*
The guards went out to search for Doso and the lion at the break of day, but the heavy rain, thunder and lightning hampered their efforts. Menos tracked paw prints in the ground for a stadium before they seemed to vanish into thin air. The guards ranged afield, looking for shreds of Doso's peplos, bloody clumps of her hair, or perhaps torn remnants of her body.
That evening, Callithoe watched as Menos came to report his findings to King Celeus. His long face looked even more somber than usual.
"Nothing," he said. "We searched to the temple and back again. It is as if Zeus himself carried them away to Olympus."
King Celeus looked at her, troubled. Once he might have punished the guards for their failure. Now, he said nothing.
The rain continued for three days straight.
Doso's story made the rounds like a rabid animal. The priestesses in the temple disdained the wet and the wind and visited the palace's hearth room as though it were a place of holy delight. Soon the elders of the town took up that same pilgrimage, followed afterward by a seemingly endless train of onlookers.
The fury of the rain lessened until it sprinkled the terra cotta vessels with gentle pings, allowing Metaneira to prop open the doors. A cool, fresh smelling breeze chased the stale grit from the palace's inner rooms. It even swept away the scent of sickness that hung in heavy curtains around Iambe's couch.
The tailings of such breezes brought snatches of conversation and gossip to Callithoe's ears.
"… her eyes glowed red … flames shot from her fingers … Demeter was her name … "
How strange that Doso's plain and simple name now became that of Demeter. Demeter, of all things! Remote and fertile, a wooden, lifeless hearth goddess made suddenly real. Callithoe might have corrected their error, if it she thought it would do any good. The people knew that something strange and marvelous had happened, something which they did not altogether understand.
On the fourth day, bright and early, the sun rose as if in triumph, its light making jewels of the water droplets that lay over the whole earth.
Iambe rose from her couch, her cheeks glowing pink and her eyes alight. Her breath came easy. She took Callithoe's hand, twining their fingers together.
Together, they walked out the palace's front doors. Callithoe's sandals squished and slid on the mud. The entire household followed them, blinking in the bright light, murmuring in pleasure. Women stood in little knots, children playing about their feet. Men also walked the pathways in twos and threes, canvassing fields that had been barren for so many months.
Callithoe and Iambe paused at the Maiden Well, under the shade of the old olive tree. Doso had first appeared there, on the low marble wall.
"Look," Iambe said. Tears shown at the corner of her eyes.
She held out her hand. The crisp olive leaves shone with drying rain. In the midst of the tiny bouquet they formed lay the new growth of a small brown fruit.
End
Author's note: The story here was inspired and informed by the Greek tale of Demeter and Persephone, especially the beautiful Homeric Hymn to Demeter. The hymn has numerous translations, but I most enjoyed the ones by Gregory Nagy and Hugh G. Evelyn-White. These do not call one of the king's daughters Iambe; however, Demeter: The Myth of Eleusis does, claiming that she is the inspiration for Iambic verse.
Part II