H	e was looking particularly tired; stumbling into the poorly lit pub and settling down at a corner table, loosening his tie. Motioning to the bartender, he ordered two Irish Coffees, with a sad frown, handing over his credit card. “Ah, are you expecting someone to join you?” A sigh. “No… Today is the fifth anniversary for my wife’s death… Cancer.” The bartender nodded, understanding, as he placed the card on the tab rack, making a mental note to try to divert some traffic from that corner. Delivering the drinks, the bartender almost empathically knew to place one of the glasses at the table’s second chair, opposing the widower. “I hope she did not suffer much?” “No, the doctors claim she went peacefully… though, she was so drugged, she didn’t even recognize me toward the end…” “I see… If you need anything else, just signal me; I’ll try to make sure you won’t be bothered by the other guests.” “Thank you.”
I	t took about half an hour before he noticed the tall, gaunt man in the black suit occupying the opposing chair, watching him intently. “Five years, and you have, what, mourned your loss every single day? Greg Simons, you are an astonishing individual. Most people would have moved on with their lives by now, but not you, no… you keep longing for your dead wife every day of the week.” Greg jerked upright. “Who are you? How do you…?” The stranger smiled enigmatically. “Who am I? That is a good question… I have been known by many names over the ages, though I have never really had a true name of my own… As for how I know, well… It was your wife’s last wish in life that you should be watched over. You should feel honored; few people ever manage to drag a promise from me, but your wife did.” Greg paled slightly. “You… knew my wife?” “I suppose that’s a fair assessment, though present tense would be more appropriate. We’re on quite good terms, she and I. And she suggested I should approach you to make an offer…” Greg leant forward. “Offer? What kind of offer?” The gaunt stranger became serious. “It is a great risk… are you familiar with the legend of Orpheus and Euridyce?” “Greek bard who went to Hades to get his beloved, right?” “Very good. Yes, that is exactly what I am offering: a chance to bring your wife back. But it is neither without peril nor necessary sacrifice.” Greg grimaced. “No sacrifice or peril is too great.” The stranger nodded. “That’s what your fair Maria said, as well… Know this: if you successfully bring her back here, your lifespan will be bound to hers… For every year that goes by, you will age two. For every injury or ailment, you will both suffer… And the perils are many, some unknown to even me.” Greg swallowed hard and nodded. “So be it. I’m going to get my wife back, no matter.” The stranger nodded. “Very well; let us adjourn.” He touched the wall, and a big doorway appeared where wooden paneling had been before. “One final warning: fail, and you shall never meet your wife again, not even in death.” Greg nodded and stepped through the doorway, the stranger hurrying after. “Humans of this age… never patient to wait for the guides…”
G	reg found himself standing at the bank of a great flood, the other man slowly stepping up next to him. “Hesitant? Good, you should be. This water is known to sap away memories…” Greg turned on him. “It is the river Styx, right? Why didn’t you warn me…?” “I did give you a hint, when I mentioned Orpheus, did I not? Anyway, no need to be upset; we’ll take my boat. By the way, you can call me Charon, like the Greeks did.” Greg nodded and followed.
T	en minutes later, Greg wondered about the anachronism he witnessed; sure, it was comfortable, but since when did an ancient Greek ferryman employ a small yacht to cross the river? “The marvels of modern mechanics, eh, Mr. Simons?” “Yeah, but when did you get a motorized boat for the job?” Charon smirked. “Well, let’s just say that with every passenger paying me a coin for safe passage… well… the interest rates finally started amounting to something. You might find it even more interesting to know that I, through various anonymous holdings, have funded much medical research and several hospital facilities.” Greg frowned. “Odd; I’d think you would be more likely to invest in weapons research.” Charon raised an eyebrow. “Why would I bother? People die often enough; I have no reason to accelerate the process.” Greg pondered. “I suppose you have a point…” Charon grinned. “I often do. Ah, we’re reaching the shore; all passengers please disembark on the left side, and beware the water.” Greg stared at the gangplank, where several pale, almost translucent people drifted down to the ground with a vacant stare on their faces. “Um… Charon?” “Yes?” “Who… who are these people?” Charon chuckled. “Now, now, Mr. Simons, that is a rather silly question.” “They’re dead?” “Quite so. And for all purposes in the mortal world right now, so are you… only you have the option of returning; just be glad that time has no relevance here.” Greg just stared along the queue, watching as the departed walked casually past the biggest, ugliest dog he’d ever seen. Not only that; it had three heads, too. “That dog…” “You mean old Squiffy?” “Squiffy? That doesn’t sound like the name of a hellhound… Especially not the hellhound that guards the underworld.” Charon smiled. “Well, you must realize that even three-headed hellhounds don’t live forever… Squiffy here was thought to be the runt of the litter, but he turned out to be the strongest and smartest for fifteen generations. He’s supposed to guard the gate, to keep the dead in, and the not so dead out. We’ll have to get past him, by the way.” Greg glared. “Now you tell me. Thank you. Can you also tell me how?” “Not a clue. You might as well look around for something to use. Orpheus used music; I fear you shall have to think of something else.” Charon jumped effortlessly onto the shore, waiting patiently. After a few minutes, Greg appeared, wearing a pair of rubber gloves and carrying a full bucket. “Well, Charon, you said the water was amnesia-inducing. Let’s see how good it is.”
T	hey ran, gigantic jowls snapping shut behind them until there was a sudden snap, and Squiffy was jerked back, having reached the end of the chain’s reach. Greg and Charon slipped into an alcove as Squiffy coughed up a fireball after them. “Marvelous work, Mr. Simons. Brilliant. ‘Let’s throw the water at the hellhound; after all, his skin isn’t more than about 500 degrees Fahrenheit!’ Your wife really must love you!” Greg glared back. “You don’t exactly find hellhounds in ordinary pet shops; the literature on them is kind of sparse. Hey, at least we got through, right?” Charon huffed. “Yes, well… On the way back, you go first and make sure I can pass safely.” They slowly gazed toward the end of the tunnel. In the distance, it opened up to an indeterminable plain, possibly grassland. Charon sighed. “Well, I reckon Squiffy’s lost interest in us for now… let’s go on, shall we?” Stepping out into the open, Greg gasped at the comforting sunlight. “So warm and gentle… This is where I’ll go when I die?” Charon shrugged. “I don’t know, actually. You see, what happens to you after you die is mostly defined by what you deep inside believe will happen… You’d be amazed at some of the fates of certain souls.” Greg frowned at a cage that seemed strangely out of place in the scenery, in which some sort of half-reptile, half-squid did indescribable things to what seemed to be a woman. If so, she was mostly obscured, anyway. “So, what did she do to deserve that?” Charon glanced over at the cage, then at a small plaque at the bottom. “Um… You don’t want to know. But judging by what this states about her mortal conduct, I don’t think she’s unhappy with the arrangements.” Greg grimaced. “Man, I didn’t know the human body could be twisted like that.” Charon snickered. “You forget, this is a place where physical bodies don’t mean anything. A soul is infinitely more adaptive to anatomical peculiarities than a body of flesh and blood.” Greg twitched again and dragged Charon off along the path.
A	bout half a mile down the road, relatively speaking, they found a guy straining with a big boulder, trying to roll it up a mountainside. Greg stared for a few moments. “Sisyphus, right?” Charon nodded. “Yep; poor guy’s been working on that boulder for a few millennia now. Why?” Greg shrugged, picking up a few suitable rocks from the ground and scrambling up the hill. “You know, rolling a rock up a hill like that’s got to feel kind of pointless when the damn thing keeps tumbling down again all the time.” Sisyphus spared him a glance. “I don’t suppose you can think of something better?” Greg grinned, holding up the rock. “Try wedging these in underneath it for support? Keep it from dropping down on the other side.” Sisyphus stared. “That is… ingenious. Why haven’t anyone thought of that before?” Greg shrugged. “Well, maybe nobody thought about the use for it before?” Sisyphus grunted and rolled the boulder into place as Greg jammed the smaller rocks under it for support. The boulder wobbled precariously, then settled down as Sisyphus visibly relaxed. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a goblet of wine right now.” Charon raced up to drag Greg away as Sisyphus collapsed on the hillside, finally getting some sleep. “Mr. Simons, I must warn you never to do that again. You may have pulled it off this once, but there are some vengeful gods out there who don’t know the meaning of the word ‘sympathy’. Granted, some of those gods don’t know the meaning of the word ‘meaning’, either, but nonetheless, interfering with their plans, however meager those plans may be, is dangerous.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous how?” “The last one who ticked off a major deity like that is now forced to fly around the world once every year, delivering presents to children without being allowed to see their happy faces. Ever.” Greg thought for a moment. “Fat bloke, dresses in red, has a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer?” “The same.” “What did he do to earn such a punishment?” Charon shuddered. “Something that does not bear thinking of. Suffice to say he got a pantheon or three upset at the same time.” “Okay; I don’t want to know.” As they turned away, there was an even bigger boulder at the foot of the hill, and a voice boomed. “Sisyphus, you have finally managed to get the boulder to rest atop the hill. Now, this boulder must rest atop the other one. Take your time.” Greg and Charon skulked off along the path, Sisyphus’ wailing and moaning ringing in their ears for about half an hour.
T	hey stopped in front of a great building just a little while after sunset. Greg looked up at a pair of ravens that glared down from the roof. “Well, this looks like a pleasant place. What do you say we look inside, maybe get a night’s rest?” Charon stroked his chin. “That may not be so wise… but it’s your quest, not mine. I’m just tagging along.” Greg grinned and pushed the door open. “Oh, come on, what could happen in here? It sounds like they’re having a party, even.” The term ‘party’ was, on the whole, the understatement of the afterlife. As far as the eye could see, people were chomping down huge slabs of pork, washing them down with copious amounts of mead, and, as it appeared, telling rather rowdy tales to one another, while a one-eyed old-timer was playing chess against a severed head at the far end of the hall. Charon peered nervously inside as Greg was drawn to a table and handed a plateful of meat and a large mug. “Mr. Simons, I think we’d do wisely to get out of here while it’s still dark.” Greg, getting into the scene, swallowed a greasy sliver of meat. “Why? This looks like it’s a party until the end of the world.” Charon slowly shook his head, pointing out some of the more prominent figures in the hall. “This is only a party half the time… Come morning, everyone will rush out to beat the crud out of each other.” Greg blinked a couple times, and then looked at the two revelers beside him. Both were clad in rough leather hides, and had an axe strapped to their belts. “Valhalla, right?” “Yep. Unhealthy place for those without weapons.” Greg swallowed and started inching his way to the door, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible while trying to register any movement in his general direction at the same time. He was a foot from the door when the sun rose. Charon reached in, grabbed him by the jacket and started running. “I recommend we make haste, Mr. Simons. It appears that time decided to be more relative than usual today.” Greg didn’t bother to answer, as he was too busy keeping a few inches of air between his back and the various brands of weaponry trying to reach him.
“D	o you think we lost them?” Greg leaned against a tree, trying to catch his breath. Charon glared at him. “If not, I’m inclined to let them have us. I mean, what could we do? Kill them again?” Greg chuckled, despite himself. “Well, I suppose there’s a way we could have persuaded them to kill each other first, while we made our escape.” “We could head back and try that, you know.” Greg just glared. “Just a suggestion.” Greg glared harder. “I never said it was a good suggestion.” Greg just shook his head and motioned to continue. A bit further up the road, a fork presented itself. The sheer obscurity of it was, by now, becoming mostly a minor nuisance to Greg’s perception of reality: at least, up to the point where the fork actually tried to strike up a conversation. Charon shook his head. “Don’t bother, Mr. Simons. That’s a piece of accursed silverware. It will at best just poke your gums. At worst, it will keep talking until you choose to use it to pierce your eardrums.” The fork glared up at the two of them, as much as a piece of tableware is able to have expressions. “Oh, thanks a lot, buddy. Say, aren’t you on the wrong side of the entryway? You’re supposed to handle the ferrying business, not guide people around here.” Greg sighed and forcefully kicked the fork into the ditch, trotting onward. “You know, this whole endeavor is giving me a rather cynical outlook on the afterlife.” Charon chuckled. “At least you have some forewarning. Many find themselves in quite surprising situations, even when they, deep down, know they deserve what they get.” They passed a man who was laughing happily at a massive machine that seemed to be doing some form of calculations, driven entirely by steam and a complex system of mechanics. Greg pointed a thumb at him. “Like him? Who is that, anyway?” Charon cast a glance at the mechanical behemoth. “Oh, that’s just Charles Babbage, whipping up the equivalent of a Cray.” Greg halted for an instant. “Babbage’s Logical Machine?” “Know any others?” “So he actually made it work?” “He deserved to see it work, even if it wasn’t in his lifetime. He’s happy.” “Obviously.”
T	hey were topping a small hill overlooking a tiny farmhouse. (In fact, the hill was blithely ignoring the farmhouse, but that’s beside the point.) Charon pointed. “That’s where Maria is waiting. Shall we?” Greg nodded, picking up the pace somewhat. Then, a tall, red-skinned, imposing figure appeared before him, holding a small clipboard and a thick book. “Mr. Simons, I’ve been made aware of an unauthorized breach into the thereafter.” Greg jerked to a halt. “Thereafter? Isn’t that supposed to be ‘hereafter’?” The demon shook his head. “No. Thereafter, as this is the hereafter, and there is where you came from. But that is just legalese. What matters is that you have, by unauthorized means, breached the black veil and reached the afterlife, with the intent of retrieving another soul and return to life.” Greg sighed. “Let me guess… you’re not going to permit that right away, are you?” The demon grinned, shaking his head. “You have but one chance: to give me a task I cannot possibly perform. If you fail, your soul is mine to play with as I choose. But be warned, there’s nowhere I can’t go, or not return from, there’s no question I don’t know the answer to… so you might as well give up right now. Of course, you still have the option of returning, no questions asked…” Charon laid a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “What’s it going to be, Mr. Simons? I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help here.” Greg seethed, clenching his fists over an over, trying to think up a suitable oath for the situation and coming up blank. “Oh, just get lost!” The demon stiffened, dropping his clipboard. “Oh, bugger…” There was an unpleasantly organic noise, and the demon disappeared, only to be replaced by a small, greasy smear on the ground. Charon gaped. “I’m… impressed. The one thing he couldn’t do was to get lost…” Greg snickered. “Yep. I saw it on an episode of ‘Twilight Zone’.” Charon coughed. “Well, dirty tricks, while unfair, do work admirably…” Greg shrugged and sped down the hillside, running into the arms of his dear wife, who was standing there waiting. The reunion was elaborate, happy, and entirely inappropriate for describing in written form. Mostly since a man and his wife have the right to a little bit of privacy. Charon wisely stayed in the background. At last Greg stepped out of the farmhouse, smiling happily. “Hey, Charon, you want to know something?” Charon smiled, bemused. “Let me guess… you’ve decided to stay, instead?” Greg nodded. “I figure, if my option was to just age at twice the speed while staying with Maria, well, what’s there to lose? In here, I don’t see any real problems; this little farm should provide all we need, and we’re still together.” Charon nodded. “Fine, so be it… In fact, I sort of anticipated this, so all I have to do is to file the paperwork.” Greg nodded as Charon turned to leave. “Enjoy your afterlife, Mr. Simons. And if you have any questions, your wife has my phone number.”
C	haron whistled as he stepped aboard his boat, having only paused to pet Squiffy on the way. “Hey, Charon! Aren’t we forgetting something?” Charon turned to face a rather smug-looking man with a goatee and a conspiratorial air about him. “What would that be, Loki?” Loki smirked, stepping up to the pier. “Well, the subject of our wager is not here, so I presume he never made it…” Charon chuckled, tossing down a small crystal ball. “Scry it and weep, chum. He didn’t fail; he chose to stay. Besides, you never really did pay the ante, so I reckon the bet is off anyway.” Loki stared slack jawed at the crystal ball. “He really… wait, if you knew all along that I wasn’t planning to pay, why’d you go along with the bet?” Charon grinned. “Simple. She made me promise to see him safely there. How I did it, and what might happen later, was insignificant.” Loki grimaced. “You mean, you retrieved him prematurely, because of a promise to a mortal’s soul? You’re getting soft.” Charon shrugged. “Maybe I am… maybe I am. But you want to know something?” “What?” “He only had about half an hour anyway. Traffic accident; drunk kid at the wheel.” Loki frowned. “You mean you deliberately interfered with…” “Yes, and the kid at the wheel will survive now, because of that… we shall see what happens to him.”
N	ext morning, a tall, gaunt man was seen in the pub, relaxing at the corner table with a newspaper, scanning the obituaries with a faint smile. “In Memoriam Yesterday, Greg Simons passed away, surviving his wife by five years. In accordance with his will, any mourners are asked to not send flowers, but rather donate a small sum to cancer research.”
T	he grave was placed in a cozy corner of the cemetery. Charon nodded in satisfaction at the inscription on the headstone. Greg and Maria’s names, the dates of their births, deaths, and, in fine calligraphy, “Together at last.” Gently reaching into his jacket and producing a pair of roses, Charon knelt by the grave, carefully branding the flowers into the headstone. “Rest well, you two… and thanks for bringing a little cheer into my job.” Then he got up and headed away, glancing over a list of people to pick up before heading back to the boat… The End

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Orpheus Revisited

Copyright © 2002 By Warpmind de InzanE