Darkness!
Not the gentle poetic darkness of a summer evening, softly
hiding the courting rites of youth, bringing peace and rest to
a tired world. Nor the friendly shadow one finds in the depth of
quiet forest, sheltered from the noonday sun.
The darkness of Hades has nought in common with these.
Clasp your hands before your eyes, pressing close against your
lids. Open wide your eyes and try to see. Feel the absolute
darkness pressing in upon you!
This the darkness of Hades. A darkness that presses on your
very eyes. And more! A darkness that envelopes mind and soul! An
unending and solid darkness, not of this world.
This is the darkness of Hades! This is the darkness of the
damned!
In Pluto's garden, earth's flowers do not grow. Yet grow there
plants.
Strange, distorted semblances of earthly growth, they twist and
writhe. They search for a non-existent sun, thirst for never
falling water. The roses thorns have, yet have they not the
blossoms.
Yet is there beauty.
The mystic asphodel here grows. With blossoms seen, now unseen,
hues rainbow inspired. Waxlike and translucent they grow in
abundance in this, the abode of the dead. They bloom in the deep
night of Hades, their aroma rousing hopeless hope, and forlorn
memories. The fragrance clashes with the evil ambiance of
eternal misery. Trampled 'neath the hooves of Pluto's chargers,
yet they ever rise again. Their strange beauty carpets the
pastures of Hades. Their gentle perfume permeates the fields and
streams of hell.
In Persephone's garden do gentle streams trickle.
Not so in Hades.
Here flows the Styx, the River of Hate, nine times round the
infernal region, dark waters flooded with ancient mysteries. The
Acheron, the Mother of Sorrows, carrying in its stream the woes
of all mankind, merges with the darker waters of the Cocytus,
land of the doomed wanderer. Here even the waves and ripples cry
out, and none but Charon dare the fearsome tide.
Phlegethon flows here. Cooling water, water to assuage one's
thirst, to cool one's brow?
No!
Fire! Liquid fire! With consistency of molten lava the glowing
red stream burns all within its path.
And here also Lethe. The one good gift in all of Hades. A
draught from the stream cleanses the mind of all remembrances.
The evil acts, regretted, are no more. The rare acts of
kindness, bright gems in memory, fade. What was, what might have
been, washed away by this one blessed draught. Even, 'tis said,
gentle Lethean dews bring blessed forgetfulness, release from
love lost, sin committed.
The mighty rivers flow, and in the depth of Hades merge into a
thunderous stream. Dense dark fog rises from that surface, more
black than gray, then fades to rise again. Here, midst meadows
of asphodels, the monstrous stream surges and pounds in a huge
moat, guardian to the great castle.
A moat deep and broad, home of fabled creatures, forbidding and
dark. From its surface exudes pestilential odors, and a drop of
malignant liquid from its depths, extracted from time to time,
spreads all repugnant ills upon the world. The misery of
cholera, the evil plague, unnamed and unknown diseases are its
behest to mankind.
That castle, the centerpiece of the Garden of Pluto, rises high
and majestic upon the far shore beyond the turbulent moat. Its
design, a strange and fascinating beauty, both attracts and
repels. Turrets rise - and yet they waver in one's vision, fade,
and rise again. From windows shine light of fire within,
replaced at times by grotesque shadows on the panes.
The walls of purest white as though purity dwelt therein. A
drawbridge, extending well above the angry waters below. Huge
chains, cold and foreboding, wait patiently to lift its massive
weight. A door, broad and tall, dark, blocks rather than
welcomes the visitor. Above that door gargoyles of weird design
look down. Living, or hewn from stone, they cast a spell of evil
on all who pass this portal.
Within the guests of Pluto enjoy the viands from the far
reaches of earth. Wines to challenge even the nectar of
Olympus. Their bouquet ethereal and light, they entice and
capture. Food both delicate and strong. Strong meaty tastes, and
gentle taste of dainty herbs. Spices, strange and delicate
fruits. Music and song and dance, with cymbals, and stringed
instruments, and drums. With singers whose beauty rivals the
beauty of their song. And dancers nimble as wild goat, smooth
and gracious as swan. All these and more - for Pluto has on call
the most brilliant of entertainers.
Poets read their masterpieces, novelists theirs. Artists
display their paintings, statues. Musicians play with infinite
skill. Nothing is lacking, for all are on call in this kingdom.
Every art is represented here. Brilliance is not rare. Nor is
beauty.
Conversation is gay and never ending. Humor of all sorts is
heard. Skits are performed to thunderous applause. Joy and good
cheer abound. Laughter fills the halls again and again.
The dances are spirited, with happy couples moving in perfect
timing with the music of world famous bands.
Pluto looks on the festivities, notes when interest fades,
introduces new diversions, keeps the activity ever moving, ever
exciting.
Yet with his best efforts, at times, the sound of revelry
fades. From out the walls, from beyond the moat, the moans and
lamentations, screams of never-ending pain, weeping. Misery lies
without. And all the charades within the castle walls cannot
disguise that this is, indeed, the abode of the damned. Always,
like a blanket of gloom, reality envelopes that great castle.
And finally, in the early morning hours, the guests are
spirited back to their earthly abodes. The musicians put away
their instruments, the entertainers retreat to their dressing
rooms, the great hall is cleaned, and all who have catered the
festivities return once more to their fated punishment.
Only Pluto remains, seated, dour and melancholy, on the great
throne.
No bright and lilting music, no gay conversation, no happy
laughter masks the lamentations from without.
The party is over!
This is the Garden of Pluto.
The Garden of Persephone, unattended, lies in waste.
The Garden of Pluto endures, tended by slaves who dream of
emancipation - and labor eternally.
The Garden of Pluto endures - today, tomorrow, forever!