It was metal biting wood. I wasn’t alone. I sat up with a start.

  Then came the revving of a chainsaw. It buzzed like a furious wasp. I followed the noise, running when I heard the cry of “Timber!”

  The tree creaked and groaned, followed by a crash that reverberated.

  The man put down his chainsaw and pushed back his ear defenders so they hung around his neck. He lifted the visor to reveal himself.

  The pack leader isn’t always the strongest. Sometimes it’s the meanest. He took off his jacket and threw it down. He was all coiled muscle without an ounce of warmth to him.

  He strolled around my fallen mnemosyne tree as if it were an animal he’d hunted and killed. It was precious, decorated with a votive for every prayer I’d granted.

  The freshly revealed wood looked pale and vulnerable. The other men started to take off the larger branches from the trunk with axes, like they were taking trophies. A logging truck was parked at the edge of the clearing. Its tyres had gouged the ground.

  “Who are you?” I called, raising my chin.

  “Erysichthon. King of Thessaly.”

  Erysichthon. Earth-tearer. An apt name. He smacked of unearned privilege and expectation. These stupid boys imagined themselves Gods, desecrating something holy that had been in the world far longer than them.

  “Who are you to question me?”

  “I’m—” I paused, “the high priestess of this place.”

  One of his men lifted the hem of my skirt with the tip of his axe handle to reveal my calves for his friends. I hissed at him and he laughed.

  “You all need to leave. For your own sakes.”

  “Not before I cut enough timber for my banqueting hall.” Erysichthon’s smile was cordial. That’s when kings are at their most dangerous.

  “Demeter will be displeased.”

  “I don’t see her anywhere, do you? I’m sure she won’t mind so much. It’s only a few trees.”

  Further down the hill an elm crashed to the ground. Its death shook the world.

  “These trees are the mothers of their kind. They’ll be needed should their progeny die. Go and cut elsewhere.”

  “Kings don’t take orders from women.”

  Women, always silenced, even at their own hearths subject to men, including the adolescent ones.

  Erysichthon slammed his axe into the mnemosyne. Its wood was knotted and bark gnarled. It recalled everything in the fabric of its being, the weather and the soil, in every ring. It took a thousand years for this leviathan to grow and it would have been another five hundred before it was ready to reproduce.

  “That tree is the only one of its kind. It’s not been seeded out in the world. It was to be my gift. Its like will never be seen again.”

  The mnemosyne’s greatest secret was its sap, which could reverse the addling of the mind that old age brought. Erysichthon had stolen it from generations to come.

  “I’m going to teach you a lesson about how little the Gods care for you.” Erysichton wasn’t listening. “Hold her.”

  I’d thought that the Gods would end the world, but that day taught me it would be mankind. Men would consume the world and we’d never be able to curb them. I could deal with Erysichthon, at least.

  I’ve been described as mild. Do not mistake me. I am a Goddess. I have enough anger to burn the world.

  “Limos,” I whispered and reached out and touched Erysichton’s belly with my fingertip. “You, King of Thessaly, have been gifted the most fertile lands. You’ve taken everything for granted. I give you the most unique of gifts now. Limos. Eternal hunger.”

  “You curse me?”

  “No. You curse yourself. Nothing will satisfy you.”

  I grew to the stature of the trees, roaring in case they were in any doubt. They fled before me, screaming. I picked up their truck as if it were a toy and threw it after them.

  I made a special project of King Erysichton after that. I followed his progress closely.

  He started with great banquets. He sat alone, late into the night, the table laid with whole racks of beef ribs in BBQ sauce. Trays of home fries. Buckets of coleslaw. Mashed potatoes. Whole banoffee pies. Piles of pancakes covered in crispy bacon and a jug of maple syrup. He consumed enough for a family. More than enough for a battalion. It wasn’t enough. The pain of it was on his face.

  He hired a chef, thinking it was a matter of quality over quantity. The table groaned under the weight of lobster thermidor, blinis and caviar, smoked salmon, Chateaubriand, dauphinoise potatoes. Mille-feuilles.

  It didn’t help. Hunger begot hunger. Nothing sated him. The gnawing pain ate his insides. He chewed his fists in his sleep.

  He sold things, one by one, to fill the yawning pit that was his stomach. His football team went first. His Ducati motorcycles and Hummers. His Rolexes and his wife’s Cartier diamond neck-

  laces. His houses. His land. His father’s collection of Colts. His Queen.

  His daughter.

  And still he was hungry. He was reduced to wearing rags and jostling with the swine at the trough for pigswill.

  At the end I found him in an alley behind a diner. I squatted in front of him. He didn’t recognise me. He eyed me, beyond sanity, as he sank his teeth into his own forearm. Blood dripped from his elbow, darkening the puddle beneath him

  I made myself comfortable.

  There was nothing left by morning.

  *

  “Are you peckish?” Dr Protheroe asks Demeter.

  The table is laid with white linen and Willow Pattern china. Loose leaf brews in the pot.

  “This is very civilised.”

  “The joy of being in a private institute.” Dr Protheroe regrets it before he finishes the sentence. It sounds glib.

  “Who’s paying my bill?”

  “The Institute had a rich benefactor. Her bequest means that we can offer places for patients who need more help than mainstream hospitals can offer them.”

  “How altruistic. Shall I pour?”

  He lets her take charge. The sound of tea filling their cups, the melodic clink of spoon against porcelain, reassures him. These small rituals humanise her but don’t diminish her. Besides, it distracts her from asking more about funding or admission criteria.

  “Scone?”

  He takes one from the offered plate. Their movements mirror one another’s as they divide their scone, spread on jam, then clotted cream that’s as yellow and thick as butter. Demeter takes a bite. He watches her jaw working. She picks up the jam jar and studies the handwritten label. “Who made this?”

  “I did. I’m the cook. My wife’s the gardener. She grew these strawberries.”

  “A man of many talents.”

  “Do you like to cook?”

  “I’m adequate. Like your wife, I’d rather grow things.”

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  “You mentioned a lover when we last spoke.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did. Just the once.” He continues when she doesn’t answer. “Is it because of all your emotions you hold pain closer than love?”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. “To know the hope of something precious and then have it dashed is enough to break the strongest of us.”

  *

  “Hello, I’m Iasion.” He picked up my place holder.

  “Demeter. Nice to meet you.”

  We shook hands. His was rough with callouses, which surprised me because I knew who he was.

  “Do you know the bride or groom?” He sat beside me.

  “Neither. I bluffed my way in here. I pretended to be so enraged that they left me off the list that the wedding planner was convinced the mistake was his.”

  “Lucky for you that my date let me down.”

  “That’s very presumptuous.”

  “Sorry,” he said, and laughed, “I meant that you have a seat without messing up the table plan.”

  He wasn’t good-looking. His face was too long. His nose had been broken and set badly, I guessed. His smile was lopsided. Only the Gods have perfect proportions and symmetry. Yet my heart stuttered in my chest.

  “Maybe we could snare you one of those pretty bridesmaids.” They fluttered about the tables in pink dresses, their puffed sleeves a smaller version of the bride’s. “After all, you are Prince of Samothrace. You’re a catch.”

  “I’m titled but impoverished and they all know it.” He laughed again and it was a warm, bass sound. “So why are you a wedding crasher?”

  “Weddings and funerals are when you see the human condition at its most interesting. It’s a good place to observe the world. And for the food, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please be up upstanding for the bride and groom.” The Salerno Country Club’s manager beamed as he made the announcement. Hosting such a prestigious event was a coup.

  Everyone stood for Harmonica and Cadmus. Even the ridiculous fashion for voluminous sleeves and frothy lace couldn’t mar her radiance. She was joyous and her new husband kept looking at her with something approaching disbelief.

  I don’t remember much of the meal. Salmon, chicken, then something far too rich to finish. The man in the seat on the other side of me talked but I can’t recall a word he said. There was only room in my head for Iasion. I was aware of his every movement. How the delicate wine glass looked in his hand, his every movement careful and controlled. The way he sat back in his chair. I could feel his eyes on me. When I turned back to talk to him, I found it difficult to look at him directly for fear of betraying my thoughts.

  All the things that have been done to me. Things I didn’t want that were done anyway. When I imagined being with him it was different because I was doing them too.

  “What have you observed so far then?”

  I drained my glass.

  “You’ve been let down in love before and now you’re slow to give your heart. That’s why your date hasn’t turned up. She felt like you’re holding back, which is exactly what you’ve been doing. She thinks you’re cynical.”

  His smile started to slip.

  “And like all cynics, you’re really a disappointed idealist. A romantic. You want love to be monumental. The sort of love you’d die for.”

  “Maybe not so dramatic as that. Just someone to grow old with.”

  You mortals. You don’t have to make love last forever.

  I stood and offered him my hand. Everyone at the table was watching us. He took it. As we walked out together I was acutely aware of our arms touching, the silk of my sleeve slipping over my skin.

  We went through the foyer, then the carpark, through the formal gardens of the country club to the field beyond. Neither of us spoke. The building behind us throbbed with music. The wedding goers would be dancing.

  I imagined Iasion without his shirt. That was enough to begin with. I imagined the muscles of his back as they ran down to his waistband, and when he turned to me there was the smattering of dark blond hair high on his chest. His body wasn’t the preening thing of youth and vanity. It had his life written on it, in his broken nose and crooked collarbone. The scar that ran across his abdomen. Those calloused hands.

  I pulled Iasion down. The field had been ploughed. The earth was soft under us and neither of us cared if our clothes were ruined.

  Then my mind pulled away. It was only for a moment as the memory of Zeus and Poseidon thrust itself between us. He saw me flinch.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. We can go back. We can just sit and talk. All I want is to be beside you.”

  “No. I want this. I’ve never wanted anything more.”

  Afterwards we lay on our backs, heads together and fingers interlaced. He was remarkable. Remarkable that the human body, in all its fragility, could have such grandeur. I would be the air moving in and out of his lungs. The blood pounding through his heart. Was that love? I don’t know. It was joy. He gave me joy.

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “Why? Because you’re Prince of Samothrace?”

  “No. Because you want to.”

  “Yes.”

  His mouth twitched and then broke into a full smile.

  The summer evening was cooling rapidly. He pulled his jacket over us. The sky darkened. Clouds gathered where there had been none.

  I sat up.

  The air crackled and static lifted the hair from my scalp.

  I should’ve known.

  Zeus.

  I covered Iasion’s body with my own but the thunderbolt went straight through me and into him in search of the earth.

  *

  Dr Protheroe finds Demeter in the last place he’s looked—the library. It’s bright outside and everyone else is outdoors in search of sunnier spaces, rather than the subdued cool of dark panels and paper. She’s sat in one of the armchairs looking up at the painting over the empty fireplace.

  “That’s our benefactor, Madeleine Hecate Ursa.”

  The portrait is oddly informal. Hecate wears a tea-dress, strands of hair escaping from its clip. The woman is looking at the infant on her hip, not out of the canvas towards the viewer.

  “Did Hecate have a boy or a girl?” Demeter asks.

  “You sound like you knew her.”

  She shakes her head but there’s something in her expression, like she’s keeping secrets, that makes an ugly thought pop into his head. She’s not sick and this is all part of some ruse.

  “I don’t know whether she had a son or daughter. Do you feel like talking about your daughter today?”

  “Persephone.”

  What other name could she possibly have? Not Gemma or Rebecca.

  Demeter’s medication has helped her mood but her psychosis remains stubborn to the alchemy of prescriptions. Dr Protheroe still doesn’t know if Persephone is real or not. If she’s an unrealised want. The sorrow of an unborn need. Demeter talks about her like she’s lost, not dead. Missing or abducted maybe. Her fate troubles him.

  His own daughter, Poppy, is only eight. A variety of scenarios keep him awake at night. The attacker waiting in the park. A mutating cell in her ovary that sends cancer galloping through her. The car that overshoots a junction and crashes into her. His love isn’t enough to protect her.

  “Yes, Persephone. Tell me about her.”

  Demeter’s alert but seems older today than ever before. Weary.

  “Everything that happened to her is my fault, from start to finish.”

  “That’s a lot of guilt.”

  “I made Persephone because I had to save the world.”

  Not just a God complex but a Messiah complex. He writes the words in his notebook afterwards and underlines the word messiah.

  “When I first held her I knew I loved her. More than Iasion, more than Hades. I loved her for herself, not what she might be.”

  Dr Protheroe thinks of Poppy.

  *

  The world was at war and I answered the call to arms. I couldn’t bear the idea of working in a munitions factory so I signed the pledge that stated You have made the home fields your battlefield. Your country relies on you and welcomes your help.

  So it was that I entered the fray holding a hoe and milking pail, a soldier in the Women’s Land Army. The other women lived at the hostel but I chose to live in the tiny cottage at the farm’s edge. It had no water or electricity but there was a stream nearby and I had an oil lamp.

  I was fortunate. The farmer was a gentleman that never seemed to sleep. He and his wife worked hard and fed me well. I was milk maid and rat catcher. He taught me how to repair a tractor and use a seed drill. Harvest time meant long hours. Mornings were my favourite time, sitting on my step and watching the world wake up, the mist burning off. Looking at the broad oaks made me think of my own sacred forest and then of what Erysichthon did. I didn’t want any of it to end. Not the bamboo groves of Japan, or the alpine meadows, not the yellow splendour of the Savannah. That decided me.

  There are stem cells in mankind’s marrow. They are progenitors, capable of miraculous transformations to create the body. So it is that I am the progenitor of all seeds.

  I went down the hill to the nearest oak. I hollowed out a cavity in the earth beneath it. I opened my coat and unbuttoned my corduroy trousers. I pushed my fingertips through the skin just above my pubic hair, reaching deep into my pelvis until I reached my right ovary. I plucked out a seed.

  I don’t need men for this. I’m a Goddess. I cradled my miniscule bean in my palm.

  I implanted her in the womb I’d dug, then lowered myself over it, covering her with my abdomen to protect her. Persephone germinated in the safety of the dark. I sensed her sprouting limb buds that elongated into arms and legs.

  When she was ready she was a squall, demanding my attention. I couldn’t feel my own body, only this surrogate space, keen to expel Persephone. When the light hit her she screwed up her eyes and stuck out her trembling, plump lower lip.

  “What are you doing, sister?”

  I scooped up Persephone, clutching her soft body to me.

  It was Hades, my Underworld brother. Monarch of all that is dead and buried. Now he was all he’d promised he’d be. Strong. Powerful. So like him to talk as if he’d seen me only the day before.

  “It’s a baby. I made her.”

  “I can see that.” He reached out and brushed the dirt from her forehead with a featherlight touch. He must’ve been thinking about what happened to me on Olympus, because he followed that with “You needed help. I would have come to you if you’d called for me.”

  “You’re weakest outside the Underworld. They would’ve killed you.”

  “They could have tried. How have you been, Demeter?”

  There was no pity or reproach in him. I smiled then. It had been far too long since we’d seen one another.

  “This is Persephone.” I held her up. “Take her. Keep her safe.”

  “I’m not taking a living baby into the Underworld. She’d starve for a start.”

  “She must be here should there be an end to everything. So that it can begin again. I’m frightened for her out here.”

 

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