Ambrosia

The rain outside the cave poured unforgivingly, as if Zeus himself had been provoked to unleash his fury upon the earth. The man who lay incapacitated on the ground failed to perceive the changing of elements. His fingertips were dyed a dark blue, a forewarning of his coming fate. Fear was the only sensation that succeeded in having an effect on his body, for his eyes darted convulsively from the entrance of his shelter to the far corners of darkness. Faces of cadavers plagued his sight. Whispers of some ancient tongue echoed off the granite walls.

How pitiful he was! How tragic it’d been for Prometheus to forsake the plight of his own creation. Perhaps it was divine justice, a consequence for mankind’s perpetual greed. The man’s fear soon gave way to bitterness. Why should he be the one who receives punishment? He was but a lowly farmhand. He owned little of value aside from his life, and now even that was to be taken from him.

Since his youth, a mysterious illness had plagued him for many years. It was a separation of his mind and body, for his limbs would jerk sporadically and against his will. Those in the village avoided him as they believed he had been cursed by the Gods or possessed by a sinister daimon. The man made sufficient earnings from the harvest he sold at the market, and with this coin, he would employ a disciple of Hippocrates to treat his ailment.

How foolish he was to trust such a fiend! The ambrosia that was said to flow atop Mount Parnon had been nothing more than a fable. When the disciple offered him a drink from the pool inside the cavern, the man had suddenly lost all control of his limbs, and he fell to the ground immobilized. At that moment, the disciple disappeared, and the man found himself alone, as if he’d been led there by some phantom.

Acid rose from his mouth and colored the gravel. Hundreds of stars formed across his peripheral. The whispers of the dead swelled into a roar until his ears bled. He shut his eyes, praying to the Gods for them to stop. A droplet of water from somewhere above landed on his cheek. It felt as if it had melted through the layers of his skin and through his bone. He attempted to scream out in pain, but even the muscles of his throat had tightened. How he wished for Zeus’ bolt to reach him inside the cave and end his life, but it seemed even the God of Gods had been forbidden to enter.

So little time did the man spend on earth to enjoy the fruit of his labor. Half of his life had been spent suffering from the sickness of disease, and the other half from the sickness of work. Had he been healthier, the course of his life would have surely been a happier one. In the throes of his death, he cursed the mysterious disciple who had paralyzed not only his body, but his will to continue living. The affliction that spread throughout his veins became too much for his mind to bear, and so he finally closed his eyes in eternal slumber.

In the darkness where the deceased sang their tolls, the figure of Kharon materialized before him. His face was shrouded in a cowl. He stepped forward towards the man’s lifeless body, placing coins of gold into his outstretched palm. The storm outside had ceased. Light flooded into the cavern, revealing the bare walls of ancient granite. The man opened his eyes to find that he could now move freely. The dead were gone. But in his hand, the coins remained.