In the thousands of years that Charon could remember, he could not recall anything as stupid as the scene before him. Ramiel, the perpetually cheerful archangel and escort of righteous souls to Heaven, was engaged in an altercation with a former Olympian, Hermes. Ramiel regarded the ranting and raving former god with open amusement. The Olympian was screaming like a little girl in ancient Greek, his face shifting from white to purple in turns as he jabbed one-fingered salutes in the angel’s face. Ramiel uttered a startled, musical laugh that sent Hermes off the deep end of sanity. With a cry of fury he tackled the angel.
As the squabble escalated into a fistfight, Charon stalked off the loading dock of the Styx and went to the nearby crowd of mortal souls. They stared in fear and confusion at the angel and Olympian who were supposed to be their escorts through this last stage of their mortal lives. Instead of acting as the calming agents the Almighty had commanded them to be, Hermes and Ramiel were often catalysts of chaos. Their frequent battles frightened the dead and made them difficult to control. Since it was Charon’s duty to ferry these spirits to their ultimate destinations, the antics of Ramiel and Hermes made his job all the more difficult.
Hermes was still bitter about the Almighty’s destruction of the old system that had reduced him to the role of errand boy. He flew into rages at the slightest provocation, usually at any angelic who crossed his path. The angels could not understand why this arrangement would frustrate a creature that had once been worshipped by millions, and provoked him further by informing him that he should seek the Lord’s blessings.
By the time Charon herded the group of frightened spirits to the dock, Hermes was jumping up and down on Ramiel. The angel was perplexed by the physical abuse being inflicted upon him, but was otherwise unaffected. From the ground, Ramiel made kind inquiries of Hermes’ mental health between vicious blows.
“Don’t you think you ought to intervene?” asked a quietly dignified old man.
“No. Both are immortal and the angel cannot feel pain,” Charon snapped. “They can work it out on their own.”
He lined up the quaking souls and sorted through them. He picked out six who would not be getting on the boat. These six were individuals who had been rebellious enough in life that they would continue that habit in death. These souls would impede the journey through the Underworld, because they knew no other way to be. Charon would leave these spirits to wander the banks of the Cocytus region of the Styx, so that they could lament their misdeeds and resolve to better themselves. The Ferryman would return for them in a hundred years, but only if he felt like it.
Five of the six selected to stay ran wailing into the dense gray fog that marked Erebus, the boundary between life and death. A couple of them would likely find their way back to the mortal realm to haunt and torment the living that they encountered. The sixth lingered, whining and protesting his fate, insisting that he had done nothing to deserve it. Charon could smell the blood and chemicals still clinging to the spirit from decades of drug dealing and drive-by killings. So he sent the soul off with a snarl and a swift kick to his ass.
The rest went eagerly into the boat for fear of The Ferryman’s ire. Most crowded into the stern of the long, narrow craft to put as much distance between them and the ominous figure glaring at them. They stared in horror at the tall, scrawny man in the long, black robes that enhanced the gray pallor of his skin and made his gaunt face and bulging black eyes hideous. They huddled together and cried for what small comfort the dead could get from each other.
Only the old man chose to sit on a bench close to Charon’s position. His calm presence made The Ferryman paused to examine the soul. He had been very old when he died, with neatly combed, white hair and matching beetle brows over smiling blue eyes. The rest of him looked very much like any other old man, except that he was dressed in a fine suit with a matching silk tie and white scarf. The sight of the patriarch’s unflappability irked Charon to no end.
The old man regarded Charon calmly with his large, frail hands folded politely in his lap. “My name is Walter.”
“Good for you,” Charon growled, eyeing his expensive clothing. “Gimme the scarf.”
“No, I think I’ll keep it for now,” Walter replied mildly.
“Perhaps I will do something terrible to you for defying me,” Charon bullied.
“I’m already dead. What more can you do to me?” Walter shrugged.
“You’d be surprised by what more I can do,” Charon bared his long, white teeth in an angry grimace. Walter was not impressed. His bushy brows lifted as if he was dealing with a difficult child.
“The scarf is payment for a ride on the ferry,” Charon demanded. Walter’s eyes flicked to a glass jar marked ‘Tips’ sitting on the prow of the boat. It was empty.
“No, I don’t think so,” Walter said with a wry smile curving his lips. He paused a moment before commenting. “I thought a silver coin was the standard method of payment for a ride on the boat.”
“Times have changed,” Charon said, and gave up on the scarf. Bullying really was beneath him. Charon had more dignity than that and he knew it. He took his place at the prow and used a long pole to shove off from the dock.
The fight on shore was winding down. Ramiel was on his feet dangling Hermes by his belt at arm’s length, and wondering what he should do with him. Hermes was still throwing punches and striking only air. Walter sat quietly and studied the landscape while Charon guided the boat into the strong currents at the center of the river.
“So this is the Styx,” Walter said absently, as if he did not expect the Ferryman to answer him.
“It is. This is the first four parts of the great river, a region called Cocytus, the River of Lamentation,” Charon scrutinized the banks, looking for any signs of trouble. To his right was Eberus, named for Charon’s father the Primordial Darkness, and it was the realm in which all the dead must pass before they encountered the ferry. It was a dank, morbid place, full of oozing swamps and a forest of twisted, skeletal trees. A low, noxious fog clung to the ground and hid the dark, dangerous things that lay in wait to prey on errant souls. Every few seconds Charon would see the souls of the dying fade in and out of the haze while their bodies twisted in death throes in the material plane.
To Charon’s left was Hades, the land of the dead. In its prime the barren, rocky fields had been crowded with miserable souls. Now it was empty and dull. Even the massive, stark complex that had been the palace of the god Hades and his queen, Persephone, was empty and useless. Both of them were gone now, their great powers long faded. They had been relocated to a place the Almighty had deemed appropriate for them.
“You must be Charon, the Ferryman,” Walter commented. Charon squinted down at him, his interest in the aged spirit suddenly piqued. “You know me?”
“I read,” Walter shrugged. “At least I did when I was alive. I don’t think that I ever read anything that described this. The myths described the Underworld as crowded with the souls of the dead.”
“Things have changed since the last time a living mortal passed through here,” Charon replied, feeling his mood lift for the first time in centuries. It felt good to talk to someone who understood what he was saying, and wouldn’t compulsively shriek at him. Charon decided that he might like Walter after all.
“How so?”
“For instance, the pay structure is gone,” Charon said, indicating the empty tip jar. “When Hades ruled here, I charged a toll of one silver coin from every soul seeking passage on my boat. I left those who couldn’t pay or were improperly buried, on the dock. These days, only the rebellious souls are left behind.”
“What happened to Hades?”
“The Almighty took offense at Hades’ management style. He was sent away for extorting from the dead.” Charon missed the days when he took the coins as his due. The largest portion of his fees had gone to Hades, but Charon had found something soothing about hoarding useless, silver discs and looking at them from time to time. The Almighty had taken a more socialist attitude toward the deceased when he began the monotheistic reconstruction. Now every dead jackass on the planet was allowed a free ride on the boat, regardless of wealth.
“I can’t say that I disagree with that,” Walter said.
Suddenly, a soul appeared close to the water on the Erebus side of the river. It was a young man with saucer-big eyes and an open mouth. He let out an astonished shriek before he disappeared in a puff of swirling fog.
“What was that?” Walter asked, startled.
“Near death experience,” Charon replied. “Happens more often than you think. You popped in a couple of times over the years.”
“I don’t remember such a thing,” Walter frowned, thinking.
“Most don’t.”
Walter couldn’t think of any intelligent comment to say, so he let the conversation fall away. Charon turned his attention to steering the ferry and made corrections in its course with his long pole. Ahead were the tall, sheer cliffs that flanked the Cocytus and marked the place where the river entered Acheron the River of Woe, and the Underworld proper.
As the cliffs loomed closer, two gorgon figures became apparent. They were tall, monstrous creatures with the torsos of women and the tails of snakes where their hips and legs should have been. Their grotesque faces were swollen with putrid, spiteful eyes that glared down at the boat through hair made of writhing snakes. Since the days of old, these sisters had guarded the entrance to Hades and they did it well. Stone figures of mortals and monsters that have attempted to pass dotted the cliffs and the riverbanks below.
“Hail Charon!” called Sthenno, making the traditional greeting from her position on the cliff of Erebus. Her speech was as grotesque as the rest of her, spoken around her bulging tongue and long fangs.
“Hail Gorgons!” Charon called back politely. Even he was not immune to the petrifying glare of the gorgons. If he fell foul of the temperamental sisters, they might turn their deadly stares upon him. So he did all he could to stay on their good side. “What news have you of Acheron and the waters beyond?”
“It is the same as ever,” replied Euryale from the cliffs of Hades. “Full and fearful. Be warned, the Norse witch seeks you.”
“What does that crazy bitch want now?” Charon snarled. Of all the fallen deities of the ancient past, the old Viking goddess of death was one that the Ferryman despised. Hel had never been the most stable of gods, and she enjoyed being cruel about it too. To add to her malevolent disposition, the woman was a filthy, lice-ridden hag on top, while her lower half was decomposing corpse. She had atrocious body odor consisting of blood, sweat, and rot. Her nasty funk was so bad that it offended the Heavenly Host, and the angels gave her gifts of soaps, perfume, and deodorant on every holy day.
Hel had been demoted from her lofty position as goddess to caretaker of the various creatures and monsters that inhabit the lower realms. She had raged at the loss of her social prestige, but took to her new responsibilities like a vulture to road kill. She was often seen wandering the Underworld with scores of beasts in tow, giving them treats and calling them her ‘precious babies’.
“Cerebus has escaped her custody and Hel foolishly suspects that you have stolen him away,” Euryale said. “It is her desire to confront you and demand the hellhound’s immediate return.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” Charon growled.
“Fare thee well,” called Sthenno as the boat slipped between the cliffs.
“What is Hel doing here?” Walter asked. “I thought the Styx was a Greek place.”
“It was. Hel’s dominion was absorbed when she was demoted. Lucifer rules there now,” Charon explained.
“Why not send her off with Hades and the others?”
“Probably because the woman is insane, and she has body odor so bad that even the angels fear to get too close to her,” Charon replied. “Hel is happy enough with her beloved pets.”
“She sounds like the crazy cat-lady,” Walter observed dryly.
Startled by the irreverent comment, Charon laughed for the first time in a thousand years. The evil, ugly sound provoked a fit of terrified weeping from the souls at the back of the boat.
“Crazy cat-lady,” he chortled. “I’ll have to tell that to the gorgons. They’ll love it.”
They emerged from the cliffs and entered a valley. At its center was an oblong lake with waters as smooth as polished onyx. The lake was surrounded by meadows filled with black pumice stones, bordered by a forest of thick brambles and twisted oaks. In the distance, mountains like black teeth bit at the sky made blood red by a distant inferno.
More than the hideous landscape, the creatures that cavorted in the valley struck horror in the ferry passengers. A massive flock of harpies with hags’ faces and vultures’ bodies swooped up and down on frantic souls and tormented them. Some distance from them was a large man wearing nothing but a holly wreath and small shimmering wings sprouting from his shoulders. He carried a torch the wrong way up, and waved a sword over his head. He laughed and bellowed as he charged spirits and stuck his sword into any that fell into his reach. In a small pocket of peace, caught between the torment of the harpies and the sword-wielding maniac, was another naked man with wings sprouting out of his temples. He sang sweet nothings to a group of befuddled souls that staggered drunkenly about. Occasionally, one of these drugged spirits wandered into the path of a harpy or the mad swordsman and was torn apart. The soul would reappear seconds later, and the naked singer would flutter to them and pop a mushroom into their astonished mouths.
“What is this place?” Walter asked as his sagging face contorted with fear. “Is this Hell?”
“Not at all. Hell is much worse than this,” Charon said. “This is the place where the redeemable sinners go to be rehabilitated and achieve salvation.” He moved the boat out of the current and poled to the nearest shore. His dark eyes scanned the gloomy landscape for any sign of Hel. He saw nothing to indicate that the hag was nearby, so Charon wanted to make this delivery as fast as he could, before she realized that he was there.
“So what is this place called?” Walter rephrased the question, his voice carrying a note of horrified sorrow. The tone sounded strange to Charon, and he saw that the old man stared morosely at the scene around him.
“We are in the Acheron region of the Styx,” the ferryman answered. “This is where most of the dead get off.”
“I see. And what happens to the souls who stay here?”
“The harpies torment thieves, liars, and con-artists,” Charon said pointing at the sky. Then he pointed to the whooping swordsman. “The guy with the sword is Thanatos. He gets his rocks off poking adulterers, bitch-beaters, and thugs with his big shiny sword. The fellow with the wings sprouting out of his head is Hypnos, and he performs pharmaceutical experiments on drug dealers, gamblers, and prostitutes.”
“Do they stay for all eternity?” Walter asked with a nod to the tormented.
“Only until Judgement Day. Most of these souls will reform and be allowed to ascend to Heaven. Those who refuse to see the error of their ways will be sent to Hell.” Charon watched Walter digest the information, wondering why he looked so ill. “If you’re going to puke, do it out of the boat. I don’t want to smell ecto-plasmic stink for the rest of this trip,” he snapped. Walter nodded and turned to face the outside of the boat. With no sight of Hel, Charon beached the ferry on Acheron’s shores.
In every trip, there was always a portion of souls who refused to get off the ferry and face the consequences of their lives. They begged and pleaded, or they denied any wrongdoing and shifted blame. Charon could see the stains on their consciences like blood on snow and showed no kindness. Under normal circumstances, Charon simply let them fret themselves into fatigue and chucked them onto the shore like sacks of fertilizer. Then he would yell, “Come and get it!” and watch the harpies collect them as he pushed back into the water.
However, with the threat of the crazy cat-lady hanging over him, he didn’t have time for a leisurely soul disposal. Charon grasped a long handled hammer he kept to fend off pesky demons, beasts, and enthusiastic angels and braced it over his narrow shoulder. He glared down the length of the boat, noticing that there were plenty of fighters in this cargo.
“This is the last stop for most of you primates!” Charon announced. “Anyone who resists will be dealt with quickly and severely!” He brandished the hammer at them to prove that he meant what he said. Several of the potential troublemakers became immediately complacent. Still, a few individuals remained determined to be stupid. Charon moved through the ferry, shoving the appropriate spirits on the shoulder and snarling, “Get out!”
When he reached the incorrigibles, he simply cracked them on the skulls with the hammer and tossed them into the sand. With the boat nearly empty, Charon glanced about to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone. There were three men and a woman looking smugly relieved to still be there, and two small, weeping children left onboard. Someone was missing. He looked at the shore and found Walter standing among the departures.
“What the hell are you doing?” Charon shouted. “Get your wrinkled ass back on the boat!”
“I’m not staying?”
“Do you want to stay?”
Without answering, Walter hopped back on the ferry and sat back down with a relieved smile on his face.
“What were you thinking?” Charon snarled. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I would have had to fill out if you went missing? Then there would be angels and demons destroying the place, trying to see who would get to you first. This place would be a mess for decades.”
“My apologies,” Walter said warmly. “I truly believed I belonged here.”
“Are you a petty criminal?” Charon snapped.
“No. But neither were most of those people,” Walter pointed to the hysterical crowd on the shore. His eyes suddenly widened with fear and he gripped the bench hard with his gnarled hands. “Let’s go!” he cried.
Charon could smell the source of terror for the stoic old soul. Hel’s stink wafted into his nostrils and curled his lip into a sneer.
“Where is my baby?” Hel shrieked from the water’s edge. Behind her, the monstrous hound Garm burst out from the twisted oak forest with all the gleeful energy of a house sized puppy. The crowd saw him and let out shrieks of terror and fled for their dead lives. Like any four-eyed canine, Garm gave chase. He barked happily with his long tongue lolling out of his fanged mouth.
“I don’t have time for you!” Charon snarled at Hel. “Go find Cerebus on your own and leave me alone, you wretched hag!”
Hel regarded him hatefully then moved in a blur. She was on the Ferryman, clawing and biting, before he could bring his hammer up to defend himself. He fell with the death goddess howling and clinging to his chest like a rabid spider monkey. Charon struggled to keep her from setting her rotting teeth into his flesh, and fended off blows while she plaintively cried for her beloved baby.
“Pardon me,” Walter said suddenly. “But isn’t that Cerberus over there?”
Hel glared at Walter where he stood at the back of the boat with the remaining souls. The men and woman cowered behind him, and the two children bawled into his legs. Smiling, Walter pointed to the place where Garm was frolicking about the hordes of panicked souls. Outraged at having their fun interrupted, the harpies assaulted Garm’s four eyes while Thanatos and Hypnos stabbed blades and pummeled their fists against his legs and torso. The hound barked and snapped at the angry creatures and had a grand time.
“My baby!” Hel squealed and jumped into the lake. She shrieked affectionate platitudes as she paddled rapidly for the far shore. Walter laughed at the sight as Charon rushed to get the boat back in the water.
“You do know that the hound was not Cerberus,” Charon said as they reached the end of the lake and left the chaos in Acheron behind. They slipped unnoticed into Lethe, the River of Forgetfulness.
“I know,” Walter looked pleased with himself.
“You also realize that if Hel hadn’t been fooled, she would have ripped you to shreds and eaten you,” Charon said.
“Then it’s a good thing that she is as blind as she is crazy,” Walter replied. “Think of the paperwork you would have to do then.”
“I’m trying not to,” Charon growled.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” the old man said.
“I didn’t thank you.”
“I know,” came his cheerful reply.
“Then stop acting as if I did.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
Charon ground his teeth at Walter’s smug expression. “Gimme that scarf!”
“Not on your life!”
Seething, Charon flung the pole aside and retrieved a jar from the floorboards. He leaned over the side of the boat and scooped out some of the cloudy water from the Lethe. He held it out to the remaining souls as he spoke.
“It has already been determined that those of you who are still here will continue to be what you are, and there is nothing anyone in Heaven or Hell can do to change that. Therefore, Judgement has already been passed and your fates decided. Now it is necessary for you to forget your lives and concentrate on the hereafter. Drink.”
The woman and two of the men drank eagerly, but the last man hesitated.
“Drink it or be drowned in it,” Charon warned. Frightened, the man drank deeply. Next, with some help from Walter, the children drank the waters of Forgetfulness. Soon, they forgot their lost lives and could not remember why they should be afraid. After a moment the children were laughing and playing quietly at Walter’s side.
“I don’t have anything to forget?” Walter asked as Charon set the far of water aside.
“You’ll get it later,” Charon answered. “I’m not ready for you to become a dithering idiot yet.”
After a few moments of a thoughtful silence, Charon began to talk. He told Walter about working for Hades and his affection for Persephone. They both laughed as Charon told stories of Hercules’ antics that didn’t survive the storytellers or the passage of time, and both fell into melancholy when Charon related the tragedy of the loss of Pompeii.
Then, Charon spoke of the Almighty’s decision to assume all the management responsibilities of the Underworld and Heaven, and the havoc it had created. Charon recounted the day when the Son had entered the Land of the Dead and easily conquered Hades when he refused to acknowledge his sovereignty over him. He left with all the souls occupying the realm, leaving chaos and fear in his wake for those like Charon.
Charon complained of the new responsibilities thrust upon him in this new order. Technically, his duties were no different than the days when Hades had command. But more and more often, he found himself solving petty problems and making important decisions that should have gone to stronger shoulders. Worst of all was the paper work he had to fill out in order to justify his reasoning every time he did something new. The Ferryman noted that the reports hadn’t been required until Confucius died. Charon had dire plans for that man, should he ever lay hands on him.
Through it all, Walter listened. Sometimes he was thoughtful, other times he was sympathetic. But always he made some useful and intelligent comment that always felt like the right words at the right moment. By the time the boat was crossing the boundary into the Phlegethon, the River of Fire that burns but does not consume, Charon realized that he liked Walter. He would miss the old man from the moment he stepped off the boat and went on his way.
The water turned to acid and burst into flames in large patches at random points throughout the river. The longer the boat was in the water, the fiercer the fires grew until it all burned in a hellish blaze. In these wretched currents, the irredeemable souls were sent straight to Hell for Lucifer to begin their punishment. Happily, the amnesiac effects of the Lethe waters made disposing the rapists, murders, and genocidal maniacs easier to dispose of. The souls could not remember anything and so they jumped eagerly into the fire when Charon told them to.
The children cried in despair and Walter stared in horror at the men and woman who drifted, screaming in agony, into the small tributaries that led to the Pit. The old man did his best to comfort the small spirits, and stared bleakly at his shoes. Happily, the Phlegethon is a short river and the ferry was through it quickly.
The clean, clear waters of the true Styx led straight to the paths to Heaven. Charon glimpsed these golden roads many times, but knew that such a realm was not meant for the likes of him. This was a place of peace and joy, two concepts that Charon had no real knowledge of, but wished to experience. Most times he could ignore the impulse to plea for acceptance as he plunked another human soul at the shining gates, but there were times when he had to bite his tongue bloody.
“Hail Ferryman!” came the proud booming voice of one of the Almighty’s favorite dead mortals.
“It would be you the Lord sent today,” Charon sighed miserably. For any other Apostle, the Ferryman would have responded with the traditional reply and behaved politely. But Peter was self-righteous, and didn’t have a qualm about flaunting his role as favorite.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I caste the demons out of the children of a Roman governor?” Peter asked haughtily.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I kicked a prince into the Phlegethon, just for sneezing?” Charon snapped back. He turned his back on Peter as the mortal rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief. Charon handed Walter the remaining Lethe waters.
“It is time for you to move on,” he said quietly. Walter took the jar and drank it empty.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“It has been awhile since we last conversed on the subject of the Lord,” Peter called as Walter helped the children climb out of the ferry.
“I know he’s there. I don’t need to discuss it with you,” Charon growled.
“But do you know his love?” Peter asked snidely. Charon bristled at the implied insult. Peter enjoyed reminding the Ferryman of his low standing in the celestial state of things. His retort was stopped by the annoyed and astounded look on Walter’s face.
“Sir, you should be more respectful,” Walter told Peter firmly. “He works hard to complete his duties, and he has a good deal of nonsense to endure with out you adding to his misery.” He turned back to the ferry and dropped something from his pocket into the tip jar. Charon saw a silver money clip gleam through the dirty glass. “Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome,” Charon said, stunned. No one had ever expressed gratitude before. Usually, they were too eager to get away from him to say anything at all. It felt strange to feel so good about two simple words.
Peter had gathered the children and was calling for Walter to join them. For a moment it looked to Charon as if the old man might refuse and stay on the boat with him instead. Charon would be grateful for the company.
“Goodnight,” Walter said, offering his hand. Charon shook it briefly and gave him a respectful nod. As he watched, the old man’s eyes glazed over from the amnesiac effects of the Lethe, and the worst of Walter’s mortal life slowly slipped away from him. Charon memorized the quiet grace and firm dignity of the old man and murmured gently as Walter crossed through the Heavenly Gates.
“Godspeed, Mr. Cronkite.”

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.08.2011

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