The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  “Woe to you, twisted souls!” he cried as he stepped from his boat, resting the oar on one shoulder. “Give up all hope of seeing the bright sun and sky! Your destiny is . . .” His voice trailed away as he examined first Diomedes and me, then the giant. As I said, Charon wasn’t much to look at overall, but his shoulders were impressive, and the pupils of his eyes were ringed with fire, as though the inside of his skull were the further wall of a furnace.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the giant, who stood motionless with his arms folded. “These are strange days indeed when the fallen ones walk side by side with living mortals in Hades.”

  “Fallen one!” said the giant. He hunched forward as he spoke and leaned into the words, his voice low and flat. “I never fell.”

  “Of course. Of course.” The ferryman snickered. “Not a fallen one, perhaps, but lacking the means to rise, just the same. If you are here to cross the river, think again. You don’t belong on the other side. The souls over there have earned their passage.”

  Their conversation made precious little sense to me, but the giant was clearly agitated. I stepped between him and Charon, fearing a fight. “Lord of the River,” I said, “I am Outis of the Oudamoi, messenger of the gods. I come to you at the behest of Athena, Seat of Wisdom. My companion and I have been charged with navigating the nine rings of Hades. By her authority, I requisition your boat and order you to ferry us across the river.”

  A wheezing laugh erupted from the fiend’s withered lips, and he raised his head just enough to look me in the eye. “The name you speak commands no authority whatsoever,” he growled. “If you haven’t the means to pay for the voyage, I haven’t the desire to help you.”

  “Coin we do not have, but the goddess herself will compensate you for your trouble,” I said, deepening my voice for effect.

  Charon sneered and turned back toward his boat.

  “No. Wait. Sir,” cried Diomedes, “we don’t belong here.”

  The demon let out another thin laugh. “You don’t belong here? Why, no one belongs here.” He lurched toward Diomedes, craning his neck sideways so he could look up into his face. “I have been here for nigh eternity, ferrying souls to the Underworld. You think I asked for the job? I was born to this slavery by my cursed parents. Look at yourselves! At least you are alive—a pleasure I have never known—not once! And for this reason, even the miserable shades I ferry into Hades are more fortunate than I.”

  His voice dropped to a secretive whisper. “This is why the stipend is so important, you see. I am saving up. Hoping to buy my way out. Hoping if I pass a little gold His way, the Authority might be tempted to give me a little break. Or turn me loose altogether—let me stir up a little trouble topside, if you know what I mean.” The old wretch looked out across the river and leaned on his oar. “What I wouldn’t give to feel rain on my face—to look upon the sun and feel its heat on my brow. What I would pay to feel a squirrel’s fur beneath my fingers and snap its delicate little neck. How I would love to break a single living bone between my fists, to dip my hands in warm blood to the elbows, taste the sweat off a cripple’s brow . . .”

  He looked at us then with a particular lustful curiosity that caused us all to take a slow step back. Then he shook his head and sighed, casting his gaze across the swampy river with such longing that I almost felt sorry for him. “You ridiculous mortals have no idea what life is worth till you’ve lost it. How often have you held beauty in your hands and did not even know it? Or knew and didn’t care? I’d give a hundred thousand pounds of gold to live long enough to destroy just one beautiful thing. But He won’t have any of it. Not yet, anyway. Not enough gold to tempt the Authority. Not yet. Not yet, anyway . . .” His voice was lost in dream.

  “Please, sir,” said Diomedes, “have pity.”

  “Pity?” the demon cried, his dream deferred. “My, my! Next you’ll be asking for my oar and my boat as well. You will find neither pity nor mercy down here, I assure you.” His voice trailed off again. “On the other hand”—he looked me over with a crooked smile, and my spirits lifted a little—“that bow of yours might be worth something. Give me that, and I’ll take you across. But just you. Not your friends.”

  “Sir, your price is too dear,” I answered.

  “You and your friend, then. But not the big one.”

  “I could not part with it.”

  “All three of you. But I want the bow ahead of time.”

  “Charon, mighty mariner of Acheron, Lord of Oar and Skiff, we have nothing to offer you but our prayers and heartfelt thanks.”

  “Oh joy!” he chortled. “Your heartfelt thanks! I was just thinking to myself how nice it would be to have some heartfelt thanks. ‘Some heartfelt thanks,’ I said to myself. ‘I could use some of that right now. Would make my job a lot easier.’ ” He spat at me.

  “The gods will reward your generosity,” I replied.

  “The gods?” Now the old rascal dissolved in a fit of hacking laughter. “Who do you think put me here? Besides, you cannot have any idea how many times I have heard just exactly those words.”

  He lurched back to his skiff, shaking his head and muttering. “Generosity. Ha. Pity. Mercy. Ha. Ha. Come back when you have your fare.” I looked at Diomedes as the ferryman set one foot aboard his boat. Diomedes had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and as our eyes met, he gave a slight nod. I signaled to him with three fingers. Two. One. Then in a single, ringing motion, the two of us pounced. I took one stride to the right, coming up from under with my sword, and Diomedes from above on the left.

  I had hardly begun to move when I felt myself propelled backward with such force that I seemed to leave my armor behind. Without even turning, the old demon swung his oar around his head, catching Diomedes under his outstretched arm and me square in the chest. I tell you—and this comes from a man who personally wrestled the giant Ajax—I had never been hit like that before. The force of the blow was so hard, not only did it knock the wind from my chest, but it knocked thoughts clear out of my head.

  Diomedes lay sprawled on the rocks, wheezing and trembling. “Giant,” he croaked between gasps, “help us.” But there was no answer from our guide. He actually retreated a step. The demon, noticing his reaction, gave another sneer and pushed himself from shore. Soon he was paddling away.

  Diomedes raised himself on all fours and watched, grief stricken, as our only hope of crossing the river drew further and further off. He threw a handful of sand at me. “Odysseus, do something.”

  I was in no condition to act. My lungs felt as though they were full of tar, and it took most of my strength just to lie on my back and gasp. But I do know a thing or two about guile. And I know my way around a bow. I reached into my quiver and drew the first arrow to hand—the green one. Then, still lying on my back, I braced the golden bow against my feet and drew the string with both hands. I winged a prayer to the Parthenos and let fly our only hope.

  It was a perfect shot, planted squarely between the old monster’s burly shoulders. Diomedes whooped, and the giant raised both hands over his head and held them there as if he were gripping an enormous ball. I did my best to look indifferent, though I was equally surprised. There was more to these arrows than met the eye.

  Charon let out a hideous shriek, dropped his oar in the water, and clawed at his back with both arms; but for all his thrashing and flailing, the sheer breadth of his shoulders prevented him from reaching the barb—and just like that, I had a plan. I yelled at him from the shore. “Charon,” I shouted, “take us across the river, and I will remove that arrow!”

  There was more screeching and clawing and a flurry of curses, but in the end he fished his oar out of the water and paddled his little boat back to us.

  “Remove it now, and I will take you,” he growled.

  “Take us,” I answered, “and I will remove it once we are safely across.”

  “The second we get to the other side, you’ll find some excuse to step off for a moment, and I’ll nev
er see you again.”

  I grimaced. This was exactly what I had in mind. “Be that as it may,” I said, trying to force a smile, “you have no other choice. You can trust me, or you can spend the rest of eternity trying to dig that arrow out on your own. Either way, I don’t see how it could hurt you to take us across.” I retrieved my quiver from the sand. “And besides, I have six more arrows. There’s room in that broad back of yours for at least two more.”

  Charon looked me over with disgust, snorted, and then gestured for us to board the ferry.

  If the breeze had not been so foul and the water so polluted, if the destination had not been so dreadful and our ferryman so hostile, if the company had not been so overwhelmingly despondent and our guide so obviously nervous, I might have enjoyed the ride. Charon was no sluggish rower, even with the arrow planted between his shoulders, and our tiny boat skimmed the water like a ship under sail. I sat with drawn sword on one side, while Diomedes and the giant sat guardedly on the other.

  I have a long scar on my right thigh—an injury I sustained as a boy. It itches when I’m worried or nervous, and let me tell you, it was tingling now; but as I watched the far shore grow distant in the mist, my anxiety yielded to a dull misery. Thus far in our journey—and we hadn’t been at it for long—every one of my schemes had failed. The door hadn’t opened, the giant hadn’t listened to me, and Charon had seen through my lie before I’d even told it. Was I losing my edge? The arrow between the shoulders had been a lucky shot, to say the least. So if I wasn’t the wily, silver-tongued Master of Plots and Schemes, what use was I to Diomedes or myself or anyone else? I had never been a great fighter, but I had made up for my lack of skill with cunning. Had even that deserted me?

  And then there was a nagging—if novel—sense of guilt over having disobeyed the Parthenos. She had always been good to me, yet I’d broken my word to her the moment I saw the door. As though it came naturally to me—which, of course, it did. And I was about to break my word again.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE FIRST ARROW

  WHEN AT LAST the boat skidded up onto the bank, the demon shouldered his oar and stepped into the shallows, limping through the foam. “I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain,” he bellowed, collapsing on hands and knees at the water’s edge. “Now remove this thing. It is poisoning me.”

  We climbed out of the boat and worked our way toward him through the surf. “The moment we remove that arrow,” whispered Diomedes, “he will turn on us.”

  The giant nodded, “You heard what Charon said. There is no pity in the Underworld. No mercy. No honor.”

  The old demon looked over his shoulder at us and frowned. “You are not going to remove it, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “But you gave your word.”

  At this, Diomedes laughed. “This is Odysseus of Ithaca, the Man of Twists and Turns, known the world over for every type of cunning and deceit. He’s better with a lie than you are with that boat. What do you think his word is worth?”

  “Odysseus,” said the monster. “Yes, I’ve heard. Even among the dead, that name is known.”

  Ordinarily, such talk would have thrilled me. My fame extended all the way to the Underworld. But was my word really so cheap? Was it laughable? Sure, I’d broken an oath or two—many, perhaps—but always for good reason, and rarely to a friend.

  Charon lowered his head, sparse gray locks dragging in the sand. “Go on, then. Leave.”

  I looked at the monster crouched before us and felt no remorse at the thought of leaving him there. In fact, the very thought of keeping my word made me uncomfortable and afraid. What did I owe Charon anyway? He had been quick to abandon us to our suffering. It was that quip of Diomedes that bothered me, and I remembered the words of the goddess: “My king has no use for a lying crook like you.” If they didn’t need a liar, why did she choose me? Was this a test? I looked again at the cowering mess at my feet, and something else she had said returned to me: “Let mercy triumph over justice.” I stepped forward and gripped the arrow with both hands.

  “Odysseus,” Diomedes put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not really going to keep your word, are you?”

  “I think so.”

  “We don’t need the arrow.”

  Diomedes was right. The value of the weapon did not warrant the risk of removing it. “It’s not about the arrow,” I said, and gave it a yank.

  Charon exploded with rage and pain, casting me on my back in the surf. The air trembled with shrieks. All about me the water churned and spat. But when the spray had settled and the cries had echoed into silence, I could see that my arrow was still firmly wedged between the old demon’s shoulders.

  “Come,” I said to him, once I’d scraped the putrid water from my face and arms. “Walk a little way up the beach with me.”

  Charon cursed under his breath but followed.

  “Now turn around.” As I suspected, the arrow had punched straight through his back and was pushing forward against the skin of his chest. “It will have to come out through the front,” I said, pressing the lump with my forefinger. The monster winced and scowled more deeply but made no resistance.

  I turned him back around again. “We’ll have to break it.”

  Diomedes took me by the arm and walked me a few steps away. “We’re not even going to get the arrow back?” he whispered. “That monster isn’t worth your pity. You know that, right? Just look at him.”

  Charon bared his broken teeth.

  “I see what you mean.” What I was about to do defied logic. No warrior in his right mind would waste his time healing an enemy. I didn’t even feel like I was doing the right thing. All the same, I resolved to do it, if only to contradict what everyone thought of me. Was I truly the Man of Twists and Turns? Very well. Here was a twist no one would see coming. “I’m going to do what the goddess told me.”

  “So now you’ve decided to trust her?”

  “Yes. Well, no. Perhaps. I don’t know what to think of the goddess.”

  “Look, Odysseus,” said Diomedes, raising his voice a little, “now is not the time to develop a conscience. Wait until we meet someone more worthy.”

  I read the concern in Diomedes’ face, and it did not move me. “Were we any more worthy of the goddess’ kindness?”

  Diomedes shook his head, then drew his sword and walked a few steps off.

  “Now Charon,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. His skin was cool and hard as a washed stone. “This will hurt, but when it’s over, the arrow should be out. Do we have your word that you will not harm us when the deed is done?”

  “What good is my word?” he growled. “And what makes you think I would keep it?”

  “If I can do it, I suppose you can too.”

  “Then you have it,” he groaned. “Just get this out of my back. It is eating me away from within.”

  I broke the fletching off the arrow and handed it to him. “And no screaming this time. It is undignified.” With that I braced my shield against my shoulder and slammed it against his back, driving the arrow out through his chest and into the sand at his feet.

  Diomedes plugged his ears, but all that came from Charon was a raspy grunt.

  The demon stood upright, fingering the hole in his chest. It whistled with every breath. Then he looked at me. “I can kill you now,” he said, stretching out his arms.

  “No doubt you can,” I replied. “But I have your word.”

  I unslung my shield. I turned my back to him and summoned my companions. “We have waited long enough on the shore,” I called. “It is time we saw what lies beyond.”

  We were almost out of sight of the Acheron when I heard my name called. I looked back and saw the ferryman standing by his boat. He held the broken arrow in his hand. “Why?” he barked.

  I studied him from this distance, a bony, pale thing trembling on the bank of a putrid river, and felt a touch of something I couldn’t quite name. I held my hands open before me and shrugged. “
I gave my word.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE FORTRESS

  ONCE THE FERRY and its pilot were safely behind us, my two companions and I began to take in our new surroundings. They were not altogether different from our old surroundings, comprising the same dull soot and charred stone with which we were already too familiar, the chief difference being that now the landscape began a slight—and sinister—descent. In a natural setting, a traveler might well avoid uphill marches, but in Hades, one instinctively resists any course leading downward. Thus we hesitated ever more with each step.

  After a long time and several unnecessary stops, we found ourselves at last in the presence of a most peculiar fortress. It was built of the same scorched stone that made up much of our landscape but had none of the familiar marks of a defensive fortification—no turrets or arrow loops, no crenellations or battlements. Its three massive walls formed a perfect triangle, and the stone appeared to be of such fine workmanship that we were unable to make out any seams in the masonry whatsoever. After spending a good long while circling its walls, we came to the conclusion that the fortress had no entrance at all.

  “An odd piece of work,” said Diomedes, “but formidable.”

  “I always figured Mycenae was the most frightening castle ever built,” I replied. “The rocks they used were so big, we told one another that a Cyclops had helped carry them; but I’ll tell you what—this fortress would make the finest Greek architect weep.”

  Our guide, who had remained resolutely silent since we’d left the banks of the Acheron, now walked slowly to the foot of the wall and, looking up along its vast span, lifted one fist and knocked. The noise fell flat in the thick air, and after waiting for a while, he sighed and started to lumber back to us. He had advanced no more than a few steps when an ear-splitting crack rent the air and a door emerged from the masonry. He turned back again at a run when it became clear that the door was falling in our direction. It settled with a crash, and the giant, looking rather shaken in spite of his empty face, sat down beside us for the first time.