While on a camping trip deep in the mountains, I discovered a trio of scrolls bound with a strange wax seal. I was foolish enough to open them and read their contents. The scrolls appear to be a journal which, if true, will change how I view the universe, life, and everything that comes after.
December 21, 2012
The mortal world almost perished because of her. No, that isn't right. The mortal world almost perished because I loved her. Can you imagine! Hades, Lord of the Underworld, falling for a human. After all this time, brother Zeus has finally rubbed off on me.
I've been getting a pretty bad rap for the past several years. The mortals used to respect me. They had an appreciation of the afterlife. Death. Me. When they crossed the river Acheron and saw me for the first time, they knew who I was. They didn't argue or complain or try to bargain. They were patient while I sorted out where in Hades they were headed (note to self: finalize a new name for the Underworld. Calling both it and yourself "Hades" is rather narcissistic, and you would know; Narcissus steals your mirror every day. Further note to self: find new place to hide mirror).
These days are different. Now the mortals cry when they see me. They ask stupid things like if the Fields of Punishment are "where the good people go" (hint: it's not. Check the name). Charon works on credit since no one brings coins for the ferryman anymore. The living mortals think I'm some kind of evil demon who wants to kill everyone. Why would I want to do that? My job is tiring enough as it is. Souls never disappear, and people die every day. The Underworld only gets more crowded, and it's up to me to organize the blasted place. We have a population crisis down here. I have never had a day off. If anything, I am tired.
Besides, even if I did want to kill every mortal, it's not my job in the first place; that's Thanatos' gig. I'm just the guy who oversees the dead, the Supervisor of Souls, if you will. Poor Thanatos. His job's gotten almost as complicated as mine has. Nothing like the good old days, when mortals only numbered in the millions. At least Hermes was smart. He used to escort the souls to the Underworld. Now he delegates to lesser gods. Thanatos insists on killing every mortal himself. I think he gets some sick pleasure from it. There isn't much that rattles me, but that god creeps me out.
Anyway, today started like any other. Gods don't sleep, though sometimes I wish we could. It is cruel irony that we cannot partake of one of the sweetest gifts we bestowed on the mortals. Since there's no sun in the Underworld, we installed clocks everywhere to keep track of the time. My office has two dozen – one for each time zone. I noted the time and the date (we resisted for centuries, but finally we caved and started using the Gregorian calendar). December 21, 2012. The end of the Mayan long calendar. All the Mayans here in the Underworld were already celebrating. The end of the long calendar was supposed to be an auspicious time to be alive. None of them seemed to mind that they were all dead. I think the irony was lost on them. They even tried to sacrifice someone. Mortals.
I took a few minutes to observe the living. Somehow, someone had spread the word that the Mayans thought today would be the end of the world (a gross miscalculation which the Mayans somehow found hilarious). The living gathered stockpiles. They built shelters. They fought over simple things like water and toilet paper – an object I've never understood. Maybe I've been around death for so long that I enjoy the smell of decay.
I checked my ledgers for the day. Lately we average about 150,000 new entries to the Underworld per day, and today we were set for 192,073 – certainly higher than usual, but not exactly the end of the world.
I took a cursory glance through the list to see if any names stuck out. It's always helpful to keep an eye out and stay a few steps ahead. Celebrity deaths typically mean a few extra suicides and a bit of extra commotion down here. We also keep a list of cult leaders, for the same reason. Mortals are curiously social creatures; sometimes, they are tragically like the old saying about lemmings. But today only one name stood out: Vivian Livers. She wasn't a celebrity, or a cult leader, or even some self-important middle management with a small host of peons at her disposal, but the name was so ridiculous that I simply had to look into the matter further. Surely no parent was so mean that they would name their child "Alive One Who Lives".
I pulled up her file. Vivian Livers, it read. Born March 20, 1980. 32 years old. American. Married. No kids. Maiden name "Darte." At this point I actually laughed. Darte, derivative of Death. This woman married and went from death to life, and today she would return. Laughing is rare for me. It's not that I don't enjoy humor, it's just that I'm not around very many people who do. Being dead is rough on the comedy business. Sure, we have plenty of comedians who try to keep morale up – Sam Clemens and Voltaire never lack in fresh, biting political commentary – but for the most part the souls have lost track of what "funny" means. Humor is just one of those things reserved for the living. Helps them cope with their condition, I suppose.
After checking the ledgers I usually walk the floor. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don't trust anyone else to do my job. One time I found a crack in a pipe feeding Elysium's largest waterfall. The whole place would have flooded, and all those goodly souls could have been swept down to Tartarus, were it not for me. That's another thing no one else around here seems to appreciate: everything about the Underworld is carefully manufactured according to my desires. Walt Disney has nothing on me (though he did help a little with the Blessed Isles renovations back in the '80s. Impossible man. Brilliant, but I am never working with him again).
I typically walk each realm in order of happiness, beginning with the bad. It's better for my psyche that way (the old myths never properly captured my sense of romantic optimism). I checked on the Tartarus pit first. Kronos and the other Titans glared up at me with looks that would kill if there was anything around not dead already (note to self: reconsider proposal for Olympus to move Tartarus off Earth. Perhaps the sun? Or Jupiter? Zeus may appreciate the go boost on that one).
The Fields of Punishment were next. Now, my contract is very clear: the punishments are left up to the other gods, not me. But Odysseus helped me find a loophole: there's nothing preventing me from helping these poor souls, so long as their punishments are still carried out. So no one ever stops me from deadening the nerves of the guys having their livers pecked out by vultures, or lightening the weight of the stones being pushed up the mountains, or warming the waters of those set to eternally drown. It's not much, but the souls seem to appreciate it. I've just never been an aggressive guy. I guess my situation has, shall we say, tempered my familial temper. Whether I want it or not, in the end… everyone comes to me.
The Asphodel Meadows were bland and uneventful, as always. I've noticed that the souls in other parts of Hades (or "Me", as I sometimes joke to no one) disapprove of the souls here. These were the "middle of the road" folks, the ones who never rocked the boat for better or worse. The souls in the Fields of Punishment and the Elysian Fields sometimes refer to this place as the Meadow of Regret. They say that these were the people who never really lived. I can't say that I care. So long as the plumbing's in good working order and the shopping malls are all open (I've discovered that malls are the perfect place to keep indifferent souls entertained), I am content.
A little brawl had broken out in the Elysian Fields, and I knew who it was before I even got there. Immanuel Kant and David Hume, philosophers who had been contemporary to each other in life, bickered nearly every day in death over the virtues of reason and skepticism. I've long since given up trying to separate them (you might say that I am skeptical that they may be reasoned with). I just let them go at it. They can't actually hurt each other, and besides, it provides a bit of entertainment to the other souls. I am more than just the Soul Supervisor. I am the Eternal Entertainer.
Finally, the Isles of the Blessed were perfect…as always (a fact of which Mr. Disney did not fail to remind me, curse that soul).
As I walked the realm, though, my thoughts always returned to that bizarre name: Vivian Livers. Each recollection of it still brought a chuckle (note to self: laughing to yourself, especially when some of the souls still call you "Satan," may be bad for morale), but something nagged at my core, as though this name held some importance. By the time I left the Isles, I had already made up my mind: I would visit this woman. On Earth.
By Olympus, I can't even remember the last time I did such a foolish thing!
