What I did was to insert a cumulative chain of mourners when Psyche dies, or seems to die.
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Psyche Lives
Psyche knew she had to sit down and catch her breath before making her way back up Mount Olympus to Venus's home. The alabaster box had been heavy even when empty, and after Proserpine filled it as Venus commanded, Psyche could barely lift it: who would have thought that beauty would be something so heavy to carry?
Taking pity on the girl, Proserpine had made a kind of sling and strapped the box to Psyche's back. Psyche now untied the sling while reaching behind her back to catch hold of the box, careful not to drop it. She placed the box on the grass, and then she sank to the ground, leaning against a tree, grateful for the shade it provided.
As Psyche felt the cool of the breeze, she thought of the Zephyr who had carried her back and forth to her husband's magical palace. She pressed her hands against her belly, and she felt the life stirring inside her. She sighed deeply and said out loud, though there was no one there to listen, "I swear by the life of my unborn child that I will bring this box of beauty back to Venus as she commanded."
That was when she heard it.
The humming. No, not a humming, but instead a kind of whisper. Calling to her. Commanding her.
"Open the box, Psyche."
"Open the box."
"Open it."
What harm could it do, Psyche thought. So she leaned forward and lifted the lid of the box, meaning to just take a quick peek inside to see the beauty that Proserpine had placed there.
But alas, it was not beauty in the box at all! It was sleep, the sleep of death. Psyche did not even have time to realize what she had done; as soon as she opened the box, she collapsed. Psyche was dead.
The tree, who had been watching all along, dropped its leaves in grief.
A bird flew by and when she saw the tree had dropped all its leaves, she asked, "What is wrong with you, Tree?"
"Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead," said the tree, "so I have now dropped all my leaves."
The bird then shed all her feathers and flew sadly away.
When the goatherd saw the featherless bird, he called out, "What is wrong with you, Bird?"
"Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead," said the bird, "and the tree dropped its leaves, so I have now shed my feathers."
The goatherd broke his staff and sat down on the ground.
When the goat saw the shepherd's broken staff, he asked, "What is wrong with you, Shepherd?"
"Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead," said the goatherd, "and the tree dropped its leaves, and the bird shed her feathers, so I have now broken my staff."
The goat threw away his horns and ran to the stream.
When the stream saw the goat without his horns, he asked, "What is wrong with you, Goat?"
"Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead," said the goat, "and the tree dropped its leaves, and the bird shed her feathers, and the shepherd broke his staff, so I have now thrown away my horns."
Hearing this news, the waters of the stream all dried up.
When the cook came to the stream to wash out her soup pot and saw there was no water, she asked, "What is wrong with you, Stream?"
"Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead," said the stream, "and the tree dropped its leaves, and the bird shed her feathers, and the shepherd broke his staff, and the goat threw away his horns, so now my waters have all dried up."
The cook broke her soup pot and shouted, "Heaven help us, O gods and goddesses! Poor Psyche opened the box, and now she is dead, and the tree dropped its leaves, and the bird shed her feathers, and the shepherd broke his staff, and the goat threw away his horns, and the stream's waters dried up, and now I have broken my soup pot."
The cook's words made their way up to heaven, and Venus cackled out loud, rejoicing at the news. Her plan had succeeded!
But her son Cupid was distraught. In his grief, he burst through the door of the room where his mother had confined him and rushed down to the earth. There he found Psyche lying on the grass, the wicked box by her side.
"Psyche," he moaned, as he gathered her up in his arms. "What have you done, my poor girl? Why did you have to open the box?"
And as Cupid wept over her lifeless body, his tears fell on her face. Cupid had never wept before (though he had made many others weep), and he did not know the power of his tears. As those tears wet her face, Psyche's eyes opened, and she gazed upon him with wonder and love. She was alive!
As soon as the tree saw what had happened, it regained its leaves and shouted, "O Bird, Psyche lives!"
The bird grew back her feathers and shouted, "O Shepherd, Psyche lives!"
The shepherd's staff was restored and he shouted, "O Goat, Psyche lives!"
The goat got back his horns and shouted, "O Stream, Psyche lives!"
The stream's waters began to flow, and it shouted, "O Cook, Psyche lives!"
Then the soup pot was made whole again, whereupon the cook ran back home to begin preparing a wedding feast for Cupid and his darling Psyche.
And that is how Cupid and Psyche were married, and had a child named Joy, and then another named Harmony, and another, and another, I don't remember all the names, and so lived happily ever after.
Author's Notes
I based this story on the final task that Venus gave to Psyche, sending her down into the Underworld to get a jar of beauty form the goddess Proserpine (Persephone). But what Venus really instructed Proserpine to do was to put a fatal sleep into that jar, so Psyche falls into a "Stygian sleep" when she opens it to take a look; I added the part about a mysterious voice (Venus? the box itself? who knows) commanding her to open it. In the original version, Cupid comes down and just wipes the sleep away and puts it back into the jar.
I also added the part about Cupid's tears just because I thought that was more dramatic. In the original version, he doesn't grieve over Psyche; he just wakes her up. In my story, he really thought she was dead, like all the other mourners in the chain. In Apuleius, they had one child named Pleasure; I gave them more children. Also, I made the jar into a box because Waterhouse's painting used a box.
Bibliography
Image Credit
Psyche Opening the Golden Box by John William Waterhouse.
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