The Tower: Part 4: Yule
Post #26: In which reunion and a story ...
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PART 4 YULE
Winter solstice. Return of the sun; birth and growth.
The Card: The Fool
Beginnings and endings; freedom from convention; innocence; impulsiveness; creative vitality; unlimited potential
CHAPTER 9
HADES
Hades stood looking down at the grave. Snowflakes fell dreamily, clinging lovingly to the young brambles Demeter had planted, one on either side of the simple polished marble slab Hades had chosen instead of a traditional marker. The stone was black, splashed with a golden color that reminded Hades of Persephone’s hair. He had not wanted carving on it, and rather than standing it at the head of the grave he laid it flat over the disturbed earth, leaving the surrounding ground scarred and bare so Persephone could plant flowers when she returned.
If she returned.
Hades shook his head. She would return. He must cling to that.
“Brambles are healing,” Demeter had said. “They symbolize remorse and protection from evil. They will watch over my granddaughter.”
Hades thought Persephone would approve, and so he and Demeter had planted the brambles together on the day he laid the marble over the grave.
Now, weeks later, the ground was frozen and the bramble canes looked spindly and dry. The land lay stark under a steel sky. A few days before a tremendous storm of wind and cold rain had felled trees and torn branches. Hades had brought a simple, slender wreath of spruce, cedar and hemlock and laid it atop the marble.
Every few days he left the Underworld and visited the barn where he housed his stallion, along with Persephone’s rabbits and other animals. He visited each stall and pen in turn, feeding cabbage leaves to the sheep and goats, scratching the pigs’ backs and grooming his black stallion while the horse searched his pockets for the apple he always brought for a treat.
Those who worked in the barns, garden and orchard greeted him with a nod or a smile as they went about their business. He had become a familiar figure, though a lonely and silent one.
After visiting the larger animals, Hades inspected the rabbit hutches lining one end of the barn. Since Persephone had left, he had not harvested any rabbits, nor allowed anyone else to do so. Persephone would return and see to them herself. He closely inspected their hutches, opening the doors and handling the soft creatures, stroking their coats and offering carrots and hay. When he had assured himself of their health and comfort, satisfied their cages were spotless with clean bedding and fresh food and water, he left the barn to visit his daughter’s grave, which lay next to Persephone’s garden, dormant and desiccated with winter.
These visits above ground provided a welcome break from the demands and chaos in the Underworld, a sideways step into his private life and away from his responsibilities. The peaceful winter scene and small grave at his feet held more reality for him in these moments than the dead souls in his care.
The loss of the child and Persephone’s subsequent absence had marked the beginning of a series of crises in the Underworld. Earthquakes, which had not troubled the Land of the Dead before, began to strike, making the earth groan and grinding stone together in a dreadful sound of anguish. Tunnels and caverns collapsed, blocking the steady flow of souls traveling across the Underworld’s threshold. Every spare hand, living and dead, worked to clear away the rubble, rebuild and shore up.
In these days his brother Poseidon had become his strongest support. He visited frequently, bringing news from the sea and its people. The two spent hours sitting by the fire discussing rumors and stories collected from the dead.
Poseidon, unlike his quieter brother, was gregarious and liked to travel. In these days he made it a point to explore parts of his kingdom he hadn’t investigated before, becoming familiar with the shyest and strangest sea creatures, searching for references to or information about Yrtym.
He also sent volunteers to assist in keeping the River Styx unblocked and flowing as it exited Hades and ran underground until it drained into the sea. Not only was Styx his gateway to his brother’s realm, but they did not know what effect blocking the river would have on the Underworld. If Hades flooded, what would become of the dead?
So many questions, Hades thought wearily, and so few answers.
Still, he must do what he could to save his kingdom and his people, and he felt grateful for his brother’s good humor, practicality and friendship.
If only he could have saved his queen and his daughter from tragedy and death.
He roused himself, lifting his bowed head and straightening his snow-dusted shoulders. He was cold. Delicate flakes frosted the evergreen wreath. Movement caught his eye and he squinted through the thickening snow toward the tree line, disheveled now with fallen and uprooted trees.
A cloaked and hooded figure approached him, moving with a kind of weary grace he recognized. He took a step forward, straining his eyes. Could it be?
The figure came faster. He took another step forward. She threw back her hood and her eyes were the only color in the world, blue-green, blazing with emotion, warm and passionate as a tropical sea. He opened his arms, still disbelieving, and Persephone cast herself into them.
CLARISSA
“I suppose you know the story of Orpheus and his lyre,” said Seren.
“Of course,” replied Clarissa, watching him unwrap his instrument. “Orpheus was the greatest musician the world has ever known. He married Eurydice, an olive tree nymph, but she died almost immediately, and his grief was unending. He went to the Underworld to beg Hades himself to return Eurydice to life, and Hades agreed she could follow Orpheus back to the living world as long as he didn’t look back before he’d led her out of the tomb’s shadow. He refrained from looking back all the long way up from Hades, but jubilant because he thought he’d restored her to life, he looked back before she’d left the tomb’s shadow, and she turned away and returned to the Underworld. After that, Orpheus played only for grief. He refused to take another wife and wandered the world, playing sorrow and pain, until he died. His mother, Calliope, one of the nine muses, set his lyre in the sky so the world would remember him. It’s called the Lyra Constellation.”
The wrappings revealed a tortoiseshell lyre, lovingly polished. Gut strings stretched between two gracefully curved arms.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Seren. “This is Orpheus’s lyre. Euterpe, another of the Muses, is a special friend of mine, and she thought it a shame Calliope refused to share Orpheus’s instrument, so she retrieved it, leaving other stars in its place so Calliope need not know. Euterpe said my skill is at least equal to Orpheus’s. After all, I’m living and he’s dead. He betrayed his talent because of a woman, but I’ll never betray mine.”
He ran his fingers lovingly over the strings; the sound shimmered in the stone-walled round room.
Clarissa, who had reached out a tentative hand to touch the lyre, retracted it when Seren pulled it out of her reach, set it in his lap and began to strum. “It’s beautiful,” she said, watching his graceful fingers caress the strings. “Will you tell me about the Norns? Have you made a story?”
“I have,” he said, looking down at where she sat at his feet and smiling fondly. “A new story, and you’re the first to hear it. You’re becoming my muse, Clarissa!”
“Once upon a time, before the shining stars learned to sing enchantments, a tree stood at the center of the cosmos. Its roots wove together a planet and its branches supported the sky. It was a mighty Ash tree with three trunks, and it drank from the well of Urd. Mirmir, a great serpent, guarded the tree, whose name was Yggdrasil.
Yggdrasil, the pivot around which the wheel of life turns, the axle that turns cycles and seasons, ends and beginnings. Yggdrasil, the top of which cannot be seen and the roots of which are endless as they weave a world of rock and soil. Yggdrasil, the spinning distaff around which life is wrapped before being spun, cut and woven, though none can see it whirl.
For long ages, Yggdrasil stood, kingly and inviolate at the center of all, but one day something changed. Perhaps the invisibly spinning distaff faltered. Perhaps the Well of Urd became tainted, or the serpent Mirmir grew old. Life and death became unbalanced. Beginnings and endings fell out of symmetry.
Suddenly, the whole world of Webbd was threatened.
In times of fear and breakdown, people look to heroes, those with brave hearts and superior skills. The terrified world implored one such man to journey to Yggdrasil and discover and heal whatever was wrong. This man possessed the gift of music, and the whole world stopped to listen when he played. Trees and rocks uprooted themselves to follow his song, and every creature within hearing of his voice and instrument was touched with magic as he passed.”
Seren paused and played a lilting melody. Clarissa thought she’d never seen anyone as beautiful. His grey eyes shone with dreams, his mouth curled in a smile, and his long, sensitive fingers caressed the strings with skill and confidence, making her mouth go dry when she imagined them on her body.
He met her gaze and smiled into her eyes. She felt as though his look penetrated to her very bone, making her thoughts and desires visible to him. His eyes were light and clear, almost silvery, without depth. They were like stars, those eyes, like the white light encircling his brow when he was a baby. Clarissa thrilled with the knowledge that behind those eyes such talent lived, words like gems, stories of passion and adventure, music so piercingly beautiful that mountains and forests leaned down to hear it. His sensuality and passion matched her own.
And he was here, with her, at the lighthouse, and called her his muse.
“Humbly, the chosen hero agreed to undertake the journey to Yggdrasil and see what might be done. With his lyre he traveled, and music, poetry and stories graced his path. As he journeyed, he thought about beginnings and endings and formed a plan to rebalance them.
Others were drawn to Yggdrasil as well, a child, a group of elders, a Dwarve and a young mother. From every direction they journeyed to the center, not knowing they were the coarse material from which the hero would weave healing with his music, his words and his stories, and thus restore Yggdrasil and save Webbd.
When the hero arrived, he found everyone waiting for him. The old women who lived near the tree and used its power to spin thread and yarn greeted him reverently and joyfully. At his request, they hung fabrics of silk, linen, velvet and cotton over Yggdrasil’s lower branches to fashion a tent large enough to work in, using braziers for heat. The hero gathered everyone around the trunk and instructed them on his plan. He helped them understand beginnings and endings are forever bound together, and such things as seeds, bones and dead souls constitute both. Thus, he directed them in gathering these ingredients, certain that he, with is musical skill, could combine these ingredients into life, into endless beginnings arising from endless endings. He proposed to weave the strands of chant, lament, seed blessing and harvest prayer together, along with drumbeat for the tree’s roots, the horn for its crown and the lyre as a musical loom and shuttle.
Trustfully and respectfully, they followed his direction until at last he felt ready to begin. He sent a silent prayer to the star that had touched his brow with white light and began to play.
He never knew how long it went on. The horn soared in a wordless lament of closing gates and sky darkened by flocks of birds on the wing. It spoke of dark winds and starless nights under a sickle moon. It moaned of loss and bitter grieving, of wounds that never heal. The horn summoned the lost spirits of the dead, summoned them, gathered them and lay them down with bones, and the bones themselves made a scaffold, a framework, as he chanted over them, chanted and danced, pouring his words and music over them. When bones and spirits were joined together, he turned to the seeds, which he held, a handful at a time, letting his silver words and holy breath wash over them as he recited a blessing for growth, for bud and flower and fruit, for death. These he sprinkled over the bones and dead spirits, and each seed was like a glowing ember, a firefly, a warm-hued gem, because of his blessing.
All the while, whether chanting, blessing, singing a prayer or giving voice to horn and drum, he played his lyre, the heart of his skill and talent, and the lyre ascended above all the other elements and bound them together until the distaff of Yggdrasil spun again, the spinning wheel revolved, and new thread flowed through the old spinner’s fingers.”
“Oh!” breathed Clarissa. “How beautiful! How lucky you were there! I wonder if fixing Yggdrasil will fix the other strange things happening.”
In the magic of Seren’s presence and storytelling, she’d forgotten her worries and put away the ominous feeling that never quite left her these days. Now she remembered.
The sea had withdrawn from the land. She was still trying to believe it. She’d stood on the cliffs, or looked out from the tower windows or down from its apex more times than she could count, but even as she looked at the bare sea bed and the distant haze of water, she couldn’t quite accept what she saw.
She’d gone to visit Marceau, a sea king who was like a grandfather to her, expecting comfort and reassurance, but found none. In many places along coastlines the sea withdrew from the land. No one knew why. No one knew what to do. In addition, the ocean appeared to be warming due to superheated vents opening in the sea floor and unusual volcanic activity. The increased temperature killed many sea creatures. It was so bad that Poseidon, who usually left governing to the sea kings, had called for a gathering to share information and discuss the situation. Clarissa had never heard of Poseidon taking an interest in anything other than his wolves, horses and beautiful women.
After talking with Marceau, Clarissa returned to the lighthouse. Rapunzel, though preoccupied and concerned, was more comforting company than the merfolk, who felt their very existence to be in jeopardy as the food web unraveled. Persephone had left the lighthouse to return to Hades and her husband, and Clarissa missed her. Rapunzel lacked Persephone’s maternal warmth. On the other hand, Rapunzel was full of stories, fascinating facts and bits of witchlore, and Clarissa, lonely and frightened by the sudden wrongness of the natural world, found forgetfulness and relief in learning from Rapunzel.
Rapunzel had discovered the cellar, and Chris’s mural.
“If you’d asked me, I would have told you about him,” she said to Rapunzel. “When I came back, after my father was gone, I didn’t even think about the cellar because of meeting all of you, and the dance, and then Seren. That’s usually how I visited, through the pool in the cellar, but now I can’t use it, obviously.”
“No. Your brother swam as far as he could and walked the rest of the way. It turns out there’s also a passage into the cellar from Dvorgdom.”
“Dvorgdom?”
“The underground kingdom of the Dvorgs. I’ll tell you about it. Chris brought me a letter from Radulf.”
“I love Radulf. I wish Chris had waited; I haven’t seen him since Father died.”
“We didn’t know when you’d return, and he wanted to get back to Radulf.”
Seren, after leaving the tower a few weeks previously, had traveled to Griffin Town, where he reclaimed his lyre and other belongings from the ship he’d been thrown from. He’d sent word to Clarissa from there that he traveled to Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, where there was evidently some kind of trouble.
In his absence, Clarissa tackled her father’s papers and books, a task she’d felt unable to approach until now. Persephone and Rapunzel had looked through some of his writings before they’d met Clarissa, but after she revealed herself Irvin’s desk remained undisturbed, waiting for her attention.
The sharpest edge of her grief had dulled, which made her feel vaguely guilty. It seemed wrong to forget him so soon and so easily, as though she hadn’t really loved him. She dreaded reading his words and handling his beloved books, and was surprised to find comfort rather than pain as she paged through familiar volumes, reading a stanza here and there and finding well-loved but half-forgotten illustrations, for these had been her books, too, companions of her childhood. She well remembered Irvin reading aloud to her and her brother.
Her father had collected and written far more stories than she’d realized, many of which sounded familiar, but she hadn’t realized originated with him. His stories sounded as though they’d been handed down for generations, and without his notes she couldn’t recognize oral tradition from new material. Rereading them, she heard her father’s voice in memory and discovered an intense desire to pass the stories on, though she would never be the storyteller her father had been.