The Virtuality Theory Page 2

  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

  F og. 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?