Starting Over
By Harry Buschman
He was an old man, so old he seemed ageless. His hair, once gray, was now without color and it hung limp and dry exposing his almost white scalp. His eyes were a tired blue -- they stared with exhaustion from under his bushy white brows.
And yet ... there was an anger boiling inside him that was barely under control. He stood his scythe in the corner, walked to the tall French windows and looked at the freshly mowed lawn. Outside, four people were playing croquet.
They always played croquet on a freshly mowed
lawn. They had never seen their
lawn less than freshly mowed. Their food was always perfectly cooked and served
with quiet grace to the accompaniment of vintage wine and heavenly music. “Yes!”
the old man thought. “No place like Olympus.” He found his place at
the conference table ... there it was at the foot as usual. “Protocol,”
he reminded himself. “I am an earthly God -- hardly ever get up here. I’m
not one of the boys. I should consider it a privilege to have a seat at this
table in the first place.”
So he sat. He turned his hourglass over and
watched the sand run through.
Charon had a close relationship with the mortals below, the living and the dead.
He was with them from their very creation -- before they knew they were mortal.
The close relationship tainted him in the eyes of the Gods of Olympus. They
considered him to be somewhat human himself and therefore not worthy of a permanent
seat at their conference table. The meeting would begin soon, and yes, he would
be sitting there in spite of them. They couldn’t exist with Charon.
Suddenly there was laughter in the hall outside. Charon, brooding alone at the table, had almost fallen asleep. He noticed the sand in the hour glass had run out. Promptness was not one of their virtues -- “If they have any at all,” he grumbled.
The door opened and Zeus walked in. He saw
Charon sitting alone and his laugh
flickered out like a guttering candle, then he made his way quickly to the head
of the table. Hera, Queen of Heaven, followed close behind him and sat at his
right hand. There was Theseus with his bronze club and Persephone Goddess of
the Underworld. To show off his rebellious nature, Charon did not stand for
Zeus as he stood at the head of the table. “Why should I!” I’m
the equal of any of them -- in my world I am indispensable! Why should I stand?”
Zeus waited for the others to sit, then held up his right hand and said, “This meeting is now in session.” He sat and placed both elbows on the highly polished table and rested his head in his hands. “Good to see you, Charon. It’s been a long time -- you should make it a point to get up here more ...”
“I have no time for visiting. I am needed down there.”
“ .... often.”
“I left nearly four billion people down there!” Charon pointed at the others in turn. “Do you, or you, or you, or you, Zeus -- do any of you know what it’s like to minister to four billion people?”
“We’re lucky to have a good man down there,” Persephone remarked sweetly.
Theseus drummed his club softly on the table.
“We do all we can to keep the
numbers down, Charon.”
“You’re doing a bad job of it, all of you.” He lifted his hourglass from the table and shook it at them. “This is the problem. Time! None of you have any sense of time! You started off with two people, your sample was too small. Your projections were off. It was your idea, Zeus -- you fucked it up?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You heard me, you stuffed shirt! I said you fucked up!”
Zeus heard enough. He never liked Charon from
the start. Little pip-squeak!
Working down there on his precious planet too long. “You’ve got your
priorities all wrong, Charon. Listen to yourself! Anybody would think you’re
the only game in town -- there’s a universe out there you know.”
“I know that, but this one was special, remember?”
Hera hardly ever spoke, but when she did, those
around her usually stopped to
listen. “Special, yes Charon, we made them in our image. It was probably
a
mistake.” She turned to Zeus, “Is it too late to start over?”
“Once done, never undone, my dear. However it’s something we will not do again.” He turned to Charon, “If you can’t handle it, old boy, we’ll see if we can get some one who can -- perhaps a younger man.”
“Don’t be hasty, Zeus,” Hera continued. “Charon has been at this business longer than any of us. I can see his point -- the experiment may have gotten out of hand.”
The seed of the problem was something none
of them predicted. Even though the
Gods had supreme power, their hindsight was clearer than their foresight. Imagine!
Men in God’s image! Even dull-witted Theseus realized it was a bad
idea. They were men -- period; barely a step up the ladder from animals. Charon
gathered his feet under him, gripped the edge of the conference table and stood
up.
“You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? Flood. Earthquake, Plague. War ... still their numbers grow. There is hardly room to stand.” He turned the hourglass over again. “I have to be getting back. I’m sorry to have interrupted your game of croquet, but there is only one solution you know.” He looked at each of them in turn. They would not meet his piercing stare -- even Hera, the more understanding of the four, avoided his glance and looked out the tall French windows. The croquet balls still sat on the lawn in precisely the same position they were when Charon called the meeting. “Why couldn’t things be perfect all the time,” she thought? “Why do the mistakes we make in the past come back to spoil things in the present?”
She began to speak in a voice so low the others had to lean forward to hear. “It was a natural mistake, Charon. Yes, even Gods make them. There were only two of them down there -- a man and a woman. To assure their survival we had to make sex an overwhelming experience, one that would override all other human emotions.” She turned to Zeus ... “Like it has never been on Olympus, Zeus.” She faced the others again. “We have to change that. We must let death catch up with life.”
“You can’t do that,” Charon said. “The sexes barely get along now -- they would fight all the time. Hera. No! There has to be another way.”
Zeus did not agree. “Be quiet Charon. It’s an excellent suggestion, Hera. Take all the joy out of it! Brilliant, look how it’s worked up here. They’ll be manageable within a generation. Furthermore,” he turned to Persephone and Theseus, “war, pestilence, plague -- we will have no need of them. What would we do without you, Hera?”
Charon buried his head in his hands. He could
do nothing, it was four to one.
He dreaded the effect this decision would have on the people he loved so much.
What did these Olympians know about humanity? They lived without the very thing
that made humans unique above all creatures great and small. Never, never once
had he seen a loving touch or a look of affection pass between Zeus and Hera.
His beloved humans would grow fewer and fewer, and in a generation or two they would be gone, and there would be no one to mourn them. Charon had witnessed great pride in the way they faced death -- courage in the face of impossible odds -- bravery in the face of natural disaster, charity for those in need. He could not bare to see them wither, whimper and leave nothing behind to remember! He could not let this happen.
Charon rose from the table and made an almost
imperceptible bow, “I’m sorry
to have interrupted your croquet.” He picked up the hourglass and looked
at it thoughtfully, perhaps it wasn’t too late. He could warn them -- if
they knew what was coming they might figure a way. He picked up his scythe in
the corner and walked to the door.
Zeus watched him thoughtfully -- “Can we reach you at your usual address, Charon?”
“Yes, Zeus. Same address -- just east
of Eden.”
© Harry Buschman 2003
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