Without a Charon the World - a CROSSING story for Whimword, 25th August 2017
Jeffrey’s vision began to clear. A few moments before he’d been walking along, minding his own business and minding it hard, when a sound from above caught his ear. He looked up to see a mighty fireball ballooning across the sky, then his world turned black. Now he found himself sprawled on a bank of earth dark as jet, gazing out across an expanse of inky water, beneath a sky of incarnadine clouds...
“Over here!” came a cry from the water’s edge.
Jeffrey looked on, bemused, as a man in a white flowing gown and even flowier beard strode up to him. It wasn’t until he’d hoisted him to his feet that he noticed the ostentatious halo perched on his head.
“Um, where am I?” said Jeffrey, groggily.
“The Styx, dear boy,” said the stranger, “but a more pertinent question is “WHAT are you?”. And WHAT you are is dead.”
“Dead?” repeated Jeffrey incredulously.
“As indeed am I,” said the stranger, “Saint Peter, pleased to make your acquaintance! Now, shall we get on?”
Jeffrey, now recognising the scene before him as his own vision of the afterlife, paused, still resolutely confused.
“You ... weren’t who I was expecting” he said, cautiously as he might.
“Cutbacks,” said Saint Peter, simply, “Now I need to be back at the Pearly Gates in ten, so...”
He climbed into a hellish, skeletal ferry, which somehow remained afloat despite being riddled with holes.
“This one looks right, doesn’t it?”
Jeffrey’s brow furrowed.
“I suppose so,” he ventured, “don’t you know?”
“It’s my first day,” said Saint Peter, sheepishly, “climb aboard then! Chop chop!”
Jeffrey did so, and they set off, Saint Peter wielding an oar topped with the skull of an unspecified canid.
“I only ask you - Jesus this is more work than I’m used to, give me a quill any day! - because this is your version of the hereafter based on what you imagined in life. Everyone’s afterlife is extrapolated from what they expect it to be, so as not to cause the incoming souls any undue stress. Obviously that’s all gone a bit tits up of late...”
He gestured at his own twinklingly incongruous form.
“...but what can you do? Bloody hell, I’m knackered...”
He stopped rowing and stooped down to one of the vessel’s many impossible gashes, scooping up a handful of water.
“I wouldn’t do that!” said Jeffrey, rushing forward.
“Why not?” said Saint Peter, dabbing his beard.
“The Styx contains healing properties, if you drink it when you’re dead, it could make you-”
But Saint Peter’s eyes were already bulging, and a split second later he’d popped out of existence, and appeared alive and well in a shoebox in the Vatican.
“-Undead” finished Jeffrey, collapsing numbly, and staring at the spot where his erstwhile ferryman had been.
The Styx lapped calmly at the bough.
Gingerly, Jeffrey reached for the oar. The skull snarled. Thinking better of it, he decided he’d better get comfortable, and wait for Saint Peter to die.
“Over here!” came a cry from the water’s edge.
Jeffrey looked on, bemused, as a man in a white flowing gown and even flowier beard strode up to him. It wasn’t until he’d hoisted him to his feet that he noticed the ostentatious halo perched on his head.
“Um, where am I?” said Jeffrey, groggily.
“The Styx, dear boy,” said the stranger, “but a more pertinent question is “WHAT are you?”. And WHAT you are is dead.”
“Dead?” repeated Jeffrey incredulously.
“As indeed am I,” said the stranger, “Saint Peter, pleased to make your acquaintance! Now, shall we get on?”
Jeffrey, now recognising the scene before him as his own vision of the afterlife, paused, still resolutely confused.
“You ... weren’t who I was expecting” he said, cautiously as he might.
“Cutbacks,” said Saint Peter, simply, “Now I need to be back at the Pearly Gates in ten, so...”
He climbed into a hellish, skeletal ferry, which somehow remained afloat despite being riddled with holes.
“This one looks right, doesn’t it?”
Jeffrey’s brow furrowed.
“I suppose so,” he ventured, “don’t you know?”
“It’s my first day,” said Saint Peter, sheepishly, “climb aboard then! Chop chop!”
Jeffrey did so, and they set off, Saint Peter wielding an oar topped with the skull of an unspecified canid.
“I only ask you - Jesus this is more work than I’m used to, give me a quill any day! - because this is your version of the hereafter based on what you imagined in life. Everyone’s afterlife is extrapolated from what they expect it to be, so as not to cause the incoming souls any undue stress. Obviously that’s all gone a bit tits up of late...”
He gestured at his own twinklingly incongruous form.
“...but what can you do? Bloody hell, I’m knackered...”
He stopped rowing and stooped down to one of the vessel’s many impossible gashes, scooping up a handful of water.
“I wouldn’t do that!” said Jeffrey, rushing forward.
“Why not?” said Saint Peter, dabbing his beard.
“The Styx contains healing properties, if you drink it when you’re dead, it could make you-”
But Saint Peter’s eyes were already bulging, and a split second later he’d popped out of existence, and appeared alive and well in a shoebox in the Vatican.
“-Undead” finished Jeffrey, collapsing numbly, and staring at the spot where his erstwhile ferryman had been.
The Styx lapped calmly at the bough.
Gingerly, Jeffrey reached for the oar. The skull snarled. Thinking better of it, he decided he’d better get comfortable, and wait for Saint Peter to die.
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