The Ferryman by Leslie Thompson (i like reading books txt) 📕

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?”