Heracles stepped onto the boat and felt it sink beneath his weight. Kharon pushed off at once, and as they slid away from the shore the voices of the spirits left behind swelled up in a terrible groan. The dirge of their misery was like a dagger of despair slipping slowly into his heart, and he dared not look back. But to look forward was even worse. The fire on the waters had thrown up a glare and a smoke that had been difficult to see beyond, but as the ferryman eased the boat between the columns of rock and the far bank came closer, Heracles could see the desolation that awaited him.
An empty shore of dried, cracked mud that boasted a few trees, each one wizened and dead. The dry husks of leaves lay about their charred roots, but it seemed unlikely they had ever adorned the branches above to make a living canopy of green. Rather, they were mockeries of the world left behind, phantom reminders to all who crossed the Styx that they were now in the realm of death. Beyond was a seemingly endless, mist-covered plain, dreary and miserable, where nothing grew and there was no light of sun or moon to bring hope to its bleakness. Black peaks rose up in the distance, barren and jagged, while the land in between was broken by great rifts and smoking chasms, with mounds of blasted ash and shoulders of rock thrown upwards at strange angles, as if the land itself was consumed by torment. Broken walls and towers occupied some of the high places, though who had built them, and for what reason, Heracles could not guess.
Seeping through the brokenness were several rivers, but none that offered refreshment. They dropped like thick mud from the cliffs around the plain to gather in swamp-like pools, from which they oozed in broad trails of black or red, or dull green, eventually feeding into a single course that wound like pus through the dead heart of the plain. This was the Acheron, the River of Woe, whose yellow waters gave the land its sickly luminescence.
As he watched from the prow of the skiff, Heracles felt despair enter his heart. His valiant hope that he could find a way into the Land of the Dead and overpower the beast that guarded its borders – born out of naive plans dreamed up in a world where life reigned supreme – withered away at the sight of that place. He wanted to turn to Kharon and plead with him to take him back. He wanted to return to his waiting body and take up his life again, knowing that nothing in the world above could be worse than the desolation of the Underworld. But he said nothing, knowing that he was now committed to his final labour, from which there could be no return.
Then, as the opposite shore came within bowshot, he realized that the mist he had seen was not mist at all, but the spirits of the dead moving in thick multitudes across the plain. They were packed closely together, as if desperate for company in their terrible loneliness, yet their faces were masks of grief, oblivious to everything but their own suffering. Men and women of all ages and ranks groped blindly across the desolate lands, occasionally turning their faces and hands up to the pitiless clouds above as if imploring the gods for mercy. The monotonous sound of their groaning filled the air as they mourned the life lost for eternity.
Suddenly, the shore loomed up before them and the bottom of the skiff bumped across it and came to a halt, almost pitching Heracles onto the mud. He steadied himself and turned to Kharon. Thankfully, the ferryman had cast his hood back over his gruesome face, and all that remained visible of him were his eyes, burning red in the shadows.
‘Where will I find Hades’s palace?’
Kharon raised a bony, yellow-skinned hand and pointed to a pinnacle of rock in the near distance. A crumbling, square-sided tower stood amid a collection of broken walls, halfway up one flank of the hill. If it was the palace of the ruler of the Underworld, then it was a miserable hovel for a god to dwell in. No lights burned in its windows, no banners fluttered from its battlements, and no guards stood watch over its gates. Even the spirits of the dead seemed to shirk its barren slopes.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Go,’ Kharon replied. ‘Your doom awaits you. But first, my payment.’
He placed his hand on Heracles’s shoulder. It was as if a great weight had been laid on him, sapping the vitality from his limbs and turning his flesh to stone. He tried to take hold of the ferryman’s wrist and pull his hand away, but his arm was almost too heavy to move, and as his fingers folded over the bony forearm, there was no strength in them to force a grip. After a moment, Kharon took his hand away and Heracles stumbled against the stem post, leaning on it for support.
‘Zeus’s gift has been taken from you. From now on, you will have no more strength than any other man of your build.’
‘I feel as weak as a child,’ Heracles groaned. ‘I can barely stand.’
‘Rest here on the bank and your vigour will come back to you quickly enough. But you will never again enjoy the power you once had, even if your soul returns to your living body – which it will not. Farewell, son of Zeus.’
Already, Heracles could feel the energy returning to his limbs, though they still felt leaden and stiff. He stepped onto the dry mud and sat down to watch the ferryman push off. Soon, he was no more than a dim figure amid the fire and smoke of the Styx. The stench of sulphur was much stronger on this side of the river, and the wailing of the dead had risen to an unendurable clamour. Heracles’s strength returned to him as quickly as Kharon had predicted, and not wanting to remain there a moment longer than he had to, he made his way across the cracked mud towards the tower on the hill.
The crowds of the dead grew thicker as he left the banks of the Styx further behind. Though most were lost in their own misery, a few noticed the giant figure striding through their midst, as if recognizing the flicker of life that remained in him. Slowly, they began to move towards him, reaching out imploringly. He ignored them and pressed on, pausing occasionally to search their thickening ranks for a glimpse of his sons.
The thought that he might see them had been with him since the moment he was told his final labour would take him into the Underworld. And there were many children there, from the smallest infants to those on the cusp of adulthood, every one of them ripped tragically from life at the time when it had promised most. Worst of all was their loneliness: there were no fathers to watch over them in that awful place; no mothers to give them comfort; no siblings to draw strength from. It distressed him to think that his own sons were wandering the plains alone and afraid, all because of him. Even if he somehow overpowered Cerberus and completed the last labour, he would never now find relief from his guilt, knowing that he had condemned his children to an eternity of such misery.
His steps faltered at the thought. He locked his fingers together over the back of his head and pressed his forearms over his ears, trying to shut out the horror of the place. But the more it affected him, the more the hordes of the dead noticed his presence. A few drifted towards him, pawing at him with their cold fingers, as if trying to steal a piece of the life that was still in him. They plucked at his lion skin, took arrows from his quiver and tried to pull the bow from his shoulder.
‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’ he shouted.
His voice boomed across the plain and echoed back from the high places. The ghosts fled from him, squeaking and gibbering, their wretched moaning momentarily stilled. But the sound soon returned, low at first, then louder and more miserable than before as the ghosts thronged around him again, his sudden display of passion drawing them in ever greater numbers. Knowing that time was slipping away from him, he pulled the club from his belt and swung it at the crowds of dead. They fell back, screaming in agony, but those behind surged forward, clutching at him in desperation. Another sweep of the club sent them tumbling backwards, and for a moment he was free. Fixing his eyes on the shoulder of rock where the tower stood, he ran forward, clearing a path through the remaining ranks with indiscriminate blows, adding the illusion of physical pain to their very real misery.
He reached the foot of the hill and began to climb. The tower seemed higher up than when he had seen it from the shore of the Styx, but the dead seemed to fear the scree-covered slopes and did not follo
w him. Noticing the beginnings of a path among the boulders higher up, he scrambled over the loose stones to the first few steps. They were worn and cracked, but offered a firm foothold and guided him with only a few twists and turns towards the tumbledown walls of the palace.
The Underworld opened up on either side of him as he ascended. It was a landscape of the most awful torment and misery, and he forced his eyes away from it and up to the slopes above. The restless clouds pressed down against the highest point of rock like the lid of a sarcophagus. He longed to see a break in that oppressive ceiling, a glimpse of a star or a hint of a dawn sky, though he knew that there was nothing but rock above. He longed as keenly for a moment of silence from the relentless wailing, or a drop of water to ease the dryness in his mouth. More than anything, he wanted to turn around and find a way back to the cave in Taenarum where his body lay. But there was no way back, only forward, and with growing resolve in his heart he forced himself to go on.
The tower loomed above him now, tall and formidable, with great horns thrusting out from the four corners of its battlements. But its walls were cracked and its parapets broken. The fortifications that surrounded it were in ruins, and where mighty gates had once stood, all that was left was a high arch. The gates themselves lay thrown down and rotting before the top of the steps.
He walked beneath the arch and entered the courtyard overlooked by the tower. Blocks of fallen stone were scattered everywhere, but there was no palace. Then he saw a pale glow coming from another gateway at the back of the courtyard. He entered, gripping his club, and found himself standing on a large plinth in one corner of a long, shadowy hall.
There was no blazing fire at its centre, as there would have been in the halls of men. Instead, it was illuminated by a sickly yellow glow that seemed to have no source. The longer walls were lined with enormous statues of black stone – six on each side – that towered up to the ceiling. Their features were stern but lifelike, and far beyond the skill of any mortal stonemason.
Heracles recognized the Olympians by their apparel and devices. His nemesis, Hera, stood opposite him – majestic, dignified and terrible to behold. Sitting on her upheld palm was a male peacock, its tail feathers flattened behind it and its beak tucked under its wing. Ares was beside her, naked but for the enormous shield on one arm, the spear in his other hand, and the plumed helmet crammed low over his brutal face. Next to the God of War was Artemis – tall, lithe and fair, with a bow in one hand and a quiver at her side. Even without her weapons, he would have known her. He had seen the goddess by the River Ladon, and the features of the statue were a stunning likeness.
The hunched figure of Hephaistos was next, then Aphrodite in all her naked glory, and finally his own father, Zeus, with his thunderbolt in his hand. He stared at the statue’s fierce expression and saw something of himself in its features. The recognition shocked him. He had not seen his father since he had been a mere babe, and had no recollection of him; but the similarity seemed to confirm that which he had always secretly doubted – that he really was the son of Zeus.
Suddenly, he wished his father would appear to him, there in Hades’s halls. He wanted to know why he had allowed his son to suffer so much. More than that, he wanted to implore his help. Did a son not have a right to expect his father’s support? But somehow he knew Zeus would not help him. The labours were for Heracles to complete. How else could he prove himself worthy of immortality?
He tore his eyes away and looked back at the lofty figure of Hermes, who guided the souls of the dead to Hades’s kingdom. Athena stood beside him, then Apollo, Hestia and Poseidon. Last of all was Demeter, the Goddess of Fertility and Nature, who ruled the seasons and the harvest. She was the mother of Hades’s wife, Persephone.
Only one of the great deities was missing: the thirteenth god, Hades. He was not counted among the Olympians because his realm was the Underworld, far from Mount Olympus, but he was as powerful as any of them. After defeating the Titans, he and his brothers had drawn lots for which kingdom they would rule. Zeus received the sky and Poseidon the sea, but to Hades fell the Underworld. There, for eons, he had lived alone, until – encouraged by Zeus – he had abducted Persephone and brought her against her will to rule with him over the dead.
Between the statues of Demeter and Zeus – Persephone’s father – was a dais. On it were the two most distinctive, and contrasting, thrones Heracles had ever seen. The larger, to the left, was made from human bones piled haphazardly one on top of the other. They were not the marbled bones left behind after nature and the elements had cleaned them of their flesh, but appeared to have been ripped from freshly slain bodies, with the dark, glistening gore still hanging from them and acting as the glue that bound them together.
By contrast, the smaller throne looked to have been shaped from a living oak – a strange but uplifting sight in such a dark place. Yet it was not carved from the trunk of a felled tree; rather, its roots rose up from the stone dais, shaping themselves into a seat and arms, and rising up behind to form a rest for the sitter’s back. Strangest of all, it was covered in lush green leaves and blossoms of pink, yellow and white, though the petals were folded as if in sleep. The power of death that filled the rest of the hall and the vast lands that surrounded it seemed to have no hold over that throne, which stood like a beacon of hope in the darkness, reminding Heracles of the life he had left behind, and the reason why he had come to Hades’s palace.
He took the steps that led down from the plinth. The floor and ceiling of the great hall were made of polished marble. Like great black mirrors, they reflected the figures of the Olympians in perfect repetition, giving Heracles the illusion that he was about to step into a bottomless abyss. The deception was exposed the moment he felt the stone beneath his foot, but as he looked down, he was more shocked to see his own pale and colourless reflection gazing back up at himself.
‘We have been awaiting you.’
He looked up to see a young woman leaning against the larger throne, her forearm draped over one of the skulls that crowned it. She wore a pale-green dress and had the innocent beauty of a rural maiden, with sun-browned face and limbs, and her long brown tresses tied up with a garland of spring flowers. Her large eyes glinted in the gloom and there was a sad smile on her lips that reminded him of the last days of summer.
So this was Persephone, he thought. Her youthful looks beguiled him – though she was as old as life itself – and it was only after he had taken his fill of them that he remembered she was a goddess and a queen. He walked halfway across the hall and knelt before her, bowing his head low.
‘My lady.’
‘Stand,’ she commanded. ‘Are we not both children of Zeus?’
He looked up as she walked towards him, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the polished stone. She stopped before him and offered her hand.
‘I said stand, brother.’
He took her long fingers in his and felt a sudden warmth flowing through his chill form. As he rose to his feet, she looked up at him and smiled. Then she passed her arms around his waist and held her head against his chest in a tight embrace.
‘Dear Heracles, the moment Kharon sent word that you’d entered my husband’s realm, I have been eager to set eyes on you. You are a rare thing – a mortal whose name is renowned among the gods.’ She stepped back and cast her gaze along the rows of statues. ‘Some say you have only survived because Father gave you the gift of supernatural strength. They speak out of pride and jealousy – the likes of Ares, Poseidon and Aphrodite, who are resentful that a man’s glory should outshine their own. But others see that your strength is second to your courage, determination and resourcefulness. There are few, even among the immortals, who could withstand Hera’s spite. But you have.
‘Even here in the Underworld, I have listened to the stories of your feats with keen interest, proud that you are my brother and looking forward to the day when I would be able to look you in the eye and speak with you. But now that I see you, I feel
only sadness. You are not here because your earthly body has succumbed to disease or accident, or been slain by a more powerful foe. Kharon says you used the darker arts to fool your body into releasing your spirit. That you chose to come here. Why would you risk everything to come to this place?’
‘I’ve taken many risks during my labours, though none have been so dark as this one,’ he replied.
‘Yet your hope has not altogether died, which in the Underworld is a victory in itself. But why have you come, brother? Is it another labour?’
‘Yes, the final one, which I have to complete it if I’m to be released from the guilt of my crime.’
‘Ah yes, the murder of your children,’ she said, taking his hand again. ‘An impossible burden to bear, though I can only imagine. What is this labour?’
Heracles looked up at the statue of Zeus – powerful and aloof as it stared into the eyes of Demeter on the opposite side of the hall. Then he followed the row of effigies to the furthest corner, where Hera stood, cold and implacable as she waited for him to fail the last test. He wanted to hate her, but in that place, any emotion that was not sadness or fear was difficult to muster. Instead, he turned to Persephone, whose ageless eyes looked at him with a concern that was absent in the other gods.
‘To capture Cerberus and carry him back to Tiryns. That’s why I’m here – to ask Hades’s permission to take the hound to the world of the living.’
Persephone’s expression sank and her hold on his hand slackened. Then Heracles became aware of another presence in the hall, a presence so dark and powerful that he felt fear spreading through him like ice. A deep, slow laugh followed, a sound bereft of love or mercy that could only come from a being with whom there could be no reasoning, no compromise, no hope.
‘So this is the mighty Heracles,’ said a voice that seemed to emanate from the walls and floor. ‘Hera told me to expect you.’
Hero of Olympus Page 27