If the strings had not been plucked so forlornly, the ferryman would have almost considered the song to be sweet.
It’s been a millennium or two since a tune has breached the heat of the Styx, and, while the young and very alive man failed to carry currency with him, the other passengers were transparently eager to drag him into the boat with them anyways. Was it fair to permit the embarkment of a penniless young man, while forcing the penniless dead souls to stay and rot at the riverbank? To that, the souls on board would respond, if they could: who is to deny the wishes of the dead? Certainly not the ferryman. The other passengers tugged, to the best of their ability, onto the young man’s undoubtedly tangible tunic and hair with their ghostly hands, rasping for an encore.
So, here they are, a ferry of fifteen passengers, running down the River Styx with the young and breathing Orpheus, Heaven’s dearest one-man-band.
The ferryman waits until the first verse is done and sung. “How opportune, to have you here play for us today.”
The young man continues plucking at the strings, not faltering once as he responds in an optimistic tune that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I have a second audience tonight./They say the Queen is fond of tunes delight.”
“Indeed she is,” says the ferryman. “Make sure to play like how birds may do, light and airy. She waits for springtime to come.”
A passenger shoots a dirty glare at the ferryman with his remaining eyeball, hand motioning the ferryman to hush down so Orpheus may begin his next verse. The ferryman almost complies with this request, considering that this may be the last and only time these undead passengers may get to listen to the song of Orpheus, whose melodies were a blessing from the gods themselves and cannot be replicated. Instead, he opts to slow his rowing so that the lost lyrics could be compensated later.
“Those that ride take one-way trips,” the ferryman warns the young man. “I don’t carry the same passengers twice.”
“So she and I will be the first to ride/the circumference of River Styx’s hot tides./She and I, Eurydice and I.”
The first would be me, actually.
The comment remains omitted, though, because young Orpheus’ sings, and he sings with the juvenile idealism that only a breathing, desperate man could sustain. It is evident that the young man is unsure of his plan: the rims of Orpheus’ eyes are puffy and swollen, bruises of grief, and if you were silent enough you could hear a tremble hiccup between syllables. The ferryman, for the first time this evening, acknowledges that the young widower on his boat is a boy, merely blessed by the gods, but not a god. And because of this blessing, he is susceptible to human fallacies. He will need guidance through the dark.
“If I am capable of words that soothe,” the ferryman says in an attempt to be an anchor. “Eurydice spoke sweet of you, as you do for her.”
Orpheus’ eyes glitter excitedly upon hearing the ferryman’s affirmations, loosening his figure as his fellow passengers crowd around him, faces contorting into silent weeps as he plays his song.
The ferryman rows, letting the passengers listen to Orpheus for another hour or so, because this time, the melody was infringed with a newfound hope that the ferryman was reluctant to extinguish.
“If you are unwilling to wait to reunite with her by death,” the ferryman tells him gently, a final warning before they reach the dock, which was a ghost town because the passengers can not have visitors to wait for them. “Then wait for her at the top. Seldom will King Hades allow inhabitants of the Underworld to see the sun again. If you wish to bring Eurydice to the realm of the living, you will have to comply to the King’s regulations for the dead.”
Immersed by the applauses, Orpheus nods at the ferryman and sprints away into the dark.
And there goes our hero, lyre in arms, heart pulsing through his wretched voice as he saunters through Hades’ abyss with a buoyancy that dims too bright to remain in the Underworld.
Comments