Charon chuckled, or perhaps the sound was simply the gentle lapping of the river on the shoreline. He turned and took up the oars. ‘Alive or no, you have paid your fare. Come.’
I boarded the little boat, glancing back at the shore where the ghosts paced and moaned, gradually becoming smaller as the ferryman pushed his boat into the current. Styx seemed like any other river, save that its waters were ebony black. The boat scarcely disturbed their depths with its passage, leaving behind only a faint chevron of ripples. I stared at the back of Charon’sfaded robe and wondered what his life was like. If he ever rested, if he had a wife or child of his own.
I did not dare ask any of these questions; instead, I gazed idly at the waters. I noticed a face staring back at me. Though the boat moved rather swiftly, the face seemed to keep pace with it. At first I thought it my own reflection, but as I peered more closely at the strange apparition, I saw that it wore an old-fashioned helmet. I leaned closer, wondering if this was an ancestor of mine, a king of ancient Mycenae or a hero, perhaps Perseus himself …
A sharp rapping snapped me out of my reverie, and I realized that I was hanging from the side of the boat with my face nearly in the water. I scrambled back, my feet drumming against the wooden deck, making the boat sway with my movements.
The knocking had come from Charon, tapping his oar against the hull like a tutor correcting an errant pupil. I could not read his face, still shrouded in darkness, but I heard the scold in his thin voice. ‘Do not lose yourself in visions,’ he said as he dipped his oar back into the black waters. ‘Souls end up in this river for a variety of reasons, but all are united in their desire to escape. They would take your living body for their own if they could.’
I nodded, chagrined. Medusa had warned that this place would try to pull me in. And here I had almost fallen into the water like a foolish child, reaching for the image of the hero I would never be.
We soon arrived at the far shore, where Charon tied his boat to a humble dock. The castle I had seen from a distance towered above us, looming in its majesty. Beyond it were the Fields of Asphodel, where the souls of the dead spent their eternities, but I had a different goal. I disembarked and nodded to the ferryman.
‘I know who you are and why you have come. Such storiesreach us even here,’ Charon said in a voice like the creaking of a tomb door. ‘If you succeed, I will carry you back. You have my word.’ Before I could reply, Charon pushed his boat into the current, back towards the far shore.
I watched him go, then turned to walk a dirt road to the looming white walls above me. The path led around the alabaster perfection of the castle, but I could see no doors or windows, not even a servant to ask for directions.
Time passed, and my legs grew weary. I was certain that I had passed this particular withered tree before. I sensed I was being toyed with, like a child reaching for a sweet dangled just out of reach. Frustration filled me, even as my lungs burned with cold air and my muscles began to ache. I hadn’t come all this way only to be faced with indifferent walls, running laps around a featureless edifice until my time expired.
I turned a corner and a cluster of three old women weaving and gossiping came into view. This would have been a common sight in Mycenae or any other place under the eye of the living sun, but here their appearance filled me with unease. The three women were indistinguishable, all ancient, with their hair falling in pale white tufts around wrinkled faces. They watched me with eyes like black beads nested at the centre of a spiderweb, though their hands continued to move, never breaking their rhythm.
I realized that they were not actually weaving. Instead, they were cutting thread. One unspooled the thread from its skein, holding it between ancient knuckles gnarled as the roots of a yew tree. The second woman measured this thread, the tremor of her hand not disturbing her accuracy. The third used rust-coated scissors to snip it.
My skin prickled. These were no ordinary old women. They were the Moirai, the Fates, those goddesses who measure thelength of a mortal’s life. Had they come to see my story for themselves?
The Fates whispered among each other as I passed, rheumy eyes crawling over me. I could hear snatches of what they were saying, like words of a song caught on the wind.
‘… such a shame about the war …’
‘What do you think she’ll do when the child …’
‘… I hope she doesn’t … her husband …’
I froze. In that moment, I wanted more than anything to turn and beg them to tell me the end of my tale. The Fates knew the future, and they could show me the way forward.
But I could not risk undoing my progress, not even for knowledge of what was to come.
I bowed my head in deference to the women and continued past. I did not need to hear them weave my future. I was certain to attain my goal for one very simple reason – I refused to fail.
I considered the nature of the obstacles in my path.Don’t let grief burden you. Don’t lose yourself in visions. Don’t resign yourself to the Fates.
Suddenly a door appeared in front of me, heavy wood set into the palace walls, the first I had seen. I knew who waited for me on the other side of the door with a certainty as cold as the stones beneath my feet. I turned the handle and heard the old hinges creak, then waited to be escorted to the queen of the Underworld.
40
Psyche
Persephone.
Her cheeks were smooth as the petals of flowers, white shading into red along the flawless lines of her face. They were like the perfect halves of a pomegranate, though her eyes were as sharp as flint.
Persephone sat on the throne as though it had been made for her. She loomed above me on the far end of the room, a spiked onyx crown resting on her brow. The more modest seat beside her was empty, and there was no trace of Hades. This was no surprise; even mortals knew who truly ruled here. When Odysseus and his men sought to call the spirits of the dead during their long journey home from Troy, they would pay homage not to Hades, but to Persephone.
At first, I mistook the ivory designs on Persephone’s throne for inlay or fine decoration. Then I noticed the length of a femur along the armrests and the rounded dome of a skull under each delicate hand. And flowers, everywhere flowers, even in this lightless place. Real ones blooming from pots lining the walls, false ones gracing the sides of her throne in a profusion of jewels.
Persephone, the goddess of springtime. Death gives rise tolife, and rotting corpses fertilize the soil so that crops can grow. In many ways, Persephone was better suited to the domain of death than her husband, who had been assigned to it by edict of Zeus.
She, on the other hand, had been born for it.
