The Gorgon Bride

by Galen Sulak-Ramsey

  “How rude.”

  “What’s rude?”

  “Calling me a liar and saying I don’t exist,” Kharon said with a frown. “I take a lot of pride in my work. I have to deal with enough abuse as it is.”

  Alex shook his head at the unexpected turn. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “You said—and I quote—‘you’re simply some made-up piece of my psyche.’”

  “Look, I’m not here to argue with you, I want—”

  “Don’t give me any of that.” Kharon shoved his pole into Alex’s face. “I know what you want. You want to go back to your fabulous life of fresh outdoors and warm sunshine. Never mind the rest of us that are stuck down here in the gloom. Don’t you think I’d like to see the sky once in a while or count the stars at night? No, of course you don’t think of any of that. All you can think about is how to be rid of me.”

  “You’re damn right I want to be rid of you. I want to be rid of you, this place, this dream, and whatever else is lurking around and get back to my life,” Alex said.

  “I’ve had enough of you,” Kharon said, taking a seat on the edge of his skiff. He reached into a brown sack and pulled out a large fig. “And I’m not about to put up with your insults any longer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a bite to eat.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Alex snatched the fig from Kharon’s hands. “Take me across the river this moment, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll be forced to take your boat,” Alex said, casting the fig to the ground like a gauntlet.

  Kharon’s eyes followed the fruit as it rolled to his feet. His hands trembled and he shifted his grip on his pole. His mouth opened, and for a moment, no words came out. Finally, the ferryman stood and leveled his pole at Alex. “That was completely uncalled for. Now apologize.”

  “No,” Alex said, standing fast. “In fact, I just realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Since this is a dream, I can do whatever I want.” With that, Alex lunged at the man and the two became entangled, rolling along the bank of the Acheron.

  After a series of hits, kicks, bites and gouges, Kharon got the upper hand and pinned Alex to the ground. “I can’t believe you’re so childish,” he said, keeping his pole pressed against Alex’s neck. “Do you yield?”

  “Never,” Alex said. A few squirms and grunts later, Alex, still pinned by Kharon, ceased his struggles. “This is pointless, isn’t it?”

  Kharon nodded. “It is.”

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “I haven’t a chance, have I?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  Alex sighed in resignation and much to his surprise, Kharon released him from the pin and helped him to his feet. “What now?” Alex said, brushing the sand from his body and feeling embarrassed about how easily he’d been beat.

  “I’m going back to work,” he answered as he returned to his skiff. “We can be friends as long as you learn to control yourself. Until you decide to pay my fare, you can wander the banks, look across the river, or sit down for a spell.”

  Alex looked over the dark waters and a thought struck him. “I’m a strong swimmer. I bet I could cross it without your silly boat.”

  “No!” Kharon spun around and placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Believe me, you do not want to do that. Even the gods are not so foolish as to touch the waters of the Acheron.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Alex, walking over to the shore and looking at the murky waters. “What’s in there that even a god can’t kill?”

  “Nothing lives there,” Kharon replied.

  “Is it toxic?”

  “To the soul, it most certainly is.”

  “How do I know you’re not saying all this to trick me?” he asked.

  Kharon snorted and shook his head. “Touch it and see. It will take only a drop.”

  Alex knelt by the river and dipped his right index finger into the water. Immediately, it felt as if someone was crushing his finger in a vise. Alex screamed and fell back on the bank, clutching his hand. The pain grew, and unable to do anything else, Alex clenched his jaw and curled into a fetal position. Finally, after what felt like hours, the pain subsided.

  “Still think I’m trying to trick you?” asked Kharon.

  Alex, teary-eyed, came to his feet. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “I did warn you.”

  Alex, silent, was unsure what to say or do. All he knew was that he wanted to get across the river. Why, he didn’t know, other than he felt a draw to the other side. But since swimming wasn’t an option, and he didn’t have any money to pay Kharon’s fare, he was stuck, plain and simple. As he thought about his problem, the gears of his creativity began to spin. From that spinning, an idea was born. It was an idea that lit Alex’s face with the brightest of smiles. “Kharon, dear friend,” he said. “Has anyone ever beaten you in a sporting contest?”

  The ferryman straightened with pride. “Not a one. On my weakest day, I’m stronger than a dozen men.”

  “What about a race? Are you quick?”

  Kharon puffed his chest. “My speed is second only to the gods.”

  “Then I propose a contest,” Alex said. He motioned toward a cluster of rocks off in the distance. “A race, from here to there and back again.”

  “Stakes?”

  “If I win, you take me across the Acheron free of charge.”

  “And when you lose?”

  “I’ll be your servant without complaint until you grow weary of my company,” Alex replied. “Certainly there is work that could be done. But to be fair, I should disclose that I was quite the track star in my younger days. I even kept up with the famed Chesty Jr.”

  “Chesty who?”

  “A Marine,” Alex explained. “You know, the whole ‘From the Halls of Montezuma’ bit?”

  Quietly, Kharon thought about the offer. After a few moments, he tossed his pole into his skiff. “I do not know this Chesty Jr. you speak of, but I accept your challenge nonetheless, Alexander Weiss.”

  Chapter Two

  Inside the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol building, Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, met with Phorcys, Primeval God of the Sea. The location had been picked in advance, being neutral ground since the building’s patrons held neither deity’s realm in high regard.

  Athena leaned against the curved, sandstone wall while lobbyists bustled past. She gave the occasional non-committal gesture, feigning interest and civility in The Old Man’s conversation while she critiqued John Trumball’s painting, Surrender of Lord Cornwallis. She particularly liked the contrast of the blue sky and dark clouds, as she felt it set the serious tone on which observers of the piece should meditate. The mistakes Trumball had made in recounting the exactness of the event—such as who was present and what uniforms were worn—she could overlook, and overall she liked the work. Perhaps when this was over and Ares surrendered to her yet again, she would have Trumball paint that scene as well. If she felt like going down to Hades again, that is.

  “Do you not fear the depths?” Phorcys asked, his voice dripping with contempt. The god looked to be a thin man in his late seventies, with sunken cheeks, stringy grey hair, and recessed eyes.

  “There is little I fear,” Athena said, fully knowing that the god’s weak appearance was nothing more than a ruse he enjoyed.

  Phorcys straightened, his joints popping loudly as he did. “Mortal and immortal alike are wary of my children. Even your father respects my domain. It is not your role to interfere with my family.”

  The goddess flicked a piece of lint off her navy-blue short jacket. She loathed the charge that she had nothing better to do than to meddle with The Old Man’s children when it was Stheno that had opened her mouth and uttered blaspheme against Athena in the first place. “Your offspring are miserable little monsters and deserve to be tr
eated as such.”

  Phorcys’s hands twitched, and Athena guessed he was doing his best not to revert to his true form and strike her. “And who gave them their snakes for hair?” he asked, popping his knuckles one at a time. “Tell me, oh favored daughter of Zeus, who turned them into the hated creatures they are? Surely such knowledge has not been washed away from your memory.”

  Athena couldn’t help but smile. Of course she knew who it was, and she had always been proud of her creativity when she had meted out the three gorgons’ punishment ages ago. Her rational side, however, decided not to gloat, even if she would enjoy toying with The Old Man. Poseidon would make things troublesome, to say the least, should she not at least try to make amends. “What would you ask of me to rectify the situation?”

  Phorcys tilted his head and rubbed his hands together as he contemplated his answer. “A peace offering already?” he asked. “Do you expect me to believe the tides have turned so quickly?”

  “You are free to believe whatever you like.”

  A smile spread slowly across Phorcys’s face. Athena had not seen that look for three thousand years, but she knew it well nonetheless. The Old Man was about to hit her with something she’d hate.

  “Cast your line into the sea of forgiveness and pray it catches something worthwhile,” The Old Man said. “Admit you are not my family’s captain and are ignorant in our ways, lest you see what a true tempest I can bring.”

  Athena felt her mouth dry, but she kept her face flat to keep Phorcys’s leverage at a minimum. She weighed the choice before her and pondered what the consequences of such an admission would be. She was, after all, the Goddess of Wisdom, not of mistakes. Any blemish on a deity’s track record could be seen as a sign of weakness and later exploited. Then again, she thought, there might be a way to quickly and quietly put the matter to rest and save face at the same time. “Fine,” she said. “But only if the matter is never spoken of again, between us or anyone else. Furthermore, I only admit that as a courtesy to you, I should have informed you on what had transpired before acting as I did.”

  Phorcys looked surprised at how easily she agreed to his first demand. “There’s more,” he continued. “My last daughter, Euryale, is in need. Her crying is what woke me from my slumber in the abyss. Her spirit needs to be lifted.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  The Old Man waited for a group of tourists to meander by before answering. “Find a suitor worthy of her, one that would resist the call of the sirens to be at her side.”

  Athena raised her hands and took a step back. “Oh no. That’s Aphrodite’s specialty. You’ve got the wrong girl if you think I’m playing matchmaker.”

  “Athena,” he said, the tone in his voice softening. “Navigating the waters of love is treacherous enough where a gorgon is not concerned. Aphrodite lacks both the tact and wisdom to handle the finer details of such a voyage.”

  Athena mulled the request over. She knew Phorcys was catering to her ego, and it would be nice to show up little miss love goddess, but she felt that the task was still beneath her station, which was probably why he was making her do it in the first place. “Let me make a counter offer,” she said. “I’ll see to it that she gets a suitor, but I’ll only act as an overseer to the endeavor. Someone else will do the leg work.”

  The Old Man’s brow furrowed. “No. This is part of your penance.”

  “I’m afraid I’m far too busy to be personally involved on this one, Phorcys. So much to do and see since we’ve been gone so long, but you have my word that the results will be the same. I’ve got precisely the man in mind.”

  “Man? You insult me by using a mortal for such a task?”

  Athena masked her disdain for The Old Man and gently took his hand with a smile. “I assure you that he will do your daughter the proper service.”

  Phorcys pulled back. “And what is the name of this hero of yours?”

  “Alexander Weiss.”

  A low growl preceded The Old Man’s response. “Your hero’s fame escapes me.”

  “He’s perfect,” she reassured with a pat on his shoulder. “He’s a romantic at heart and the one that Stheno accidently landed on. More importantly, he owes me a favor.”

  “Details.”

  “Apollo has prophesied that he’s going to insult me.”

  * * *

  The stakes had been made, the finish line had been drawn, and the two runners took their places along the desolate bank of the Acheron. Alex, bent over in a perfect, four-point crouch, glanced at his opponent. Kharon, also set and ready, counted.

  On one, Alex held his muscles taught. On two, he sucked in a deep breath. And on three, he held fast. Predictably, Kharon bolted forward like a thoroughbred free from the gates. The ferryman’s speed was impossible to match, but Alex had no intentions of trying. Instead of taking up the race, Alex leaped onto the skiff, grabbed the pole off the deck, and pushed off.

  “My thanks, kind sir,” Alex called out once Kharon realized what had happened and skidded to a stop. Alex gave an informal, two finger salute and took pride at how well his ruse had worked. “Fear not. I’ll take good care of your ship.”

  Kharon didn’t respond, but stood statuesque on the riverbank, his gaze never leaving Alex as he disappeared into the fog.

  The skiff glided silently across the dark waters, and Alex was surprised at how little effort it took to move it forward. As he pressed on, the air grew foul and thick, causing him to cough. The fog closed in, and soon it enshrouded the bow from view. Despite a growing nausea and being all but blind, Alex whistled the first Chopin nocturne he’d ever learned (Op. 9, No.2) and when he was done with that, he was still in the fog, and so moved on to the next. And the next. And the next. Only after he’d finished every nocturne Chopin had ever written and was about to start again, did the fog lift and the air refresh, and the skiff ran aground.

  Smiling with relief, Alex hopped off and surveyed his surroundings. The bank gave way to rolling hills of vibrant green. The sky above seemed to be in a perpetual sunset, shimmering with reds and oranges and smeared with a handful of clouds. Regardless of the array of colors, the silent and musty air gave Alex an uneasy feeling.

  He wasn’t dreaming. This was real. His stomach knotted at the implications, and a pain grew in his chest at all the things left undone. The concerts he’d no longer play. The travels he’d no longer take. His fish he’d no longer feed.

  Alex sighed as one final thought came to him: there was a girl he’d no longer be able to call. Perhaps that one was for the best. They’d only been together for some of middle school and high school before she moved, and thus he hadn’t seen her for what, eighteen years? It was doubtful she even remembered him all that much. Still, he would’ve liked to have contacted her at least once before he’d died.

  He wondered how soon it would be until he met someone else. He came across a few shadows like those on the banks of the Acheron, but like those other souls, these shades never spoke a word to Alex, no matter how many times he tried to engage them. Worse, the more he went on, the fainter they became, and he soon realized he too would become like them, oblivious to everyone around him.

  Tired and stiff from the boat ride, Alex plopped onto the ground and studied the scenery. “If this really is the afterlife, I can’t say I’m impressed,” he said to himself. “It’s like a second-rate Manet painting.”

  “I think you mean Monet,” a voice said from behind.

  Alex turned. Behind him stood a woman about his height, dressed in flowing robes and holding a full helm in one hand and a spear in the other. Alex rubbed his eyes, unsure what to make of this new arrival. With high cheekbones and mysterious, grey eyes, the woman had an attraction that far surpassed any woman Alex had ever seen—even more so when he realized her athletic figure was flawless. Two words came to mind, beautiful and enticing, but he spoke neither. Flabbergasted that there was a living, breathing, talking being before him, all
Alex could say was, “Pardon?”

  “You’re referring to Claude Monet,” she said. “Crossing the waters of the Acheron will do that to a man, make him lose his memories of life.”

  “No, I meant Manet. The impressionist. This place lacks detail and feels fuzzy, like his paintings.”

  “That was Monet,” she reiterated, now sounding like a professor clarifying a lesson. “Edouard Manet was a realist and the one that painted the whore.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very.”

  Alex furrowed his brow and pressed his lips, all the while wondering how anyone could mix up something so simple, as if a realist and an impressionist were anything alike. “No, I’m certain it was Manet. I had a few art history courses in college. They teach you things like that, painters’ names and whatnot.”

  “Are you openly challenging me on this?” Her eyes narrowed, and her sex appeal vanished. “By all means, continue to insult me by staying seated.”

  Without thought, Alex jumped to his feet. She had an air of importance around her, but other than that, he hadn’t a clue who she was or why he should care. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

  “Athena Parthenos,” she said, offering nothing but an annoyed glare to go with the introduction. “Though some prefer Pallas Athena. You may address me as either.”

  “Would that be Miss, Mrs., or Ms. Pallas Athena?”

  “You can drop the prefix completely.”

  “And you are?”

  “Daughter of Zeus, patron goddess of Athens.”

  “Oh, that’s peachy,” Alex said before cursing under his breath. “I really have gone insane.”

  Athena raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

  “Goddess indeed. You’re about as real as the Easter Bunny. I’ve clearly had some sort of psychotic break and am now probably dribbling in a nut house.”

  “I assure you, you’re not a madman,” she said. “If anyone should know about things that afflict the mind, it would be me.”

  “Pish-posh,” Alex said with a wave of his hand. “What do you know?”