Alea snorted.
Her mother sighed. “You can’t speak your mind whenever you feel like it.”
Danae glanced at her sister, who smiled encouragingly. Alea was betrothed to a wealthy man whose company she could tolerate; as a woman you couldn’t wish for more. She should be happy for her sister. Yet a familiar weight dragged at her chest as she thought of Alea’s impending marriage. It was selfish, but she was dreading it. She would be the last child left at home. Her brothers, Calix and Santos, had long ago moved to huts of their own to make space for their growing broods. She missed them, but with Alea, it felt as though she would be losing half of herself.
At sixteen, she was only a year younger than her sister and knew that she too was expected to start a family of her own. She’d been aware of it ever since men’s eyes began to linger as she passed. Their hunger made her skin crawl. But that wasn’t why she’d given every farmhand and fisherman that dared approach her the sharp side of her tongue. Once a woman married, she was shackled to her husband’s hearth, and lenient men like her father were a rare breed.
The desire to marry well seemed to dominate the minds of the other village girls, but even a rich husband couldn’t buy you freedom.
As the procession wound its way inland, the anticipation simmering in Danae’s stomach ignited. She could see Demeter’s temple. Flanked by protective hills, the white stone pillars stood stark against the gritty golds and greens of the surrounding land. It always made her think of the bones of a great leviathan, picked clean and gleaming after being washed ashore centuries before.
The crowd was funneled down a road lined by tall cypress trees. Then the sun dipped below the hills, and a cavalcade of shadows stretched out behind the women. By the time they reached the floral path leading up to the temple, darkness had fallen. The braziers were lit, their smoke muddling with the sweet scent of the blooms to form a heady concoction.
The temple garden was an oasis of flora and foliage that would never survive without the dutiful care of the temple hands and the water they walked miles every day to fetch. Opulent fuchsia flowers nestled in bushes of waxy emerald leaves, and beds of yellow and orange blooms were surrounded by clusters of tiny ocean blue petals. Even in the brazier light the colors were luminous.
“Eleni, Danae, Alea! Over here!” Kafi, Danae’s sister-in-law, shouted across the garden, waving vigorously. She’d saved their usual spot. Next to her was Calix’s wife, Carissa. A pretty woman, whose appearance was rather spoiled by her mortification at the disapproving glances garnered by Kafi’s booming voice.
They fought their way through the crowd toward the two women. Kafi grinned at Danae with her big, gap-toothed smile and drew her into a tight hug. Danae liked her. She was loud, unapologetic and had chosen to marry Danae’s brother, Santos, because the first time they’d met he had—in Kafi’s words—made her laugh so hard she was almost sick.
Kafi released her, and Danae turned her attention to the temple. A temporary altar had been erected in front of the sacred building. It was piled high with bowls of ripe figs, crisp apples, pomegranates and stacks of vegetable-laden baskets. Sacks of grain, barrels of fish, amphorae filled with olive oil and bronze dishes of wine mixed with water were nestled around its base. The men of each household had delivered the produce earlier that morning in addition to the monthly temple tithe. Every family gave more than they could spare.
Danae’s stomach growled. They’d fasted since dawn in memory of Demeter’s own refusal to eat when her daughter, Persephone, had been held hostage by Hades, God of the Underworld.
As she stared at the offerings, she noticed a quiver of movement to the side of the altar. The air oscillated like something was distorting it. For an unsettling moment, she thought she saw a pair of disembodied red eyes. Then she blinked and they vanished. It must be hunger and the intoxicating aroma of the garden playing tricks on her.
Then the pounding of drums cut through the chatter of the crowd.
“This is it,” Alea whispered.
Danae took her sister’s hand.
Three women emerged from the temple. They walked slowly, with purpose. The first priestess was dressed in green, a band of gold across her brow and ivy wound around her arms. She was Demeter. The second wore a deep crimson robe, her face obscured by a fearful mask with twisted horns. Hades. The third wore white, her thin dress fluttering in the evening breeze. She was Demeter’s daughter, Persephone. Four temple hands kept pace behind them, beating wide drums fastened with leather straps around their necks.
As the procession reached the altar, the priestesses came to stand side by side in front of the offerings. All three raised their arms. Painted on each of their palms was the all-seeing eye, the symbol of the Olympian gods’ omnipotence. Demeter was the patron deity of Naxos, but all twelve gods shared dominion over mortal lives.
The priestesses lowered their hands to face the crowd, pointing the eye of the gods at the women of Naxos.
The congregation grew still as a windless sky.
Danae’s mouth was dry. This was the moment of judgment, when the Twelve would enter their souls and lay bare what was inside. They would know if anyone had held back something which should have been offered.
There was no hiding from the gods.
“May the Twelve see you and know you,” the priestesses intoned.
In response, all the women raised a finger to their foreheads.
The Demeter-priestess sang out a long piercing note. Her sisters joined her, their three voices melding into one. Then the Hades-priestess backed away into the shadows and Demeter and Persephone took each other’s arms and began to dance.
Danae grinned. The play was her favorite part of the ceremony.
The priestesses twirled and skipped, the drumbeat chasing their feet. Danae’s heart raced with their ever-increasing speed.
Suddenly Hades lunged out of the dark and grabbed Persephone’s arm, spinning her away from the altar. Danae gasped, despite having seen the performance many times before. The drums slowed, and Demeter made a show of searching the crowd. Unable to find her daughter, she collapsed to the ground, her head in her arms. Then Hades and Persephone reemerged to stand in front of the altar. Hades plucked a pomegranate from a bronze dish and gouged it with her fingers. Wine-dark liquid trickled down her arms as she proffered half the fruit to Persephone.
The crowd screamed for her not to take it. Everyone knew that by eating the fruit of the Underworld, Persephone would be condemning herself to remain with Hades for all eternity. The cries reached a crescendo as Persephone took the pomegranate and lifted it to her lips. Juice poured down the priestess’s chin, staining her white dress.
The women gasped again. A standard had emerged behind the drummers. They parted, bowing as deeply as their instruments would allow. On top of a long pole, carried by a sweating temple hand, was a golden eagle. The symbol of Zeus, King of the Gods. A hush descended over the crowd. Demeter prostrated herself before the great bird, then rose, her face wet with tears—that part always impressed Danae—and moved to stand beside her daughter.
