"Enjoy the trip?"
I coughed up water in great, heaving bursts. Multicolored sprays spilled from my mouth, staining the floor. I dragged myself upright, realizing I was back in the quadriporticus of Saint Peter's. The silver boat sat there, motionless. Around me, a few puddles pulsed with shifting hues, tiny pink fish leaping inside them—until they too dissolved into colored smoke.
"That's it?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Beg your pardon?"
"That's all my coin was worth?"
He laughed, though I noticed even the ferryman looked worn out. He pulled the coin from his robes and twirled it between his fingers.
"My boy, if you behave like a living man, the medium you've given me burns out much faster."
"I don't understand.""What?"
He sighed, embers glowing from his nostrils. "You're not ready for these journeys. You still think of yourself as part of the world you came from."
"What do you mean?"
His voice exploded, irritated, filling the nave. "It means, microcephalic fool, that if you start touching things like a living man, you get yanked back instantly. Is that clear!?"
"Y-yes! I'm sorry…" I stammered, petrified.
"Good. Now out. I have work." He pointed the oar toward the main door.
"Wait! I want to try again." I pushed myself up, wobbling. My head felt like a magician's assistant after a botched trick, but the need to see my life again outweighed everything.
Charon shot me an amused look, the lights in his sockets tinged a sickly yellow. He was at least twice my height. "In that state? You can't even stand. Go home."
My pride stung, I shot back, "It's not like you're doing much better. You look more exhausted than I do…"
His eyes became two volcanoes. "Did you not hear me? OUT!" he snarled, the floor trembling. "I'll pretend I didn't catch your rat-like insinuations. Now go!"
His words sparked a burst of adrenaline. I bolted, sprinting toward the door, forced it open and hurled myself through it.
I hit the cobblestones of the Rose of Virtue, chest blazing. I stayed there until the distant sound of sailors' voices pulled me back to myself.No one nearby; only an old man lighting lamps with an oil flame and a pole. I pushed myself to my feet and headed toward the port, searching for the Ayutthaya tower.
Then I understood what Charon had meant, cryptically.
The next day I returned to the Rose of Virtue. And the day after. Each time, I sacrificed a coin to see my life again: the tetradrachm of Lysimachus, a wedding gift from friends; the "Colosseum" sestertius of Titus—actually a sixteenth-century Cavino forgery; the gold alfonsino I'd chased for years. One by one, they all ended up in the ferryman's fist, swallowed in exchange for moments with my wife.
Every day I learned something new: as a ghost, I could pass through walls without opening doors or bumping into corners—it was enough to stop thinking of myself as alive. But one misstep ruined everything, like on the third journey, when—overconfident—I walked through the bedroom door just fine… only to trip on the rug and slam my head against the bedframe. Goodbye daily visit. Charon allowed only one trip per day, no exceptions. More than once I was even bounced because another soul had arrived before me.
With time, I understood how it worked. The duration of the journey depended on the metal: gold and electrum gave precious minutes, silver far less, base alloys almost nothing. Some exceptions—like the little copper quadrans given to me as a child—mysteriously lasted longer, but the rule held.
And each time, I noticed something: even Charon tired. Not like I did, of course, but each voyage clearly cost him something. The more time I spent on my side, the quicker he expelled me once it was over. When expensive coins were sacrificed, he grew darker, less inclined to banter. He didn't refuse coins out of greed, but because he couldn't bear more than one crossing a day. As seeing my wife was a drug for me, gathering treasures was his—though it wore him down.
None of that mattered to me. He offered a service, and I used it. As long as I had money.
Each night I sat beside Clara. I listened to her uneven breath, shaken by nightmares. At times I watched her prepare for bed; at others I watched her cry, and I would brush her hand—a gesture that cost me an early recall, but I couldn't leave her alone. She may have sensed me. She stared into nothing with reddened eyes, as if she could feel me.
When she was finally asleep and I was about to fade, I used my last strength to turn on the CD player. I set it to Happy Together by the Turtles—our song. The one from our first party together.
And every time I returned to Hell, I coughed up technicolor water by the liter.
I kept going like that for three weeks. Eight coins sacrificed, thirteen failed returns. Each time, I saw Clara recovering a little more from her grief, and each time my addiction grew. Being with her became my only thought, the vice I couldn't resist. I promised myself each would be the last—the stash was running low—but I lied to myself like a smoker with his "last cigarette." One more coin, just one. Then I'd stop. I swore that when only the aureus of Tiberius remained, I'd find the strength to quit.
But I knew already it was a lie.
I lived balanced between the fear of burning everything and the irrational hunger to continue. Every morning I looked in the mirror and solemnly vowed to change course. Every evening I found myself back at the quadriporticus, Charon's puppet just like Winston Churchill was a puppet of the gaming table. I had become his regular customer, ready to throw fortunes for journeys that often lasted less than two puffs of a cigar.
And yet I fooled myself. I told myself there was time, that I'd fix everything once I had nothing left. For now, living day by day was enough. I returned to the inn with a stupid grin on my face, walking with the blind confidence of a fool on the edge of a cliff. Belle at the counter always eyed me sideways, as if she already knew where I was heading. She had tried to warn me—more for her own interest than altruism—but I hadn't listened. She watched me with worried eyes every time I passed, probably because her trained hearing detected a weaker and weaker jingling with each outing.
But on the twenty-sixth day, fate came to collect.
I was returning from the Rose of Virtue, satisfied, already wondering how I'd manage without new coins, when the sky thundered. Scarlet drops fell. They stained my clothes. I cursed: I had never seen it rain in Hell, let alone rain blood.
I hurried on, but at the next crossroads the storm hit: a vermilion tropical downpour, thick as a curtain. The air reeked of rusted iron. The streets emptied instantly; only a few desperate souls ran the other way, waving broken umbrellas like rotten shields. I staggered on, searching for an arcade for shelter—when the blow came.
A metal bar to the back.
I fell to my knees; the second strike flattened me. Pain fired through every nerve, my vision clouded. Rough hands grabbed my jacket, yanking and tearing.
"Let me go!" I shouted, trying to twist away.
A foot shoved my face into a puddle. I drank that thick red water, tasting my own blood. I fought, pushing myself with my elbows, crawling. The third blow—this time to the head—snuffed out my resistance. Warm liquid spilled from my skull, mixing with the rest, forming a crimson pool beneath me.
"Use the knife," a voice said.
The blade split my back open. I screamed, but a kick cracked a rib. Thunder drowned my voice out.
"Shut up!"
They ripped my jacket away. I heard my treasures clinking in their calloused hands as despair crushed my chest. "Please… have mercy. My wife needs me…"
The answer was a kick to the gut.
Mozart's Dies Irae erupted inside my skull, overlapping with the Lacrimosa already playing, like a needle jumping on vinyl after a sudden jolt. Rage and injustice swelled in me, powerless beneath their hands.
"Got everything?" one asked.
"Good. Finish it."
I crawled, desperate, fingernails breaking on the cobblestones. They reached me in a heartbeat.
"Very good!" I recognized that voice—Nordic, sharp. "I told you I'd toast at your Sjanud. I always keep my word. Greetings from Belle as well. Belle Gunness."
Sjanud. The Viking funeral. And I, idiot that I was, hadn't realized it sooner.
The knife plunged into my back.
"Please! Mercy!" I cried, but my pleas only amused him. A second blow, a third. The world darkened. The Rex Tremendae was my last requiem before silence.
The final thing I saw were his boots walking away in the rain of blood. Then my eyes rolled back, and everything went dark.