Cora Kallas squints through the gloom of the perpetual twilight. Over her head, a sky without stars or moon, lifeless as a blank ceiling. Below, bisecting the valley, is the dread river, a ribbon of dark mirror between this world and that. The first stage of her journey draws to an end. The river is not far now.

This world is barred to the living. Cora is of flesh and blood, yet she knows the secret keys. In her rucksack, a golden bough to shift the entrance. Milk, honey, wine, and water as offerings. And in her heart, courage.

She has only vague memories of her life before undertaking the journeys, but this is not the time for remembering. Danger lies close at hand. She needs her wits about her. Despite being the only mortal in this place, she is not alone.

Shadowy figures shamble along the riverbank or slump on the barren ground. These cursed wretches are both dead and banned from crossing the river. They died alone, uncared for, with no living soul to lay an obol coin upon their dead tongue. Without an obol, they cannot pay the ferryman. Their doom is to wait a century before being ferried to the far shore.

Cora slips between the wandering ghosts. The slightest brush against the dead brings chilling horror. Once, on a prior descent, she stumbled and fell into and through one of the dead. In that fleeting moment, she experienced an entire lifetime of sorrow and pain. Remembering her dread, she walks with care.

Drawing near the river, Cora’s eyes search the swirling water. She sees the path and the stone pier, but where is the boat? And there, a figure hunched over the flowing river, far too big, and too real. It can only be him. But if her eyes see true, something is very wrong.

Cora creeps to the landward end of the stone quay. The ferryman sits on cold flagstones, his bare legs dangling over the river. An old man, yet hale and strong beyond the confines of age or death.

The ferryman lifts something from a sack that lies in his lap. He holds a coin before his eyes, turning it over between his fingers.

“Ah. Chrestos.”

A flick of his mighty hand sends the coin dancing out over the river. The ferryman lifts another coin, peers closely, nods his head.

“Eugeneia. I remember.”

Flick—Splash.

“Hesiod, yes.”

Flick—Splash.

Cora clears her throat.

“Greetings, Lord Charon.”

The ferryman does not look at her, but his voice flows out over the dark water.

“No more a lord am I.”

“Where is your boat, Lord? I have need of transport.”

Unmoving as the statue he resembles, the ferryman rumbles.

“Is that you, little revenant?”

“Yes, Lord, it is I.”

“Do you see a boat, revenant?”

“No, Lord.”

Roaring now, then softer.

“No more a lord! Do you believe your eyes?”

“I must, yes.”

“Then there is no boat. Now, let us discover whether your eyes may be trusted. There, spanning the river. Do you see a bridge? Look with care.”

Cora squints where the ferryman points. The black river between rocky shores, dismal twilight, nothing more. Then a flicker as something blinks into existence and just as quickly disappears. An idea of a bridge, a chimera, here and not here.

The ferryman laughs without humor.

“Yes, I know what you see. I see it as well, and in it I see my doom. Once a bridge exists, however insubstantial, there is no need for a ferryman. The gods desire to join the modern world, and in so doing, I am made redundant.”

“I do not understand, Charon. How do the dead cross over?”

“Ah, there is much you do not understand, revenant. However, you need but look to know. There, on this shore, do you see the infernal machine?”

Cora stares, sees a pillar near the water’s edge, and atop the pillar a device of some sort, boxlike and gleaming.

“I see it.”

“For the price of one obol, the machine grants passage. Drop a coin in the dreadful thing, and the bridge becomes solid enough to allow one crossing.”

“And this is the will of the gods?”

“They do not divulge their purpose to the likes of me, though I am three thousand years their faithful boatman.”

“But that is not right, Charon.”

His laughter booms across the valley.

“You, mortal, would judge the gods?”

Cora climbs onto the pier, close enough to sense immense strength and deepest sorrow.

“What will you do now?”

“I will do nothing. Here I sit, deathless, and here I will bide until time ceases.”

Cora remained silent as an idea took shape. When the thought crystallized, she spoke.

“You have aided me in the past, Charon. Please allow me to help you.”

“And how would the little revenant help Charon?”

“I offer you purpose.”

“Is this yours to offer?”

“No, Lord, but it is yours to take.”

“Your meaning?”

“How many coins have you?”

“Many thousands. Three millennia worth.”

“What would happen if all the waiting souls were sent over the bridge?”

Now Charon turns and his eyes burn bright.

“Revenant, surely you carry a piece of the underworld in your devious heart. What a wicked trick, to unleash a tidal wave of the dead, then let these gods who would be modern deal with chaos. They will not be pleased, oh no!”

Charon leaps to his sandaled feet, the bulging sack of coins dangling from one hand. He stands taller than the tallest man, clad only in a belted toga. A grim smile splits his beard.

“Come, Revenant, I have work to do.”

The ferryman strides past Cora, his huge voice roaring through the gloom.

“Hear me, dead souls, and come. Your time of waiting is at an end.”

A susurration passes over the stony bank as the dead begin to move.

“Form a queue, four abreast. Quickly.”

The dead throng to Charon’s voice. Thousands press in, and many more thousands follow behind. Charon halts the leaders with an upraised hand, then looks down at Cora.

“You wish to cross the river, my revenant?”

“Yes. I have a duty.”

Charon peers toward the far shore.

“I would that we meet again, but that is for the Fates to decide. Remember, descending is simple. One only has to die. But the anabasis, the return to your living world, that is no easy matter.”

“I will take care, Lord. I thank you and wish you well.”

Charon reaches into his bag and retrieves a handful of obol coins.

“Then you shall be first, for honor and safety. But you must go swiftly. The flood will be at your heels, and the gods will be angry. Are you prepared?”

“I am, Lord Charon.”

“Very well.”

Charon drops a coin into the device. The bridge flickers, takes shape, then solidifies. Cora does not hesitate. She takes the bridge at a run. Once across, she slips from the path and disappears amongst jagged rocks.

For a moment, the underworld is silent. Then Cora hears, or imagines she hears, the clink of many coins. Suddenly, Charon bellows, his voice echoing. The dead begin to race across the bridge. A few moments later, the first wave is across. From her hiding place, Cora watches them crowd past, a seething mass seeking the gates to the underworld.

More and still more dead souls rush across the bridge. While all is confusion, Cora slips away by a secret path known only to her. From a rocky outcrop, she catches one last glimpse of the river, the bridge, and the distant figure of the ferryman exhorting the dead.

Cora raises a hand in farewell, then turns away, vanishing into the perpetual twilight.