Charon's Obol.
Matthew Jones
Charon the ferryman stared into the depths, toward the twisting shadows that stirred at his passing. He could feel the countless, hateful gazes turned upward, to the narrow shadow of his boat, as it drifted above them. He spat his contempt into the dark waters.
Raising his head, he steered toward the beacon that guided him onward. Its distant flame was barely visible through the mists that lingered upon the still surface. Charon guided his vessel deftly among the treacherous currents that he knew so well. Each had traits of its own: some were fickle while others were more patient, lying dormant until the time came that he took them for granted. The long years had taught him much.
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As he drew closer to the shore, he could see the shapes of three figures through the mist, illuminated by the flame of the beacon. Passengers had been slowly growing scarcer, eroding his hope. He had not encountered so many together in a long time. Three. It was a promising number.
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They huddled close to the flame, as they always did. The impenetrable darkness beyond made the bravest of men weak. It was Charon’s belief that nothing at all existed within it. A great emptiness that swallowed souls, offering was no respite within its featureless embrace.
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His boat nudged gently against the sheer, grey rock of the shore. Charon pulled in his oar, and leant upon it, to better scrutinise the figures before him. He saw a bearded man clothed in rags with nervous fingers and frightened eyes. Behind him stood a short woman with her arms around a young girl; they clung to each other for comfort. None of them spoke. He was not surprised. Fear had a way of hollowing people, cutting away all the lies they had ever told themselves.
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He weighed their worth in the avarice of his eyes.
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The ragged man hesitantly stepped forward, provoking an amused smile from Charon. They always approached him eventually; all their choices had led them here, and had left them with none.
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Charon held his palm open expectantly for the man, who would not meet his gaze. The slow realisation dawned upon the man's terrified features: his passage came at a price. Charon's palm remained open in silent demand as he watched for what had been promised to him.
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With a trembling hand, the man dropped a dull silver coin into Charon's own. Charon clenched his fist against the cold disk, savouring the intimate touch of the worn silver drachma, its inscription faded by use and years. He felt the disappointment that he had expected, but he begrudgingly stepped aside to allow the man passage. He watched dispassionately while the man clambered onto the boat, sitting as far from Charon's presence as he safely could.
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Charon turned his attention to the others and held out his hand once more. The woman and child came forward together, the young girl's face still buried in the older woman's skirt. The woman fell to her knees pleading, her hands clasped as though in prayer. He knew without saying that she was unable to pay. Only Charon's eyes betrayed his impatience as he dismissed her of any importance and turned his attention to the child.
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The empty-handed girl looked up at him with wide, mournful eyes. Charon smiled knowingly and gripped her shoulder with a firm hand, holding her in place. His leathery fingers parted her lips and probed around her mouth, fishing for the coin he knew would be there, beneath her tongue: an ancient bronze obol.
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He clutched it like a precious rarity and closed his eyes as he breathed in its scent, needing to know if this was finally the coin that was promised to him. The coin tasted only of sorrow and regret. It was just a coin, like all the others.
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Charon slipped the two coins into his pouch and waved the girl onto his vessel with a weary gesture. He stepped onto his boat and pushed off into the sluggish current.
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A splash toward the shore made him look back; the woman had plunged into the water in a desperate attempt to swim. He paused his rowing, interested in her fate, and wondered how far she would get. Slowly, her efforts weakened. Halfway to Charon's boat, she flailed and struggled before silently sinking beneath the surface. She made it further than he had expected, but all were weighed down by their sins. She had made her choice between the darkness and the deep.
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After a long moment's reflection, he ferried them onward. Midway, in the shallows between the shores, he heard the faint scraping beneath the hull, and knew it to be the clutching fingernails of the hateful dead. How they hated him, the one who had denied them passage. He scowled bitterly into the hungry deep and rowed onward.
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Following a time without meaning, he reached the other shore and waited for his passengers to depart. The man rose and wandered off, and was soon swallowed by the darkness. The child lingered before following him. Charon did not know what awaited them beyond the shore; it was not his concern.
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Alone once more, he rowed back across the water, finally reaching the deepest trench of the river. With an outstretched hand, he let the coins slip from his fingers, and watched as they twisted and spun, sinking into the depths. For a moment, his lantern’s light penetrated the deep, revealing the shimmering mass of countless thousands of coins, more numerous than the grains of sand upon a great shore.
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Below, in the distorted light, the multitude of hateful dead regarded the shadow of his passing, faces without number raised in malice toward him. Unless his own obol eventually made its way here, at the end of eternity the dead would stand upon so many coins that they would reach him, dragging him down among them to satisfy their eternal hatred.
About the Author.
Matthew Owen Jones (He/Him) is an English writer living in Canada, who continues to be inspired by the coast, that was his home for so long. He loves to write of lonely characters in vibrant worlds. Autumn is his favourite season.
Matt has published work with Creepy Podcast, and he has a stories coming soon with the British Fantasy Society and the No Sleep Podcast. His short story The Shepherd is now available on Amazon.
Interview with the Author.
It’s clear that this story is steeped in Greek mythology, with the afterlife and the crossing of the river of death. What inspired you to choose and expand on this area of mythology?
The myth of Charon has been covered by several stories throughout the years. I had been reading Dante's ' The Divine Comedy' and was struck by the beauty of the illustrations by the artist Gustave Doré. The Artist and Author elevate each others work. I find the imagery of the lone Ferryman transporting the souls of the dead fascinating. However few tales explore Charon's motivation, It is that premise that lies at the heart of my story.
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In your mind’s eye, are the three passengers all a family? How did they die and end up at the beacon at the same time?
I pictured the three souls as companions in death only. In life they would never have met, perhaps separated by countries and even time. They have little in common but the shared fear of their fate, and each finds some small comfort in the company of the others. Each would have met their death in some mundane way. I see the Beacon as a sole light in the darkness of the void, drawing souls like moths to a flame. I imagine countless souls wandering within that endless void, where time passes strangely. The three come to together by chance or fate.
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How did you go about developing Charon’s motivation and fear? Does Charon fear death itself, or does he fear the souls that wait for him under the river?
I wanted Charon to be a little different from the cold unknowable, spectre he is often depicted as. I wanted to portray him as an old man, worn down by long years of service. Like each of us I believe he shares the fear of the unknown that is death. If he lacked it, he could not understand his passengers so well. Though I see his fear as dulled by time and the horrors he has witnessed. His true fear lies beneath him in the depths. The countless throng of souls he has turned away, their resentful hatred the only thing left to them, as they watch his eternal passage from below. He fears their final retribution.
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If you had to pick any single thing that your readers would take from this story, what would it be?
Perhaps that all of us harbour their own fears, often caused as a consequence of their actions, even the Ferryman.
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What is something about this story that your readers might not pick up on the first read? Or, what do you as the author want your readers to know about this story?
Two things in the tale may be overlooked - The first that Charon himself does not know what awaits them on the far shore. Even he is ignorant to the the full embrace of death. Lastly - Charon's obsession with the coins that are traditionally placed on the eyes in the mouth of the dead to pay for passage to the next world in some cultures. He sorts through a wealth of coins that are meaningless to him, always searching and awaiting the one coin that has been promised to him; the coin that heralds the end of his service, so he too can finally cross over, to the end of all questions and fears.