The Woman and the Wanderer

He felt intrusive in these moments. They were so personal, devoid of violence or hate… Yet the air was acrid with the complex emotions of pain and bitter joy. Life and death occurring in the same exact instance. The child’s first cry filled the air. She was cradled in the arms of her mother as her father whimpered into the hair of his wife. He begged her not to go, enveloping them both in his tired arms. He could not have known that her shade already stood across the room, watching at the side of a god.

“She’s beautiful. Your daughter.” He said quietly. Being gentle was always key in these moments, he had learned, but it was certainly never enough.

The young mother didn’t turn to look at him. Her face was pressed into the hard lines of grief, willing herself to cry yet no tears could fall onto the cheeks of a shade.

“Will they be okay?”

“I’m sorry… I don’t know that.” He paused, almost ashamed of his ignorance.

Her face barely reacted to his answer, as if she was unsurprised. She probably was. He was not the patron of oracles and truth – That was his brother. No, he was the wanderer. The messenger. The guide. He took her hand and pulled her over the threshold of her home. They moved forward slowly, making their way to a dense grove outside her little village.

“After you,” he said gently, pulling back the branches to reveal the darkness of the trees. She hesitated and stepped silently into the underbrush.

Darkness shifted around them. The cool trees and humming bees gave way to stone and silence, an impenetrable darkness lit only by the god’s own divinity. His warm light gave his guest the courage to walk on through the pitch; however, her courage would waver as they all did. On cue, she froze in front of him.

“Wh- Who are they?” She peered into the corners of the cave as it had widened. Gigantic shadows slunk away from his light.

“Do not worry, my lady. They will not disturb us. Their pain and trials are for the living – something you do not currently possess.” He moved around her, gesturing her forward once again.

Another creature moved behind his shoulders. It’s low moan shook the cave. He could only imagine which horror had shown its shapeless face behind his shoulder.

She shrieked and recoiled. “Monsters!" she gasped, "What did I do? Why have I been sent to Tartarus?” Her growing voice startled the other sleeping creatures, and, worse, the creatures that lay ahead.

The god remained where he was, quietly watching the darkness into which she had fled. He could see her shade standing far off, almost in a void. They never made it far from him. It was too dark and the entrances and exits to the Underworld only opened for him. Such precautions were necessary, of course. The living could not be among the dead, and the dead could certainly not be among the living. He watched the woman fall to her knees and weep.

Slowly, he walked to her back through the dark path.

“It was too dark," she sniffled, "I couldn’t see anything.”

“That is why I am here, my lady.” She was silent. He could feel the tinge of a question in the air. And why would I trust you?

“They are the afflictions of men.” He said, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground with his staff and crossed his legs.

“What?”

“The creatures you saw. They make their home before the Gates of Hades, so they may enter and leave at their leisure. They are Grief, Disease, Age, and Hunger. They are formless except for their terror. But, again, they will not hurt you. For they cannot.”

“My Lord H-“

“Please. Just Hermes.”

She stared at him, eyes wide in her grey face. Thinking for another moment, she whispered: “Hermes… If they are no threat to me, why are there cages rattling in the distance?”

“Ah, well, yes,” he muttered sheepishly, “Those are the bound souls of creatures who cannot truly die. Gorgons. Harpies. Centaurs. They will line the dark walls for a while. But I am your guide, and I have never lost a shade.”

She nodded, and Hermes held out his hand. Shakily, she placed her cool fingers onto his palm, and they rose together. He made to walk forward, but she did not budge.

“Could you not take me back?” She asked, desperation shining in her eyes. “I could stay on the earth and watch my baby girl grow up.”

“I am sorry.” Guilt stung every word as he dashed her last hope. “If you remain in the world, you will be bound to your body in its grave. As time passes differently here, they may be performing your funeral rites already. You could possibly communicate to those visiting your grave, but you will remain trapped there and grow restless - losing all memory of your husband or daughter. If that happens, you will never see your family when it is their time to join the dead.”

He watched his words sink in, furrowing her brow and weighing down her shoulders. “It is best that we press on.”

She nodded, and whispered, “Okay.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, keeping her secure as they made their way back toward the creatures.

“You apologize often… for a god,” she mumbled, slightly indignant.

“I am one of the very few of us who will apologize for anything.”

“But, aren’t you the trickster?”

“I am often a trickster for my own family. Much less among men. Do I not also guide your travelers to safety across the dangerous boundaries of your towns and bring you through the darkness after death?”

“I guess so, yes.” Her voice faltered. They had once again come to the cages, rattling and roaring with the bound souls of monsters.

He beat his staff on the stone floor, sending a flash of light bouncing off the walls. “SILENCE.” His voice rang as a deep bell through the darkness. The monsters quieted, and his guest trembled. “Only a bit further now.”

Suddenly the darkness gave way to a vast opening. The air hung thick and stale around them, with water dripping from the vast ceiling like a slow, spring rain. They had arrived at the banks of the Acheron. Shades were gathered in a gray mass directly ahead.

“The crowd is the point where Charon will retrieve souls from the shore. Your fare will-“

She let out a muffled squeak and spit something to the ground. At this, Hermes could not contain his laughter and bent over to pick up the coin.

“It is your obol. I was going to explain, but it seems your husband did not want you to have to wait on the shore.” He flipped the coin and laughed once more at the woman’s disgusted face. “Could you still taste the metal?”

“No, but I know how dirty it must have been.” She scowled but seemed to wilt as she took the coin in her fingers. “This is a lot of money for our family.”

“I’m sure your husband was glad to pay it.” He watched her dark eyes ponder the coin’s worth once more and all the necessities it could have afforded. “Let me take you to the shore, since I’m already here.”

He walked in front of her, clearing their way through the shades who could not yet cross.

“Why are there so many?” She whispered behind them, staring at their dejected faces and hazy eyes.

“The war has brought many down without a proper burial lately, on top of the usual poor and alone. They will wait their century, and Charon will call them by roll.”

“Oh… What a terrible fate.”

“Do not worry, my lady. They will all cross in time. Speaking of which...” He had made it to the shore, and the ferryman turned in his boat. He was grey skinned, with a jagged nose and an unkempt beard. “Charon! I have brought a soul for your passage. How goes it?” He smiled, and held up his hand in greeting.

Charon stared at him with his black eyes, only grunting and stretching out his withered palm towards the shade. She flitted her eyes toward Hermes, who nodded, and she set the coin in his hand.

“Get on.” His voice was like the grinding of rocks underfoot.

“Goodbye, my lady.” Hermes cheered, helping her shade into the decaying boat. “Charon, give Cerberus my love if you see him!” He laughed as he turned to wave at his guest.

“Thank you!” She called with a weak smile, turning to sit as they sailed into the furling mist.

Thank you. His hand froze in the air, smile falling. He remained long after they had, staring into the place where they had disappeared. She had said thank you.

Hermes turned to leave the Underworld. His winged feet took him quickly through the dank corridor, back to the surface. For a long time, he remained among the green and purple foliage that lay before the entrance, and leaned on his staff - an age-old bargaining chip from Apollo.

With little more thought, his feet carried him to the graveyard outside the village, where he found Hermione’s husband sobbing over her fresh grave. It lay at the farthest most boundary of the cemetery, under the shade of a pear tree. It bore no marker, no inscription. What a damned world, where such a woman remained nameless in the record of men.

“What was her name?”

The man started, clutching the bundle of blankets to his chest. “Who is there? Who speaks?”

Hermes stepped from the shadows. His disguise was nothing special, a simple goatherd. In the dusk. Away from home.

“Your wife. The one you grieve. What was her name?”

The man glanced around his form, no doubt squinting at the edges. A god’s form was always a bit thin, like a misty veil.

“Her name.. Her name was Hermione.”

A bubble of laughter overtook Hermes. The irony manifested in his sides, transforming itself into pain and guilt. He gripped his staff for balance as he retched, and against his own wishes, he began to weep. Meanwhile, the man was backing away, eyes intent on Hermes’ blurred form. He flinched when Hermes’ golden eyes flicked back up to his own.

“W-We really must go. It is late.”

“What of your baby’s name?”

“I need to get her home. Please. ”

“Yes, yes, I am sorry for my abruptness, but I wish to know. Will you name her after her mother?”

“… Yes.” With that, Hermes disappeared.

It always gave Hermes some sense of satisfaction when he disappeared in front of a mortal… Perhaps that was the trickster in him. He watched Hermione’s husband spin from one direction to the next, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. In the end, he shook his head and made his way out of the cemetery. The night was treacherous, so Hermes ensured that they were safely inside before he returned to the grave.

There, he leaned against the pear tree, Hermione’s thank you ringing in his ears. Mortals often thanked the gods for many things, but this was different. It was genuine without the adornment of ritual, as if she was thanking a new friend for their directions. She had a good soul, he thought, She deserves more than this.

It was a hard sell to his sister, Athena, but she finally agreed to help him sculpt a grave stele in the woman’s likeness. It was the purest marble, adorned with the brightest paints the gods could supply. Her inscription read: “HERE LIES HERMIONE. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. FAVORED BY HER GODLY NAMESAKE FOR HER KINDNESS AND HER BRAVERY, EVEN IN DEATH.”