There was a rot in the cornfield, leaves falling madly
from trees, flowers bowing their heads in exhaustion, begging for sleep. Here was the proof, and she did not have to
check the meadow where she had left Persephone—for just one moment!—because she
knew the meadow was empty. The men had
harvested the crops from the scorched and brown fields, and the crows were busy
stealing the last morsels. The small
animals were frantically scurrying back and forth, fortifying their nests. The end was coming. Again.
She had lost her daughter, again.
At that very moment, Persephone was heading into a wooded
area. ‘Just for a moment,’ she told
herself. There was something in there
she was supposed to get, but she could not remember what it was. ‘Just a little further,’ she thought, ‘And
then I will go home and be safe again.’
But it was confusing. There were
large shadows falling everywhere, and the sweet smell that used to emanate from
the woods had turned sour and heady. There
was something about that scent . . . that decay. ‘Just a little further . . .’
As she went on, she could feel eyes upon her. She was being watched and she knew it, but
she did not know who it was or where he was.
Every time she turned around to catch him, certain that he would be
there, she saw nothing but leaves flying about in a cool wind. The crows were mocking far up in the trees,
and the buzzing insects had disappeared.
The songbirds were gone. It felt
colder in the woods, so she pulled her cloak around her and enjoyed the scent
that kept pulling her forward. ‘Maybe
just over that ridge . . .’
Off in the distance, the great Lady had bowed her head
and fell to her knees, crying in anguish.
The thousands of mesmerizing tiny bells that hung from the scarf on her
hips now rang out a mournful dirge. Persephone
could still hear the bells—there was something about the bells—but she could
not remember anymore. She was
confused. Again. And there was that other-worldly scent of
fermentation calling her on. ‘Just a few
more minutes, and I will go back to the sad song of the pretty bells . . .’
Then she stopped suddenly and quickly, and it seemed as
if the entire woods stopped with her, so silent it was. There before her, as if materializing out of
thin air, was a cup set deliberately on a large stone, offering the scent that
tempted her. ‘Come closer,’ she heard in
her mind, ‘come closer . . . drink . . . eat . . .’ And the cup filled before her eyes with a
reddish-black liquid. Fruits she had
never seen before in her mother’s garden suddenly appeared on a small silver
plate. They were so beautiful. So tempting.
“I know you are there,” she said loudly and coldly, “Show
yourself!” She turned around quickly,
again, but there was nothing there, again.
“I said, show yourself!
I will not eat. I will not
drink! It is forbidden. I can only have what the great Lady offers
me. She has warned me against your
poison!” she said. But even as she said
so, she stared longingly at the cup and plate that tempted her. She was hungry, and even as she said she
would not eat or drink, she moved a bit closer.
“Can you speak so ill of my gifts?” he said. She did not turn around because she knew she
would not see him.
“Gifts? Is poison
a gift now?”
“What poison? Did
she tell you that I would give you poison?” he asked.
“She never said anything about you, but she said not to
eat or drink anything offered to me. She
said it would be poison.”
“And does it look like poison to you? Does it smell like poison?”
“No,” she faltered, “But . . .”
“But? You are
hungry and thirsty. This I can see. Take a rest and drink.”
What could it hurt to drink just a few sips? To eat just a small amount? When was the last time she had eaten or had
something to drink? She could not
remember, and she could not remember why she had come so far into the woods
either.
‘Just a small amount, then,’ she told herself, ‘Just a
small amount. Because I am tired. Because I am thirsty. Because I am hungry. Just a small taste . . .’ She looked at the beautiful reddish-black
liquid as it swirled in the cup. It was
so tempting. ‘What could it hurt to have
just a little? The Lady will not be
angry with me.’ Even as she thought it,
she forgot what the Lady’s face looked like.
That was a long time ago.
She sat down and took a sip from the cup. ‘That scent . . . that flavor . . .’ And then she stood up quickly and turned
around, her eyes large and wary. She had
suddenly and immediately remembered who she was. Before her was the root ball of an upended
tree that must have fallen in the storm that had raged a few days earlier. There was a small hole at its base. She went closer, the cup still in her
hand. No, it was not a hole. It was an entryway. Now she could see it clearly. There was a tunnel, and so she descended.
Because it was time to descend, and this was what she had
been born to do. How could she have
forgotten? Back in the woods, the Lord
of Winter sat with a self-satisfied grin.
He knew she would come back. He
had known all along.
