Gods, I used to be so close to these girls. But that all stopped when I started saying I never wanted to be married and they said, ‘Oh, you’re just worried Demeter will set you up with one of those ancient gods. Don’t think about that! Think about the good ones you might get instead, like Eros.’ As though imprisonment in a marriage would be tolerable if the man controlling me had good cheekbones.
And: ‘But you’ll make such a good wife! And mother!’ Like the reason I don’t want to marry is that I think I’m lacking the skills to successfully do all that’s expected of me. Seeing it all laid out, every step of my life planned – it feels like horror. A very obvious trap.
And: ‘Of course you want to get married!’ This is one of their favourites, as though just by refuting what I say they can change my mind.
No alternatives. No understanding. Nothing.
And, if Mother has me terrified, they have me confused. They’re all so aggressively positive about sex that they think not wanting it makes you a freak, or at the very least a repressed prude. They can’t imagine a world where you’d say no and mean it.
‘Is it just the court of Olympus she’s looking at?’ Myrrha asks.
‘No,’ Eudokia tuts sarcastically. ‘Demeter’s going down to Hades to fetch a lava monster from the river of fire itself. Kore, make sure you bring an aloe vera nymph to the wedding.’
‘I didn’t mean Hades,obviously. Although, to be fair, some of the gods down there are –’
‘Terrifying? Depressing? More likely to stab you with a sword than with their –’
‘It’s just Olympus.’ I interrupt their squabble.
‘Why?’
Cyane jumps in. ‘Demeter was saying she had so many people interested that it was easiest to cut Oceanus out of the mix altogether. And … well, I think Zeus wants to keep a close eye on her. He wants her in his court.’
I might find his pettiness amusing if it weren’t ruining my life. I am forever suspect because as a child I asked for too much, threatened his authority, marked myself as something to be watched.
Knowing it’s only Olympians vying for my hand doesn’t make things better. Oceanus has always been the most consistent threat to our island given it surrounds it, waves crashing on the shore like it’s only a matter of time until the court swallows the place whole. If one of Mother’s horror stories did come true, I always imagined it would be an Oceanic god stealing me away. But Olympians are just as bad.
The very queen of Olympus, Hera, was made to marry the man who forced himself on her – my father. It’s not exactly a happy union but she’s the goddess of marriage so he can’t divorce her – though he can cheat on her, beat her, hang her in chains when she rises up against him, and make her swear on the Styx never to fight him again.
When I point this out to Mother – that perhaps the safety of marriage is not worth it, that being protected from many men for the sake of one is a risk all the same – she simply says one is better than many and, besides, she’ll marry me to someone far better than my father. She says that’s why she’s choosing and not me – because she made mistakes in her youth, my father included, and I must learn from them.
But she’s also jealous of Hera – despite everything – because Hera got a crown with her marriage. After the gods defeated the Titans, the Fates decreed that only one snatched by Kronos could rule. Father only considered the boys threats, and he attempted to appease Poseidon and Hades by splittingthe world in three and making them kings of their own courts so they would never come for his crown. Never mind that Kronos chose six children, three of whom were girls.
As one of those girls, Mother has never forgiven the slight. Technically she’s an Olympian too. She’s even on the council of twelve, the body that oversees the courts. But she stays here with me most of the time. She says this is for my own safety but it’s also because as a single, unwed mother she became a social outcast the second Hera married Zeus and the goddess of marriage became queen of the gods. Mother’s friendships became something to be hidden in hushed whispers and quiet reconciliations away from Olympus.
Sicily is beautiful, but it’s a prison. For us both.
The nymphs are still speculating about potential suitors and I tune out, staring at the sun dancing on the river, the flowers that fill every inch of soil. If Father wants me married to an Olympian, does that mean he wants me on Olympus? The court is beautiful – huge arched gates open on to a city of palaces, golden roads winding between them, ambrosia so thick in the air you can taste it. Muses sing on the streets, the marble gleams whiter than the clouds, and the buildings sit atop bronze plinths. Everything is shiny and gleaming and perfect.
And then the acropolis! The whole court is on a steep mountain, but the higher up you go, the more you realize you’re not walking on stone any more. Beneath your feet are the stars themselves and there, where the very tip of the sky arches, is the palace of Zeus. I practically skipped up to it for my amphidromia, awed by all the beauty the court had to offer.
I haven’t thought about Olympus much since; my memories always linger on my naming ceremony.
But now I try to imagine living in the court, gods round every corner, and my heart pangs for something else. Trapped on this island, I’ve always wanted to see this world. I thought perhaps it might be the one thing that could make marriage bearable, if I married a husband who lived near snow-capped mountains or forests too thick to see through, near a desert maybe or a jungle – something different, something new, something so very of this realm I love.
Olympus is far from this world.
And I can’t remember seeing a single flower there.
‘Look!’ Myrrha gasps, pointing at the sky, and I know it’s too late. I know there’s only one thing she could be talking about before I even look up and see his chariot racing above us, four horses dashing their hooves against the air.
My father is here.
IALMOST COLLAPSE WHEN I REACHhome. My suspicion that it’s impossible to run in this dress was correct.
‘Kore,’ Mother scolds when I burst through the door, rushing to me and soothing back strands of my hair. ‘What are you doing charging about like a raging bull?’
‘Father –’ I manage.
