The Good Counselor Ch. 03

Charon's shoulders dropped and he sighed. "It had better not. If I forget to collect a single obol tomorrow, I'm laying the blame squarely on you, Aidon."

Hypnos poured him a glass and they carried on well into the evening, trading stories and tales from above and below. Orphne and Clymena had brought a cithara and a tambourine, and with some encouragement from Tisiphone, Persephone rose and danced, showing them an epilinios she had learned during Anthesteria on Crete. Aidon's gaze was fixed on Persephone the whole time, relishing her ease and happiness at being home again. Her potent glance in his direction edged him closer toward dismissing their guests so he could have her to himself.

But he could also feel her many questions for him lingering. She knew that he was withholding something. And he needed to tell her.

***

Warmth suffused and enveloped her. Warmth from his hands wrapped around the small of her back, warmth from each gasping breath where she leaned against his shoulder, and warmth radiating from where they were joined. The gentle breeze around them, his scent of cypress, and the sheen of sweat on Persephone's skin provided a cool counterpoint that made the after effects of her peak all the more sublime. Aidon pulled her down hard and threw his head back, his fingers digging into her hips, and a final burst of heat made her shiver.

He leaned back into the grass and pulled her with him, then uncrossed his legs. She released him and rolled away, awkwardly unfolding her limbs to fall in a heap at his side. They stared up at the stars of Elysion, breathing in time, their fingers lacing together.

"Happy anniversary."

"Indeed." She kissed him on the cheek. She lazily raised a finger and pointed from star to star, tracing the winter constellation of The Hunter. Decades ago, they had stopped wondering why the sky here in Elysion, their Paradise within Chthonia, was filled with stars, why the moon shone at night and the sun during the day. Instead they had decided to just enjoy this mystifying world. "The stars look just like this above, right now."

"Yes. I remember."

She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes trained on him.

He winced, then smiled at her. "You have questions for me. You've had them since we descended."

"I wanted to wait before asking. I didn't think they would be anything shocking. It was more in reaction to my mother hounding me just before the harvest."

He tensed again. "I had seen to something early on in the season, and needed to think it over before I told you about it, sweet one. So rather than withhold, I avoided you. I hope you can forgive me."

"Can you tell me now?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You don't have to worry, husband," she said, smiling. She folded her arms under her chin, propping herself up on his chest. "It's just me."

"After Eumolpus died, I spent months contemplating what to do with what he told us about Orpheus, about having a child. But I didn't want you to hurt again. Not after last time."

She looked down. Aphrodite had suggested going to a temple far to the east, and they had participated in the fertility rites there. She had cloistered herself on the temple grounds, abdicating her responsibilities in the first grain harvest, heedless of the fact that it would mean a hard winter for the mortals. Persephone had rationalized that it was only one year, that she would never do it again. When her cycle was late by a week she was overjoyed, and told Aidoneus to come to her immediately. By the time he arrived, she was spotting, and though worried, she was told by the attending priestess that it could be a good sign. But the next evening Aidon had awoke to find her collapsed in a heap on the stone floor, sobbing, blood streaking her thighs.

Persephone let out a long sigh. "I understand."

"I didn't want to give you false hope, either. I wasn't going to subject you to that if I found out that it would just be more pageantry and nonsense. But this..."

"You spoke with Orpheus?"

"Right before I saw you at the villa. I couldn't tell you then. And decided that I couldn't continue to lie by omission in your presence until you were back by my side and we'd spoken about it."

"And that's the only reason you didn't visit at midsummer?"

He nodded.

Persephone laid her head in the crook of his arm. "What convinces you that this will be different?"

"Do you remember what Eumolpus told us? That Orpheus honored a god of rebirth that was not yet born?"

"I do. But every fertility cult from Iberia to the Euphrates honors some unborn or unknown god or goddess."

"Which I why I did not appear to Orpheus directly, nor did I tell him who I was. Though I suspect he well knew by the time I left."

"We've done this before... masking our identities, appearing mortal—"

"We have. But this is something else, sweet one. I asked— no, I commanded him to name his professed god— the one yet to be born."

She rose up and looked him in the eye, and he nodded. Persephone's skin prickled and she leaned back on her haunches.

"Zagreus." Aidoneus sat up with her. "Zagreus, Persephone, the name we want to give our son. Had you ever told anyone besides me?"

"Only Hecate knows, but no one else. Not even Nyx or her sons. If I had ever spoken about my wishes to Eumolpus, I used brimo, which means 'the strong one'. And it's an epithet given irrespective of sex."

"Then how else could Orpheus have known?"

Persephone swallowed. What if this was just another stone thrown down another bottomless well? She couldn't leave off her responsibilities ever again, and couldn't endure a disappointment like the last one. "It might be coincidence."

"Certainly. He could have heard the name somewhere else, though Zagreus isn't any name the Thracians or Eleusinians would give a child. Maybe he divined it, though I know not how." He looked off into the distance. "Or perhaps there's something more sinister at play since he's been sending mortals here with those gold scrolls, even though he seemed more earnest than anything else. Or..."

She was afraid to hope, but his half hearted excuses told her all she needed to know. He believed. Decades had passed since he dared to believe anything would come of their attempts, and yet here he sat, apprehension barely masking exuberance, waiting for her reply. She smiled and her eyes stung. "Yes."

"Yes to what?"

"Let's try."

"I don't want you to hurt again."

"Wouldn't it be worth it though? Wouldn't all the years of past pain be worth this if it gave us our child?"

He let out a long sigh and leaned his forehead onto hers. "Yes."

"What must we do? I cannot miss the planting or harvest again. Hundreds of mortals died when I stayed in Alikarnassos."

"It requires one day and one night, as the first shoots rise from the earth. No more."

"What does the rite itself ask of us?"

"That was less clear."

"Eumolpus said part of the sacrifice would be who we are... our most heartfelt desires."

"Orpheus said the same thing, and would not say anymore. But he professes to abide by the will of the Fates. More so than most of the gods, even. I am confident we can leave this all to ananke. No one will know that Hades and Persephone are attending among mortals. As far as they are concerned, we will be a mortal king and his queen." He glanced out at the shallow sea beyond and cleared his throat. "There is one thing though that could become... a problem."

"What's that?"

"The promise by which we will ensure his discretion."

***

Wind battered the west wall of the temple and guttered the torches. The winter had been a stormy one, a hard start to the season. The Thracians had worried that there hadn't been enough sacrifices to Zeus at the Spring of Midas, The Arcadians swore that Poseidon had whipped up the seas in anger, and the Athenians worried that they hadn't sent enough propitiations to Eleusis for Demeter.

But the summer had been kind to all. There were bountiful stores of grain— not just on Samothrace, but in every small village and great city in Hellas, Thrace, the islands and cities beyond. Orpheus stared out at the pool that dominated the center of the atrium. The oculus above and the slender clerestory windows had been sealed shut for winter, covered by tar-thatched reeds and battened down with hempen rope. It would keep the place warm for anyone seeking sanctuary. He reached the twelfth brazier and stoked it with an iron poker, the heat grown heavy beneath his woolen himation.

"Where did you hear the name Zagreus, hymnist?"

Every hair on his neck stood up. Orpheus stopped in his tracks and held his breath.

"Tell me."

The hall was empty: the few who had sought shelter there during the day had found other places to stay for the evening. Though he was sweating in the temple's close warmth, ice filled the pit of his stomach. He fell to his knees, his palms clammy against the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the ground. "It... i-is it you, God of Nysa?"

"After the first moon of winter, as promised," the voice said. "Stand. There's no need to kneel before me. It is I who come asking you for favors. Now, who gave you that god's name?"

Orpheus swallowed. "The name..."

The visitor grew silent. He was holding his breath.

"It came in a vision. Certain herbs..." Orpheus swallowed. "I had composed a hymn to the Moirai and the residents of the lands below, the night before I came here from Eleusis. There was a ritual at the temple on the night I arrived, and all within partook of a ceremonial draught. Its ingredients had been prepared for us by a nymph-born woman who lives in the forest. This order had consumed it before, for a generation at least, but that night I saw... visions of sigils and symbols and epithets, and when I slept that night, I dreamed. I dreamed of the Mnemosyne and the waters that restore life eternal and memory to those who go to Elysion. I dreamed of a god not yet born. I saw a babe crying out, coming into the world in a flash of flame and light. I heard his name, then. And in that moment I knew that he would be the one to keep and protect Paradise itself through the ages, who would reveal its true purpose, one who could unite tribes and nations..."

There was a rustling, then the faint outlines of a very tall man with jet black hair. As he grew clearer, he lowered a polished gold helm to his side and stared down at Orpheus with eyes that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. He spoke evenly, almost conversationally. "And in your vision the name this unborn god was given..."

"It was Zagreus. Zagreus Sabazios Eubouleus. As clear as if I were awake. And it was not only I who had that dream that night."

"There are other mystics here?"

"I would never go so far as to call myself one."

"If the mantle fits..."

"I merely listen. But yes, others that night heard that exact same name. Saw what I saw."

The man— the god, rather— straightened. A faint smile teased the corner of his mouth. "Eubouleus. The Good Counselor. That epithet also belongs to another."

"I know, my lord."

"You know who I am, then."

Orpheus paused. He knew it in his bones. He also knew that he risked being struck down if he was wrong. But he had trusted this god so far. Still he closed his eyes when he answered. "You are the Unseen One. The Receiver of Many."

"You are permitted to use my name, Orpheus."

"You'll forgive me if I do not?"

The Unseen One nodded at him, then shifted and paced the room, glancing at the empty niches and the absence of any statuary of the gods. "I know your reasons. But in knowing why, you likewise understand why no one must learn mine nor my wife's true identity if this is to succeed."

"I do."

"Have you thought on my offer?"

"It is all I have thought about these many months. Especially since time grows short."

"What do you mean?"

"We hold these rites once every three years, on the third full moon after the first crocus blooms. This is the year."

"I want you to know this," Aidoneus faced him and crossed the room to stand in front of Orpheus. "If you say 'no' to me, there will be no repercussions for you or yours. I, Hades Aidoneus Chthonios, firstborn son of Kronos, swear it to you on the Styx. You will not have displeased me, you will not have displeased my wife, nor any other god or creature who dwells on or below the earth. And when you pass from this world and journey to mine, your choice here will have no bearing on the hereafter."

"And what of the gods above?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "These aren't their matters. They care nothing about this."

"Why would you come to me— to a mortal, my lord— for something like this? We are such finite, small beings when compared to the Deathless Ones."

"I am not an Olympian, hemitheoi, and don't hold myself on high above your kind. Those who oversee the earth, whose lives are intertwined with the mortals and their immortal souls, cannot afford such... vanities. Your kind have a wisdom that comes from the knowledge that your lives are finite— one lifetime in which to accomplish what you can. That itself is a powerful thing. More than you, or the gods above truly realize."

"But in Elysion we have a hope of remembering what we were," Orpheus said, his voice growing earnest. "Of continuing on and growing and learning even after death, once we drink from the Mnemosyne."

Aidoneus shook his head and sighed. "The words written on your scrolls, the ones you place in the mouths of the dead... are a fiction. A pleasant one, to be sure, but all who reside in my realm must drink from the Lethe. For their own sakes."

"But..." Orpheus felt cold creep over him. The rites for the dead he'd performed for countless adherents... Were they all for nothing? "The visions I had, though, they said that you would let those who are worthy of Elysion drink from the Pool of Memory, that they—"

He shrugged. "I do not know whence those visions came to you, but rest assured... Elysion is new, but the laws that govern Chthonia remain unchanged, as they have for aeons."

"But the memories and lives of those who are reborn—"

"And with good reason."

The god had raised his voice. Even now, it faintly reverberated through the hall. Orpheus swallowed. His words came out thin and reedy. "I only know what I saw. As clearly as I saw the child you believe will come from this rite. If I were to say no, to say no to you, why would you let me go so easily?"

"Because it is not your decision alone. It is ananke. If a child is not meant to be made by these means, then I accept that. As does my wife."

Orpheus let out a sigh, feeling a great weight lift from his shoulders. For all this time, he was convinced that he was being given an order by a god. "I'll do it."

"For the gift of a lyre?"

"No." He paused then shook his head. "Partly. But more so because I know for certain I can trust you. And that my decision wasn't compelled."

Aidoneus smiled and folded his hands behind his back, then turned away from Orpheus, observing the walls of the stark temple. "My wife will be very pleased by this."

Orpheus leaned against the column. The King of the Underworld's voice had hitched. He was moved and didn't want to show his emotions.

"The god revealed to you... Zagreus... that was the same name my wife and I had decided upon when we first knew we wanted to have a child of our own. We never told anyone. And this has given me reason to hope."

He whispered. "My lord, I have hope as well, but... I can promise nothing."

"Of course."

"Our visions were clear, and all saw the same things come to pass. And we all saw that the Unborn One would come into this world from the womb of a mortal woman."

"Your visions also told you that mortals' memories are restored in Elysion. When we dream, we see first what we know and believe. None in your order would imagine the rites being attended by gods."

"No. Certainly not."

"But only gods beget gods." The Receiver of Many hesitated. "Orpheus, tell me... Eumolpus spoke of it before he passed, and you said the same this spring: that the sacrifice we'd make would be greater and unlike anything we could imagine... My wife and I have much to lose, so you can understand how that might give me pause."

"It wouldn't—" Orpheus shut his eyes momentarily, trying to find the right words. "It would not throw the spheres into chaos. A farmer's crops would not wither any more than a king would lose his crown or a priest be cast out of his temple. That much I know. It would be something personal. Not a sacrifice for the Lord of the Underworld, but a sacrifice for... Aidoneus." Orpheus shuddered involuntarily, and his gaze fell to the floor.

"You can't be any more specific?"

"I am sorry, my lord. I cannot," Orpheus said. "It is not known by me, nor would it present itself immediately. The sacrifice unfolds in time. It is in the hands of the Fates alone."

***

He knew better than to speak with them before the first full moon of winter. He had only to recall his first visit to remind himself why. Even if a message from Olympus meant for Hades were urgent, he would always beg it off for at least a week.

Hermes sat in Charon's boat, tapping his foot on the bracing, smoothing the golden feathers of his winged sandals, and trying to avoid eye contact with the dark cloaked shade of an old woman who sat opposite him.

"My husband sacrificed a ram to you," she said suddenly.

Hermes started, then remembered that she hadn't yet drunk from the Lethe. Though a shade, she wasn't yet part of Asphodel. He could hear her. She was scowling at him. "What, to me?"

"He wanted to sell sheep across the water, to the Thracians. I told him not to go into business, but no... did Stavros listen to me? No!"

"What happened?"

"You don't know?!"

"Uh..."

"The fool, I knew it! I told Stavros you wouldn't listen to his prayers! 'I know sheep, not trade, Agathe, but trust the gods, because I gave Hermes a whole ram, Agathe!' Foolish pious man he was..."

"That's enough," Charon hissed.

The shade cowered and fell silent, but pursed her lips and glowered at Hermes until the boat scraped against the opposite shore.

"Welcome home," Charon said to her and pointed his oar beyond the ghostly reeds at the poplar shaded stone pathway. "The Trivium is that way. Go to the spring beside it and wait. You are to be judged by Rhadamanthys."

The woman gathered up her skirts and plodded along the path, disappearing from view. Charon pushed off and shook his head. Hermes shrugged. "What?"

"With all your infamous wiles and trickery," the Boatman said, "could you have at least lied to her?"

"And tell her what?!"

"Nothing comes to you? There was a bad star, a storm of the ages, or the evil eye struck, or any one of the many Olympian excuses. Or even that yes, you'd listened, but no, there was nothing that could have been done."

"There are too many offerings... how could I have known their circumstances?"

"You guide the wayward dead back here. Speak to them and find out. Or lie vaguely, if you prefer. It comes to you easily enough."

Hermes scowled and slouched back, crossing his legs. The palace gates came into view at the end of a short path bordered with tall stalks of asphodel. Charon stilled his boat and Hermes debated whether or not to have the last word.

"What is your purpose here, Psychopompos?"

"Your King summoned me today. And since I was on the way, I also bear a message from our Queen to yours."