The Virtuality Theory: A Time Travel Adventure

Dedication

To my father, who was there for me whenever I was uncertain.

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Intruder

Will Save Jr.’s heart hammered against his ribcage as he snuck through the darkness. His hands shook. Beads of cold sweat pearled on his forehead.

This is a bad idea, he thought as he reached his mother’s bedroom. I shouldn’t be doing this.

But what choice did he have? His mother had confiscated the memory organizer and refused to give it back. Without it, Will Jr. had no way of reliving his father’s memories. As much as he sometimes wished he could forget everything he had experienced, the truth was he never felt as close to his father as he did now. And every minute spent not knowing what had happened to him was pure torture.

Will Jr. had tried begging. He had tried logical reasoning. He had even tried threats. All had failed. Kara refused to let him use the memory organizer. In fact, she had hidden it, promising to return it when Will Jr. was old enough. But how long would that take? Weeks? Months? Years?

Will Jr. could not wait that long.

He glanced at the birthmark that adorned his left wrist. It was an overturned triangle with an upright section of untainted skin near the tip. Seeing it reminded him of his father.

I can do this, he whispered. "No. I must do it."

He pressed his hand to the door. It split open and retreated into the wall with a soft hiss.

Will Jr. hesitated for a moment before creeping into the room. The door slid closed, and oblivion momentarily enveloped him. Then the crystal-powered lighting system came online, and his surroundings were revealed. Kara was a complicated woman, but her taste in home décor was simple. A bed. A nightstand. A dresser. A dozen photographs of loved ones. That was all.

I don’t have much time, thought Will Jr. as be began rummaging through his mother’s belongings. He started with the dresser but found nothing. Same for the nightstand. That left only one option.

The bed.

Will Jr. doubted his mother would be foolish enough to hide the memory organizer under her mattress, but he was desperate.

One quick look was all it took to confirm his worst fears. The memory organizer was not here. Devastated, he collapsed onto the bed, his head landing on a pillow. Instead of the soft, cushy feeling he was accustomed to, he felt a sharp pain as something hard dug into his scalp.

Will Jr.’s heart leapt with excitement. He grabbed the pillow and yanked the case off in a single tug. He then unzipped the pillow and reached into it, feeling around until he found what he was looking for. Gripping it firmly, he pulled it free from the synthetic stuffing and stared at it.

It was a small wooden chest. It looked so innocuous, yet Will Jr. knew it was anything but. His heart raced as his fingers traced the words that adorned the lid.

Memory Organizer

The young man’s first instinct was to release the device from its wooden prison, but he knew that would be unwise. Now that he had located it, the most pressing matter was erasing all traces of his pre—

A soft hiss filled the air. Will Jr. was no longer alone.

Busted?

Will Jr. turned to find a woman standing before him. The sight of her made him gasp.

Grandma?

The old woman smiled.

Hi, Will, she said. Her voice was soft, melodious. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair was dark, but streaks of silver ran through it. She was beautiful.

W-what are you d-doing here? stuttered Will Jr.

The grandmother chuckled.

JJ called, but I see you have more important things to worry about than hanging out with your friends.

Will Jr. followed her gaze all the way to the wooden chest clutched in his hand.

He froze. His plan had been good, but it had backfired. Waiting for his grandparents to drop by for a visit had distracted his mother, but one call from JJ—Will Jr.’s best friend—was all it took to send it crashing down around him.

Don’t worry, said the grandmother. I won’t tell your mother.

You won’t?

She shook her head.

Why not?

I love your mother, but I don’t always agree with her. I believe you deserve to know what happened to your father.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Will Jr. spoke.

What about Mom?

She winked. I’ll handle your mother. Just promise you’ll be careful.

I will. Thanks, Grandma. He placed a loving kiss on the woman’s cheek and hurried out of the room.

A few minutes later, Will Jr. sat on his bed. The memory organizer lay on his open palm. The sight of the hourglass symbol filled him with excitement. After nearly a full week of questions and suppositions, he was about to learn his father’s fate.

Will Jr. twisted the two triangles. The metallic flaps flipped open, and the remaining surface split into points and bloomed outward like a flower. Hands trembling, he grabbed the memory chip marked with a II and slid it into the slot. Will Jr. took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and returned the flaps to their original position. Moments later, the memory organizer came to life.

Legs emerged from the perimeter of the device, and the metallic insect flipped itself over. It leapt onto the teenager’s left hand and encircled his wrist with its legs. The familiar white glow of Will Save’s memories erupted from the young man’s lower arm. Unlike the first time, there was no pain.

Will Jr. watched with a mixture of fear and excitement as the glow travelled up his arm. He eventually lost sight of it, but he could still feel it. It slid up his neck and invaded his head. Moments later, his father’s memories overwhelmed him, and he lost consciousness.

Memory 1

Oblivion. It’s all I see when I open my eyes. No trees. No buildings. No people. Just darkness.

I glance left.

Nothing.

I glance right.

Nothing.

I look up.

Nothing.

I look down.

I see a body. It seems to belong to me, yet I have no memory of it. I appear to be a teenage boy, but that could just be my mind playing tricks on me. For all I know, I’m a character in a video game, and none of what I see is real.

Where am I? I ask. My voice sounds foreign, as if someone else were speaking through me. But who am I to judge such a thing? I can’t even remember my name.

Where am I? I repeat, hoping the sound of my voice will trigger something within me.

Nothing happens.

I wait. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Time means nothing here.

After a while, something emerges from the darkness.

A dirt path appears beneath my feet. It leads to a narrow dock made of old, half-rotten planks. Beyond it, a river flows. Fog rises from the water, filling the air with wisps of white. All else remains out of sight.

I should be afraid, but I’m not. Curiosity is all I feel.

Who am I? The question topples from my lips without warning. Momentarily forgetting about my surroundings, I focus on myself. My clothes are plain and unmarked. My hair is short and unstyled. I wear a ring, but the symbol it bears is foreign to me. It represents two inverted triangles.

Another symbol adorns my left wrist. This one looks like an hourglass.

Neither of the symbols is familiar, so I continue my examination. I have an athletic build, yet I suspect this condition is quite recent. I explore my face using my fingers and discover my features appear to be properly proportioned, but I have nothing to compare them to, so I may well be hideous. The final part of my inspection consists of searching my pockets for a clue.

I find a note. I unfold the parchment-like paper and read the words written on it.

I require your assistance. Help me and reap the rewards. Deny me aid and pay the price.

—H.

P.S. Pick the middle door.

The note does little to elucidate the mystery of who I am, but, at least, it explains why I’m here. Sort of.

Desperate to remember even the slightest detail about myself, I take a seat and close my eyes. I let my mind wander, but all that does is bring to my attention more questions for which I have no answers. I’m about to stop when something finally comes to me.

It’s a name. My name.

Will Save.

Memory 2

My name is Will Save.

It’s not much, but it’s a start. I concentrate, hoping to learn more, but nothing emerges from the endless void that is my subconscious. I’m about to give up when a sound reaches my ears.

Displaced water.

I open my eyes to see a dark vessel emerge from the fog. The hull is made of rotten planks. The black sails hang limp. Both are riddled with holes. All that remains of the oars that once lined the perimeter of the ship are nubs. Nonetheless, the craft speeds along, slicing through the water like a samurai’s katana through its enemies.

I watch, perplexed, as the ship comes to a halt next to the dock. A gangway—a half-decomposed plank barely big enough for a man to stand on—emerges from the depths of the ship. It hovers above the taffrail for a second before slamming onto the dock.

A shape appears and moves along the gangway.

It’s a man.

The stranger is tall, his shoulders broad, but the lighting is poor, and all I make out are glimpses. A shabby cloak. A tattered, Pirates- of the Caribbean-style hat. Dreadlocks. Bone-white lips, surrounded by five-day-old stubble. Dark, piercing eyes. Skin that looks more dead than alive.

I don’t know who this man is, yet I sense I should be afraid. But I’m not. I feel only curiosity as the man approaches. By the time he reaches me, I have dragged myself to my feet.

Are you Will? he asks, looking me up and down. His voice sounds like rocks grinding together.

I nod.

The man grunts. You don’t look like much.

Looks can be deceiving.

The man grunts again.

Let’s go, he says. I ain’t got all day.

He heads back toward the ship.

Where are we going? I ask as I hurry after him.

I’m a ferryman, not your girlfriend. You wanna talk? Go home.

I’d love to, but I can’t.

What’s your name? I ask.

The ferryman comes to a stop and whips around.

Listen, kid, he snaps. I got paid a hundred obols to ferry you across the river. You don’t wanna come? That’s fine. Just don’t waste my time.

What’s an obol? Who hired you? Where are we? Who are you? Who am I? Why can’t I remember anything? The questions go on and on, yet I don’t let them escape my lips. The ferryman may be a lot of things, but patient isn’t one of them.

What’s it gonna be, kid? he asks. You comin’ or you stayin’?

I’m coming.

If I’m lucky, the person who hired the ferryman is also the one who sent me the note. Meeting him—or her—may well be my only shot at figuring out what happened to me.

The man leads me to his ship but won’t let me aboard.

What’s wrong? I ask.

I ain’t runnin’ a charity. You wanna ride, you gotta pay.

Excuse me?

You heard me.

I thought you said you already got paid?

I did, but no one rides for free. Pay the toll or swim. The choice is yours.

I don’t have any money.

Sure ‘bout that?

What do you— I begin, but the man cuts me off.

Check your mouth.

My mouth?

He nods. Under the tongue.

The tongue? I try to say, but for some reason, only a muffled grunt escapes my mouth. I don’t understand why until I feel around with my tongue and find a small metallic disc tucked underneath it. I reach into my mouth and grab it.

It’s a gold coin.

What the hell? What is it?

That, says the ferryman, snatching the coin and sliding it into his pocket, is an obol.

How did it get in my mouth?

Who cares? Come on. We’re late.

How can you tell? I ask, but the man ignores me and boards the ship.

Comin’?

I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t trust the ferryman, it’s just that this is my last chance to go back. Then again, it’s not like I have anything to go back to.

I’m coming, I say as I step onto the gangway.

Moments later, we’re on our way.

Memory 3

The vessel slices through the water with ease. The fog is so thick I can barely make out the ship’s bow. The sails sway in the breeze, giving the impression a giant black ghost is floating above us. The ferryman stands by the stern, eyeing our progress with a strict eye.

How do you know where you’re going? I ask.

He ignores me.

Where are we going?

No response.

Who hired you?

The ferryman’s eye twitches.

Where are we?

A groan.

What’s the name of the river?

A short silence.

Styx, he finally says.

Excuse me?

That’s where we are. The Styx, river of hatred.

Why?

The ferryman groans.

Can’t you be quiet?

I shrug. Maybe. I never tried.

Try.

Okay.

Neither of us speaks for a while, but my curiosity knows no bounds.

Why is it called the river of hatred?

The ferryman sighs.

Here, he says, taking a step forward. See for yourself. He grabs the back of my shirt and lifts me with a single hand. He walks to the edge of the ship, and without so much as a grunt, lowers me toward the water.

Should I be scared? I can’t tell.

I stare at the water with curious fascination. The white liquid froths and ripples as the vessel slices through it. It’s beautiful but odd. Is water supposed to be white? I can’t remember.

Images appear in the water. People. Landscapes. Things of untold beauty.

Pictures become shapes. Smiling faces. Laughing families. Couples in love.

A hand emerges from the water and beckons me forward. I reach down, unafraid. The gap between us evaporates. Our hands meet, and cold fingers encircle my wrist. By the time I realize my mistake, it’s already too late.

Dozens of hands emerge from the depths of the river and grab me. They drag me down, toward the faces that have risen to the surface. I see men and women. Children. All are wailing in pain and anger, yet the soft whoosh of displaced water is all I hear. My heart goes out to them. So does my body.

I’m being dragged toward the angry spirits. Soon, I’ll become one of them. I should be afraid, but I’m not. Nor am I relieved when I sense the ferryman yank me to safety.

What the Hades is wrong with you? he demands once I’m back onboard the ship.

What do you mean?

Weren’t you afraid?

I shrug. Not really.

The man eyes me suspiciously for a second, then starts laughing.

I like you, he says, slapping me on the back.

Thanks.

The name’s Charon.

I’m Will.

I know.

Right. I forgot.

Charon chuckles in that deep, grinding voice of his.

Now that we’re friends, I say, can you tell me where we are?

I could, admits Charon, but I ain’t gonna.

Why not?

Because we’re here.

Moments later, the ship comes to a standstill. A narrow dock stands next to it. Beyond it lies a dirt path.

This is where you get off, says Charon. He grabs the gangway and uses it to bridge the gap between the ship and the dock.

Any chance you’ll give me directions? I ask.

Nope.

Didn’t think so, I say as I tiptoe across the half-rotten plank.

Good luck, says Charon.

I turn to thank him, but both the man and his ship are gone. I still have no idea who Charon is, but I suspect he isn’t your average ferryman.

I glance at my surroundings but uncover nothing new. A dirt path leads away from the dock and vanishes into the fog. I don’t know where it leads, but there’s only one way to find out.

I head off.

Memory 4

Fog. It’s everywhere. It restricts my vision. It mutes my footsteps. It invades my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. But still I trudge on. I don’t know what awaits me, but there’s nowhere for me to go but forward, so that’s what I do.

I walk. And walk. And walk. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I reach a wrought iron gate. It stands before me, dwarfing me with its magnitude. The doors stand ajar. An imposing beast blocks my path.

It’s a dog. Sort of.

Its body is that of a normal canine, yet it’s the size of an elephant. The beast’s three heads also belong to a dog, but they’re the size of my balled-up body.

I once again get the feeling I should be afraid, but the truth is, I’m glad for the company.

Who are you? I ask. Can dogs talk? I can’t remember.

The three-headed animal doesn’t respond. It merely stares at me with its six massive eyes, then takes a step to the side and nods for me to proceed.

Thanks, I say, petting the central head. It stares at me, unsure how to react. The other two growl. I merely shrug and head off.

I follow the path for an indeterminate amount of time before something appears through the fog.

It’s a little girl.

She’s young—no more than six or seven—and she isn’t alone. Dozens of people are gathered, forming a line along the path. There are men and women, elders and children, and people or all races and backgrounds. Their backs are turned to me.

I keep walking until I reach the little girl. Hearing me approach, she turns and smiles.

Hi, she says, her brown locks shimmering in the gentle breeze.

Hey.

What’s your name?

Will. You?

Aria.

That’s a nice name.

Thanks.

A short silence.

What are we waiting for?

Judgment.

Why?

Aria frowns.

How else will we know where we’re supposed to go?

Go? Where are we going?

It depends.

On what?

On the judgement you receive. It’s why we’re here.

Things seem to be getting more complicated, so I try a different approach.

Where are we?

The underworld.

E-excuse me? I’m not afraid. Just confused.

Look at the people, urges Aria.

I already did.

Don’t just glance. Really look at them.

I do, and I notice details I failed to take into account before. Everyone is upright and slowly moving forward, but not all look healthy. Some are so old their limbs appear to be on the verge of snapping. Others are drenched in blood. A few have missing limbs. But, no matter how severe the injury, they’re all still up and about.

What’s wrong with them? I ask.

Aria smiles.

They’re dead, she says. And if you’re here, so are you.

Memory 5

I’m dead?" I ask.

Aria nods.

Is that why I can’t remember anything?

You lost your memory?

I nod.

That’s weird.

It is?

Another nod.

You remember your life? I ask.

Of course.

And the others? Do they remember?

I haven’t spoken to many people, admits Aria, but you’re the first person I meet who forgot his life.

I should probably be worried, but I’m not. Have I always been this uncaring or is it a result of my amnesia? I can’t tell. Like everything else in my life—or death—my personality is a mystery.

We keep going until we reach a stone building. It’s tiny, barely more than a shed. An arched gateway leads into it. One by one, the souls of the deceased step into it and vanish. I have no idea how so many people can fit into such a small structure, but I forget all about it when I notice the words engraved above the entrance. They’re made up of unfamiliar-looking symbols, yet I have no trouble deciphering their meaning.

Hall of Judgement

What’s the Hall of— I begin, but Aria cuts me off.

It’s where we will be judged.

Judged? For what?

Everything.

Everything? What’s that supposed… My voice trails off when I step over the threshold. One second I’m standing before a small stone building; the next I’m strolling through an impossibly vast chamber.

The inside of the building is so immense I can’t tell where it begins and where it ends. Massive stone columns stand all around us. Torches jut from them, bathing the hall in a soft orange glow, but still the darkness persists, lurking in every corner. One gust of wind and we’ll be trapped in stygian darkness.

How is this possible? I ask

Aria chuckles.

This is the underworld. Anything is possible here.

Anything?

Anything.

Silence settles upon us as I try to wrap my head around the impossibility of our surroundings. The slow march continues, the human snake of which I’m the tail weaving its way through the vast expanse of stone pillars. Left. Right. Two more lefts, followed by three rights. Before long, I lose all sense of direction.

We keep going until our destination finally comes into view.

A stone platform emerges from the floor. Beyond it stand three marble thrones. Seated atop them are three old men. They are identical but for a few minor details. The leftmost individual wears a white toga and a matching crown. Even his long, curly hair and thick beard are the colour of freshly-fallen snow. The rightmost man is his complete opposite, with his jet-black hair and beard, and an equally shadowy toga and crown. The third and final man sits somewhere in between, both physically and metaphorically. His beard and hair are grey. So are his clothes and crown.

Who are they? I ask my young friend. It takes her a moment to answer, which allows me to notice both the hooded figure that stands immobile beside each throne and the stone archways that rise behind them.

Their names are Minos, Aeacus, and Radamanthus, answers Aria. I have no idea how she knows so much, but I’m grateful for her encyclopedic knowledge. Once upon a time, they were mortal kings, but now they are the judges of the underworld.

Who do they judge?

Us.

Why?

Look, says Aria, ignoring my question. She points at the stone platform just as a man climbs onto it. At first, nothing happens, but then he starts rising into the air. Initially, I think he’s growing, but then I realize he’s floating. He travels higher and higher until his feet are hovering a metre above the platform.

What’s happening?

Aria shushes me and points at the floating man. Look.

The man’s body is changing. His once rosy complexion turns the colour of ash, and his body becomes vaporous. One second he’s a human being, and the next he’s… he’s…

What is he?

He’s still human, says Aria, but now that he’s been judged, his corporeal form has faded away, leaving only his spirit behind.

He’s a ghost?

Aria nods.

Why is he grey?

The colour of your spirit determines where you go. If you led a normal life, your spirit turns grey, and you get to spend the rest of eternity in Asphodel.

I watch as the man floats down to the platform and approaches one of the three stone arches I noticed earlier. Like the judges, the granite gateways are similar, yet distinctly unique. The left one is white and has the word Elysium carved into it. The right one is black and bears the title Tartarus. The central one—the one toward which the grey spirit walks—is grey and harbours the word Asphodel.

What’s Asphodel? I ask, just as the man’s spirit steps through the marble doorway and vanishes.

It’s a place that’s neither good nor bad, explains Aria. All who led a normal life get to spend their afterlife there.

What if you didn’t live a normal life?

A horror-stricken shriek fills the air before Aria can answer. I look around and spot him almost immediately.

It’s a man. Or what’s left of him.

The spirit is black. But his skin is more than just the colour of charcoal; it’s the complete and utter absence of colour. The glow of the surrounding torches seems drawn to it, leaving only a faint glow behind.

What’s happening?

The dark spirit struggles to break free from the invisible force that keeps him airborne but fails miserably. He roars in anger.

He’s evil, says Aria.

What will happen to him?

Watch.

I focus on the spirit just as his feet touch the platform. He tries to flee, but the three hooded figures I noticed earlier are upon before he can take a single step.

The beings are tall and scrawny, their dark cloaks hanging limply from their frail bodies. The ample hoods keep every centimetre of their anatomy hidden, making it impossible to tell whether they’re men or women.

Please, begs the spirit. Don’t hurt me.

The hooded figures ignore him and raise their arms. Thick black chains emerge from their sleeves and, weaving through the air like snakes, ensnare the spirit.

NOOO! yells the man. He struggles to break free, but the restraints are too solid.

Unaffected by the man’s horrified shrieks, the hooded figures start walking, dragging the man off the platform and across the floor.

Please, he begs as he passes the judges. This is a mistake. Please!

The judges ignore him. So does everyone else. Am I the only person who cares what happens to this poor man? Even Aria seems unaffected by the heartlessness of the situation. She doesn’t even look away when the hooded figures pull the man to his feet and thrust him into the archway marked Tartarus.

Like the last spirit I saw cross one of the thresholds, the man vanishes, leaving only the three hooded figures as proof of his passing.

It takes a while before I find the strength to speak. By then, the three figures have returned to their original position, and the next person in line climbs onto the stone platform.

What just happened?

He was found guilty, says Aria.

Of what?

She shrugs. Perhaps he killed someone. Perhaps he lied and cheated without remorse. Whatever he did, it was bad enough to get him sent to Tartarus.

Tartarus?

It’s where the bad people go. It’s a place where suffering is constant, and peace is inexistent.

Gulp.

What about them? I ask, gesturing to the hooded figures with chains for arms.

I don’t know, admits Aria. I never saw them before. They must be new.

What if you were good? What happens to you then?

You go to Elysium. It’s a place where beauty is abundant, and life is easy.

That sounds nice.

It is, agrees Aria.

Have you been there before?

She nods.

How is that possible?

Those who are lucky enough to be welcomed into Elysium are given a choice: Stay in Elysium or be reborn. I chose the latter.

That explains why she’s so knowledgeable.

How many times have you died? I ask.

This is my third, she explains. As such, if I’m deemed worthy of entrance into Elysium, I will get to travel the Isles of the Blessed, where I will spend the remainder of my afterlife in eternal paradise.

Wow, I gasp.

Aria chuckles.

Don’t worry, she says. I’m just like everyone else.

I nod, and neither of us speaks for a while. By the time I find a question worth asking, only a dozen people stand between us and judgment.

"What kind of life did you lead?

Aria takes a moment to consider her answer.

I didn’t live long, she says, but I think I led a decent life. You?

I scoff.

I wish I knew.

Sorry. I forgot.

I shrug to indicate I’m not angry. Still, I can’t help wondering what kind of life I led. Was I good, bad, or somewhere in between? Will I spend the rest of eternity in Elysium, Tartarus, or Asphodel? I’m not afraid. Just curious.

The line shortens until only Aria and I remain.

Good luck, I say.

Thanks, she mutters as she hops onto the stone platform. She rises into the air and hovers there for a moment before her physical envelope fades, and her true self is revealed.

Aria’s spirit is beautiful. It’s as bright and immaculate as a fresh blanket of snow on a sunny winter day. I’m not surprised. If anyone deserves to go to Elysium, it’s her.

You may proceed, say the judges, speaking as one.

Aria hops off the platform and strolls toward the left arch. She pauses, waves at me, then steps through and vanishes.

I’m alone.

Step forward, instruct the judges.

I do as told. My heart beats a little faster as I make my way to the centre of the stone platform, but I’m surprisingly calm given the circumstances. I wait for something to happen, but nothing does. I’m about to ask if something is wrong when an invisible force grabs hold of me.

My feet leave the platform, and I rise higher and higher until I finally come to a stop. I hold my breath as I wait for whatever magic is responsible for judging the souls of the dead to reveal my true self.

Nothing happens.

I wait.

Still nothing.

Is something wrong?

After a minute or so of inactivity, the invisible force puts me down, and the judges start whispering. I can only make out the occasional word, but it’s enough to reveal that something is wrong. Of the dozens of people I watched get judged, I’m the only one who didn’t shed my physical envelope. I’m not sure what it means, but it can’t be good.

I wait for the judges to reach a verdict, but all they do is whisper, so I throw caution to the wind and interrupt their hushed conversation.

Excuse me. Is something wrong?

The judges fall silent and stare at me.

Yes, says one of them.

Something is wrong, adds another.

Very wrong, concludes the third.

What?

No judgement could be reached, reveal the judges, once again speaking as one.

Why not?

Because you’re still alive.

Memory 6

I’m alive? I blurt out. How’s that possible?"

Part of me is relieved, but another is disappointed. I’m grateful to be alive, yet I’m now more confused than ever. Why am I here? How did I end up in the underworld?

The judges are once again speaking in hushed tones. I’m tempted to interrupt, but one glance at the hooded figures tells me it’s best to remain quiet.

It takes a while, but they finally come to an agreement.

We have reached a verdict, says the first.

Because of your condition, we have no legal recourse to determine what type of life you have led, says the second.

As such, concludes the third, we have agreed to let you choose your destination.

Can’t you just send me back to the land of the living?

The judges answer, once again taking turns speaking.

I’m afraid not.

There is but one way out of our domain…

...and that’s through one of the arches.

I’m not surprised. Still, I had to at least try.

Make your choice.

Take all the time you need.

We shall wake when you are ready.

I don’t understand the meaning of that last statement until something unexpected happens.

The judges turn to stone. Their skin. Their hair. Even their clothes turn to marble. Within seconds, all three kings have been reduced to mere stone replicas of themselves.

The hooded figures remain unchanged. They stand immobile, waiting for their masters to awaken and call them to action. Or maybe they’re just waiting for me to step out of line so they can drag me to Tartarus. All I know is I haven’t felt this lonely since first waking in the underworld. On the plus side, I now have all the time in the world to figure out my next move.

My first thought is to pick Elysium. Not only does a lifetime of beauty and ease sound better than an eternity of suffering and restlessness, but there’s a chance I can be reincarnated. Of course, there’s no guarantee rebirth is an option for me. After all, I’m already alive. Still, it’s worth a try. Right?

I’m about to announce my decision when I remember something.

The note.

I reach into my pocket and pull it out. I skip the first part and focus on the last line.

Pick the middle door.

When I first read this, I had no idea what it meant, but now I understand all too well. Whoever sent me the note wants me to go to Asphodel. Why? I don’t know, but I suspect my mysterious pen pal may be the only person capable of helping me.

I guess my mind is made up.

The judges sense a decision has been made and come back to life, stretching their limbs as though they have been entombed in marble for ages.

Are you ready? they ask, speaking as one.

Yes, but can I ask you a question first?

The judges nod.

How did I get here? And why can’t I remember anything? Technically that’s two questions, but the judges don’t seem to notice. They merely shake their heads to indicate they know nothing of use.

Have you chosen a destination? they ask.

I nod.

I will go to Asphodel.

Very well. You may proceed.

I step down from the stone platform and make my way toward the central archway. I hesitate for a moment, then close my eyes and step forward.

Memory 7

Nothing happens. No surge of energy. No tingly feeling. No pain. Only the feel of the marble floor beneath my feet and the echo of my footsteps.

Something is wrong.

I’m tempted to open my eyes, but I’m afraid of what I will find, so I keep walking.

One step. Two steps. Three.

It’s not until the fourth stride that I notice a difference. The echo of my footsteps has faded. Even the ground beneath my feet has changed. It’s soft, malleable. A warm breeze caresses my face, confirming my suspicions.

I’m no longer in the Hall of Judgment.

I open my eyes. What I find is so unexpected it takes a while for my brain to process the peculiar sight.

A vast field stretches before me, fading into the distance in a blurry haze. The ground is light and airy, causing my feet to sink into the earth every time I take a step. It may not sound like a big deal, but given the vast crowd that stands before me, it’s quite puzzling. That is until I stop looking at the crowd as a whole and focus instead on the individuals.

There are men and women. Children and elders. People of all races and ethnicities. The only thing they have in common is their grey complexion and see-through appearance.

They’re dead.

That explains why I’m the only one sinking into the earth. And why no one seems to be looking at where they’re going. They wander around aimlessly, walking through one another without care or apology. A few even walk through me. It’s a little freaky at first, but I soon forget all about it when I notice something.

The Hall of Judgment is gone. It seems impossible given the fact that I only took a few steps, yet all traces of the building’s vast interior have evaporated, along with its tiny exterior and the fog that surrounded it. All that remains is an endless field of wandering spirits.

I’m debating what to do next when a voice reaches my ears.

Will?

I whip around, heart hammering in my chest. At first, all I see is the mass of grey shapes, but then something colourful emerges from the haze of overlapping bodies.

It’s a man. His white hair and matching beard betray his advanced age, as does his arched back and the cane he uses to support his tired frame. But the pigment of his wrinkly skin is what truly fascinates me. Unlike the thousands upon thousands of ashy souls that wander around us, the man has the rosy complexion of someone whose heart is still pumping blood. In other words, he’s alive.

Who are you? I ask.

My name is Heracles, says the old man as he steps forward and offers a hand for me to shake.

I reach out, half expecting my hand to go through his, but it doesn’t. I can feel every age-swollen knuckle, every wrinkle.

I’m Will, I say as we shake hands.

I know. I’m the one who sent you the note. I’m also the one who hired Charon to transport you across the Styx.

Why?

I need your help, says the old man.

Why should I help you? I don’t speak it out of selfishness, merely curiosity. Why should I help him? It’s not like we’re friends. Are we?

Heracles smiles.

If you aid me, he says, I’ll help you regain your memories.

Memory 8

You can cure my amnesia?" I ask.

Heracles nods.

How?

The old man doesn’t answer. He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a tangle of silver chains. A crystal vial hangs from each of the four chains. Heracles studies them until he finds the one he’s looking for.

Here, he says, handing me the vial he selected. Drink.

What is it?

It’s water from the Pool of Memory. It will restore your memories.

My heart skips a beat at the prospect of curing my amnesia. I grab the vial and uncap it.

Be careful, warns Heracles. Drink too much, and your brain won’t be able to handle the onslaught of memories.

How much should I drink?

A mouthful should suffice for now.

I raise the vial to my lips and take a gulp. The liquid feels cool and refreshing as it slides down my throat. It makes me realize how thirsty I am, yet after a few seconds, the feeling fades. I now feel completely quenched.

Are you sure… I begin, but my voice trails off when the floodgates of my subconscious break open and memories overwhelm me.

I only witness the occasional fragment, yet the images I do see are so powerful they bring tears to my eyes. I see myself at five years old, playing with a toy until one of the older orphans comes and snatches it away. The memory ends with me bursting into tears.

I witness the time I scuffed my knee, and the teacher let me go home. Grace—the closest thing I ever had to a mother—and I spent the entire day together, taking care of the younger orphans. It’s one of my most cherished memories.

The final memory I relive is that of the night before my fifteenth birthday. There’s nothing particularly significant about it except that it’s the last one.

I take a moment to process everything I just learned about myself. I’m an orphan. I’m shy and awkward around girls. I like to think of myself as being courageous, but the truth is I freeze up whenever I’m faced with danger. In other words, I’m a normal teenager.

My regained memories do more than reveal truths about me. They allow me to make sense of the countless oddities I encountered during my journey across the underworld. One by one, everything falls into place.

The Styx, river of hatred. Charon, ferryman of the underworld. A three-headed dog named Cerberus. The Hall of Judgment. Asphodel, Elysium, and Tartarus. Everything I encountered so far is related to Greek mythology. It explains a lot, but there’s still much I don’t understand. Why do I have an hourglass symbol on my wrist? Why am I wearing a ring with a symbol I’ve never seen before? Why am I so muscular? Why is my hair so short? But, most important of all, how the hell did I end up in the Greek underworld?

Don’t worry, says Heracles, sensing my rising panic. In time, all will make sense.

When? Because right now things are just about as screwed up as they can get.

Soon, promises Heracles as he takes the vial from my trembling hands and recaps it, but in the meantime, I need your help.

I scoff.

Really? And why the hell should I help you? I don’t owe you anything.

I helped you regain your memories.

True, but for all I know, you’re the one who caused my amnesia.

I didn’t.

So you say.

So I do.

Dammit! Can’t he see I’m trying to pick a fight? Can’t he tell I’m frustrated and in desperate need of venting?

What kind of dumb name is Heracles anyway? I ask. Truth be told, the name sounds familiar, though my agitated state keeps me from figuring out why.

It’s the one my parents gave me. You can call me Hercules if you prefer.

Hercules? That’s even wor— I begin, but the second half of the insult dies in my throat when I realize why the man’s names sound familiar.

I learned all about Heracles/Hercules in history class. According to Greek mythology, Heracles—known as Hercules in Roman mythology—was one of the greatest heroes of all time. He supposedly accomplished many great deeds, but he’s mostly known for completing the twelve labours. The order varies from one story to the next, but one thing remains unchanged. Heracles/Hercules was the most famous of all Greek heroes.

Is it really you? I ask the anger that once inhabited me now gone.

Heracles nods.

Did you actually kill a hydra? And slay the Nemean Lion? And capture the Cretan Bull? And… and…

Heracles cuts me off with a placating gesture.

Yes. I did all of those things. But it was ages ago. I haven’t done anything heroic in a very long time. In fact, that’s why I need your help.

Excuse me? How am I—a teenager with no fighting experience—supposed to help the greatest hero of all time? For that matter, how is this even possible? Isn’t Greek mythology supposed to be fictitious?

The old man sighs. It’s hard to believe this shell of a man once was the fabled Hercules. I guess even heroes can’t fight the wear of time.

Follow me, says Heracles.

He leads me across the seemingly endless field. We pass hundreds of spirits and step through nearly as many before finally emerging from the crowd. The ground remains unchanged but for a circle of stones. For some reason, the spirits are incapable of venturing into it.

Have a seat, says Heracles, gesturing to the bench that makes up the clearing’s only furnishings.

We sit in silence for a while before my curiosity gets the better of me.

You need my help?

Heracles nods.

We’ll get to that soon enough, but first I must explain how I got here. He pauses long enough for me to nod. It all started a very, very long time ago. I was still in the prime of my life. In fact, I travelled to the underworld to complete the twelfth and final labour given to me by King Eurystheus.

I try to recall the order of the labours, but I’ve only just regained my memories, and my mind is still a complete mess.

All I had to do was capture Cerberus and bring him back to King Eurystheus, but I was distracted by Persephone.

Persephone? Isn’t she Hades’ wife?

Heracles stiffens up.

She may have married him, he snaps, but she doesn’t love him. He tricked her into eating a magical pomegranate, knowing it would trap her in the underworld for all of eternity. He then forced her to marry him and has been keeping her prisoner in his palace ever since.

That’s horrible, but what does it have to do with me?

Everything.

I don’t understand.

I’m too old to rescue Persephone, but you’re not.

Are you saying you want me to—

That’s right. You’re going to kidnap Persephone.

Kidnap? Don’t you mean rescue?

Heracles clears his throat. "Of course. That’s what I meant to say. You’re going to rescue Persephone."

Neither of us speaks for a while. I’m grateful for the memories Heracles helped me regain, but I’m no hero. I’m just an ordinary teenager.

Why didn’t you rescue her yourself?

Heracles sighs.

I fell in love with Persephone the moment I laid eyes on her. I vowed to free her and spend the rest of my life making her the happiest woman in the world.

Why didn’t you?

"Time flows differently in the underworld. By the time I managed to tear my gaze from my beloved, I was an old man. When once I