Outside the window, the city was a turbulent sea of movement. Bustling merchants sold their goods from behind shaded stands and fair women looped their arms in their husbands’, strolling leisurely. Children ran, dodging horses pulling carts, laughing and screaming joyously. The sun dripped down from the heavens and painted everything in gold.
Psyche sat with her two sisters and her father, gazing at all the men on the street out the window morosely. “I wish I had a face as hideous as Medusa’s,” she declared sulkily. “Then perhaps someone might love me.”
The two older sisters exchanged smug glances. The two were quite pretty, but next to Princess Psyche, they were unsightly. They, like every girl in Greece, were very envious of Psyche’s excessive loveliness. The men were afraid to approach her. Her inability to love made them maliciously happy.
But to the king, Psyche’s words brought dismay. He was proud of his daughter’s attractiveness and had hoped to find her a worthy husband. But could she be right? Was she too beautiful to be loved?
The king left the next day to ask the Oracle of Delphi what husband lay in store for his youngest daughter.
“The one that will own Psyche’s heart awaits her on Mount Olympus. But he is not of your kind,” the wise Oracle foretold.
The king new of the many risks that Mount Olympus brought and he was enraged. He brought the news home, and the queen began to weep. The older sisters puzzled over the mystery.
“Suppose he’s a monster!” one said.
“With fangs!” the other put in, giving Psyche a snide look.
But Psyche remained serene. “If it is what the Oracle said, then so it must be.”
Aphrodite watched up from her throne high atop Mount Olympus. Below, the humans were talking of the unearthly beautiful princess who would leave the next morning to face her fate.
“Unearthly beauty,” Aphrodite fumed. “Is she the Goddess of Beauty? Is she the one that bestows love unto the people on Earth? She is but a mortal girl with no power! How dare she claim the spot of Aphrodite as her own?”
She watched further as the people worshipped her beauty. Indeed, there was no scented smoke billowing from altars to praise the Goddess of Beauty, but to honor Psyche. Enraged, Aphrodite swore that this prideful human girl would pay for stealing all of her glory.
Psyche left to climb Mount Olympus when the next day brought forth dusk. When she had walked up half of the mountain and grew weary, she lay down in the soft grass and thought. Would it be her fate to wed some horrific beast? What would become of her? She felt asleep there, wondering where she might wake in the morning.
Aphrodite looked down from the heavens to find Psyche asleep on the mountain side, she sent immediately for her son, Eros.
When he came, she beamed at the handsome, winged God of Love. “Eros, love,” she said. “Your arrows never miss the target. If only I could possess such a skill.”
Eros said nothing, quite confused as to why he had been sent for.
“I require your assistance, Eros. There is a girl you see, a very foolish mortal girl that thinks she could be the Goddess of Beauty herself! I need you to prick her with one of your arrows…”
“But Aphrodite,” Eros interrupted. “My arrows only bring love, not wounds. If you want me to kill her, I cannot. I won’t.”
“I know, I know!” Aphrodite snapped. “I want her to fall in love with the most atrocious monster that ever lived. You strike her, and I will supply the lover.
Eros knew this was cruel. “I don’t know, mother,” he sighed.
“You must,” Aphrodite yelled. “And go now. She sleeps on the slopes of Mount Olympus.”
Eros couldn’t disobey her. He dipped a golden arrow into the sweet nectar of love and flew off to find the princess.
He found her there, dazzling features glazed with the milky luminescence of the moon, asleep gracefully. His heart swelled with emotion. His hand trembled as he raised his bow. But he couldn’t aim. The arrow faltered and purged his foot.
Her beauty became great with intensity. The world around him was different. Everything was so much more dull and lifeless, but there was his Psyche, shimmering in the moonlight. He had never seen such beauty. He knew he must protect her from Aphrodite’s wrath. Tenderly, he picked up the sleeping princess, cradling her delicate form against his chest, and set off to his palace.
When Psyche woke, she was not on Mount Olympus anymore. She was in a garden. A canopy of silver trees loomed over, as if saying good morning. They were laden with vivid fruits. She was asleep in a grass that was softer than any bed, lush flowers surrounding her. A magnificent waterfall poured pearly waters into a river that trickled by. Music played nearby, soft and melodic.
“Welcome, Princess Psyche. This garden is yours,” a smooth, deep voice said from the trees.
“Who is there?” she whispered.
“The one that your heart holds,” the voice replied sweetly.
For days, she talked with this sweet, gentle voice in the night. But when the gray of dusk appeared on the horizon, he would fly away. He gave her many things, but none of them mattered much to Psyche. She loved him no matter what he gave her. Every day she was rewarded with something new. Sometimes she would find his hand in hers. They were large, but most certainly didn’t feel like those a monster would have. One day she ran her fingers through the soft curls on his head. She felt the soft feathers of his wings. But his face was always concealed in shadows.
And every day she grew more curious.
Suppose he’s a monster!
With fangs!
Could he truly be a monster? How could someone as sweet and gentle as him be an ogre or a troll?
So she decided one day that she would light a lamp at night while he was sleeping and see for herself what the one she loved was. She waited until his breath became slower and even and lit the oil on fire. She drew closer and when the light touched his face she gasped. “You are Eros!” She began to shake, and the lamp tipped. Liquid oil splashed on Eros’s wings and dribbled down his shoulder. He woke and cried out in pain. He saw Psyche bending over him, eyes wide, just before he flew away, his scorched wing dangling worthlessly.
In the days that followed, Psyche wept and cursed herself. She waited for his return, but never did he come back. So she wandered through forests and valleys and towns, calling for her beloved Eros. When she did not find him, she knelt and gazed up at the heavens.
“O, Goddess of Beauty,” she cried. “Please aid me in my search for your son!”
Aphrodite heard her plea and appeared before her, furious.
“How dare you ask of my help,” she screeched, “when my son is wounded and burnt!”
Psyche looked down. “I regret exceedingly what I have done, your majesty. But perhaps I might prove my love for Eros.”
“Prove yourself to me first!” she cried. Great big baskets of barley, millet, and poppy seeds appeared, and Aphrodite scattered it all on the floor. “Separate each grain by nightfall!” And with that, she was gone.
Psyche knew she could not do it, but she began anyway.
“May I be of your assistance,” said a voice in the wind. Thousands of ants appeared, and began picking up each grain. In just a moment, each basket was filled.
Psyche waited until night came and then Aphrodite returned. “Trickery!” she shrieked. “Next to the grove to the east,” she said, pointing, “there is a stream. You will find sheep with golden fleece grazing there. Go and obtain a bundle of wool.”
Psyche obeyed, shielding her eyes from the magnificent sheen that came off of the sheep. But she saw no gentle lambs, but fierce, ravenous rams. “How can I ever shear such awful beasts?” she cried.
From amidst the gurgle of the stream, Psyche heard another voice.
“When the sheep come to the stream to drink, hurry to the thicket. Fetch the stray wool on the trees that they passed.”
Psyche did so and carried the fleece back to the Goddess of Beauty.
“You wretched girl!” Aphrodite cried. “Know you of the underworld?”
Psyche nodded. She had many stories of its horrors.
“Go there and tell the goddess Persephone that I want the box. She will give it to you, and you shall return to me. Only then can you prove yourself!”
Psyche traveled in fear of what may become of her in the underworld. But a voice came once again. “Find some coins in a nearby town. Buy a cake with one, save the rest, and give it to the ferryman at the River Styx. Give the hellhound the cake and sneak by.”
Psyche did so, and came upon three coins in the streets. She bought a cake a merchant on the street was selling, and made her way to the River Styx. She handed the ferryman the last two and she crossed the great river. She threw the cake at the great three-headed dog and snuck past while its attention was focused on the food. She found Persephone in her garden—the only place in the underworld that wasn’t gray and dead. She told Persephone of the quest and the Goddess of Spring retrieved a small, pretty box.
“Here it is,” she said. “Deliver this straight to Aphrodite and don’t open it.”
Psyche left the underworld, but her curiosity got the better of her. She opened the box and a lovely smelling vapor exuded. She sniffed. “Oh!” she exclaimed. She fell, unconscious, on the ground.
Eros found her there and woke her up with a touch of one of his arrows.
“Oh, Eros!” she cried. “You’re back!”
“I never left you, Psyche,” he answered.
The voice was him all along. “Thank you.”
He scooped her up and carried her back to the Aphrodite
“I have brought the box, O Goddess of Beauty,” Psyche said. “I have traveled deep into the underworld to retrieve it for you. I have completed all of the other tasks you have given me. I have proven myself to you.”
Aphrodite was shocked and furious. “You will never prove yourself to me!” she shrieked.
There was a loud thunder overhead and Zeus appeared among clouds. “Aphrodite,” he said. “This young princess indeed has proved herself.” He turned to Psyche and handed her a cup. “This is ambrosia—the nectar of the gods. Drink this, and you may forever be with Eros.”
Psyche sipped from the cup and her skin began to shimmer with immortality. Eros drew her into his arms and kissed her.
The God of Love and the Goddess of Soul were wed. And they lived happily after forever… and ever.
