Rivers of the Dead - 32. 4-1 - Vulnerability

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Caleb approached the boat cautiously. The deep cowl of the boatman hid his face in its shadows, and skeletal fingers gripped the steering pole. The figure was as imposing as any Caleb had seen so far, a traditional image of death as Caleb understood it.

He glanced in the bow of the boat and saw a familiar magazine carefully placed in the bow. It was a new issue, but the boats on the cover told Caleb all he needed to know. “Charlie?” he asked the cowled ferryman.

The ferryman threw back the cowl to reveal the charming face of the man from the tollbooth. Charlie, from the forest service, stood before Caleb once more, his help-desk-like smile sending Caleb vibes of pure, Customer Service-hating resentment. But at least he was polite. “Yes. I guard this river as well,” Charlie replied, gesturing behind him to the inky-waters of the Styx. “Though, considering the importance of the Styx, I’m a bit more traditional.”

Orpheus walked past Caleb to climb into the boat, stepping carefully to its far bench before turning and sitting to face Caleb with his back to the river. “By that he means that since you believe you’re going to meet the ruler of The Underworld, your mind created an appropriate, traditional response,” Orpheus explained.

“I see,” Caleb replied, eyeing the boat skeptically. “And we’re going to cross the Styx on that?”

“It’s perfectly safe, Caleb.” Orpheus replied. “Do you think I would take you anywhere that wasn’t safe?”

Caleb answered without any hesitation. “Yes.”

Orpheus snorted. “As your guide, I’m insulted.”

“Good,” Caleb replied. But he smiled at Charlie and said, “Thankfully, I do believe Charlie has the practicality not to climb into a boat in danger of sinking at every turn, so I do trust him.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Orpheus asked. “Climb in.”

Caleb took a step toward the boat and Charlie put up a skeletal hand to stop him. “The toll,” he said pleasantly.

“Oh yes,” Orpheus replied, rolling his eyes and muttering, “the toll . . . the toll . . .”

Caleb made no move to pay Charlie, cocking his head to the side as he asked, “Haven’t I already paid you?”

Charlie smiled wide. “Not for this river.”

“What is the price?” Caleb asked.

“Your vulnerability,” Charlie said. When Caleb raised his eyebrow in response, Charlie stifled a sigh, and then explained, pointing out into the void with a bony finger. “You go seeking the end, to understand the end, to beseech the end. You cannot approach the end with your pride. You must do so humbly.”

Caleb nodded. “I think I understand.”

He slid out of his backpack, taking a step away from the shore. He noticed Orpheus watching him, measuring him, analyzing every move he made. This made him self-conscious, but, as Caleb proceeded, he realized this was part of the point. Charlie watched him as well, but with a sense of robotic patience, as if he was waiting for orders or some new programming to alter his course. Caleb did not feel nearly as unnerved by this, even though Charlie had a far ghastlier appearance. There was something comforting about the old ferryman; he was there doing his job, like a lifeguard watching Caleb at the pool. Orpheus, on the other hand, had an agenda, and it had something to do with Caleb’s quest.

Caleb slipped his T-shirt over his head, tossing it to the shore beside him. Though no wind ripped across the water toward him, it felt as if the air seemed to speak to his naked flesh. His heart responded in kind, beating faster as he contemplated the inky water; he swore it called his name in a language only he and it spoke, telling him that the blood pumping through his veins was the same substance as the river itself.

As a single bead of sweat dropped from his brow and rolled down his chest, Caleb broke from his temporary trance and moved on. He stepped out of his shoes, kicking them to the side. The rocks beneath his left foot felt cold, while beneath his right they felt warm. He removed the sock from his left foot and when he placed it back on the stone, the heat was almost unbearable. When he removed the sock from his right foot, the stones felt so icy he thought he would get frostbite.

The sensory overload nearly overwhelmed him, and he abruptly sat down, staring at the Styx once more. He wanted to know the secrets which lay on the other side but didn’t know if he could handle the experience. Nothing in The Underworld behaved as he thought it should, yet he’d been told the world was a product of his own belief and imagination. He thought back, and realized that he had questioned internally if the ground would be warm or cold before removing his shoes, and then it became both. He forcefully exerted his will over the stone beneath his feet and willed it to be an even temperature, and it became so. Could he do more, he wondered?

With methodical hands, Caleb undid his belt, then the clasp on his jeans. He lowered the zipper and hooked both hands into the waistband of his boxers, then, planting his feet firmly, he lifted his buttocks from the ground and pushed his pants and boxers down his thighs. He settled back against the stone, which no longer felt either hot or cold, and pushed his pants down further, first removing his left pantleg, then his right.

He lowered his legs back to the stone, extended out in front of him, as he placed his pants in his lap. Pulling his boxers out, he folded them neatly and set them to the side, like Charlie had done with his magazine at the tollbooth. Caleb did the same with his pants, folding them and placing them beside his boxers. He reached for his T-shirt and folded this as well, then stacked it on his pants and placed the boxers on top. He added his shoes next, then placed the socks carefully inside of them.

He had no intention of returning for his clothing. He knew it would be used as the toll, and he would be unable to reclaim it, but he felt the need to be neat about it, to pay respect to the sacrifice. There was ritual to be observed here, and though there was no written form for him to study, no one who had guided him through it, he understood it innately, as if an ancient knowledge had been activated within him.

He lay back on the stone, feeling the ground of The Underworld welcome him into its embrace. It cradled him, sucking him down and into it, as if he were re-entering the womb. The Underworld, which lay deep within the Earth according to myth, was the womb of the mother, Gaia, who gave birth to all. Here, in the dark, at the banks of the river Styx, Caleb could feel her. She knew his name and said it softly, whispering of the ancient rites he had observed. He was vulnerable, yes, but he was strong, and would grow even stronger by his humility. All he had to do was face Death . . . and overcome it.

He rose slowly, keenly aware that Orpheus had never stopped watching over him, knowing that whatever he had just experienced, Orpheus knew at least the nature of it. He didn’t mind, not anymore; he knew his place now, that he was a part of the whole, and Orpheus could never take that knowledge from him, or make him feel less because of it.

Caleb bent to pick up his backpack, sliding it back onto his shoulders. He stooped to pick up his clothing next, and walked back to Charlie. He handed the stack of clothing to Charlie, who accepted it in his bony hands. “You approach death as you approached birth. Yes, this is acceptable,” Charlie said, and in an instant the clothing was gone, burned to ash before falling to the Stygian water below him. Charlie looked expectantly at the backpack Caleb wore.

“The backpack stays,” Caleb said firmly. It wasn’t out of anger, defiance, or pride, it was a matter of certainty. By Caleb’s will, the backpack was an extension of himself in that moment, and The Underworld would heed his call. It contained within him a piece of his soul so integral it would be impossible to remove. His love of Ethan made manifest in the form of the journal. “It’s a matter of use, not pride,” Caleb clarified, hoping the answer would suffice.

Charlie bowed and stepped back. “I accept your offering.”

“Then give me passage, Charon,” Caleb said, bowing in turn. “Take me to The Ruler.”

“I will,” Charlie replied. “Come aboard and we will embark.” He stood to the side to allow Caleb access, and Caleb moved onto the boat. He put his back to the shore, and sat down facing Orpheus.

“So dramatic . . .” Orpheus observed with a sly grin.

Caleb shrugged, a gesture he’d not often performed when naked, and which felt peculiar but not unseemly. “It felt right,” Caleb replied. “Traditional.”

“I noticed you bent him to your will,” Orpheus said, nodding toward Charlie who placed the pole against the shore and pushed off, sending the boat out into the Styx.

“Did I?” Caleb asked neutrally.

“Your backpack,” Orpheus observed. “Amazing you managed to keep it. You’re learning faster than I anticipated. Soon you will be able to bend the fabric of the Underworld to your whim.”

“You’re saying, if I become a psychopomp?” Caleb asked.

“Caleb, you’re already halfway there,” Orpheus said with a knowing smile. “Accept the position, and you’ll have power beyond your imagining.”

Caleb couldn’t repress his smirk as he asked, “Like you have?”

“Close. That may come in time,” Orpheus replied cryptically, “But time is a fickle creature here.”

“So I’ve learned,” Caleb said softly.

Don't forget to comment and react to this chapter! Also, special thanks to my Patreon Supporters: Michael, Bill, Charles, Amr, Don, James, Joe, Jos, Mark, Mark, Paul, Steve, John, Frank, Sam, Matthieu, Ben, Jay, Scott, and Chris. Couldn't have done it without them. Email me at Samuel.D.Roe@gmail.com to be put on my mailing list!