Hades does not have a runny nose. The entire Greek pantheon no doubt knows this. For some reason, my nose is unaware of this basic fact of mythology. No matter how damp the Underworld may be, its Lord does not get colds.
Amber's group asked her if she and I would represent Persephone and Hades for their Samhain working. I take this for flattery, but it might also be that we are among the few heterosexual couples of the witches-and possibly the most photogenic, thanks to Amber.
We did one rehearsal a week ago, where we planned Amber and my roles. Amber has no lines. I lead her to her throne, watch her eat pomegranate seeds, and later fetch her. I have one line, "May the ancestor feast begin!" Beyond that, my servants will feed me six grapes. As Hades, I am to eat none of the foods provided for the feast. Why would I bother with mortal nourishment as Lord of the Underworld?
Once we memorize our blocking, Rhianna shows us to a plastic table to write positive adjectives on plastic bones, around which we tied a black ribbon with a mirror hot glued to it. The ritual attendees will receive these as a combination of affirmation and fortune.
As I finished this task, Rhianna says how thrilled she is that I would be a part of this ritual after our long history together. I feel abashed at her acknowledging that our relationship has not always been smooth-I have known her for sixteen years to this point - but know she is sincere in her gratitude.
This ritual has personal importance for me. I failed to attend this rite when I was mentally ill with Madeline's piecemeal leaving years ago. It is the ritual where, by rights, I would have first met Amber, except I was late, and the doors were already locked. This was also the first ritual Amber ever braved with this group. Now we are its stars.
Before the ritual, Amber and I sit in a room a dozen yards off from the hall where people gather. We are under strict orders from Rhianna not to be seen in our costumes to symbolize that we are divine and thus do not schmooze with the mortals or use the bathroom. The waiting takes on increasing tension owing to Amber having gone all out in her costuming. If anyone could pull off looking like a goddess trapped in the Underworld, it is Amber in eye shadow and dark red lipstick. Before her preparation for this role, I did not think I had ever seen her in makeup. She also wears a black bodice and dress, with lace provided by Rhianna. If I were not nursing a cold, I would have to restrain myself from irreparably smearing her makeup with kisses. Instead, my Persephone plays games on her phone to pass the time.
My costume is not as grand. The night of the rehearsal, Rhianna knew that I had a flowing black coat inexplicably rumpled in my back seat, possibly by using spooky powers. The rest of the costume either was in my closet (red button-up shirt, black slacks) or made by Amber (cardboard crown that resembles Loki's in the Marvel movies). By the nature of being a male who is not particularly imposing, I stood little chance of being a tenth as sexy as Amber or as appropriate for the role.
I know some find the myth of Hades and Persephone problematic from a modern point of view. In some versions, he tricks her into eating three pomegranate seeds, forcing this goddess of vegetation to become his queen and dwell at his side in the Underworld for three months a year. It is easy to make this a story about rape, in either the abduction or sexual violation sense. However, this discounts Persephone's wiliness. A goddess does not need to eat and does so only for her pleasure. She knew what she was doing in eating the seeds, agreeing to be a mighty queen. Hades was a fair and loyal husband by all accounts, unlike Persephone's father Zeus, who forcibly impregnated a half dozen women in the guise of swans and beams of light. Hades offered a dowry to appeal to Persephone before carrying her off to be an honored guest of his realm. Of course, this is all a pretty story to explain the season's change, but that does not mean we can or should ignore its full import. This is the dance of life and death, poignantly and unavoidably. A goddess of spring joins her spouse in the Underworld and tends to the effects of the dead, knowing she will rise above even if her charges cannot.
Amber and I walk in amid much smoke from a machine outside the doors of the Unitarian church. Before us is a table that stretches fifteen feet by three, covered in morsels of food and a gossamer-draped tree whose leaves feature the deceased's names.
We are utterly silent. Surrounding us are likely seventy worshipers, some in street clothes and some robed, though I barely notice them. All I can pay attention to are those involved in the ritual, some fifteen people. I lead Amber to her throne across the long table, with my servants in tow. Once I sit, the tree obscures her. All I notice is her hand as it reaches for a chalice of pomegranate juice. When she does, I sip from my own and try to urge my nose to cease being drippy. I know for sure that proper gods do not wipe their noses on their sleeves.
I manage to flub my one line, but everyone else is bound to silence in honor of the ancestors, so they cannot point it out.
I listen for the cue to collect Amber from her side of the table. The rest of the ritual is a blur. Possibly this is owing to the nature of serving as an avatar of a god of the Underworld. Perhaps, it is because I am nervous, more focused on my nose, and store brand Sudafed.
We disappear in a blanket of smoke, then doff the costumes so we can reappear as ordinary people and enjoy some snacks. Those present compliment Amber on her outfit. A local Pagan author offers her a role in a play, having never heard Amber speak but assuming she is an actress by dint of eating pomegranate seeds. No one seems to notice me anymore, which is fine. All I was to them was the body that wore the crown and took their Persephone away again.
Or maybe they don't want to catch my cold.
Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled, gifted, and adjudicated. He can cross one eye, raise one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings.
