The Trials of Hercules (46 page)

For several days, Osterian scenery rolls by without earning my attention as the train rattles its way along the Great Col River to the Chasm. My mind is simply too distracted with what this task will require and filled with doubts of whether I will see it through or not. In every sense of the word, this task is my final one. This is no chore I can bluff, charm, or battle my way through. And, regardless of Hera’s assurance of my survival, I have no reason to believe or trust her.

Entering into the Chasm as a still-living being will leave me at the mercy of Hades. If he chooses not to let me out—the hairs on my arms prickle at the thought—I will be dead, but not dead. When Eury realizes I have failed, Iole and Iolalus won't survive long. The idea sends my mind racing in circles trying to find a solution to a problem whose details are a complete unknown.

Passengers board and deboard over the journey, but as the train travels further east, fewer and fewer people climb onto the cars. By the time the train pulls into its final stop, a station that looks as deserted as the landscape, I’m the only passenger remaining.

The rambling hills spreading out north and west from the station are a multi-hued patchwork of pastureland, but a glance to the east reminds me this is no idyllic setting. The station perches at the edge of a steep cliff that makes my head spin when I dare to peek over the stone wall. A face of jagged rock dotted here and there with scrubby trees and low-growing shrubs plunges down in a nearly vertical line. Up the other side of the Chasm juts the jagged teeth of another line of mountains that appear ready to bite the sky. Winding along the bottom of the valley and separating the two rock faces flows a dark river: the Styx.

All in Osteria, whether they believe in The Twelve or not, avoid this portion of the Great Snake River. The northern and southern portions of the Snake are renowned for plentiful and giant fish, and it’s said you can have a week’s worth of meals by only dipping your pole in the crisp water once. But in this central portion that I look down on, this black water that seeps its way into the depths of Hades’s realm, nothing lives. No fish are caught here, no big horn sheep are hunted, and no water weeds are gathered. And it is down to this river of death that I must go to keep Iole and Iolalus alive.

The midday sun burns into my neck sending rivulets of sweat down my back and face. I wipe my brow, and with my eyes shaded by my arm, I notice a sign on a wooden post at the far end of the station. Made of wood that probably cracked ages ago under the blistering eastern Osterian sun, the sign looks as if a light breeze might crumble it to pieces. The letters carved into the face of the sign have been nearly scoured away by sand blowing against the wooden board, but the words
T
HE
S
TYX
and the direction of the arrow are still discernible upon close inspection. I follow the arrow’s direction to a rickety array of wooden stairs that, if they hold, I assume will lead me to the river at the base of the gorge.

With my foot on only the first of what appears to be hundreds of steps, I make the mistake of looking down. The sight sends my head reeling and my legs trembling. With no handrails to cling to, I press myself into the rock wall as I force my other leg to step onto the second plank and then the third. With cautious, jittery steps, I continue downward.

In places, the wooden boards of the stairs have gone missing or are so cracked that I refuse to risk my life any more than I already am by stepping on them. My nerves have me too rattled to risk skipping two or three steps in one lunge. So, fighting the overwhelming urge to run back up and give in, I crouch down to give my tall body a better center of balance, then ease over the supports that boards should hide. All the while, I focus my eyes on the wood at my feet, not on the expanse of air and rock I will plunge into if I slip.

About a third of the way down, a stiff wind hurtles through the constricted space of the gorge. The gusts send the already unstable staircase swaying. There is nothing I can do, but press my hands against the rock wall to grip any handhold I can find as the steps shift under my feet.

By the time I’m about three-quarters of the way to the valley floor, my legs ache from tension, but thankfully the wind has died down and, being closer to the bottom, the view seems less treacherous. Still, I hover close to the rock face and have to remind myself not to hurry.

At the bottom of the stairs, at the foot of the gorge, the afternoon sun sheds no light. My sweat-chilled skin combines with the remnants of tense fear to pulse shivers through my body.

The river, more of a lazy wide creek, flows with black water. The color is no trick of the low light. Even the small waves that lap over the rocks at the Styx's edge aren't translucent, but thick and dark like black blood. As the water recedes from the rocks, it leaves no trace of its darkness, not even a telltale shadow of moisture. I back away and keep my distance as I walk over to a wooden dock to the left of the staircase. A small, flat-bottomed boat is moored there. Despite it not being tied to any post or rail, the boat doesn’t drift or shift about, it merely bobs in time with the inky water. The sight of it sends trickles of ice water down my spine.

From tales all Osterian children grow up hearing, I know what I need to do, but this knowledge doesn’t prevent me from hesitating. This is death. This boat is the vessel to a world that no mortal leaves. And yet, under the command of my cousin, I am somehow supposed to make my way into this unknown world. And make it back out.

Letting out a deep breath, I step into the boat.

From my waist pouch, I pull out the coin Hera forced into my hand and grip it firmly. My heart pounding in my ears is the only sound I can hear. Every piece of my body screams at me to step off, to go back and fight Eury. If I kill him I will die, be sent under, but at least Iolalus would be rightful heir and Iole would be free. It would be worth the terror of the blood crime vault to know Portaceae had passed to the hands of Iolalus who would rule justly. I know now with a sudden clarity that by continuing with each one of these tasks Eury has devised, I have been avoiding what Portaceae truly needs me to do. It is fear and foolishness on my part—and perhaps a yearning for Iole—that has blinded me from my duty for so long.

I look at the coin in my hand, at Eury’s profile stamped into the metal. Frustrated rage courses through my body making my skin burn despite the chilly dankness of the valley. Why should I finish these tasks? Why should I do anything at his bidding when I can simply rid the world of him with one well-aimed arrow or sword tip?

It’s time to stop running from my fear of death on these pointless errands. It’s time to make Portaceae the polis it should be. I will give my life for Portaceae, but not by fetching Eury another trinket. It is ironic that here on the edge of the land of the dead where I fear to enter that I finally accept I must die to free Portaceae.

Once I’ve made my decision to abandon the task, to die for my polis and ensure its future, I feel as light as I had when Atlas took the sky off my shoulders. Ready to fly up the stairs, I shift to step out of the boat.

I have no idea if my foot lands in the wrong place or if the boat possesses a desperate desire not to lose a passenger, but something sends the boat rocking. Tilted off my balance, I swing my arms to avoid toppling into the eerie water. In my efforts to remain upright, the coin slips out of my hand. I watch the metal disk fall through space. Everything slows and the coin falls as slowly as a feather until it clinks onto the floor of the boat.

My heart drops as time rushes back in on me. I scramble to pick up the coin, but a long thin foot covered in only the faintest parchment of skin materializes over the coin.

I look up to see a being in a black robe with a cowl that hoods its face. Anywhere else it would simply look like a tall man protecting himself from the elements. On the Styx it drives fear so deep into me I worry my bowels will loosen. This is Charon, the ferryman. His presence means I have paid. I cannot leave the boat. I will be taken to Hades. Trembling, I drop into one of the bench seats that span the width of the boat.

A pole appears in the being’s hand and he uses it to push the boat away from the dock. Once in the river's center, Charon punts us along the Styx’s course. Wherever the water touches the shore, nothing grows, but beyond the water line, tangles of shrubs mat together in dense thorny brambles. Past this stretch of plant life, the cliffs shoot up to pointed peaks that seem to extend miles into the air.

After what may have only been an hour but feels like the span of an entire day, the boat veers to a side channel of the river. The channel ends in aseries of tall basalt columns
—
giants’ legs
we call them in Portaceae where they appear in places along the Great Col. The giants’ legs form what looks to be a solid wall. As we approach, I can make out an opening that, although it seems small at first, too small for the boat, grows larger as we near it. I can only think that the cliff is opening its jaws to feast on us.

Just as the bow enters the mouth of the cave, the boat halts, jerking the vessel as if an anchor has been tossed and we've reached the end of its tether. I turn to look back at the horrid ferryman. He shrugs his shoulders and turns out his hands showing he doesn't understand what has happened.

“You're not dead,” a man's voice says.

I turn back to the cave entrance. Standing on a rock to the side of the opening is a lithe man with dark curls poking out from a shining helmet. No, this is no man. This is a god. At his ankles, wings stretch out and then close like those of a butterfly and another set of wings flutter on his golden helmet.

“Hermes.” I bow my head low.

“You're not are you? Dead that is.”

I look up to him. His eyes are as black as the water, but unlike the river his eyes dance with life.

“No, I've been sent here to retrieve something.”

Hermes rolls his eyes. “Not a recently deceased lover, I hope. Hades is quite stubborn about letting those out. And I am so tired of asking him. He'll only refuse, you know.”

“No, I’m here for Cerberus.”

“Ah, now there's a handful. Not sure if he'll go for that either, but it's worth a try. Come, brother.” I stand in the boat and take his extended hand. His twin sets of wings flap raising both of us up just above the water. “Since you’re not dead, you don’t want to touch that stuff. It has a nasty habit of killing anything it comes in contact with.” Without meaning to, I clench his hand tighter as we glide just inches over the water and through the entrance of the Chasm. The river’s channel ends in a small pool that fills most of a cave as cramped as the lower floor of Deianira’s house. My nostrils ache from the acrid stench that reminds me of a thousand matches being lit at once.

Once to the stony edge of the pool, Hermes lands. I release my grip on his slim hand and am suddenly aware of my body weight. The heaviness in my limbs gives me an unaccustomed feeling of being slow and awkward as if Atlas’s sky is again pressing down on me.

“Cumbersome, isn’t it?” Hermes asks. “You'll get used to it. Then, by the time you're out of here you'll feel as if you're floating. If, you know, our uncle lets you out.”

I don't want to think of that possibility, but his mention of
uncle
reminds me of his greeting. Hermes makes his way over the stones to the back of the cave and I follow after him.

“You called me brother. Why?”

“Surely you know,” he says with a snip of condescension.

At the back of the cave is an opening. I hesitate. The cave itself is already putting me on edge. It’s too small, especially toward the back. Sweat drips from my hands, but my legs freeze refusing to move deeper into the confinement that I fear lays beyond the opening. It’s too similar to a cell, to the vigiles’ walled cart, to the blood crime vault. Hermes must sense my worry. His helmet glows as if it’s catching the sunlight. He takes it off and holds it into the opening.

“See, it gets wider. No need to panic.”

I peer in. The entrance leads to a tunnel. A vast tunnel. I’d rather be stepping out onto an open sunny field, but I tell myself I can face this. I nod and we step through. Although the tunnel reeks of sulfur less than the cave did, a persistent heat radiates from the stones and seeps through my sandals. I wonder if the hardened leather will hold up or will it burn away in a sudden flash of combustion. As with Stavros, I want to keep Hermes talking to take my mind away from where I am.

“Surely I know what?” I ask.

“It's not really my place to say is it? But wait, I am the gods' messenger, so I guess it’s not wrong to tell you,” he says as if he’s just come up with the most brilliant notion in all of Osteria.

“Tell me what?”

“You're the son of Zeus.”

I stop. Zeus. The god of the gods. The head of The Twelve. My father?

I think of my mother and her reluctance to tell me who sired me. Of Artemis and Hermes calling me brother. It doesn't make sense. Hermes has continued walking and I jog to him before his light is out of view.

“You're joking.”

“No, pretty sure I’m not. Zeus bedded your mother—lovely woman, by the way—and made you. Drove Hera to fits of jealousy. She could almost forgive his dalliances but could not abide it when he fell in love with his lovers, much less with their children. He really was quite proud of you and that drove Hera’s jealousy in like a sledgehammer. That snake thing, cruel joke on Hera's part, but Zeus bragged to everyone on Olympus about his brave and brawny boy when you killed them. She's had it in for you ever since. She doesn't play fair though, does she? That business with your kids. That went too far.”

“My kids? Exactly what did Hera have to do with their deaths?”

“She—I can't believe you don't know.”

“Some of it has been hinted at and I have my guesses, but not the full story.” My ears hurt from my inability to relax my jaw.

“She set a madness upon you during which you killed them.”