Uncanny Tales

by Robert Sheckley

  He was Chris Johnson, but he had been Agamemnon for so long that he had nearly forgotten his life before the lottery chose him for this role.

  And then there had been all the trouble of getting to Troy, the unfortunate matter of Iphigenia, the ten years waiting in front of the city, the quarrel with Achilles, and finally, Odysseus’ wooden horse and the capture and destruction of Troy and nearly all its inhabitants, and then the long journey home over the wine-dark sea; his return to Mycenae, and now this.

  And before that? He remembered a dusty, small town not far from the Mexican border. Amos’s water tower had been the tallest building on the prairie for 200 miles in any direction. Ma’s Pancake House had been the only restaurant. When he made his lucky draw in the lottery, he remembered thinking it would be worth life itself just to get out of here, just to live a little.

  It had never been easy to get out of Mycenae. The city’s heart was a maze of narrow streets and alleys. The district he was in, close to the palace, had an oriental look—tiny shops on twisting streets. Many of the shopkeepers wore turbans. Agamemnon had never researched the life of the ancient Greeks, but he supposed this was accurate. The constructors of the lottery did what they did for a reason.

  The street Agamemnon was on came out on a broad boulevard lined with marble statues. Among them, Agamemnon recognized Perseus and Achilles, Athene and Artemis. The statues had been painted in bright colors. He was surprised to see a statue to himself. It didn’t look much like him, but it had his name on it. In English letters, not Greek. It was a concession the lottery had made to modern times: everyone in this Greece spoke English.

  He wondered if the statue represented the first Agamemnon. He knew that the lottery was always repeating the classical roles. Had there ever been a first Agamemnon? With myths and legends, you could never be quite sure.

  He saw that a procession was coming down the boulevard. There were musicians playing clarinet and trumpet. Timpani players. Even a piano, on a little cart, drawn by a donkey.

  That was obviously not legitimate. But he reminded himself that the lottery was staging this, and they could make it any way they wanted it. He didn’t even know where their Greece was.

  Behind the musicians there were dancing girls, in scanty tunics, with wreaths around their heads and flowers in their hair. They looked drunk. He realized that these must be Maenads, the crazed followers of Dionysus, and behind them came Dionysus himself.

  As he came closer, Agamemnon recognized him. It was Ed Carter from Centreville, Illinois. They had met in one of the lottery staging rooms, where they had gone for their first assignments.

  “Dionysus!” Agamemnon called out.

  “Hello, Agamemnon, long time no see. You’re looking good.” Dionysus was obviously drunk. There were wine stains on his mouth and his tunic. He didn’t seem able to pause in his dancing march, so Agamemnon walked along beside him.

  “Going to join me?” Dionysus asked. “We’re having a feast later, and then we’re going to tear apart King Pentheus.”

  “Is that strictly necessary?”

  Dionysus nodded. “I was given specific orders. Pentheus gets it. Unless he can figure something out. But I doubt this one’s up to it.”

  Agamemnon asked, a bit formally, “How is it going with you, Dionysus?”

  Dionysus said, “Pretty well, Agamemnon. I’m getting into this. Though it was no fun being killed last week. A real bummer.”

  “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “I didn’t anticipate it myself,” Dionysus said. “But they jump you around in time, you know, to make sure you cover all the salient points of your character’s life. No sooner had I been married to Ariadne—did you ever meet her? Lovely girl. Abandoned by Theseus on the isle of Naxos, you know—and then I came along and married her. A bit sudden on both our parts, but what a time we had! Naxos is a lovely place—I recommend it for a holiday—anyhow, immediately after that I found myself newborn in the Dictean cave. I think it was the Dictean. And these guys, these Titans with white faces were coming at me, obviously intending murder. I put up a hell of a struggle. I changed into a bird, a fish, a tree. I could have pulled it off, but the contest was rigged against me. I had to die in order to be reborn. They seized me at last and tore me apart, as my Maenads will do for Pentheus. But Apollo gathered my bits, and Zeus took me into himself and in due course I was reborn. And here I am, leading my procession of crazy ladies down the main street of Mycenae. Not bad for a kid from Centreville, Illinois, huh? And what about you, Agamemnon?”

  “I’ve got some trouble,” Agamemnon said. “Remember my wife, Clytemnestra? Well, she’s sore as hell at me because she thinks I sacrificed our daughter Iphigenia.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “To call up a wind so the fleet could get to Troy. But I didn’t really do it! I made it look like a sacrifice, but then I arranged for Artemis to carry Iphigenia away to Aulis, where she has a nice job as high priestess.”

  “Everyone thinks you had your daughter killed,” Dionysus said.

  “They’re wrong! There’s that version of the story that says I didn’t. That’s the one I’m going with. But that bitch Clytemnestra and her sleazy boyfriend Aegithus won’t buy it. They’ve got guards out all over the city with orders to kill me on sight.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I need a way out of this! Can you help me? Isn’t there some way I can get out of this whole mess?”

  “Maybe there is,” Dionysus said. “But you’d have to ask Teiresias for specifics.”

  “Teiresias? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “What does that matter? He was the supreme magician of the ancient world. He’d be glad to talk to you. He likes talking to live ones.”

  “But how do I get to the underworld?”

  “You must kill someone, then intercept the Charon- function when it comes to carry off the shade, and accompany them across the Styx.”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone. I’ve had enough of that.”

  “Then find someone on the point of death and it’ll still work.”

  “But who?”

  “What about Cassandra?”

  “No, not Cassandra.”

  “She’s doomed anyway.”

  “We think we’ve figured an out for her. Anyhow, I won’t kill her.”

  “Suit yourself. Actually, anybody will do.”

  “I’m not going to just grab some person off the street and kill him!”

  “Agamemnon, it’s really not a time to be finicky… What about a plague victim? One not quite dead, but on the way?”

  “Where would I find a plague victim?”

  “Follow a plague doctor.”

  “How will I know Charon when he comes? His appearance is always invisible to any but the dead.”

  Dionysus frowned for a moment, then his brow cleared. He reached inside his tunic and took out a yellow stone on a chain.

  “They gave me this in Egypt. It’s an Egyptian psychopomp stone. Some kind of amethyst, I believe. Take it. There’s a doctor over there! Good luck, Agamemnon! I really must go now.”

  And with a wave of his hand, Dionysus danced off after his Maenads.

  Agamemnon saw the person Dionysus had been referring to: a tall, middle-aged man in a long black cloak, carrying an ivory cane, and wearing a conical felt cap on which was the symbol of Asclepius.

  Agamemnon hurried over to him. “Are you a doctor?”

  “I am. Strepsiades of Cos. But I can’t stop and chat with you. I am on my way to a call.”

  “To a plague victim?”

  “Yes, as it happens. A terminal case, I fear. The family waited too long to send for me. Still, I’ll do what I can.”

  “I want to go with you!”

  “Are you a doctor? Or a relative?”

  “Neither. I am—a reporter!” Agamemnon said in a burst of inspiration.

  “How can that be? You have no newspapers here in Mycenae. I’ve heard that Ar
give Press managed to run for a while, but the price of copper went through the ceiling, and Egypt stopped exporting papyrus…”

  “It’s a new venture!”

  The doctor made no comment when Agamemnon fell into step beside him. Agamemnon could tell the man wasn’t pleased. But there was nothing he could do about it. He might even have been furious; but Agamemnon wore a sword, and the doctor appeared to be unarmed.

  After several blocks, Agamemnon saw they were going into one of the slum areas of the city. Great, he thought. What am I getting myself into?

  They went down a narrow alley, to a small hut at the end of it. Strepsiades pushed open the door and they entered. Within, by gray light from a narrow overhead window, and by a single flickering oil lamp on the floor, a man lay on a tattered blanket on the floor. He appeared to be very old, and very wasted.

  Strepsiades knelt to examine him, then shook his head and stood up again.

  “How long does he have?” Agamemnon asked.

  “Not long, poor fellow. He’s approaching the final crisis. You can tell by the skin color. Sometimes these cases linger on for a few hours more, a half day, even a day. But no longer.”

  “Let me look at him,” Agamemnon said and knelt down beside the sick man. The man’s skin was bluish-gray. His lips were parched and cracked. Thin lines of blood oozed from his nostrils, and the corners of his eyes. The turgid blood was the only sign of life in the man.

  Agamemnon was acutely aware that he had little time in which to make his escape from Mycenae. But the man was still alive. How long did he have to wait until he died? A minute? An hour? How long before Aegisthus’ soldiers found him? He had to get it over with. He tried to make up his mind whether to smother the man or strangle him.

  He started to reach toward the man’s throat. The man opened his eyes. With the man suddenly staring at him with bloodshot blue eyes, Agamemnon hesitated—

  “King Agamemnon!” the sick man whispered. “Can it be you? I am Pyliades. I was a hoplite in the first rank of the Argolis Phalanx. I served under you in the Trojan War. What are you doing here, sir?”

  Agamemnon heard himself say, “I heard of your plight, Pyliades, and came to wish you well.”

  “Very good of you, sire. But then, you always were a good man and a benevolent commander. I’m surprised you remember me. I was only a common soldier. My parents had to sell the farm in order to purchase my panoply, so I could march with the others and avenge Greece for the unfair abduction of our Helen.”

  “I remembered you, Pyliades, and came to say farewell. Our war is won. The might of Greece has prevailed. Of course, we had Achilles. But what good would Achilles have been if it weren’t for men in the ranks like you?”

  “I remember Prince Achilles well, and the burial fires we lit for him when he was killed. I hope to see him again, in Hades. They say—”

  The sick man’s meandering discourse was broken as the door to his room was suddenly slammed open. Two armed soldiers pushed their way in. They hesitated, seeing the doctor in his long robe. Then they spotted Agamemnon.

  The leading soldier, a burly red-bearded man, said, “Kill them all. Aegisthus wants no witnesses. I’ll take care of Agamemnon myself.”

  The second soldier was the one who had spotted Agamemnon coming out of the palace window, and had run from him. He advanced now on the doctor, who raised his ivory cane to protect himself, saying, “There’s no need for this. I am a neutral, a physician from Cos, here only to treat the sick and injured. Let me go, I’ll never say a word about what’s going on here.”

  The soldier glanced at the red-bearded man, evidently his officer, who muttered, “No witnesses!” And turned back to Agamemnon.

  Agamemnon saw the doctor suddenly lift his staff and bring it down on the soldier’s head. The rod broke. Growling, sword poised, the soldier advanced on the doctor.

  Agamemnon could see no more, because the red-bearded man was coming at him. Agamemnon had his sword out, but without armor, he knew he stood little chance against an experienced hoplite. He circled around the sick man on his blanket, and the red-bearded soldier pursued, cautiously but relentlessly.

  Agamemnon heard a scream. The doctor had been wounded, but was still fighting, trying to stab his assailant with the stub of his ivory cane. Agamemnon continued circling, winding his cloak around his left arm, but he knew it was hopeless, utterly hopeless…

  And then, in an instant, everything changed.

  Pyliades, with the last vestige of his strength, reached out and clutched the red-bearded soldier around the legs. The soldier staggered and cut viciously at the sick man. In that moment was Agamemnon’s only chance, and he took it. With a hoarse cry he threw himself against the soldier, overbalancing him. The weight of the man’s armor did the rest. He fell heavily over Pyliades’ body, his sword caught in the sick man’s chest, trapped between two ribs.

  Agamemnon was on top of him. Releasing his own sword, Agamemnon pulled the knife from his belt and tried to stab the man in the face. The knife bounced off the metal nose guard, breaking at the tip. Agamemnon took better aim and pushed the knife through an opening in the helmet, past a missing cheek guard, into the man’s cheek, up into his eye socket, and then, with a twist, into his brain.

  Pyliades was croaking, “Good for you, Commander. We’ll show these Trojan swine a thing or two...”

  Agamemnon was already rolling to his feet, just in time to see the other soldier thrust his sword deep into the doctor’s belly. The soldier’s helmet had come off in the fight. Agamemnon seized him from behind, bent back his head, and cut his throat.

  There was silence in the house of the sick man.

  There were four corpses on the floor. The doctor had just passed away. Pyliades was dead, but with a grin on his face. Agamemnon hoped it was a grin of triumph rather than the sardonic grin of the plague victim.

  The red-bearded soldier lay in a pool of his own blood. Steam was rising from it. The other soldier, with the knife in his brain, wasn’t bleeding much. But he was as dead as the others.

  Agamemnon himself was uninjured. He could scarcely believe it. He shook himself to make sure.

  He was fine. Now, to find Charon.

  He reached inside his tunic, pulled out the amethyst that Dionysus gave him. He looked around the room through it.

  The room was a dark yellow. The proportions weren’t as he remembered them. The amethyst seemed to have distorting properties. Agamemnon experienced a wave of dizziness. He sat down on the floor. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself with an effort of will and looked around the room again.

  He saw what looked like a wisp of smoke taking shape. Was it from the oil lamp? No, that had been broken during the fight—a wonder it hadn’t set the place afire.

  At the same time he felt the walls of the hovel changing, expanding, dissolving.

  Agamemnon blinked. The room was changing fast. He was disoriented. He could no longer see the walls. He was outside. He lowered the amethyst to reorient himself.

  He was indeed outside. Not even in Mycenae. He was sitting on a boulder on a low, marshy shore. There was a river in front of him. Its waters were black, sleek, oily. It appeared to be twilight or early evening. The sun was nowhere in sight, although it had been afternoon when all this began. There were no stars in the darkness, no light anywhere. Yet he could see. Some distance ahead of him, on a low ridge of rock poking out of the mud. There were four figures. Agamemnon thought he knew who they were.

  In the gloom he could also make out a sort of dock on the shore beyond the four figures. A long, low boat was tied to one of its pillars, and a man was standing in it.

  The man was gesturing, and his voice came through clearly.

  “Come on, you guys! You know the drill. Come to the boat. The boat’s not going to come to you.”

  The four rose and began walking to the dock. Their steps were the slow, unhurried footsteps of the dead. Agamemnon got up and hurried to join them.

  He reached the
dock at the same time they did. He recognized the doctor, Pyliades, and the two soldiers.

  The man in the boat was urging them to move along, get aboard, get on with it.

  “Come on,” he said, “I have no time to waste. Do you think you’re the only dead awaiting transportation? Move along now, get aboard… You there,” he said to Agamemnon, “you’ve got no business here. You’re still living.”

  Agamemnon holds up the amethyst. “I need to come aboard. You’re Charon, aren’t you?”

  “His son,” the man said. “One of his sons. We’re all called Charon. Too much work for the old man alone. Too much for us now, too! But we do what we can. You’ve got the psychopomp stone, so I guess you can come aboard.” He turned to the others. “Did you bring any money for the passages?”

  They shook their heads. “It was all too sudden,” the doctor said.

  “I will stand surety for them,” Agamemnon said. “And for myself as well. I’ll deposit the money wherever you want upon my return. You have the word of Agamemnon, king of kings.”

  “Make sure you don’t forget, or when your time comes, your shade will be left here on the shore.”

  “How much do you want?” Agamemnon asked.

  “The fee is one obol per dead man, but five obols for you because you’re alive and weigh more. Go to any Thomas Cook, have them convert your currency into the obol, and deposit it in the Infernal Account.”

  “Thomas Cook has an infernal account?”

  “Didn’t know that, did you?”

  Agamemnon and the others got on Charon’s boat. It was narrow, with two rows of built-in benches facing each other. Agamemnon and Pyliades sat on one side, the two soldiers on the other, and the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation, sat on a little bench in front of a shelter cabin, at right angles to the benches. Charon untied the mooring line and pushed the boat away from the dock. Once free, he set a steering oar in place, and stood on the decked stern and began to gently scull the boat.

  They sat in silence for a while as the boat glided over the dark waters.

  At last Agamemnon said, “Is this going to take long?”