underneath us. It’s like a pirate’s ship, made of ancient, dusty black wood, and it’s creaking under its load of nervous passengers. Minotaur signals to us that it’s okay to board. The Simurgh set me gently on the deck, and without a backward glance the brigade flies away. I watch the orange sparks disappear into the charcoal sky.
The deck is crowded with ghostly people who seem lost and confused. “These are the souls of the newly dead,” Minotaur whispers. As the ship descends, passengers push past me to look over the gunwales at the plains of Asphodel, exclaiming as if they were only tourists here. They don’t seem to understand that they are dead. Those who do stand silently, grim expressions on their faces, like soldiers about to walk out onto the battlefield.
As we descend, the sailors turn the bars of a giant capstan, and metal buttresses emerge from the sides of the ship—landing gear that creaks slowly into place to stabilize the craft. As the ship touches down, a great cloud of black ash billows up from Asphodel’s surface. A long ramp emerges from the bow of the ship and extends to the ground.
The gangway is roped off. Two sailors duck beneath it and walk down. They take positions at the bottom of the ramp, then nod to the sailors on board, who remove the rope. The passengers who still don’t realize what’s happening here step onto the gangplank eagerly; the wise ones are more cautious. When the passengers reach the bottom, they proceed one at a time as the sailors examine them. The first three passengers have a gold coin under their tongue, and they are directed to the ferry. I watch them walk toward the long line of waiting souls. They are still smiling and chatting.
The fourth passenger has no coin. The sailors move back as she steps off the plank. The moment her feet touch Asphodel’s dust, her ghostly body begins to quiver and shake. A broken mobile phone falls to the ground. The vibrations become so extreme that her features blur and she begins to disintegrate. The violent movement shatters her body, until she is nothing more than a cloud of fog hovering above Asphodel’s dust, a curl of steam above a teacup. I watch as the cloud slowly turns blue in the cold air, lingers for a moment and quivers in a way that suggests weeping. Then, like a gust of wind carrying a leaf, an invisible force sweeps her to a cell in the parking lot of Asphodel. She immediately begins to move methodically about, like all the other specters, retracing the futile routine she had clung to in life and now cannot escape in death.
The next shade hesitates, feeling under her tongue for the coin before stepping forward. A ripple of panic moves through the crowd, and everyone checks to be sure they have a coin. Those who don’t have one move away from the gangway and look for a hiding place on the ship. I share their panic, as I am also without a coin.
“Where do they get their coin?” I whisper to Minotaur.
He takes on a confused expression. “They receive it when they board the ship at the time of their death,” he says. “Didn’t Sybil tell you that when she gave you your coin?”
“She didn’t give me a coin,” I reply.
“What?!” Minotaur hisses, anger and panic clearly visible on his borrowed face. “How does she expect you to board the ferry without one?”
I start to tell Minotaur that Sybil said I could get a coin from one of the shades, but then I hesitate, suddenly unsure whether I can go through with her instructions. “She told me how to get one,” I finish vaguely.
Minotaur smiles conspiratorially. “Go on,” he says. “What did she tell you?”
I take a deep breath and avoid looking my accomplice in the eye. “There is a soul who can be persuaded to give up his coin—a tall man with red spectacles and a scar on his left cheek.” I feel deeply ashamed of what I’m about to do. When I glance at Minotaur, he is staring at me intently, as though enjoying my inner struggle.
The deck is crowded with ghostly people who seem lost and confused. “These are the souls of the newly dead,” Minotaur whispers. As the ship descends, passengers push past me to look over the gunwales at the plains of Asphodel, exclaiming as if they were only tourists here. They don’t seem to understand that they are dead. Those who do stand silently, grim expressions on their faces, like soldiers about to walk out onto the battlefield.
As we descend, the sailors turn the bars of a giant capstan, and metal buttresses emerge from the sides of the ship—landing gear that creaks slowly into place to stabilize the craft. As the ship touches down, a great cloud of black ash billows up from Asphodel’s surface. A long ramp emerges from the bow of the ship and extends to the ground.
The gangway is roped off. Two sailors duck beneath it and walk down. They take positions at the bottom of the ramp, then nod to the sailors on board, who remove the rope. The passengers who still don’t realize what’s happening here step onto the gangplank eagerly; the wise ones are more cautious. When the passengers reach the bottom, they proceed one at a time as the sailors examine them. The first three passengers have a gold coin under their tongue, and they are directed to the ferry. I watch them walk toward the long line of waiting souls. They are still smiling and chatting.
The fourth passenger has no coin. The sailors move back as she steps off the plank. The moment her feet touch Asphodel’s dust, her ghostly body begins to quiver and shake. A broken mobile phone falls to the ground. The vibrations become so extreme that her features blur and she begins to disintegrate. The violent movement shatters her body, until she is nothing more than a cloud of fog hovering above Asphodel’s dust, a curl of steam above a teacup. I watch as the cloud slowly turns blue in the cold air, lingers for a moment and quivers in a way that suggests weeping. Then, like a gust of wind carrying a leaf, an invisible force sweeps her to a cell in the parking lot of Asphodel. She immediately begins to move methodically about, like all the other specters, retracing the futile routine she had clung to in life and now cannot escape in death.
The next shade hesitates, feeling under her tongue for the coin before stepping forward. A ripple of panic moves through the crowd, and everyone checks to be sure they have a coin. Those who don’t have one move away from the gangway and look for a hiding place on the ship. I share their panic, as I am also without a coin.
“Where do they get their coin?” I whisper to Minotaur.
He takes on a confused expression. “They receive it when they board the ship at the time of their death,” he says. “Didn’t Sybil tell you that when she gave you your coin?”
“She didn’t give me a coin,” I reply.
“What?!” Minotaur hisses, anger and panic clearly visible on his borrowed face. “How does she expect you to board the ferry without one?”
I start to tell Minotaur that Sybil said I could get a coin from one of the shades, but then I hesitate, suddenly unsure whether I can go through with her instructions. “She told me how to get one,” I finish vaguely.
Minotaur smiles conspiratorially. “Go on,” he says. “What did she tell you?”
I take a deep breath and avoid looking my accomplice in the eye. “There is a soul who can be persuaded to give up his coin—a tall man with red spectacles and a scar on his left cheek.” I feel deeply ashamed of what I’m about to do. When I glance at Minotaur, he is staring at me intently, as though enjoying my inner struggle.
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