Ticket #250654

Klotho looked up from the thread she was spinning, and squinted as a bright, golden radiance filled the sitting room. Typical of Apollo, she thought, to show up in all his godhood. No wonder mortals were so awed when he appeared to them. No wonder they fell in love with him.

She sighed softly, and put her distaff in her lap, coiling the thread she was working on carefully so it didn't tangle. It wouldn't do to cut a life short because she was careless. She'd never hear the end of it from Thanatos.

Klotho looked over at her sisters, Lachesis and Atropos, and saw they had also noticed their visitor. Lachesis had laid aside her measuring tool and Atropos had put down her shears. The three women looked to be in early middle age, yet their hands were soft, and their faces smooth and unlined.

The three Fates had been working quietly, each at her allotted task. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a window was open to a garden full of fig, olive and lemon trees that had turned to ghostly sentinels in the dusk. The air was growing chilly.

"What do you want, Apollo?" asked Atropos sharply. The Greeks called her The Inflexible One and she lived up to her name, cutting to the heart of the matter. Klotho always thought this was because Atropos wielded the shears that cut men's lives off. Sometimes, when the thread was still quite short.

"Can I not pay my cousins a social visit?" asked Apollo, a trifle petulantly, having appeared on the hearth rug, blocking the fire. Klotho looked at him. Apollo was magnificent: tall and athletic, with a head of curly, golden hair, a classically proportioned face and regal nose. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why Daphne had fled his embrace and Cassandra —his own Priestess—had spurned him. Just look at him, she thought.

Klotho sensed eyes on her and turned her head to see Lachesis watching her intently. Klotho blushed and dropped her eyes to the thread in her lap.

"Why do you seek us out?" asked Atropos again.

Apollo sighed—a little dramatically—and said, "There is a life I wish to save."

Lachesis spoke: "Apollo, you know better. Even Zeus himself cannot extend a human's thread."

"The answer is no," said Atropus, curtly.

Apollo, looking petulant, said," You made an exception before—for Admetus. Surely, you can do so again."

"You got us drunk and tricked us into agreeing!" snorted Atropos. "We won't make that mistake again."

Apollo turned to Klotho, as if sensing she might be a weak link.

"What of the Spinner herself," he asked," What do you decide? The man I wish to save will bring a Golden Age of music and poetry to the world, help to heal it from a terrible war that is yet to happen. He is on a great ship—the largest humans have ever built—but it will sink in four days. This I have foreseen." His voice held a honeyed note, as smooth as the mead he'd once used to intoxicate the Fates, millennia ago.

Klotho felt herself weakening. Damn, he looked so fine.

"You should have given him the gift of prophecy, Apollo, so he knew not to get on that ship," said Atropos.

Klotho spoke up, surprising herself: "We've made an exception before, sisters, and for one who had far less impact on history than this one will."

Lachesis, glancing at Klotho, said, "I'm also agreeable, but your request needs consensus. Perhaps you can sweeten the deal, Apollo. I propose you visit us every week for six months and play your lyre for us as we work. We’re so far removed from the feasting and music of Olympus. Then I will agree also.”

"Willingly," said Apollo, his face brightening, "I will come every week."

"For a year," said Atropos, "I, too, miss hearing the Muses play."

Apollo pursed his lips and frowned briefly, then nodded. "Agreed," he said, "One year."

"He is worth that much to you?" asked Klotho softly.

"Not just to me," replied Apollo, looking at her, "He will help bring about a Golden Age of music and literature. Humans will call it the Jazz Age. He will open a temple of music in the New City. Musicians, singers, artists, writers, poets — they will all flock to him and he will make them and their arts famous."

If I have a year, thought Klotho, perhaps I can catch Apollo's eye.

"You must also find a substitute. Someone who agrees voluntarily to take his place, as Admetus' Queen did," said Atropos brusquely, “Otherwise, the agreement is off, and his thread will be cut, along with ..." She held up a massive bundle of threads. "...1,522 others. Then he belongs to Hades."

"Of course. I will go now and find someone. Thank you, cousins," said Apollo, and like a light blinking out, he was gone, and Klotho could see the fire in the grate again. The log that had been burning collapsed to coals in a flurry of sparks.

***

“Hey Johnny, over here!” a voice called.

Johnny turned and saw a thin man with pale skin, freckles and red hair waving at him. The man was standing on a packing crate to be seen above the throng of people. Johnny pushed his way through the crowd, a sack slung over his back.

“Jock, what a grand adventure, eh?” said Johnny, grinning. He looked up the ship towering over them. “The Titanic. I reckon she lives up to her name,” he said. “I still can’t believe I’m riding her to New York City!”

“Right, there’s one ticket for all the musicians: number 250654. Here, I wrote it down for you.” Jock handed Johnny a slip of paper with a number written on it. “Tell them Black’s added you to the list at the last minute. You’re sharing my cabin. Mary’s come to see me off. I’ll be along before we sail,” he said.

“Jocko, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’d given up all hope of getting to America on me own,” said Johnny.

“Just remember, I get my own set when you open your jazz club,” said Jock.

***

Apollo tried the local pub in the small village of Carsphairn where Johnny lived (really, he thought, how did modern man survive drinking this swill they called beer: it was flat, sour and yeasty, nothing like the fruity, sweet wines humans once drank) but none of Johnny’s mates were at all interested in Apollo’s offer. He’d tried to bribe them with gold and offered a bountiful harvest for generations to the family of the man who agreed to take Johnny’s place.

They’d laughed in his face.

“Here, we’re miners, not farmers,” said one.

“If you’ve got gold onya, you can buy the next round,” said another, and the men all laughed.

Then they’d thrown him out, telling him to come back when he was sober.

Apollo had briefly debated sending a swarm of his golden arrows into the pub, but quickly realized that might wipe out any chance he had of finding a replacement for Johnny.

Apollo tried asking the local vicar, who crossed himself, and ran into the church to get some holy water. He’d asked a group of fishermen, repairing nets by the docks. Apollo’s offer of plentiful loads of fishes for generations fell on deaf ears. They’d all laughed at him and told him to get lost.

Finally, he tried Johnny’s parents. He hoped a mother or a father would sacrifice themselves for their son. Especially mothers who often worshiped their son and would do anything for them, Apollo thought. Though not all mothers, he mused, remembering Admetus’s elderly parents who refused to trade places with their own son.

He knocked on the door of the small house in the village, where he was directed by the local postmistress. A middle-aged woman opened the door, wiping her hands on an apron, a small boy peering curiously around her long skirts at the handsome stranger. She had a lined, tired face, and hair streaked with gray, coiled around her face in a braid.

“Are you Johnny’s mother?” he asked.

“Who be asking?” the woman replied curtly.

“It’s about your son, Johnny. He is on a ship to America…

The woman broke in. “Nonsense, he’s got a job playing music at a wedding in Dumfries. He’ll be back in a few days.”

Apollo grimaced. “No, my good woman, he’s on a ship sailing across the ocean. But the ship will sink and the only way to save his life is for someone else to take his place.”

“That’s not right,” said the woman, “He’s told me he’ll only be away a few days.”

“He’s with his friend, Jock, who is a musician on the ship,” said Apollo.

“Yes, that’s right, Jock was hired for the band on that grand new ship, Titanic,” she said. Her face was clouding over with suspicion.

“Jock got him added to the band at the last minute. Your son is aboard the Titanic, heading to America,” said Apollo, “But he won’t reach it.”

“Who are you to know these things?” asked the woman, “Are you an angel sent by Our Lord,” she asked.

“Well, in a way. I’m a sort of messenger,” said Apollo.

The woman’s face grew hard. “So he decided to run away. He never stopped talking about America. Always the music and fancy dreams with him,” she said harshly. “Too good to be a tin miner like his father and his brothers.”

“But he’s your son,” said Apollo, “Surely a mother would sacrifice anything for her child? Would you agree to take his place so that his life might be saved?”

The woman snorted. “I’ll not take his place even if you’re the Archangel Gabriel himself. I’ve got two younger ones to look after, and their father. Who will cook and clean for them if I’m not here?”

Apollo sighed—a little dramatically— and said, “I’ve already asked everyone else. His friends, his drinking companions at the public house, the vicar. No one will agree. You were my last hope.”

The young boy spoke up suddenly, “You might try asking Gertie the Goosegirl. She’s sweet on him.”

Apollo looked at the child intently. “Where can I find this Gertie?” he asked, but the mother yanked the boy by the arm and cuffed his ear.

“You’re not to speak to the golden man,” she said, “How do we know he’s really an angel? Mayhap he’s sent by Satan to trick us into giving him our souls.” She dragged the boy away and slammed the door in Apollo’s face.

***

Life aboard the Titanic had fallen into a regular pattern for Johnny. The first four days passed in a blur of playing piano, grabbing meals on the run and taking short breaks on the second-class decks for a quick smoke.

The band members slept late into the morning, before rising and eating breakfast. They would practice together until lunch (the bands had to be prepared to play any of 352 songs on the Titanic’s playlist at a passenger’s request), down sandwiches and coffee and then play for the First Class passengers. The men were divided into two groups: a quintet, led by Wallace Hartley, the band master, and a trio. The quintet played in the afternoon for tea time in the First Class Lounge and gave after dinner concerts. The trio—violin, cello and piano—played in the A La Carte Restaurant and the Cafe Parisien on the upper decks.

Johnny and Jock had imagined they would talk late into the night about their dreams for New York. Jock had a long-term contract now playing on the White Star Line ships and he knew of an opening in a musical theater in New York for a versatile pianist, for Johnny. But the reality was that after finishing at midnight or later, the two men collapsed exhausted into their bunks, falling asleep almost immediately and didn’t stir until a steward awakened them for breakfast the next day.

Both bands were playing at 11.40 pm on the night of April 14th when the great ship shuddered as the right side of its hull scraped along an iceberg. The jagged ice—hard as steel—tore open six of the watertight compartments below the waterline. Freezing cold water poured into the breach and slowly filled the ship.

***

Apollo finally found Gertie with her geese in a field on the edge of her family’s farm. He was irritated. We don’t go around looking for humans, he grumbled to himself, they’re supposed to come to us. But he also knew that this girl was his only hope of saving Johnny.

Apollo was careful to appear to Gertie in his full splendid radiance when he told her about Johnny's fate.

Gertie was suitably impressed. “We learned about the Greek Gods in school,” she said, “I thought you were a myth.”

Apollo replied, “No, we’re real. Humans just stopped believing in us, but we are still running the show, as it were.”

“What do you want with Johnny, then?” she asked.

Apollo said, “He is a particular favorite of mine. I’ve foreseen that he will help bring a Golden Age of music and poetry to the world. There will be a great war soon, millions will die. Afterwards, people will need the joy of music and poetry for comfort.”

Gertie was horrified. “A war?” she asked, “And millions dead? Surely not.”

“If you remember your schooling, you will know that I’m also the God of Prophecy,” said Apollo.

Gertie was silent.

“Then Johnny has a very important role to play?” she asked, “If he lives.”

“Yes, but only if someone will agree to take his place in Hades,” said Apollo. "Someone who loves him enough," he added shrewdly, watching Gertie's face.

The girl went still. “Yes, I do love him,” she said quietly. “I have since we were at school together. He comes and visits me while I watch the geese and talks to me about his dreams.

“And does he love you in return?” asked Apollo.

“Not in that way, as a sweetheart. He only cares for me as a friend,” said Gertie, sadly. “You can’t know a boy from the time he’s small and be blind to it. No, I were never the girl for him.”

Gertie imagined her Johnny in America, leading a band in a club full of people, everyone laughing and dancing. She saw him, face lit up and laughing, living his dreams. And she could make that possible. She smiled gently to herself.

“He will….” started Apollo.

“I agree,” she said, cutting off the Lord of Sun and Light. Apollo frowned briefly, not used to such interruptions from humans. Then he realized what she’d just said.

“You agree to take his place in death?” repeated Apollo.

“Yes,” replied Gertie. “Is there some ritual to follow?”

“No,” said Apollo, “Thanatos ... the God of Death ... has heard your pledge. You made it voluntarily and that’s sufficient.”

Gertie’s eyes widened suddenly. “Will it hurt?” she asked.

Apollo paused. Something in her tone touched him. He felt almost pity. Mortal lives were so brief and there were so many of them. And yet, there were some humans who had qualities that even the gods admired.

“No, I will send you to sleep. When you wake, you’ll be in Hades's realm. And Johnny will join you there one day,” said Apollo.

Gertie smiled at the idea of seeing Johnny again. Then she lay down on the grass and gathered her geese around her.

“I’m ready,” she said to Apollo.

The search party from the farm—Gertie’s father, her brother and the hired hands—found Gertie that evening after she didn’t come home. She was stiff and cold. The geese were nestled around her body, their wings spread protectively over her.

Her father crossed himself when he saw her, lying there on the ground, and tears ran down his face. The men had to beat back the birds, who hissed and flapped their wings, to retrieve Gertie for burial.

***

The deck of the Titanic tilted sharply down. People were walking carefully, holding on to the railings, but sometimes they slid. Johnny leaned out over the rail; he could see the bow riding low in the water.

He heard the band still playing in the First Class Lounge: they’d chosen Nearer My God to Thee. He hoped that Jock had gotten away in one of the lifeboats, for Mary’s sake, and the baby coming, but then he heard the high, sweet notes of Jock’s violin and knew that he hadn’t.

He felt a coward for not joining them, but he refused to give up on his dreams of getting to America and playing jazz. Not even now where there was little hope.

The lifeboats were all gone, only empty moorings left. The last one had left only minutes ago, full of women and children. No room for an extra man. Johnny could still see the dark shape of the wooden boat shrinking slowly as it moved away. He could hear an officer's voice calling on sailors to pull hard.

People were throwing deck chairs off the ship. Johnny searched for anything that might float but there was nothing left to throw.

The ship tilted even more. Then a great wave washed over the deck and Johnny was flung into the water with dozens of other people. When he hit the icy Atlantic water, it felt like being cut with a hundred knives.

***

“He’s done it,” said Lachesis, staring intently at a large leather bound tome.

“Apollo?” asked Klotho.

“Yes, he found a substitute for his musician. The Book of Fates now shows him as having a full span of life. And there’s a thread here that was meant to be long, but now needs to be cut.” Lachesis looked over at Atropos.

Atropos held out her hand for Gertie’s thread. “Our golden boy was just in time. The bundle must be cut soon.” She glanced over at a golden water clock on the mantel above the hearth. “Very soon.”

“So we’ll have Apollo’s music for a year,” said Klotho, her face lighting up.

Lachesis hid a smile as she bent over the threads in her lap.

***

Within thirty minutes, Johnny was spent and frigid, and he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He’d swum as far from the sinking ship as he could. The great, unsinkable Titanic—the pride of the Belfast shipyards—had slipped down into the depths of the Atlantic in a great spout of water. Now, he just floated, buoyed up by his lifejacket. His hair was crusted with ice. He didn't have any fight left in him.

So much for dreams, he thought, if I’d stayed at home, I’d be playing weddings and church fetes all my life, but at least I’d have had a life.

A curious warmth began to fill his body and the water around him seemed to glow with a golden light. The water felt warm and his hands and feet began to tingle painfully.

Suddenly, strong arms grasped his collar, his arms and his jacket, and hauled him, coughing and dripping water, into a wooden lifeboat. The warmth evaporated. Johnny's teeth chattered as a chill wind hit him. The two sailors who had pulled him in deposited him on a hard bench and turned back to their oars.

A tall man in a dark blue naval greatcoat wrapped a heavy wool blanket around him and pressed a flask to his lips. "Drink, lad," said the officer. Johnny drank, and then spluttered, as whiskey burned down his throat.

Johnny looked around the small boat at the people in it: a few men, but mostly women and children, huddled together under blankets. Some wept softly, some simply stared ahead, mothers spoke gently to children who clung to them. Four sailors rowed the long oars.

"How did you find me?" Johnny, his voice rasping.

The officer replied, "We came back for any survivors. We were about to give up when we spotted a golden light in the water. We rowed over and found you. Did you use a lighter to signal us? That was smart thinking.”

Johnny was silent. He remembered a golden light, warmth that flooded his body. He'd heard stories that people dying of cold felt warm right at the end. That must have been it, he thought. But then how did the other men see the light as well? Perhaps it was some sort of ocean phosphorescence.

"Where are we heading?" asked Johnny.

"The Carpathia is nearby. She answered our distress call," said the nearest sailor, bending over his oar. "She'll take us to New York," he said.

"That's where I'm headed," said Johnny.

“And what’ll you do when we get there?” asked the sailor.

“I’ll play that new jazz music. One day, I’ll open a nightclub. I'm going to call it The Apollo,” said Johnny.

***

Author’s Notes:

Ticket #250654: The eight musicians on board the Titanic were given a single group ticket. They are famous for staying to play and calm remaining passengers as the ship sank. All of them perished.

Klotho, Lachesis, Atropos were the three Greek Fates. Klotho (the Spinner) spun a human's thread of life, Lachesis (the Alloter) measured it and Atropos (the Inflexible) cut it with her shears.

The three sisters were born to Zeus and Themis, but even their father could not influence them to change a person's fate. The Fates took their directions from (or possibly made entries into—this is unclear) the Book of Fate.

Thanatos was the Greek God of Death.

Apollo was the Greek God of sun + light, music + poetry, healing + plagues, prophecy + knowledge, order + beauty, archery + agriculture. He had a favorite once: King Admetus. Apollo learned that Admetus was destined to die as a young man. He tricked the Fates (by getting them drunk) into agreeing to spare Admetus if someone else volunteered to die in his place. The King's elderly parents refused but his wife, Alcestis, agreed.

The first jazz recordings were made in New York City on January 30, 1917, by a band of musicians from New Orleans.