On the westernmost edge of the Oceanus, which spans the vast distance between the world of the living and the underworld, there is a splendid garden, constantly bathed in the glow of the sunset.

The garden belongs to Hera, a wedding gift from her grandmother, and wonderful apple trees with golden fruit grow there, under the jealous guard of the dragon Ladon, an offspring of the Typhon, and the rather distracted oversight of the Hesperides, the daughters of night and of the evening star.

The legendary orchard was far from the real world, in both location and appearance, and because of its priceless bounty, a perpetual temptation for those driven by greed.

When someone broke in to steal the apples, the circle of displeasure, complaint and requests for retribution invariably closed in the Underworld, a constant source of annoyance for Hades, who was expected to do something about it.

“Who was it this time?” Persephone asked.

“It was one of ours, actually. Eris decided to take it upon herself and plot against Hera. You remember Hera, don’t you?”

“Vividly,” Persephone replied.

Hera took exception to the smallest slight, never forgave an offense, and always made sure to drag the entire Olympus into her drama, satisfied only when she was the center of attention.

Persephone stood tall on the bow of the ship, against the breeze.

Behind her, the fortune’s chosen, the ones who managed to navigate its treacherous waters through three lifetimes in a row, without reproach, were gazing towards the islands in the distance with apprehension and awe, not yet able to believe their luck, eyes moist for what they left behind.

Lost for words, they feared the promise of this new and wonderful existence was just a mirage which would dissipate the second they stopped believing it.

Hades stood next to his wife, like a symbolic shelter against the winds.

He always attended these happy occasions when mortals earned themselves the right to perpetual bliss.

Also, he loved the Fortunate Isles, which he rarely found the time to visit, with his schedule as full as it always was, and besides, he had promised Persephone.

The islands were two, so close to each other one could think them a single land mass. They weren’t that far from the shore, but a whole world removed in terms of privilege and grace, even compared to the Elysian Fields.

There was much sound and fury in Hades’ chambers the next morning, the clamor of many people speaking in anger, and above them all Persephone recognized the voice of Zeus.

She got dressed in a hurry and sneaked into the anteroom of the large conference hall where Hades was involved in some very heated negotiations with an entire delegation of Olympians, which, as an extraordinary circumstance, included Zeus himself.

“We’re doing everything in our power to retrieve him safely. As I told you, no effort is being spared.”

“But how was it possible, brother? I thought you ruled this kingdom supreme! Just command your minions to deliver him at the gates.”

“If the Hecatonchires were commandable, you wouldn’t need to keep them in Tartarus. They’re trained to some degree,” Hades replied, “but definitely don’t exhibit the level of obedience you seem to expect.”

“So, you’re telling me there is no hope and you can’t do anything about this?”

“Quite the opposite, brother. I just told you every effort is being made.”

“Yeah. That means you can’t do anything about it. I’m so disappointed in you, Hades. I entrusted you with the fate of one of our finest, and now he’s lost in Tartarus with no expectations of rescue.”

When she wanted to take a break from her daily activities, Persephone wandered along the banks of the Lethe, under the slender branches of the willows, which arched to touch its waters, and walked all the way to the cave of Hypnos.

She went there mostly to pick poppies, whose flowers surrounded the quiet realm of the god of sleep.

The bright red blooms glowed from afar in the perpetual sunset, a bucolic image whose beauty was worthy of a painter’s canvas: a small tributary of the river Lethe was dancing between large boulders atop a rocky bed, surrounded by poppies, lavender and chamomile, and other soothing herbs, in the shadow of large linden trees, perpetually in bloom.

The fragrance surrounding the place, it had no match in existence, not even in the gardens of Olympus.

The flowers were always swarmed by bees, the goddess’s faithful companions, who built their hives in nearby tree hollows, which were dripping with melting wax, amber, and honey in the warmth of the sunset.

The softest grass grew on the banks of the stream, tall and bright green, so delicate its texture seemed unreal, and even its touch was barely felt under the fingers.

The little stream bubbled along its winding banks and entered the cave, getting lost in its depths.

She rushed home, crossing the bridge over the Acheron, past the elm of false dreams, through the mucky banks of the Vale of Mourning and the orchard to get home faster, so she had to stop and shake the pumice dust off her sandals before she entered the palace.

Hermes was waiting in the loggia overlooking the gardens, impatient, as always.

“Great! You’re here.”

“Good morning to you too, cousin.”

“Aha. Yeah. Listen. The cave of Cumae gets water in it every time there is a storm; it needs a new levee to fend off tidal flooding. And consolidation. That project had sat on the shelf way too long, if you ask me.”

“So, what’s the hold-up?”

“The Cumaean Sibyl thinks making any changes equals blaspheming Apollo. She barricaded herself in the cave and refuses to prophesy. She threatened to burn the last three books, too. To tell you the truth, I think it’s a shake-down. Greedy wretch’s demands for coin never cease.”

“Well, look on the bright side: she can’t burn them if they’re underwater. Not that it would be an improvement.”

“Don’t joke, cousin, it’s serious. The woman is on a mission.”

Hades is a water realm.

Surrounded by Oceanus, it’s crisscrossed by rivers and streams whose rash and unsettled currents can be heard in the background almost everywhere.

From the quiet Lethe meandering between boulders in Hypnos’s cave, careful not to awaken him, to the echoes of the Styx, muffled as it flows through underground caves, the sights and sounds of water are everywhere, sometimes soothing, sometimes unsettling.

The rushing waters of the underworld carved intricate stone tracery and painted the rocks in spectacular hues.

They flowed slowly through sleepy valleys only to abandon themselves suddenly to grand waterfalls, diving into bottomless chasms nobody ever dared explore.

The perpetual sunsets painted their watery curtains with rainbows, and sometimes, when the light hit them at just the right angle, it illuminated them from behind.

The fiery river Phlegethon crossed the real waters sometimes, and their mingling gave rise to sharp hisses and clouds of steam, and turned its incandescent lava first to embers, and then to black stone.

The placid river Lethe branched into a delta when it reached the land of dreams, seeping countless rivulets and streams through its open fields.

Those who’d been brought to Hades through the gate of the sun could be deceived they were still alive when they reached this familiar landscape, only to be set straight when it changed without warning, lulling them into rationalizations in order to deceive them again.

The spirits always found an explanation for why their world stopped making sense. Any explanation but the real one.

Persephone sneaked out into the gardens the next morning, grateful to have a few quiet moments to reconnect with her plant companions.

Everything had spirit in the Underworld, even the rocks and the streams, and her beloved trees were the goddess’s most trusted friends.

The poplars flittered in the twilight, their gold leaves shimmering in ways which would have gratified Demeter, who always thought her daughter’s attire too plain for a goddess and often urged the latter to show off her riches.

Persephone didn’t need to impress in the nether realms, where even the leaves of the trees in her garden were made of pure gold.

She grabbed a handful of the soil beneath her feet, picked out the glossiest onyx, obsidian and jet pebbles to place in her little knapsack and let the rest fall to the ground.

The muses had inspired her to create a mosaic that morning, and she was on a mission to pick the most colorful gemstones for its motifs.

She said goodbye to her mother at the mouth of the cave of Taenarum, crumbling under the weight of her sorrow and tears, and harboring guilt over feeling relieved when she finally stepped into its dark depths and its silence.

Hecate was supposed to meet her and lead the way, but Persephone had walked that path so many times she really didn’t need the dark goddess to guide her.

She grabbed a lit torch from the wall and started her descent, feeling a little spacey and out of reality, and wondered whether this is how all those postulants she appeared to in dreams must have felt.

The path looked the same as theirs too, something she had never noticed before, careful as she was not to fall behind Hecate’s quick stride. Everything was dark and quiet, so quiet. She’d forgotten how still the Underworld could be, compared to the world of the living, where the noise never ceased, not even in solitude.

The narrow path swept between large rock formations, who had been shaped and carved by underground streams, and their constant flow had covered them in rainbow layers of reds, ochres, blues and whites, almost like somebody had painted them on purpose.

The path was covered in soft silt. Persephone had to guess this narrow tunnel must have been a riverbed at some point, which now dried up. Its silky consistency cradled her feet without a sound, making her footsteps softer than those of a cat.