Mnemosyne's Anemones

Mom was furious.

She stomped into the hall, carrying a rather expensive-looking book. Which she promptly slammed onto a convenient table, sending sparkling dust into the bright corners. “Melpomene!”

We’d frozen when Mom entered the hall, but now my named sister was trembling slightly. “Y-yes, Mother?”

“I have told you often enough to clean up after yourself. If I see this book in anything other than my mind’s eye, ever again, I will burn it. I will burn every clear copy. I will also burn every blurry copy made by drunk monks guzzling last year’s vintage. I will slap a copy out of every hand as they assemble the First Folio. I will watch it burn, and shit on the remains, and drown my fossilized turd in the Lethe. I will rip your hair out by the roots, steal sewing needles from Hephaestus, and sew the actors’ lips shut as they try to perform it. I will throw The Globe, The Curtain, and The Rose into a singularity, plus any other private stage he may have even thought to tread upon. And then, if you and Calliope and Cleo – yes I see you cowering there – somehow manage to resurrect him and undo my damage, I will reach back in time and pinch off the man-parts that created you, and replace you three with more biddable children. Like I did before. Do I make myself clear?"

My sisters were as white as their chitons. They nodded fearfully.

“Good. Glad to hear it. So grateful we could come to an agreement.” Mom swept out of the hall, and I darted forward to grab the book and run it to Mel’s room. Sure enough, I heard a lightning bolt sizzle and pop behind me, and the screams from my startled sisters. I am the embodiment of the dance, and I can very well outrun a thunderbolt. I took running lessons from Hermes.

When I was safe, I whispered a plea to my cousin, Selene. This book was indeed precious; the only book that held all the original bound works. All of them. A dark shadow, with glowing golden cat eyes, slipped over the threshold. Unnerving for me, and I like cats. I explained the situation, and Selene took the offending tome, and did – something. From that moment forth, till the end of time, it would never be able to leave the room. She encouraged me to test it. When I crossed to the portico, it vanished from my arms, and reappeared on the bookshelf inside. Selene herself plucked it up, threw it out a window. And in a blink, it was back in its place.

That solved the immediate problem. But what to do with Mother’s anger?

I thanked Selene profusely, then returned to my sisters. The three singled-out sibs were sobbing uncontrollably, and only Urania was staring into space, muttering, “Again??”

Erato was tapping a scroll against her lips. “We know Mom has always had a stick up her butt about The Bard, but does anyone know why? Why does she have it in for one English poet?”

Clio’s laurel wreath and Thalia’s ivy vine both trembled at the same time. They tapped shoulders, and pointed in the same direction. Out one particular archway.

“Oh, dear sweet Chthonic gods,” muttered one, and another snarled, “this again? Will she never give it up?”

“No, she wont,” I answered calmly. “She is the goddess of memory, the blessing and the curse. She remembers everything. The beautiful dream, the nightmare, the joy, the boredom. The interminable, and the gone in the blink of an eye. You know this; she created us, even the shadow-sisters not yet born, who hover around us for arts that haven’t been created yet.”

I glided over to the window the Leafy Ones had indicated. The steep mountainside was still burnt to the bare rocks, and even the ash had been scrubbed away and thrown in the sea.

Mom really, really, really, hates rosemary.

Unlike most stories we tell, it has nothing to do with an over-fornicating male. This is all about Mother loving the anemone, simply because of the visual pun. Want to piss her off as much as my sisters just did? Talk about “Mnemosyne’s Magazine,” or “Mnemozinnias.” Be prepared for a fiery scorching, and a close, personal, meeting with Charon.

When Mother is angry enough, she can summon the memory of a volcano. Thousands of victims from Pompeii, and Stabiae, and Ercolano, and Oplontis, they all recall, therefore Mother remembers. Imagine those concentrated memories pouring through your singular skull, and tremble.

We had a piney forest of rosemary all down the mountain, gifts from devotees who couldn’t read the room.

Mother scorched the gifts to bare earth when those idiot humans gave the anemone, red especially, to Aphrodite, because of the Adonis situation. Because wuvv, twue wuvv, and it’s all so romantic.

She did stop short of reversing the poor herb’s properties. We convinced her that it’s not rosemary’s fault that her scent is stimulating. Besides, those students who braid rosemary into their hair for luck during exams, why punish them? They’re on a scholastic path, an artistic inspirational path, not a sappy romantic tragifarce that made Eros, Erato, and Melpomene want to toss their baklava.

Aphrodite herself was less than thrilled, since she already claimed the rose. Why be constantly reminded of the stained flower that marked the spot where her lover fell? You know she’s an expert at her chosen weapon, the cheek-slapping sandal, and has a wicked aim. Even Eros, who has felt that sandal many, many times over the years, wouldn’t be dumb enough to wear the red anemone just to freak her out. (Though Hephaestus would. What do you think his “catching cheaters” net was forged from? Anemone stems are quite wiry, almost like flax, and the Fates know how to do strong-as-steel spinning when asked nicely. They know poetic justice from the inside.)

I sighed. Time to take a trip. We need to fix this.

“Come on, everyone, gather some obols. Mel, grab a ream or two of parchment, ink, quills, nib trimmers. We should have done this ages ago.”

*****

We made Charon quite rich that day. A ferry boat that carries a living being, especially a goddess, needs to be balanced carefully. We don’t rate a winged chariot, therefore we take the only other way. There are shallow parts of the Lethe, but trust me, you don’t want to get wet there.

We brought many, many obols for the journey. Enough for ourselves, and enough for many penniless souls stuck on the far bank. We make it a game, to cheer them up a little. And for ourselves, because it is soooo depressing at that spot. Only Mel was in ecstasy, scribbling furiously as she was regaled with their tales of woe, while the rest of us danced and sang and played lighthearted games for prizes – the obols to cross the river.

When a goddess sits in the boat, it weighs dangerously heavy. Through a process we don’t understand, taking as many souls with us as possible lightens the load considerably. We had them piled around us like sacks of wool. We traveled one at a time in Charon’s boat, smoothly, so as not to jostle anyone. Mel came last, still chatting and writing, though careful not to jiggle too much.

Persephone met us at the gate, giving Cerberus well-deserved belly rubs.

“I heard you coming. It’s usually quiet on the road to our lands, and sound carries across the water.”

“We’re sorry to bother you with our problem in the off season, but Mother lost her skata again, and-”

“What? Mnemosyne? There is a tale. You must needs tell it.” She gestured behind her, and silent servants brought out sturdy chairs, and cushions. “All right, let’s relax, and you can regale me with your tale. I’d offer you refreshments, but…”

No, thanks. No pomegranates for me.

Once we’d explained our dilemma, and my thoughts on a solution, Persephone giggled and clapped her hands like a little girl. “You don’t need my blessing for this, I think it’s a splendid idea! But there are things I can do, things I can teach you, to help the process along. Remind me in the middle of spring to check in with the project. For now, let’s teach you about winter sowing, and dead heading, and pruning roots…”

Though these things were not in our wheelhouse, we took to them pretty quickly. If it keeps Mom from losing a gasket or brace, I’m all for it. Persephone rolled her eyes at that one. “Tell me about overbearing mothers! At least yours can be reasoned with occasionally. I’m still Momma’s Baby Sprout, no matter that I’m Queen of the Underworld, Arbiter of the Dead. Ugh! Having a mother that remembers when you picked your nose last must also be a drag occasionally.”

As we took our leave, Persephone waved happily. “Bye, it was nice collaborating with you again! See you later!”

We shuffled off, with Urania muttering, “Again??”

*****

It was worth it.

We are not used to physical labor, but something about working in the soft, glistening, soil, is particularly soothing.

We collected seeds. We gathered bulbs and rootlets. We snipped and pruned, we stored, we begged Boreas for fresh puffs of air at the right time.

And then we planted. And we waited, with buckets of sparkling water.

And then I asked my dancing partner, Hermes, to take this pot of rosemary, and wait till we got home. There, he was to zip around the room a few times, bruise a few leaves, waft the scent around, then take off as if being chased by those barbarian hell hounds. The speed of thought is very fast, but Hermes is still faster.

I could still hear the fading whirr of Hermes’ winged sandals as Mom charged through the front door, raging. “WHO DARES BURN THAT THRICE-INFERNAL HERB WITHIN THE PRECINCTS OF – eh?”

She turned around, and went back outside. We followed.

There, on the Muses’ plain, a wide, lovely stretch of flattish ground high on Olympus, we’d planted the entire field. With anemones.

Every color. Every species. Whites, reds, pinks, purples. All the shades between, creams and purple-blacks and peaches and golds. A few pops of poppies, because thank you Persephone. Zephyr buzzed by, and the flowers nodded on their bouncy stems, and petals stirred on the wind, because anemones are also known as windflowers.

Mom sat down on the portico steps, and gazed with wonder.

We sat down near her, and silently took in the view. Soothing, refreshing. Beautiful. I could see Euterpe already composing lyric poetry in her head.

Mom sniffled. “You know the other name for them, right? ‘Daughters of the wind.’ This is beautiful, my daughters, you’ve done very well. Thank you, again.”

We hugged, except for Urania, who muttered, “Again??”