Ghostly Echoes

by William Ritter

  “You are, but a part of you isn’t. Within you dwells a force unending. You may pass. You might return. Your gift will not. You cannot take it with you.”

  “I wouldn’t be the Seer anymore,” Jackaby said. “I would be technically dead. The sight would move on to its next host.” It was hard to read my employer’s expression, but some part of him seemed to be legitimately considering the notion. “I would be free.”

  Charon pointed a long finger at the inventor, who flinched. “For you it would be less pleasant. You too possess a spark of immortality, Owen Finstern, but it is woven through your core. The fair folk cannot enter. Should you attempt to cross over, your soul would be torn in two. I do not know if any shred of you would survive.”

  “I wasn’t volunteering,” Finstern replied.

  “It’s me, then,” I said. My stomach fluttered. I had occasionally felt inadequate in the company of my extraordinary friends—like a rough stone among gems. I had always felt boring. Normal. Now it seemed my normalcy was what we needed. “I’ll go.”

  “Abigail,” Jenny said.

  “No,” said Jackaby. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t allow it.”

  “You don’t have much choice, though, do you?” I said. “It’s me or it’s nothing. They’ve killed so many people already—more than we know, Pavel said—and a lot more might be coming. We need to know who’s behind all of it. I can find out.”

  Jenny floated close to me. She reached her hand to my face, and I felt the faintest cool breeze on my cheek. “You’ve already done so much, Abigail. We can’t ask you to do this, too.”

  “It’s good that you don’t have to, then. I’ve been digging my way into the ground my whole life, looking for that profound discovery that no one else has ever seen. Doesn’t get much deeper than this. It’s my choice. It’s my adventure. I can find us the answers we need. I’m going.”

  “No,” said Jackaby.

  “No,” said Charon.

  I turned back to the ferryman. “Wait. No?” I said.

  “You may not enter until you have severed your ties. This is the fourth rule. You may carry over no tethers connecting you to the world of the living, neither physical nor metaphysical.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” I said. “Of course I have ties to the world of the living. Everyone I know lives in the world of the living.”

  “You are permitted your emotions, Abigail Rook. You are not permitted a channel.”

  “A channel?”

  “Your pocket.”

  I drew the silver dagger from my dress. “This isn’t a channel. It’s just a knife.”

  “Your other pocket.”

  “I haven’t got anything in my other—” My fingers closed around a cool, round stone etched with simple, concentric circles. I drew it out. “Oh! How curious. I don’t even remember bringing this.”

  Jackaby stepped toward me. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “Pavel gave it to me when he gave me the sketch of Mr. Finstern. I must have already shown it to you—didn’t I?”

  “You most certainly did not.” He produced a little red pouch out of the inner pocket of his coat and opened it. The lining on the inside glistened like silver, but it was empty. He held it toward me at arm’s length. I plopped the stone inside, and he pulled the strings taut quickly, as though he were capturing a live squirrel and not a lifeless rock.

  “Why? What is it?” I said.

  Jackaby scowled hard.

  “It has to have come from the council!” I said. “Charon says it’s a channel. A channel to what, exactly? To whom?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jackaby. “But I would very much like to.”

  I swallowed. “All the more reason to get those answers. Don’t worry. I’ll find Lawrence Hoole. He was at the heart of the council’s project. He’ll know more about those villains and what they’re building than anyone.”

  Jackaby tucked the stone—the channel—away into his coat. “Wait.”

  “Sir, I appreciate your concern, but you can’t fight every battle for me.”

  “No, I can’t. But I can give you this.” He took my hand and pressed into my palm a little leather purse. It was a dull gray-brown.

  “What’s this?”

  “Four obols. They’re ancient Greek currency. A number of cultures have traditions about paying the ferryman. Also, I packed the most appropriate relic I could find on short notice. You’ll find a small length of petrified string inside. Sheep’s gut, really. It has been passed down for a great many generations under the assumption that it was once a piece of the last lyre Orpheus ever played. I can’t verify that, of course, but it does have an aura of divine contact, so it’s entirely possible.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackaby.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “The dead don’t generally keep things in their pockets. It’s traditional to . . .” He gestured to my face.

  “To what?”

  “You’ll need to hold it in your mouth when you cross over.”

  “Lovely,” I said, eyeing the faded leather.

  “Do be safe,” Jenny said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  I tucked the pouch into my mouth as I stepped forward. It tasted like a salty strap of used boot leather. I tried very hard not to think too hard about the shriveled strip of gut inside it.

  “Are you prepared?” Charon asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then come with me.”

  I stepped across the little trickle of water, moving out of the warm sunlight and into the cold shadows. Nothing happened for a moment, and then my legs buckled beneath me.

  It was suddenly dark. I was falling.

  And I was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I turned around. My body lay behind me in the dirt. It had not landed gracefully. My cheek was pressed against the cold stone floor, loose hair splaying across my eyes. One arm had folded behind me in an unnatural angle as I fell. I felt sick and numb.

  “This way,” said Charon.

  I removed the leather pouch from my mouth as I followed the ferryman down the path, away from my lifeless corpse. My eyes were adjusting to the gloom, but there wasn’t much except more gloom to see. The inside of a tree, it turns out, looks a lot like the outside of a tree, only darker. The cavern went much farther, deep into the earth. I could hear water flowing somewhere nearby as I followed Charon downward. The trickling little stream snaked into the cave, dribbling down a series of uneven tiers until it drained at last into a wide underground river. Mist swirled above the dark waters.

  We descended the steps until we reached the river’s edge, and Charon held out a bony hand. I retrieved two coins from the pouch, offering them up. Charon plucked them out of my hand, rubbing them together with a satisfied tinkling.

  “Obols. It has been a long time since I was paid in obols.” He sounded pleased, but his bony face showed no emotion. One of the coins glowed ruby red and then abruptly crumbled to ash between his fingers. He held the other up in the light from the opening above us, rubbing its weathered face with his thumb. “Eight chalkoi to the obol, six obols to the drachma, and one obol”—he handed the coin back to me—“to ride the ferry. I do not overcharge.”

  I took the coin and thanked him as I tucked it back into the leather purse.

  He stepped out onto an ancient dock and picked up a long pole from where it rested against decrepit ropes. At the top of the pole hung three small rods from a short chain, like a sort of flail. Charon shook the stick as if he were trying to shoo away a fly. The rods vanished and for a fraction of a second it seemed as though a long, crescent scythe blade had taken their place, but then the pole was just a pole. It was a little wider toward the top, but otherwise just a straight staff hewn of ordinary wood.

  He unwound a length of rope from the mooring and pulled firmly until an old wooden ship slowly cut through the veil of mist and came to bump against the dock. It was a long, shallow vessel, lined with weathe
r-bleached crossbeams that stuck out like human ribs within a coal-black chest. It had a thin mast, but the sail, if ever it had flown one, had long since rotted away. The fore and aft of the ship curved upward, and the figurehead was a snarling dragon.

  “That’s your boat?” I said.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just not exactly what I expected. In the paintings it’s more of a simple gondola. Isn’t that a bit large for one person to steer?”

  “Vikings,” he said. “They are stubborn, but they do make beautiful boats. This one is special. It handles rivers like a fish. You are correct, though. This is more than necessary. I had more souls to carry on my last trip. Please stand back.”

  He took hold of the ship with both pale hands and heaved upward. It tipped until it looked like it was about to capsize, and then folded impossibly into itself. Heavy timbers slid together like a collapsible jewelry box, each section slotting perfectly into place with a satisfying wooden clatter until it settled back into shape, bobbing gently on the water as a skiff half the size of the original. The boatman stood with his hands behind his back, rocking on his feet ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said. “That is better.”

  “That’s incredible!” I said. “How does it work?”

  “Magic. Or science, or whatever they’re calling it now. The smiths of Nidavellir constructed it. It was a gift from an old king. They used to call him the Father of the Slain. He was very popular. Do you still do Wednesdays up there?”

  “Wednesdays?” I said. He had climbed into the fore of the boat, and I slid onto a wooden seat at the aft. The boat smelled of salt and firewood. “Erm. Yes, we still do Wednesdays.”

  Charon nodded. “That one’s his. There is a channel in these roots that leads to his hall.” Charon plunged his pole into the water and pushed off, punting the boat into the mist. “His men used to make a sport of skipping past me. There were days when this river was thick with their longships. They brought their own boats with them when they died.”

  “That all sounds like the Vikings,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought you were Greek.”

  “I don’t bother much with politics. I am the ferryman.”

  “But you’re real,” I said. “And this place is real.”

  “Yes.”

  “So who had it right, then?”

  “I do not understand the question.”

  “The afterlife. There are lots of different versions, and they can’t all be true. Heaven, Hell, the Happy Hunting Ground—which is it? You’re here, so does that mean there’s a Hades with an Elysium and a Tartarus and everything?”

  “Why would there not be?”

  “Well, because a moment ago you were talking about Valhalla.”

  Charon pressed forward. The mist split around the masthead, curling into eddies that spun ghostly pirouettes over the surface of the river, the whole dance reflected below in the wine dark waters. “Do you know the fable of the blind men and the elephant?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one,” I said.

  “A woman from the Hunan Province told it to me,” said Charon. “Once upon a time a stranger came to a remote village with an elephant. Everyone got excited, including three blind men who didn’t know what an elephant was. They decided to find out for themselves.

  “The first man approached the elephant near its head. He reached his hand out and felt the leathery ear. The second man approached from behind and brushed the elephant’s bristly tail. The third came at it from the side and stroked its wide midsection.

  “ ‘What a strange creature an elephant is,’ the first man said. ‘So flat and thin, like wash hung from the line.’

  “ ‘What are you talking about?’ said the second man. ‘That animal was hairy and coarse, like the bristles on a stiff broom.’

  “ ‘You are both wrong!’ said the third. ‘The beast was as broad and sturdy as a wall.’ They three men argued and argued, but they never could come to an agreement.”

  Charon let the river drift past for another moment. “So,” he said finally. “Who had it right?”

  “They all did,” I said. “Just not the whole of it.”

  “Good answer.”

  Charon guided the boat along, and I began to see things moving in the mist, shapes shifting along the shoreline, though I could not make out what I was seeing at first. We drew nearer, and I gasped. The silhouette of an enormous beast with a long snout lumbered along the bank across from us.

  “Is that,” I whispered, “a hellhound?”

  “That is Ammit.”

  “Ammit?”

  Charon gestured casually with his long pole, and the mist obligingly parted. The figure on the riverbank was not a dog at all—although it appeared to be trying to be every other animal all at once. It had the head of a crocodile, the mane and forefeet of a lion, and the heavy back legs of a hippopotamus. Its eyes shot up, red and piercing as we passed, but soon the mist closed back in and we moved beyond it.

  I opened my mouth, but found no words with which to fill it.

  “She is not what you were expecting?”

  “She?” I said. “No, she’s not what I was expecting. I guess I imagined little red imps or maybe choirs of moony angels with white robes and harps.” I glanced back over my shoulder into the haze. “Ammit is a little different.”

  “They are here, also.” Charon pressed onward at a slow crawl. Within the spinning mist I began to see all manner of shapes and faces, and it was difficult to determine if I was only imagining things in the billowing clouds or catching a real glimpse of what lay beyond them. “The imps are not my favorite, but we can take that route if you prefer.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right.” I considered. “Is it hard to find your way?”

  “I never lose my way.”

  “Do you think I’ll be able to find mine?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I’m looking for a man called Lawrence Hoole. Do you know how I might find him?”

  “The river does not generally take you where you want to go,” said Charon. “But it will always take you where you need to be.”

  “That’s moderately reassuring,” I said.

  “There will be trials.” Charon’s tone betrayed neither sympathy nor malice. “There are always trials.”

  “I rather suspected.” I took a deep breath. “What sort of trials?”

  “I do not know what you will face. There are many. Ishtar once sacrificed articles of clothing at each gate until she stood naked before all the monsters of the underworld.”

  “That sounds like the sort of trial a naughty schoolboy would write.”

  Charon shrugged. “Ra had to slay a great serpent; Persephone had to abstain from eating. Some have crossed through fire, and others have simply found their names in a book. It is different for everyone. Death is a personal journey.”

  The boat suddenly rocked and lurched to a stop as if it had run aground. The mist roiled and condensed before us until it formed two pillars of solid ivory. Between them sprang coils of smoke that trickled upward toward the foggy darkness of the cavern ceiling. Somewhere in the distance a low note sounded, and the smoke trails snapped into tight, rigid bars. We bumped, bow to bars, against an ethereal gate.

  “Ah,” said Charon. “Here you are.”

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “—” said Charon.

  “What?” I said, or tried to say. My lips formed the word, but no sound escaped.

  The ferryman’s mouth opened and closed, but I could hear nothing. Even the rush and drip of water all around me had stopped. I clutched at my ears frantically.

  “Strain your ears to be sure I’m here,” said a soft voice from beyond the gate. It was a woman’s voice, low and quiet as a whisper, but still crystal clear in the absence of any other sound. “But say my name and I disappear.”

  I lowered my hands slowly. It was a riddle. I could
do riddles. If it were a choice between wordplay and swordplay in the depths of the underground, I would take words any day. “Strain your ears to be sure I’m here. Say my name and I disappear.” I mouthed the clue as I thought. It sounded simple enough, although it was still unnerving to be enveloped by such absolute . . .

  “Silence.” I said the word out loud, and with it came rushing back all of the other sounds of the underground cave. The gate was mist again in an instant, and the boat shuddered forward.

  Charon bowed his head in approval and returned to propelling the slender ship forward.

  “Was that it?” I said. “Am I done?”

  A voice came from my left. “I sure hope not, Abby darling.”

  I nearly fell out of the boat. Goose pimples rippled down my arms. Nellie Fuller stood beside us in the curling mist. She wore the same neatly tailored dress that had complemented her full figure when she was alive, her dark curls tucked up under a stylish black hat. She had been an ace reporter for the New Fiddleham Chronicle. She had been an indomitable force to be reckoned with. She had been my friend.

  “It’s real nice to see you, kid.” She smiled. “But what’s a hot-blooded girl like you doing down here?”

  “Nellie!” I wanted to weep. “Oh my word! I’m so sorry!”

  “Sorry?”

  “For what happened—the valley—the dragon. It should never have been you.”

  She waved me away and rolled her eyes. “I don’t need anybody apologizing for my choices. I’d been all around the world—it was time for a new adventure, anyway. There are some amazing souls down here. I met a woman named Anne Bonny on my first night. She was a real-life pirate, told me all about it! When they caught her, she snuck out of jail and went straight. Nobody ever found her again, but guess what? She died decades later, peacefully, lying in her bed, a mild-mannered great-grandmother! I met a boy named Elpenor, too. He survived the Trojan War—sailed with Odysseus himself! The actual Odysseus! I didn’t even think any of that classic hero stuff really happened! Do you know how Elpenor died?”

  “By the sword?” I guessed.

  “He got drunk and fell off of a roof.” She laughed. “I got to tell the both of them that my last dance was toe to toe with an honest-to-goodness dragon! We all have to go sometime, Abby. I’m happy I went out on a high note. I’ve got no regrets.” She gave me a wink and I smiled. Death had not dulled her spirit in the least. “I didn’t plan on having you follow me down so soon, though,” she said. “What are you doing here?”