Hi all!
To write this entry for WEP, I was inspired by a Marlena de Blasi story set in Sicily , inspired by a poem by Matthew Arnold, and inspired by a Greek myth.
There are many versions of the myth of Demeter and Persephone, so bear with me as I retell my version...with embellishments...
What forms are these coming
So white through the gloom?
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flower’d broom?
Matthew Arnold
Sicily has a long history which is seared into the minds of
everyone who lives on this island, part of Italy, yet with its own stories, its
own rhythms.
A road paved with sun-bleached stones and whorls of yellow sand
leads to the top of the island. Reaching the top, you see a hamlet made of
heaped-up stones, huddled in the cleft of a shaly mountain. Beneath, the
ruins of a temple. Above the hamlet, a high plateau of wheat forms a bronze
curtain. Down on the meadows, sheep and goats
graze. The only water close by the hamlet is a metallic smudge where bleached
sky collides with yellow earth. The only waves are the wheat with its
shuddering golden stalks roaring like the sea and crashing in the goddess-blown
winds. There are Stone Age myrtles, wild marjoram and thyme meandering the
steep grades.
Life in the hamlet is the life lived for millennia. From time
immemorial, nothing has been lost, forgotten or left to languish. Past and present
congregate, living together in the harmonic song nature sings.
Here you wander in the ruin of Demeter’s ancient temple. Demeter,
the goddess of the Harvest, is responsible for the nourishment of all
life-giving plants that grow on the earth. You can tramp amongst the great
fluted columns as they lie supine, lustrous under the moon or glinting in the
sun, while your feet bruise the wild thyme and marjoram and the air fills with
their sweet, spicy scent. But if you look down, far below, you see a miraculous
sight.
You see a meadow completely covered in the twining legume, purple
vetch. Beyond that, you see acres of gardens amidst turrets and crenelated towers
and Juliet balconies. But it is the roofs that catch your eye—the red and
yellow porcelain tiles and mansard roofs set ablaze by a fiery sun. As you
hurry down the hill, anxious to explore, the gaudy scent of roses and ripe oranges clog your nostrils.
Pausing to breathe in the magical elixir, you are shocked to
see hollyhocks. Hollyhocks do not grow in the desert, but hundreds and hundreds
of their red satin blossoms line a winding stone path which leads to an ornate iron
gate. You press against the gate and see astonishing sweeping gardens—roses of
all hues, but predominantly ivory and white and butter cream. They energetically
climb trellises, sprawl lazily in beds, spill and ramble and entwine wilfully. They
are either a sun-struck illusion or…you have entered a fairyland.
It was here in these mountains that the Greek goddess of
grain and fertility and motherhood once held forth. She does still. It was
Demeter who illuminated the magic of sowing seeds beneath the earth, protecting
them, feeding them, growing them into ripeness much as the seeds planted in the
female womb grow to fruition.
Under Demeter’s will, the harvests flourished. She conjured
the sun, the rain, the breezes at her pleasure. All was Elysium until it
happened...
The
grim king Hades had seen fair maids enough in the gloomy underworld over which
he ruled, but his heart had never been touched. Now he was enchanted. Before
him was a blossoming valley, and along its edge a charming girl gathered
flowers. She was Persephone, daughter of Demeter, goddess of the harvest.
Persephone had strayed from her companions, and now that her basket overflowed
with blossoms, she was filling her apron with lilies and violets. Hades looked
at Persephone and was smitten by an arrow to his heart. With one sweep of his
arm he caught her up and drove swiftly away where she became the Queen of the
Dead.
‘Mother!’
she screamed to the uncaring wind, while the flowers fell from her apron and
strewed the ground. ‘Mother!’
But
only the immortals heard her cries.
Persephone
had been trapped in a beautiful, divine trap. The flowers had been planted to
ensnare her. The flowers were the work
of Zeus and put there for ‘a girl with a flower's beauty.’ The trigger for the
trap was an irresistible flower with one hundred stems of fragrant blossoms.
When Persephone reached out with both hands to pluck the flower, the earth
opened at her feet and Hades roared forth in his golden chariot to seize her.
Demeter gnashed the sun, keeping the mountain villages and
the fertile fields—and the world itself—in darkness until she made a pact with
Zeus. This is what they decided. Half the year her daughter would be restored
to her, half the year she would be with Hades in the underworld. With
Persephone by her side, the goddess rekindled the sun and tipped warm rain down
over the parched earth. For a season, the trees, plants and flowers flourished.
Then Persephone returned to Hades and the earth returned to
darkness and infertility.
In Sicily this story is still told, with all the wonder
and anguish of an event that only just took place. Allegiance to the goddess
with the crown of woven corn husks never fades; each season she is remembered,
especially at the time of Harvest.
868 words
CRITIQUE: Go for your life!
Thank you as always for taking the time to read/skim/spot check my story! I hope you enjoyed my tale. If you like my story, please hit my buttons...social media buttons!
So this week I'm attending a 5-day Margie Lawson Immersion Class on deep editing. Yummo! One busy August for sure.
