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Starting Over
by
Harry Buschman
He was a very old man, so old you could see through him. His hair, once gray,
was now without any color at all and it hung limp and lifeless exposing his
almost white scalp. His eyes were a watery blue -- they stared with exhaustion
from under bushy white brows.
And yet ... there was a rage that seemed to boil inside him, he stood by the
conference table trembling with barely controlled anger. He leaned his scythe
in the corner of the room, walked to the tall French windows and looked out at
the freshly mowed lawn. Four people were playing croquet.
He knew they would be there. They played croquet on their freshly mowed lawn
every afternoon at this hour. They had never seen their lawn less than freshly
mowed. Everything was perfect up here. Their food was perfectly cooked and
served in silence with quiet grace to the accompaniment of vintage wine and
heavenly music.
“Yes!” the old man said to himself. “There’s no place like Olympus.”
He walked slowly to the conference table and looked for his name tag... it
was at the foot as usual. “Protocol,” he reminded himself. “I am the God of
earth -- an outsider. I hardly ever get up here and I’m not one of them. 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. His
name was Charon, and he had a close relationship with the mortal people of
earth -- both the living and the dead. He was with them from the first day of
their creation -- before they knew they were human. The close relationship
corrupted him in the eyes of the Gods of Olympus. They considered him to be
somewhat human himself and therefore not deserving of a seat near the head of
the
conference table. The meeting would begin soon, and yes, he would be sitting
there in spite of them. Now that it had started, they couldn’t have their
meeting
without Charon.
Suddenly there was light 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
embarrassed laugh flickered out like a penny candle and 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. Then came brawny Theseus with his bronze club and
Persephone, Goddess of the Underworld. To show off his rebellious nature, Charon
did
not stand for them as Zeus stood waiting at the head of the table. “Why should
I In my world below I am 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 often.”
“I have no time for visiting. I am needed down there,” Charon said bluntly.
“I left nearly four billion people down there! Do any of you know what it’s
like to minister to four billion people?”
“We’re very 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, the 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 it up!”
Zeus heard enough. He never liked Charon from the start. Little pip-squeak!
Working down there on his precious ball of dirt too long. “You’ve got your
priorities all wrong, Charon. Listen to yourself! Anybody would think you’re
running the only game in town -- there’s a universe out there you know.”
“I know that, but this one was supposed to be special, remember? You promised
it would be special. You said you would take special care.”
Hera hardly ever spoke, but when she did, those around her usually stopped to
listen. “Special, yes Charon, we made them in our image and we promised we’d
take special care of them -- and then we didn’t. We should have.” She turned
to Zeus, “Is it too late to start over?”
“Once done, never undone, my dear. The thread cannot be broken. However it’s
a mistake we will not make again.” He turned to Charon, “If you can’t handle
it, old man, we’ll see if we can get some one who can -- perhaps someone
younger.”
“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 sharper than their foresight.
Imagine! Men in God’s image! Even dull-witted Theseus realized it was a bad
idea.
They were men -- period; little better than animals. Charon gathered his feet
under him, gripped the edge of the conference table and stood up.
“You’ve tried everything, haven’t you Theseus? Flood. Earthquake. Plague.
War... still their numbers grow. There is hardly room to stand.” He turned the
hourglass over again. “They must expand, they’ve outgrown the world you gave
them.” There was a collective intake of breath and it was obvious to Charon
this solution was unacceptable. “I have to be getting back. I’m sorry to have
interrupted your game of croquet, but there is only one answer you know.” He
looked at each of them in turn. They would not meet his penetrating stare --
even
Hera, the more understanding of the four, avoided his glance and looked out
the tall French windows. The croquet balls still lay 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. I remember there
were only two of them -- a man and a woman. Pretty things, weren’t they? 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 must change that.
We must make it painful, something to be regretted.”
“You can’t do that,” Charon said. “They barely get along now -- without
something to keep them together they would fight all the time. No! There has to
be a better 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 them? 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 taken
great pride in the way they faced death -- their courage in the face of
impossible odds -- their bravery in the face of natural disaster, their charity
for
people in need. Only yesterday he walked through their midst at night
unobserved,
listening to their dreams, their manias, their missions, hearing his name on
their lips in times of trouble. He could not suffer to see these people wither
and leave no trace behind! He could not let this happen.
Charon rose from the table and made an almost imperceptible bow, “I’m sorry
to have interrupted your game of 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 -- “Should we need you, can we reach you at
your usual address, Charon?”
“Yes, I will be there with them. The same address -- east of Eden.”
©Harry Buschman 2003
(1580)
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