some light reading for you all, to enjoy through the weekend.
no peeking FickleGM! go write your own story!
word count: 1802
[sblock]Styx Freight, Inc.
The boatman poled his boat up the river’s tributary, through the way and out onto the lake. Even with the drastic change in scenery from subterranean to outdoors came just the faintest increase in the surrounding illumination. A hint of smoke forever lingering on the breeze and a chill in the air were ever present nowadays. Charon looked up at the sky. Still the clouds roiled above, blocking out the sunlight. One would think that after four centuries, the cloud cover would break, but no. Not even Zeus on high Olympus could dispel the mass of overcast that shrouded the world. The god had tried early on and given up on the whole idea after the first month. “It’s too much work,” he’d said and then retired into his chambers to sulk with a cask of wine and a handful of naiads.
“Serves him right.” muttered the boatman to himself. If Prometheus hadn’t taught man the forging of the thunderbolts. If Aphrodite hadn’t pushed that ambassador’s wife . If Ares and Shiva hadn’t gotten into it and started blowing volcanoes all across the map. If Zeus had taken a stand early on and put a stop to it all. If, if, if.
If the gods had left things alone and not gifted the people of Athens with access to weapons of mass destruction (a thunderbolt by any other name), maybe now there would still be animals larger than rats, still alive below the Arctic Circle. People would still be living their lives, growing their crops, raising their children. So what if there were millions of Persians. It still was the wrong approach. The Greek Land-Sea-Air total war concept had been excessive. In the aftermath of the War and the weapons of the Gods in the hands of mortals, Apollo's chariot could no longer be seen from the world. Eternal winter and starvation had followed, on a planetary scale.
The Fates warned against it, but the gods had always had this attitude that they were, well, gods, and that they could do as they pleased. If not for that holier than everyone else attitude, he, Charon, would still be conveying souls across the Styx, not ferrying animals across the globe to attempt to repopulate the lands around the Med. This task was demeaning. It was not something suitable for his skills and talents. And no one had offered him coins for passage in years. Unacceptable! He should ask for a transfer. Maybe he could go and drown lost souls over in the Punishment division of the Underworld. It would be a demotion but at least he would get some job satisfaction from the task of abusing Greek souls.
The boat slowly coasted up against the shore. A short distance away, Artemis was directing the efforts of a band a satyrs, who in turn were herding a cluster of animals towards the lake.
“Not more rats,” muttered Charon. “They chew on the boat timbers and then I have to spend hours sanding and refinishing. It’s undignified.”
“No, not rats,” replied Artemis. “Kiwis. They’re small flightless birds and with some help, they should do well in the northern climate. “
“Wonderful, so instead of repairing the boat, I’ll be wiping up bird poo from stem to stern. This job sucks.”
“Deal with it.” ordered Artemis. “We’re all having to make adjustments and work outside the box to try and get things going again.”
“So what happened with getting the Eskimos to relocate?”
“The Inuit deities wouldn’t let us. Something about us abusing our privileges or something. They told us to blow whale fat and walked out of the meeting.”
“So where do you want these rat-birds delivered?” asked Charon.
“I think Cyprus would be a good home for them, don’t you?” she asked.
“Whatever.”
The boatman exited the boat and walked down the shoreline, pretending to ignore the satyrs’ chaotic attempts to herd the birds offshore and onto his boat. Sitting down on a rocky outcropping at the water’s edge, he glanced down into the water. Cyprus. That’s where this all started. By his will, the images from the dead past of Cyprus appeared on the surface of the water. Charon contemplated as he gazed upon the scene revealed in the water. There were differences of opinion as to what had been the catalyst event to the start of the Final War between the City of Athens and the Empire of Persia. Charon had heard just about every variation from the thousands of souls he’s transported across the Styx. Thousands transported, then millions, then hundreds, then none at all. Yeah, this was where it all began.
* * *
Adelmaro, ambassador from the city of Athens rose to greet his guest. He had not been sleeping well of late, his slumbers made all the worse by his suspicions of his wife Himalia. Normally she was discreet and in thanks for her discretion, he turned a blind eye towards her affairs. But since coming to these treaty negotiations, it felt like she was more and more brazen in her actions. It didn’t do his negotiations any good when the whispers of the servants sped on Hermes' winged sandals throughout the entire palace, with new and greater embarrassments and slanders each day.
Bozorgmehr, what an odd name. The negotiations had taken a turn for the strange in the past few days, with the Persian envoy speaking less frequently, but giving Adelmaro the hairy eyeball whenever it seemed his back was turned. It would be good to return home again. But first the treaty would need to be agreed upon. Things seemed to be at a delicate stage of late, and the wrong action or the unintended slight could lead to the reopening of hostilities. At home as he and Himalia had made ready for the voyage, diagrams delivered direct from Hephaestus' forge were being distributed and winged steeds gathered for the lightning strikes against the Persian Empire. Enough fighting had been done on Greek soil in the past. This time the war would be carried to the enemies' homeland instead!
“Ambassador Bozorgmehr, it is an honor to have you visit me. Please be seated. Himalia my dear, you remember the ambassador? We met him at that little soiree last week at the Admiral’s gardens.”
Himalia blushed. “Of course I remember him. ‘Mehr, how good to see you again. How is your gardening coming? You were having problems with those pesky local bugs eating your roses…”
Adelmaro moved into the kitchen and left his wife to engage Ambassador Bozorgmehr in small talk. Normally, the diplomatic envoys from Athens brought servants along, but all three had served loyally and fatally as food tasters in the preceding months. Now Himalia shopped for fresh victuals each day and Adelmaro prepared their meals by hand. Normally the wife should have prepared the food while the men talked, but meal preparation just wasn’t one of Himalia’s gifts. But she had other talents which compensated for her lack of culinary expertise and there were times when Adelmaro took a great deal of satisfaction from his efforts in the kitchen. It calmed him when he was troubled, like now. So it was all good.
He turned the spigot on the promethean fire beneath the stove and set a kettle of wine on the hot flat stones to warm. A wooden platter, some grapes, three cheeses, a pear sliced into sections, some grape leaves stuffed with rice and meat, and then he paused. The entrance to the main area was behind him, around a corner. He could still hear his wife and Bozorgmehr speaking in low tones about pest control and roses. But there on the stove, in the reflection of the polish of the kettle, a different tale was told. His wife and his political opponent were standing and holding hands. Actually, she was holding his hands. His hands were occupied elsewhere. For all the veneer of Persian civilization, he was still very much a barbarian. Their words continued to speak quietly of gardening, but their expressions spoke of anything but. Well, that certainly explained a lot.
Controlling his feelings and composing his face and his bearing so as not to reveal anything, Adelmaro spoke aloud, “I hope you will join us for some mulled wine and fruit ambassador. Several of the local orchards are very good this time of year. And of course, dolmades are always a delightful snack.” No, no tremor in his voice. Nothing to generate suspicion. Each action controlled and precise, he opened the cabinet. He reached behind the spices; there it was. The small black box, sealed with wax. A muscle relaxant from an apothecary acquaintance of his. Next place three goblets on the platter. A pinch from the box added to two of the cups. Pour the wine. Now turn and walk smoothly into the other room, returning to his guest. “Himalia found the most astonishing vintage the other day. You simply must try some…”
* * *
Charon reached down and grabbed the last two of the birds and tossed them onto the Cypress shore. “Here you go birdies. You’ve arrived at your new home. Salamis is just up the hill, a few miles that away, just past the large fields of bones. There are only ruins left now, but you can still attend the theater and take in a show or two.
“You can work out in the gymnasium where that idiot Adelmaro sliced up his political opponent in that impromptu “test of arms”. Don’t mind the statues, they’re not good conversationalists anyway. You can even go into the surgeries where that acolyte of Asclepius did his autopsy and determined there was foul play involved. Maybe in a few thousand millennia you’ll figure out what the temples are there for. ”
Charon scowled. Then he added, “And furthermore! The next time you want a ride, I expect some damned coinage to pay your way! Two coins each will be sufficient!”
The small, flightless birds scurried into the vegetation and then stopped, half hidden amongst the leaves. One of them gazed fearfully back at the still shouting boatman, while the rest disappeared into the undergrowth.
Poling the boat back away from shore, Charon gazed in disgust at the feathers and white bird poo littering the bottom of his craft. He opened a way back to the Styx and returned to the cavernous darkness. Home, several hours cleaning the boat, and then maybe a beer and a naiad. And then back to work again. Artemis had found some western hemisphere ground squirrels for him to convey tomorrow.
Working for Styx Freight, Incorporeal, sucked. It was demeaning. It didn’t make use of his talents and abilities.
He should put in for a transfer.
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