Black water splashed and swirled around the oar. Charon pulled it from the river, dripping wet and covered in algae, only to plunk it back in a few feet forward. He moved the boat along at a leisurely pace. He did this all day, every day. Clearly, he was in no hurry.
Michael sat beside the shades, hearing their incessant mumblings. He tried to stave off the fear of where he was and what he was headed to. “I, uh … I like this little setup you’ve got here …”
“Eh?”
“This ferry gig,” Michael elaborated, trying his best not to embarrass himself. “The dead people, you know … They’ve got to get across the river, and you’re the only one to take them.” He paused for a moment, awkwardly groping for something else to say. “Very … capitalistic, you know.”
“It’s a living.” The ferryman spoke without facing Michael. His eyes continued to stare across the expanse of coal‑black water.
When Charon didn’t continue, Michael nodded his head, saying, “I’ll bet.” After another moment, he added, “So … um … How much would you say you take in … in, like, a week or something?”
“Enough.”
“Ah … Yes …” Michael fidgeted in his seat, looking from one shade to the other. “Enough for what?”
Charon rowed on, apparently paying no heed to the question.
“I mean … like … what do you do with all those coins.”
The oar plopped out of the water and plunked back in again. Plop. Plunk. Plop. Plunk. Then, just when Michael thought the conversation was over, the ferryman answered, “I save them.”
“Frugal. That’s a good quality.”
“I store them in my dwelling‑place at the shore.” Plop. “I have a chest.” Plunk. “With a lock.” Plop. Plunk.
Michael considered this carefully, then ventured, “So you don’t really … do … anything with them?”
“Not much call for money, down here.”
“Oh …” There was an awkward silence. “If that’s the case …” Michael stopped for a moment, hoping he wouldn’t come off sounding very stupid. “… You might as well do it for free, I’d think.”
“I don’t run a charity.”
“Of course not.” Michael shifted nervously in his seat, hoping the gruffness in the ferryman’s voice was just a product of his aged vocal cords and not an indication of anger.
Charon’s silence did little to reassure him. The boatman continued staring forward, motionless save his constant rowing. Plop. Plunk. Plop. Plunk.
Finally, the shore began to emerge from the darkness, and Charon broke the silence. “Cerberus guards the gate.” He reached into his robe, pulling out a small object. “You’ll need this if you hope to get past.”
Michael extended his arm to take the object that was offered to him and examined it. As Charon turned back to watch the way ahead, he observed, “It’s a chicken bone.”
“You must keep your wits about you, stranger. Ahead of you lies great peril. To survive, you will have to use every means at your disposal.”
“But,” Michael reiterated, “it’s a chicken bone,”
The boat reached the shore, Charon pushing it onto land with his oar. The shades onboard disembarked, hurrying forth to meet their respective destinies. As Michael stepped foot onto the sand, the ferryman said, “Farewell, mortal. If the Fates decree it, perhaps we shall meet again … before your allotted time.”
“But it’s a chicken bone …”
Charon sighed in exasperation. “You Americans … I suppose you’d rather have an AK. For the gods’ sakes, I said I’d carry you over the river, not hold your hand the whole bleeding way. Figure out the rest yourself. It’s not that bleeding complicated.” With that, he pushed the ferry back into the water, mumbling in irritation to himself about what the world was coming to these days.
Michael sighed heavily, turning inland. Ahead of him, he could see the great stone gate. In front of it, a monstrous, three-headed canine—Cerberus—sat on its haunches. Its six fiery eyes kept an astute watch on the shades that had accompanied Michael as they entered the gate, then turned to Michael, himself, as if daring him to come within twenty feet. Michael gathered up his courage and stepped forward to meet it.
In response, the beast rose, its body tensing in anticipation of battle, a low growl emanating from its slavering lips. Black sand puffed into the air around an enormous paw as it took one step towards the trespassing mortal.
From Michael’s throat came only a nervous gulp. He lowered his eyes, looking helplessly toward his open palms.
Cerberus’ eyes followed the mortal’s down, stopping at his hands. Then, the creature’s snarling stopped. Three tongues lolled over three sets of fangs, panting, as the monster sat back down, eagerly watching the human.
Seeing this, Michael looked from Cerberus to his hands and back to Cerberus, again. Then, he pulled his right hand back and flung the chicken bone as hard as he could.
With obvious joy, the great beast bounded off after the prize, its paws thudding loudly against the ground. Its left head snatched the bone up, only to have the right head try to pull it away as the third head—stuck in the middle—struggled to participate in the action without being crushed by its two brothers.
posted by arthbard at 7:11 pm on Monday, September 28, 2009
[ 2 comments ]
September 28th, 2009 at 10:51 pm
That Charon character reminds me of a bunch of old farts I know…They wish they had that kind of power.
October 3rd, 2009 at 9:48 pm
Maybe your old farts should should try putting in a job application with the Underworld. Charon’s been doing that job for thousands of years. He’s bound to come up for retirement sooner or later.