Part 7

"Is life so very cheap?" He looked at his hands, held them in front of his face. "It can end so quickly. "

He had never thought about it. Never given death even a second thought. But now it would not leave his mind. A quick slash with a knife, a blow to the head, a fell from a crag. And it is over.

The only death he had ever know was that of his Father. And he had been quite young. It had been lonesome without him, sad. But he had not understood how very final it was. He had always thought, in a childish way, that his Father would return. Perhaps, strangely, even 'til now.

He hadn't thought of his Father for a long while. He knew not why, but tears welled from his eyes. For a few moments he sat beneath the tree, sobbing. Now I begin to understand. How strange, after all these years. And yet he had always missed his Father. But he had never cried before. He shook his head.

His Mother had cried. He remembered, at night, listening to her sobs. He had walked to her bed, hugged her, and she kissed him. But he had not really understood. Now he did. How very strange. How insensitive we are, unknowingly.

Biting his lip he rose, glanced back toward the escarpment. With an effort he brought his thoughts once more to the hunt. Did the deer ever think of death? Was the buck fearful, constantly watchful for the hunter? How very strange the world!

He began his descent, wide-eyed and watchful. There could be others around any tree, any boulder!

His concern was not warranted, for he met neither brigands nor wild beast. The mountain slopes were silent. As though the men had never existed, had never disturbed the peace and calm of the placid heights.

The valley he sought lay far below, tree encompassed. The downward path would be easier. Even now he walked mid patches of green grass and verdant bushes. Wild flowers bloomed, occasional berry bushes provided sustenance, and he ate, then stopped.

Here he was eating, enjoying the mountains bounty! And they! Lying dead, who had but moments before lived and breathed as did he. How short the distance between survival and abundance. He thought again of the scene he had watched.

The thought continued to shock him. His thoughts were more often on material things, on stalking the deer, catching the fish from the streams. He shook his head, driving away dismal thoughts as he lengthened his stride toward the distant valley.

"Well, I must be careful. Mother was right. There are brigands about. My, that ankle does ache. But I promised Mother venison." He leaned on the staff to lessen the pain.

The high mountains beckoned with promise of game. Above the domain of man the deer browsed. At times threatened by wolf or the mountain lions, they flourished still. To the hunter who dared these slopes a day without success was rare.

The storm clouds were nearing rapidly. The air preceding their arrival was beginning to cool. The odor of rain wafted ahead of the storm. And the odor of ozone, accompanying the frequent lightning flashes. Drifting downward from the peaks, dark thunderclouds forewarned of imminent danger. Long rumbles of thunder followed the frequent flash of lightning. And the wind blew continuously, a mournful sound at times steady, but more frequently gusting in sudden fury. The trees swayed wildly under the ministrations of Aeolus.

The deer, driven by the storm, drifted more rapidly toward the valley for shelter. They were small, at times indistinguishable because of the distance. Still could he make out, or so imagined, antlered bucks among them. The best of these would fall to his arrow. In spite of the weather he would indeed be there by sundown. It would be a good hunt. In his mind he could smell the cooking venison.

Ceres watched her world with happy smiles. Soft rains nurtured the crops, and harvests would be bountiful. Bees from flower to flower flew, humming as they went their industrious way. Grain grew tall, and every tree limb bent low, weighted with its fruit. Grapes were bounteous, green grapes and blue, others purple and red.

Ceres watched with jealous heart. Every seed to her was sacred. If but one failed to put forth its plant she fretted. If several slept lazily under the fertile soil her lips tightened in concern. A limb that bore no fruit, a plant that failed to flower - all drew from her the like concern.

Yet she was happy, for though man must toil to reap, his rewards were plentiful. The grapes, swollen purple, ready to burst with sweetness, soon would go to press. Bacchus would receive his devotees, frolicking, carousing, and celebrating joyful times. For the people were thankful for the wealth of food their land produced, and gave thanks through their celebrations.

Ceres watched her daughter playing amidst the flowers of their garden. Winsome and gay and ever active she darted among the plants, now chasing a colored butterfly; now dancing with a flirting breeze.

Soon her education must begin. The ways of the wind, of the storm gods, and of Earth herself must she learn. The many plants, their names and their fruit, were to be learned. When and where to sow, how deep the seed to plant. Harvesting, and storing the harvest, were skills she must have. Preparing the foods to satisfy the taste and body - so many wonderful and exciting secrets of the world!

But, for now, let her play. Her curiosity would teach her much. Observant, Persephone noted each subtle change in plant and in the land. Inquisitive, she asked of Ceres question after question, probing to find how and why and what of each event, each object.

Ceres watched with pride her lovely child.

And wondered at the dark sense of foreboding that would not leave her mind.

Brooding, his eyes half closed, Pluto sat on his sumptuous throne. Ornate with jewels - diamonds and rubies, sapphires and amethyst, green jade and blue turquoise - it held the treasures of the world. Decorated with filigree of silver and gold, it dominated the room. Or would have, were it not for its occupant.

Zeus and Poseidon, his brothers, were heroic figures before man and Gods. Strong, handsome, powerful - they were admired, worshipped.

Not so, Pluto.

Face and form hideous to behold he ruled the nether world. Not admiration, nor worship were his. Rather, fear!

His appearance aroused it. He stood huge over the poor supplicants who pleaded for release from this, the eternal prison. A skin of leathery hue, plated in metallic scales that gleamed in light of candle. Misshapen form, twisted, broken. A face of ghastly white, lined with deep marks that twisted with his thoughts, pitted with pock marks. He projected fear and evil. His kingdom reinforced it. The tales and rumors that spread among men, and even on high Olympus, did little to dissipate that fear.