take me down to the river
note: I've been all about mythology lately. This has been sitting on my hard drive for far too long.
The first soul she brings to me is a babe, small and lips blue, and still enveloped in the caul. She cradles the child to her breast, as tender as any mother would. Her dress is a magnificent plum hue, hugging her plump frame and accenting her dark hair. She carries her shoulders regally, but the weight of grief is evident in the taut, drawn face and trembling hands.
She is among one of the most beautiful human women I've seen.
She draws a small sachet from her cloak and removes a single bronze obol, slipping it gently between the babe's cold, dead lips. My boat rocks against the bank of the Styx as she lies the child in the bow.
I can feel her life force pulse through the accursed wood and into my fingertips before she jumps back. She stares me down like no one has before, reaching into the very depths of me.
Hades, himself, has not even disemboweled me this way.
Her eyes flash a dark hatred of me, and she spins and races back to the world of the living. I take one last fleeting glimpse of the child she has left behind, its underdeveloped frame and hair dark as pitch, and began rowing towards Hell.
It is not unusual to see the same human again within a short time. Overall, they are susceptible to the frailty of their weak bodies and disease. Other times, they are pitted against one another in battle, fighting for the sanctity of an emperor's spat.
However, I am surprised to see her again.
This time she is sobbing.
A boy of seventeen lies motionless on the makeshift stretcher she has fashioned out of wood and rope. He is dressed in his fine bronze armor that gleams in the moonlight. She will not have to offer a fee tonight; the price of his armor is sufficient.
Approaching the water's edge is a challenge, because she is stumbling and crying so hard that pulling the stretcher becomes forgotten about. She pauses frequently, and smoothes the boy's hair from his forehead and kisses his face fervently.
With this death, she had time to love and cherish.
At last, her short, aborted movements bring her to the river's edge, and she solemnly looks up at me. Her cheeks are ruddy and splotchy, eyes swollen, and nose wet from the force of her tears.
She is breath-taking, even like this.
This time her dress is a deep emerald, a perfect match for her eyes that cut at me. Her hatred still shines through, but it is muted by grief. She fumbles in the pouch at her side for coin, but I make an aborted noise towards her. She falters, watches as I wave a skeletal hand over the boy's armor.
She nods understanding and drops the rope in her hands. When I reach for her son to drag him into the stern of my boat, she cries out and grips his cold, lifeless hand in her own. I allow her a moment. I do not understand death in the way that these mortals do.
However, when I look at her and see all the life flowing through her veins and her dark hair whipping back and forth in the wind, I understand loss.
Some moons later, she approaches the Styx again. At once I notice that her elaborate, expensive dresses are gone. She is dressed in a simple white gown, although still beautifully and wonderfully crafted, and struggling to reach the river's bank. The source of her struggle is an elderly woman slumped over her shoulders, death-gaze meeting my own blue-gray gaze.
I row my boat closer, more curious than ever. This woman's strength astounds me. To have lost so much in so little time. The plights of mortals do not strike me deep as hers does.
She shifts the woman from her shoulder and struggles to maneuver its slight frame into my boat. Without thinking, I reach forward and take the weight of the body from her shoulders. As someone whose movements are so sure, the awkward exchange heightens the tense feeling I always get near her.
Her arm brushes against my chest accidentally and at once she shrinks back, feeling the pulsing darkness shrouding my person. As for me, a bright lava shot from the spot she had touched and swam through my veins. I feel its warmth fill me completely, and once again I am left in complete awe of this woman.
She hurries to bring forth her drawstring coin pouch from her shift, fumbling for a small coin to pay the elder woman's toll. I can't help but notice the scant amount of coins in the pouch, and I would place bets that it is all she carries these days.
I watch her form recede quickly back to the perceived safety of the inland. As for me, my thoughts focus on the feeling she leaves me with as I push off the bank with my oar.
I feel her presence this time around before I actually see her. I sense her anguish and her pain, but underneath, a sense of extreme relief. I row my boat slowly towards the shore, oar barely pushing off the thick mud at the bottom. I scan the top of the hill incredulously; how many loved ones is this woman going to present me?!
Finally, she crests the top moving so much slower than I've ever seen her. Her hair is pulled up in an intricate braided bun, a few pieces falling in soft ringlets around her face from her efforts to get to me. She is dressed only in her shift, a pale silk that is all but transparent. It isn't till she comes closer in her slow shuffle towards me that I realize her beautiful stomach is marred with dark blood.
She clutches at a steel dagger that is still imbedded there, knowing if she were to pull it forth, she would surely die.
Finally, she halts at the very edge of the bank where the water laps gently at her toes. The Styx is only ever harsh to those who do not belong there. She fixes her gaze on me and through the indescribable pain I see there, I also see in her defeat, relief, pride… and a love? A love for whom? Everyone she has ever cared about I have helped them ascend (or descend) down this river. Perhaps she is aware she will meet with her loved ones, soon.
Ferryman. I have nothing left to offer you, but my own life. Her thoughts are easily deciphered. She need never have to speak outright to me.
I move towards her, sure in step. Hades does not allow my soul to touch land, but she is so close it is not needed. Hesitantly, and with some difficulty due to her wound, she steps onto the stern of my boat and reaches for me for balance.
You may call me Charon. Trust you do not have to pay a single coin. Your life is more precious than all the gold and bronze that exists. I send these thoughts to her, and she smiles wanly in response.
In one swift motion, I grasp the handle of the dagger and pull. This will not be needed where we are going. She gasps, startled, and reaches for me. I envelop her in my arms, my dark tunic shielding her from the view of the dagger dripping blood from my hand. I wordlessly toss it onto the bank.
She grasps at the front of me, this time unafraid of the darkness. Her blood seeps from her body in pulsing waves, and I know we don't have much time. I pull her face back from my chest, my bony fingers tangling themselves in her messy bun. I step off the edge of the boat and into the Styx. I do not allow us to sink just yet. Instead, I hover us both on the water's surface and watch the emotion flit across her features.
She is looking up at me. This time there is no hatred. No fear. Instead her warm gaze washes over me and fills me with a light that cannot ever be extinguished. Is this how Hades met his match when he first gazed upon Queen Persephone?
Do not be afraid, I soothe as her eyes slip close, a genuine smile still tugging at her lips.
"I am not afraid, my love," she whispers. I wrap her up once more, cradling her head against my shoulder and my other arm snakes around her waist and pulls her harshly against me. I allow us to sink into the depths.
The Styx is as wide as it is long, and Hades would permit me a soul to help scan the banks. She will rise whole. My beauty. My dream. My forever.