The world is surface, a shimmery veil of illusion, woven from gossamer and dreams by the Moirae to give the unbound consciousness a home.
Behind this elusive veil, the fundamental action principles of existence, known only to the gods, continuously transform reality, sometimes unseen, sometimes picking at its back and putting waves through its diaphanous fabric.
Its visible side glistens like a mirror, reflecting any consciousness that is there to see it, its ever changing imagery shifting to harmonize with it, an exquisite mirage, poised to fool the senses.
It looks solid and permanent enough, but it’s not, and if you touch it, it shrivels under your fingers like a mimosa plant, contracting into itself and letting you hold on to thin air.
Reality is made of nothing, just like dreams; it comes from nothing and has to return to it eventually, it just does it so much slower than the latter.
Persephone went to Taenarum, early in the morning, before the rays of sun tinged the horizon red and orange, and took a moment to reflect inside the familiar cave, succumbing to the sweetness of her memories of home, before she parted the ephemeral veil to call forth the Fates, the daughters of Night and sisters of Death, whose words made even the gods tremble.
“Who summons us?” Clotho, the youthful spinner, said, and bowed deeply when she came face to face with the goddess of the underworld.
“What is your need?” Lachesis, the mature allotter, came from behind to raise her to her feet. It was not proper for a Moira to bow, not even to a goddess.
“Whose fate you came to see?” said Atropos, the unavoidable elder who came out of the shadows to complete the group. One of her bony hands touched Persephone, dulling a shiny lock of her hair with silver dust.
“I honor your wisdom, daughters of Night. I came to seek counsel on the fates of men.”
“The fates of men?” Atropos cried out. “All of them?”
“What about the women?” Lachesis interrupted, concerned.
“I meant all humankind, dark sister,” Persephone clarified.
“Well, you should have been more specific,” Lachesis brooded, turning towards Clotho, who was playing with her spinner and twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
“How many times did I tell you to stop doing that? You’re going to get your hair tangled in the spindle, only the gods know the problems that would cause.”
Clotho pushed her hair back, pouting, while she continued spinning.
“We can’t give you all the fates of men, it would take forever! Give us a case number, and we’ll try to retrieve it, although it’s kind of late. Maybe you should come back tomorrow, at first light. There would be plenty of time to address this then.”
“It is first light, sister. I remembered your preference from last time, and I made sure not to impose. Dawn is barely breaking as we speak, see?”
“Oh,” Atropos commented, disappointed. “Well, then. Speak your request.”
Persephone reached out into her peplum and brought out a scroll inscribed with golden godly script.
“Hail Zeus! How many cases do you have there?” Atropos jumped, outraged and forgetting her Olympian poise.
“Two thousand,” Persephone whispered softly, hoping against hope the Inevitable didn’t hear her.
“Sisters,” the latter got up, dignified, “we’re leaving. Clotho, gather your belongings.”
“I beseech thee, it’s not for me that I ask. I come on behalf of my cousin, Dionysus.”
“Your cousin doesn’t need a reading of the fates, he needs an intervention. He never listens to anyone, anyway. What could he possibly want with us?” Atropos raised her voice.
“There’s been a war, it seems,” Persephone breathed slowly, secretly relieved the Moirae were still there. They had refused her many times before. The Fates were touchy and given to whims, and one had to tread carefully around them.
“A war? What of it? There is always a war somewhere,” Atropos retorted in a powerful voice, which sounded eerie coming out of her diminutive body, all skin and bone, with the reverberant timber of a bronze bell.
“This one saw a lot of losses,” Persephone explained.
“Good on you, then. You got your work cut out for you. Why are you telling me?”
“It seems there is a need for a population increase, which is why I seek your wise counsel.”
“Two thousand at a time? I can barely do two or three in one day. You must be joking!” Atropos looked offended.
“Can Clotho, maybe, spin her yarn a little faster? That always seems to speed up things.”
“You gods! You always make special requests to change the natural order of things. You make the rules and break them in the same sentence. I can’t fathom why we even bother to follow them at all.”
“I’ll be in your debt,” Persephone cajoled her.
“If I add that to the debt you already owe me, the world won’t be enough to repay it. Give me the list!” Atropos stretched out her hand.
“Two thousand strong.” She changed her tune once she got to the proper business of fate. The Moirae loved their jobs a little too much, unfortunately, and would micromanage the most unassuming life within the length of a breath. “Mmh, mmh,” the old woman nodded, “yes, no, that one already went through the trials, Persephone, be a dear and give us some space. I can’t hear myself think with you breathing down my neck. Come back at dusk. Your list will be ready then.”
Persephone hesitated, but knew if she upset the Moirae they’d take three times as long to finish the task, if at all. She put her trust in the favor of the Gods and retreated respectfully, wondering to herself what she was going to do for twelve full hours sitting by the cave alone.
The world is a surface with no depth, which, just like a mirror, retains nothing. The fates of empires, the greatness of kings, tragedies or triumphs, love and hate, what happened to them all when they left its shimmery reflection to make room for the new? The wheel of life and death kept spinning, and though mind-numbingly repetitive, no two fates were exactly the same. Talk about unmatched job security!
Maybe the lives and deaths of humans hid under the surface of being, to feed the inexhaustible fountain of illusions that constantly birthed figments in the land of dreams, if they were dreams indeed, how can you tell, when you are in it, whether you’re in a dream or you’re awake.
She had come all the way here, to the ends of the earth, at the edge of Oceanus, the boundary between it and the underworld, to open the gate to the realm of the dead and watch the immortal daughters of Night craft the fates of two thousand people. What fanciful dream could ever rival the strangeness of reality itself?
A flock of seagulls had come to keep her company, all the way from the island of Kos, an augury of good fortune and a head count of the souls whose fate was already foretold. For all their morose greetings, the Moirae seemed to have outdone themselves this time.
Very rarely, souls arrived together in large groups, their fates entwined as an entire generation.
They changed the very fabric of society, and their collective entity was shining through new art, music, architecture, philosophy and writing.
It birthed new science, sometimes started fresh spiritual directions.
Even the gods were rarely fortunate enough to experience such extraordinary workings of fate.
Persephone contented herself to watch the flock of seagulls grow thicker with every soul whose fate had been decided, all wards of Poseidon, an entire generation of seafarers, to explore the limits of the known world.
She didn’t expect the Moirae to come up with a project of such monumental complexity, and as she went over the list of souls in her mind, she started second guessing her selection, wondering what purpose could a fabric of lovers and whiners possibly serve in a nation of explorers and travelers, and experienced bittersweet emotions about this brave new world born of tragedy.
The fates of men are so complex even the gods can’t untangle them enough to understand them, so they too resign themselves to watch and discover their surprises, just like the mortals do.
What unexpected reality was going to emerge, woven from love and tragedy, and always driven by the call of the sea?
“Atropos will see you now,” Clotho placed her white hand on Persephone’s shoulder, bringing her out of her reverie.
She was twirling her hair around her finger again, while the other hand kept spinning her yarn dangerously close to her bouncy tresses. The goddess took note, but said nothing.
“You got us enough work for an entire century, but we acquitted ourselves well of it. Pray you don’t show up again for a few decades: we’re spent.”
“Thank you sisters, I can’t express my gratitude enough,” Persephone said, touched by the extent of their diligence.
“Have you a message for your husband before we go?”
“Tell him a new generation of seafarers is about to be born. He should sit with Poseidon and go over the details.”
“Your marriage must be a bed of roses!” Atropos mumbled.
“And tell him I love him more than I love myself,” Persephone smiled.
“You picked too many souls from the Vale of Mourning and they seemed to have messed with your head. We’ll be taking our leave now. Don’t forget to close the veil behind us; last time you left it open and that dreadful human kidnapped Cerberus. They never seem to mind their own business, do they?”
“Thank you, sisters. Tell my husband I’m looking forward to returning home.”
The Moirae disappeared into the darkness of the cave, and as they took their leave the flock of seagulls dispersed in the four directions, seeking the places where their new bodies would be hailing from, to lie in wait for them to be born.
