year’s longest night and was cast into the fire by a circle of power and reborn into the Firebird’s waiting talons, a jeweled creature of eternal renewal.
Castor, on the last night of his life, lay down by the side of his cart on a desert track on the year’s longest night and breathed his last breath under a falcon’s pointed wings and the ageless gaze of the child Nephthys, Lady of Bones, who surrendered him also to the Firebird’s care.
On the same night twins were born from their mother’s dark, salty womb into the hands of the Queen of the Crossroads, one silver and one gold, as the wheel continues to turn.”
Clarissa’s voice stilled, and for a moment they rested in the story’s spell.
“Beautiful,” said Persephone. She glanced from Ginger to Rapunzel. “Was that Lugh and Dar’s story?”
Ginger shook her head, lifting her shoulders in a small shrug.
“But there must be more,” said Rapunzel, frustrated. “The story doesn’t explain anything! Is each set of twins Castor and Pollux all over again with different names, or is each set of twins entirely different? Are Castor and Pollux the same as Dar and Lugh? And if Mary gives birth to the twins, is she always the same mother — or are there different mothers? Is she reborn, too? But if Lugh was the twins’ father, how could he also be Mary’s son?” Her voice rose and by the end of her questions she was striding back and forth in the stone-encircled room.
“Rapunzel,” said Persephone, effortlessly adopting the tone of a queen who expects to be heeded.
“What?” snapped Rapunzel, pausing.
“Life and death are a great mystery. You know that. We here can’t answer your questions, and it may be no one can.”
“Perhaps you’ll see him again,” said Ginger compassionately. “Perhaps some part of him is still turning with the wheel.”
Rapunzel glared at her. “I don’t want to see anyone again!” She turned on her heel and swept out the door like a gust of irritated wind.
Clarissa turned a troubled face to Persephone. “What’s wrong? Did I tell the story badly? I think I did it the way my father used to.”
Persephone laughed, finding it unaccustomed and strange.
“No, sweetheart, you told it beautifully. Were those your words or your father’s?”
“His words, as well as I could remember. He made everything sound so beautiful…” Her lip trembled.
“Rapunzel’s sad because she loved someone, someone she expected to see again, but he -- died,” said Ginger to Clarissa.
Persephone looked at her, surprised. “Do you mean Dar?”
“Yes,” said Ginger.
“Oh, my,” said Persephone, feeling ashamed. “I’ve been too caught up in my own feelings to even think about hers.”
“You might have noticed she doesn’t want to talk about it anyway,” said Ginger with a smile, “but she was part of the reason Baubo sent me. She thought perhaps you both needed to dance your feelings.”
“Dar’s a funny name,” said Clarissa. “Was he a twin?”
“He was,” answered Persephone, “just like Castor, and they were fond of one another, Dar and Rapunzel.”
“So we’ve each lost someone,” said Clarissa gravely.
“Yes, but you’ve each found someone, too,” said Ginger, “and that’s joyful.”
HADES
Without Persephone, Hades’ life in the Underworld lost its shape. Before her coming he’d taken little account of regular sleep and meals. All hours were the same in the Underworld. He couldn’t be bothered to create a routine, seeing no use in it. But she, so fresh from the Green World, naturally kept a rhythm of sleep and waking, work and play, bathing and meals. He discovered, somewhat to his surprise, how much better he felt and functioned in a predictable routine.
Now, in her absence, he slipped into apathy. He rarely felt hungry and avoided sleep. The rooms that had contained his life with Persephone became terrible to him. He couldn’t say whether hope or despair had sharper teeth, but they both gnawed unceasingly at his heart.
He’d taken Odin’s advice and continued his work as best he could. As he followed this course, he acknowledged Odin’s wisdom, for he found relief during his hours with the dead souls. If he could do nothing for Persephone, he could do much for others, and in the doing days passed in a confused haze of fatigue and grief. He discovered the loss of Persephone and his child’s death made him a better guide for the dead. His compassion and patience had enlarged, and listening to stories of other men and women, ordinary yet unique, provided him with perspective. Others had suffered loss. Children were lost every day. He was not alone in grief, at least.
Dogged and determined, he’d pulled himself through some weeks after visiting Odin when, after a brief period of sleep saturated with bad dreams, Kadmos, his manservant, roused him.
“Lord, someone comes from the river.” Kadmos’ voice was awed. No one in Hades’ memory had ever come out of the River Styx. The wizened aged boatman who ferried others across the black muscular water, cold as space, was the only creature, living or dead, who would have anything to do with it.
For a singing moment, Hades’ heart leapt. Could it be?
“Who? Who comes?” he asked eagerly.
“He — he says he’s your brother, Lord,” stammered Kadmos.
Hope was extinguished at once. “Oh…what? What did you say? My brother?”
Kadmos inclined his head.
Hades, dressed now, snapped his fingers at Hope, who slept by his pallet. She woke and came to his heel.
“Thank you, Kadmos,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”
His thoughts were an incoherent jumble as he strode through tunnels, making his way down to the River Styx. It couldn’t possibly be his brother Poseidon, could it? After all these years? But who else would dare the River Styx in search of him?
Poseidon was his younger brother by two years. They weren’t friends, but Hades tolerated Poseidon better than their youngest brother, Zeus. Poseidon had brains, and Hades admitted to himself he envied Poseidon’s nimble wit and learning. Zeus was proud, arrogant and entitled, and Hades saw the worst of himself reflected in the younger man.
As a young man, Poseidon sought and received an education. He was particularly interested in astronomy. He was interested in women, too, and they in him. In this the three brothers shared a competitive commonality. Poseidon ruled the oceans, at least in theory. In actuality, he traveled widely; bred, trained, and raced Fasari Barahi, green sea horses, bred sea wolves; and collected and played marbles with the likes of Odin and Baba Yaga. He delegated the onerous chore of overseeing the oceans to the able and competent sea kings who managed, for the most part, quite well without him.
This arrangement suited everyone. Poseidon was free to pursue women, play with his animals and indulge his other interests with little interference. In consequence he was charming, sophisticated, good humored and an unashamed sensualist.
Ever since the memorable day in which the three brothers drew lots for management of the seas, the Underworld and the sky, they had parted ways. Poseidon and Zeus were satisfied with their lots, but Hades had bitterly resented his fate until Persephone came into his life, and effectively isolated himself in his angry misery from all but Odin, for whom he’d had a grudging respect approaching liking.
Now, as Hades made his way down to the River Styx, he found himself looking forward to seeing his brother again. He was a different man than the surly, resentful one Poseidon had last seen. Had his brother changed, too? What had time and life made him? And what could he possibly want?
Styx was a silent river. It poured itself through the Underworld’s stony embrace, smelling of wet rock. As Hades approached, he heard two voices. The old boatman, who’d hardly spoken a word in Hades’ hearing, was actually conversing in a high sharp creaking voice. The other voice sounded amused, educated and exhortative.
“…Now I’m going to try to hit your glassie, or at least get close to it…there. I missed you, but if I can touch one marble with my thumb and the other with my middle finger…that’s called spanners . . . there. I can. So I keep your marble but my aggie stays there. Now use another marble to chase me…”
“I’ll chase you, sonny, right into Hell!” The boatman wheezed with laughter.
“Big talk, old man, big talk. That’s right. Hold it like this, see? Now shoot!”
Hades stood in the shadows beyond the feeble flickering lantern that usually sat in the boat. The boatman and his brother knelt on the stone, hunched over. Hades clearly heard the click of one marble hitting another.
“Ha! Got you. Hand it over, hand it over. I thought you were some kind of expert, but you’re no match for me! Age before beauty! Age before beauty! He, he, he, he, he…”
Hades cleared his throat meaningfully, and Poseidon, hand poised to shoot his next marble, relaxed and turned his face to his brother. He sprang youthfully to his feet.
“Hayseed!”
The old childish nickname made Hades grin.
“Posey. I thought the place smelled better than usual. Why are you distracting my boatman?”
“I’m not distracting him. I’m teaching him the sophisticated game of kings. I’m improving his reflexes. I’m providing him with a hobby.”
“You’ll ruin him for his job. I need his services.”
“Nonsense. The laborer is worthy of his hire, that’s all. You must increase his pay. Better yet, let the gem masters make him a marble now and then so he can start his own collection.”
Poseidon swept his hand over the stone, collecting the marbles, and poured them into the boatman’s hand. “Practice,” he advised briskly, “and look after my trident, would you?”
The brothers walked side by side through the tunnels. Hades felt hulking next to his brother’s shorter, less massive frame, though Poseidon’s shoulders were of impressive width. He was clean shaven, his dark curly hair clipped short. His interested gaze took in the tunnel walls and ceiling, the lights in brackets, side rooms and side passages. Hope had left her post at Hades’ left heel and sniffed suspiciously in Poseidon’s wake. He ignored her. “She smells the sea wolves and horses,” he said to Hades. “She’ll make friends when she’s ready. Beautiful bitch, by the way.”
“Odin gave her to me,” said Hades. “I call her Hope.”
Poseidon grunted with what might have been amusement but made no further comment.
Kadmos, anticipating the need, had set the table for two. When the two men appeared, he produced hot coffee, mead, a round of bread, meat, strong-smelling goat cheese, marinated olives, and a bowl of apples. He replenished the fire and exited, tray in hand, shutting the door behind him. Hope went to her place in near the hearth, turned in a circle once or twice and subsided with a sigh on her sheepskin bed.
The two men helped themselves and ate and drank, neither hurrying to break the silence. Poseidon sampled the mead and cocked an eyebrow at Hades.
“Odin’s?”
Hades nodded assent and Poseidon took another sip, closing his eyes and savoring the flavor.
When they had finished and pushed their plates away, they took their coffee and mead and seated themselves in two padded chairs before the fire.