Part 70

16. Wading in the River Styx

Odor of dying algae, of rotting plants, of stagnant waters - all drift above the long, dark stretches of the river Styx. No beauty here.

And in these waters lived creatures not of this world, but of Hades, round which the river flowed, and flows forever. Doomed through eternity to these putrid stream, they had yet one recompense.

Who dared wade the River Styx, he was their prey.

"My boy, take this package over to the guardshack just across the Styx. They are expecting it; by the way, be sure to get a receipt. They hate to sign receipts. Still, it messes up our accounts if we don't have them. The boat is anchored right by the pier, and the oars are stowed beneath the seat."

Zeus started to turn away, then hesitated. "Oh, well! Boy, don't drag your hands in the water. And don't even think about taking a dip. You'd be dreadfully sorry!"

An extremely simple chore, this. Why all the fuss?

Each river has its peculiarities. The Nile, known for its annual flooding. The Lethe, notorious for the effect on those who drink its waters.

And then there is the river Styx.

It has a well-deserved reputation. The environmentalists have been picketing since time immemorial. They complain, legitimately, about the odor, the sludge, the inhabitants - all the little things that help make the Styx unique.

They picket Pluto.

Pluto suggests they picket Zeus, instead. To emphasize his point he releases Cerberus.

Hurriedly they scatter, not taking time to even look back.

They picket Zeus.

Zeus takes it all with gentle and tolerant attitude. His is a measured reaction. He assigns to each picket a little black cloud, from which rain continuously falls. Umbrellas are discouraged by random gusts of wind.

The pickets persist.

Zeus smiles.

The clouds grow larger, the winds gust more strongly.

The temperature begins to fall. The continuous rain ends, is replaced by snow showers. The winds now blow steadily from the cold north.

The pickets persist.

Zeus' smile broadens.

The clouds merge. The winds now reach blizzard force, and the snow changes from soft flakes to frozen pellets. The temperature drops, then drops again.

The pickets assemble, discuss, and rapidly disperse.

Zeus smirks, makes a snowball, which he then playfully tosses into the air. He then builds a snowman. He gives it a picket sign to carry.

Humming, Zeus returns to his throne.

There is no snow by the river Styx. Nor rain. Nor cooling breeze.

The air is stagnant, hot, thick with the odor of rotted plants, the breath of Hades' denizens.

Demo, with the back of his hand, wipes the sweat from his brow. Ah, how delightful it would be to splash even this putrid water on his forehead. Or even to swim in its cooling depths! What was it Zeus had said? Something about being dreadfully sorry?