IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING that Hell is an unattractive place, but the “vestibule” of Hell is uniquely ugly. I knew a woman once—a prophetess from Delphi—whose face was so empty, so void of emotion, you had to fight to keep from running when you saw her. A similar feeling crept over me now as I took in that bleak terrain. All was emptiness and monotony. No sky to distinguish from earth, no cloud or breeze, no warmth or cold . . . just league after league of soot and stone and gray, empty waste.
Thus it was with a feeling something like relief that I first caught sight of the river Acheron. I say something like relief because there was little about this river to suggest refreshment. From afar it resembled a snake, not only in form but in color. It had a sickly viridescent sheen to it, and where the water lapped against the shore, a brown foam bubbled and hissed over oily gravel. Diomedes and I stood on the bank, contemplating the river with wrinkled noses. A warm odor of rot emanated from it in wave after rancid wave. It was disheartening to think we had marched all this way to arrive at something so unpleasant.
Our guide, however, stood unperturbed, looking off across the water with folded arms, and after a while, we were able to make out a tiny shape on the horizon (or what passed for a horizon in the Underworld, for no sun would ever rise there). It was the ferry, and in it the demon Charon, whose burly shoulders worked the oar from side to side.
I had been planning this encounter for the last several hours but was caught quite off guard by Charon’s appearance. The demon seemed frail and old—a skeletal frame wrapped in a thin layer of pale flesh with a tangled mess of patched and stringy hair. His legs were bowed, and matted from hip to toe with a lattice of dark veins. No, this was not the dreaded Charon of our legends, nor was it the Charon I had encountered on my first trip to the Underworld. He had aged. In fact, the only thing about him that retained the suggestion of power was his broad back, which was crowded with layers of bulging muscle. With every movement, his shoulders swelled and shook, rippling like the great river itself. Indeed, the muscles themselves seemed to climb up his neck, forcing his bulbous head down in an ugly slouch.
“Woe to you, twisted souls!” he cried as he stepped from his boat, resting the oar on one shoulder. “Give up all hope of seeing the bright sun and sky! Your destiny is . . .” His voice trailed away as he examined first Diomedes and me, then the giant. As I said, Charon wasn’t much to look at overall, but his shoulders were impressive, and the pupils of his eyes were ringed with fire, as though the inside of his skull were the further wall of a furnace.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the giant, who stood motionless with his arms folded. “These are strange days indeed when the fallen ones walk side by side with living mortals in Hades.”
“Fallen one!” said the giant. He hunched forward as he spoke and leaned into the words, his voice low and flat. “I never fell.”
“Of course. Of course.” The ferryman snickered. “Not a fallen one, perhaps, but lacking the means to rise, just the same. If you are here to cross the river, think again. You don’t belong on the other side. The souls over there have earned their passage.”
Their conversation made precious little sense to me, but the giant was clearly agitated. I stepped between him and Charon, fearing a fight. “Lord of the River,” I said, “I am Outis of the Oudamoi, messenger of the gods. I come to you at the behest of Athena, Seat of Wisdom. My companion and I have been charged with navigating the nine rings of Hades. By her authority, I requisition your boat and order you to ferry us across the river.”
A wheezing laugh erupted from the fiend’s withered lips, and he raised his head just enough to look me in the eye. “The name you speak commands no authority whatsoever,” he growled. “If you haven’t the means to pay for the voyage, I haven’t the desire to help you.”
“Coin we do not have, but the goddess herself will compensate you for your trouble,” I said, deepening my voice for effect.
Charon sneered and turned back toward his boat.
“No. Wait. Sir,” cried Diomedes, “we don’t belong here.”
The demon let out another thin laugh. “You don’t belong here? Why, no one belongs here.” He lurched toward Diomedes, craning his neck sideways so he could look up into his face. “I have been here for nigh eternity, ferrying souls to the Underworld. You think I asked for the job? I was born to this slavery by my cursed parents. Look at yourselves! At least you are alive—a pleasure I have never known—not once! And for this reason, even the miserable shades I ferry into Hades are more fortunate than I.”
His voice dropped to a secretive whisper. “This is why the stipend is so important, you see. I am saving up. Hoping to buy my way out. Hoping if I pass a little gold His way, the Authority might be tempted to give me a little break. Or turn me loose altogether—let me stir up a little trouble topside, if you know what I mean.” The old wretch looked out across the river and leaned on his oar. “What I wouldn’t give to feel rain on my face—to look upon the sun and feel its heat on my brow. What I would pay to feel a squirrel’s fur beneath my fingers and snap its delicate little neck. How I would love to break a single living bone between my fists, to dip my hands in warm blood to the elbows, taste the sweat off a cripple’s brow . . .”
He looked at us then with a particular lustful curiosity that caused us all to take a slow step back. Then he shook his head and sighed, casting his gaze across the swampy river with such longing that I almost felt sorry for him. “You ridiculous mortals have no idea what life is worth till you’ve lost it. How often have you held beauty in your hands and did not even know it? Or knew and didn’t care? I’d give a hundred thousand pounds of gold to live long enough to destroy just one beautiful thing. But He won’t have any of it. Not yet, anyway. Not enough gold to tempt the Authority. Not yet. Not yet, anyway . . .” His voice was lost in dream.
“Please, sir,” said Diomedes, “have pity.”
“Pity?” the demon cried, his dream deferred. “My, my! Next you’ll be asking for my oar and my boat as well. You will find neither pity nor mercy down here, I assure you.” His voice trailed off again. “On the other hand”—he looked me over with a crooked smile, and my spirits lifted a little—“that bow of yours might be worth something. Give me that, and I’ll take you across. But just you. Not your friends.”
“Sir, your price is too dear,” I answered.
“You and your friend, then. But not the big one.”
“I could not part with it.”
“All three of you. But I want the bow ahead of time.”
“Charon, mighty mariner of Acheron, Lord of Oar and Skiff, we have nothing to offer you but our prayers and heartfelt thanks.”
“Oh joy!” he chortled. “Your heartfelt thanks! I was just thinking to myself how nice it would be to have some heartfelt thanks. ‘Some heartfelt thanks,’ I said to myself. ‘I could use some of that right now. Would make my job a lot easier.’ ” He spat at me.
“The gods will reward your generosity,” I replied.
“The gods?” Now the old rascal dissolved in a fit of hacking laughter. “Who do you think put me here? Besides, you cannot have any idea how many times I have heard just exactly those words.”
He lurched back to his skiff, shaking his head and muttering. “Generosity. Ha. Pity. Mercy. Ha. Ha. Come back when you have your fare.” I looked at Diomedes as the ferryman set one foot aboard his boat. Diomedes had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and as our eyes met, he gave a slight nod. I signaled to him with three fingers. Two. One. Then in a single, ringing motion, the two of us pounced. I took one stride to the right, coming up from under with my sword, and Diomedes from above on the left.
I had hardly begun to move when I felt myself propelled backward with such force that I seemed to leave my armor behind. Without even turning, the old demon swung his oar around his head, catching Diomedes under his outstretched arm and me square in the chest. I tell you—and this comes from a man who personally wrestled the giant Ajax—I had never been hit like that before. The force of the blow was so hard, not only did it knock the wind from my chest, but it knocked thoughts clear out of my head.
Diomedes lay sprawled on the rocks, wheezing and trembling. “Giant,” he croaked between gasps, “help us.” But there was no answer from our guide. He actually retreated a step. The demon, noticing his reaction, gave another sneer and pushed himself from shore. Soon he was paddling away.
Diomedes raised himself on all fours and watched, grief stricken, as our only hope of crossing the river drew further and further off. He threw a handful of sand at me. “Odysseus, do something.”
I was in no condition to act. My lungs felt as though they were full of tar, and it took most of my strength just to lie on my back and gasp. But I do know a thing or two about guile. And I know my way around a bow. I reached into my quiver and drew the first arrow to hand—the green one. Then, still lying on my back, I braced the golden bow against my feet and drew the string with both hands. I winged a prayer to the Parthenos and let fly our only hope.
It was a perfect shot, planted squarely between the old monster’s burly shoulders. Diomedes whooped, and the giant raised both hands over his head and held them there as if he were gripping an enormous ball. I did my best to look indifferent, though I was equally surprised. There was more to these arrows than met the eye.
Charon let out a hideous shriek, dropped his oar in the water, and clawed at his back with both arms; but for all his thrashing and flailing, the sheer breadth of his shoulders prevented him from reaching the barb—and just like that, I had a plan. I yelled at him from the shore. “Charon,” I shouted, “take us across the river, and I will remove that arrow!”
There was more screeching and clawing and a flurry of curses, but in the end he fished his oar out of the water and paddled his little boat back to us.
“Remove it now, and I will take you,” he growled.
“Take us,” I answered, “and I will remove it once we are safely across.”
“The second we get to the other side, you’ll find some excuse to step off for a moment, and I’ll never see you again.”
I grimaced. This was exactly what I had in mind. “Be that as it may,” I said, trying to force a smile, “you have no other choice. You can trust me, or you can spend the rest of eternity trying to dig that arrow out on your own. Either way, I don’t see how it could hurt you to take us across.” I retrieved my quiver from the sand. “And besides, I have six more arrows. There’s room in that broad back of yours for at least two more.”
Charon looked me over with disgust, snorted, and then gestured for us to board the ferry.
If the breeze had not been so foul and the water so polluted, if the destination had not been so dreadful and our ferryman so hostile, if the company had not been so overwhelmingly despondent and our guide so obviously nervous, I might have enjoyed the ride. Charon was no sluggish rower, even with the arrow planted between his shoulders, and our tiny boat skimmed the water like a ship under sail. I sat with drawn sword on one side, while Diomedes and the giant sat guardedly on the other.
I have a long scar on my right thigh—an injury I sustained as a boy. It itches when I’m worried or nervous, and let me tell you, it was tingling now; but as I watched the far shore grow distant in the mist, my anxiety yielded to a dull misery. Thus far in our journey—and we hadn’t been at it for long—every one of my schemes had failed. The door hadn’t opened, the giant hadn’t listened to me, and Charon had seen through my lie before I’d even told it. Was I losing my edge? The arrow between the shoulders had been a lucky shot, to say the least. So if I wasn’t the wily, silver-tongued Master of Plots and Schemes, what use was I to Diomedes or myself or anyone else? I had never been a great fighter, but I had made up for my lack of skill with cunning. Had even that deserted me?
And then there was a nagging—if novel—sense of guilt over having disobeyed the Parthenos. She had always been good to me, yet I’d broken my word to her the moment I saw the door. As though it came naturally to me—which, of course, it did. And I was about to break my word again.