b h a g . n e t visual and conceptual exchange b h a g . n e t
UNDER THE WEATHER
from the novel Pluto
Even a god can be a little down.
It's his vital force, something's off. Pluto should probably wrap himself up in bandages like a good mummy and lie low for a couple of hundred years. Since the planet entered the sign of Scorpio he hasn't had a moment's rest.
The earthquakes have definitely had an effect. This new one in Iran, whew, more dead to process than the one in Armenia back in '88. Over 35,000. Once the planet moves out of the intense eighth house perhaps things will settle down.
Maybe Serket, the scorpion-goddess, will bless him with a visit of sexual healing. No, on second thought, she'd be too much for him right now. That's one insatiable Egyptian. His humors are awry. He's out of whack.
Pluto lies down on his bed of quartz crystal after opening the skylight and watches ghosts pass through the dark moonless sky. Usually the restoring power of the crystals revives him. He rubs his ruby earring for good luck.
Some of the ancient healers have gathered in a remote grove but Pluto doesn't want to disturb them and make a fuss. Celsus, Paracelsus, Galen, Van Helmont. They have a great time discussing their various theories and practices.
Paracelsus is boasting about his latest occult concoction. "Low-grade heat, that's what puts the wallop in. The gold of gold! The silver of silver!" he exclaims to the amusement of his colleagues.
The crystals are quite comfortable. Pluto's body is bathed in purple light. He's day-dreaming about nymphs. To have a Queen is one thing, to have a nymph is something else altogether. Pluto has many loves. Big loves and little loves. Nymphs are little loves. Minor indiscretions. Persephone's away for months and months and he goes a bit out of his mind.
The nymphs the god is thinking about number three.
Mintho, sweet Mintho, all accommodating, with humor and surprise. She likes to dress up for him and act out little fantasy scenes. He sends her a note when he wants to play. HITCHHIKING CHEERLEADER, LOST VIRGIN SCHOOLGIRL, YOUNG MISS PRIVATE PIANO LESSON, NAUGHTY GIRL SCOUT DOOR TO DOOR.
Then there's Leuce, an utterly decadent creature into bondage and domination. Pluto only sees her once or twice a century.
The third nymph is Daphne, a beautiful young woman. When she and Pluto aren't practicing Tantric sex, they play gin rummy.
He sneezed with gale force intensity.
There's no denying it, he's caught a bug. The Shanghai flu's been going around. Congestion in the chest, coughing, fever, chills. Gods hate to be ill, hate it. It's a blow to their divine nature.
Pluto's usually healthy as a horse. He's been taking trace minerals daily, without fail, for several years. Terbium, Molybdenum, Titanium, Praseodymium, Ytterbium, Cadmium, Gold. Persephone sticks her head in the Chamber.
"It's just got to work itself out of your system, babe," she says.
"But it's not fair, P. I was sick only 300 years ago. I've summoned Tourley. If the Bach Flowers can't bust this thing, nothing can."
In fact, though, the Shanghai flu has been going around for some time. Most everyone in the Underworld's had a touch of it. You feel weak and depressed. And if you think the dead do not have their own little aches and pains and mental agitations, you're sadly mistaken.
Pluto is supposed to meet Beckett in his new digs, but this will have to wait. Sam was well provided for, and this made the god happy. He sent a messenger to tell of his delay. Beckett is probably watching tennis, anyway, quite content, he thought.
As soon as he was better he'd pay the Irishman a visit and broach the subject of a reading. He knew of Beckett's distaste of them, but surely he would relent. Surely.
Endgame is a favorite in the Land of the Dead. It's performed once a year by the esteemed repertory company, The Shade Players, to rave reviews in the Underworld Forum.
Tourley arrived with the flower remedies. Pluto sat up in his Crystal Bed, hopeful. "Shalom, old man," said Pluto. "Now I know why I have never gone to Shanghai. A god shouldn't have to suffer such things. What have you got for me."
"Great Pluto, I bring you three remedies. My flowers never fail. One whiff and you will be on the swift road to recovery. Providing you take hot baths, that is. They're important, I can't stress that enough. First, mustard, for your susceptibility to gloom. Don't laugh. You know as well as I how you are. You take your work too seriously. I know it's serious business, but you've got to lighten up. Second, the fragrance of heather, for your fear of being alone. I know you won't admit it, but you need a little time to yourself. Caring for the dead is a formidable task and takes it toll. I've spoken with Persephone about it. Finally, honeysuckle. This will help you to live in the present. As far as the flu goes, take two aspirin and keep your ass in bed. I'll send you my bill in a few days. Oh, if your Highness would be so kind, just dispatch a young nymph to me, with much lingerie, for a spell. Not that I'm capable of performing, for that would be the miracle of miracles! I'd just like to have her around the hovel for some company."
"Tourley, you lech," said Pluto. "I'll see what I can do. I think the flowers are already working. I think my gloom is lifting. Perhaps I'll send you a dozen nymphs and change the quality of your death forever."
© 2003 Mark Katzman