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The Choice

Brian Warren

 

(1)

"I received your message a fortnight ago," Heracles said, "and I hurried to return to my birthplace. I have not seen you for some time, Ancient One. What is the urgent matter that calls me away from my purification rites?"

Tiresias gazed upon the short, powerful man. He didn’t see him, of course, having been blind for the past 80 years, yet he could sense well enough the presence of Heracles. "Mighty son of Zeus, He Who Sees All. By the timbre of your voice, I would say you have put more sinew on that massive frame of yours since last we met." He sighed, leaning on the heavy dogwood staff that guided him as his eyes once did. "I fear you may need it," he continued softly.

"I see the intervening years have done nothing for you, Seer. Still always grim of aspect, eh?"

The old man, older than, it seemed, any man had right to be, only turned to face the grey western sky. Helios’ journey had nearly ended another day. "Grave tidings cause me to summon you here. I had a vision two months ago, a phantasmal nightmare of horror and blood. I could smell" -he indicated his nose as he spoke-"the death. . . and hear the silence."

Heracles gripped the old man’s arm, nearly fracturing his humerus. "I do not understand all the words, but I see their import. What does it signify?"

Again, Tiresias sighed. "I have consulted with the Oracle. The meaning is clear. The world will end in fiery destruction unless you destroy an ancient artifact. I called you here to tell you. Zeus, your father, desires you to find and eliminate this threat to Mankind. You are the only one who can do it."

The man who stood before the old seer was no stranger to adventure. He had hazarded his life more than once. However, he was not a patient man, blessed with a gift of flowery speech. He stared into the other man’s unseeing eyes. "If retrieving an object is all I must do, tell me what it is. I have taken the Amazon’s belt, the apples of the Hesperides, the very guardian of the shores of Hades’ realm—what prize can elude me?"

Tiresias looked the other man up and down, as if taking his measure in a way that no truly blind man could do. He continued, "This item is known only as the Doombringer. It was created by the elder Titan Cronus, or perhaps by Ur himself—who can say? It is rumored to dwell with the children of Ge in the pits of Tartarus. There must you journey to find it. . . and destroy it."

"How shall I know it? And how can I destroy it?"

The old man’s lips cracked in a ghastly parody of a mirthless smile. "You will know it. Farewell, son of Zeus. The blessings of Athene go with you." He turned away, and it was evident that he would say no more.

 

(2)

After long weeks of travel through places both familiar and arcane, Heracles found himself standing on the shore of the great River of Woe. He glanced around at the gloomy, silent shades that surrounded him and strode forward to the dock, where Charon’s skiff approached from the other side. Though he had faced many ugly and vicious monsters in his life, Heracles found that Charon’s deathless yet deathlike visage terrified him the most. Suppressing an involuntary shudder, he stepped up to meet the grim figure, prepared to smite him if need be, in order to gain passage to the House of Hades.

Charon gazed at the arrogant man for a moment, his stare, as always, unreadable. Then, he moved aside and gestured with his huge oar, as if to say, "You’re expected." His death’s-head swivelled to look sternly at the flood of the dead surging forward. As if by sheer force of the mighty boatman’s will, the dead suddenly became quiescent and remained in place.

He ferried the living man across the Acheron in silence. As the prow thudded against the shore, Heracles leaped out of the skiff and glanced back at the dark figure. He could have sworn that he sensed Charon tell him the fate of the world lay in his hands, although no words passed the fleshless lips of the gaunt immortal. He quickly turned away, unaccustomed to being so unnerved by anything.

Hades met him inside the gates of the netherworld. "The place you go, Heracles, is not easy to find. There is good reason for this. Such horrors lie there as you should hope never dwell among your kind again. Moreover, the ancestors of the gods themselves, too dangerous to be given free rein here, are prisoners there, as well. Of course," he added, "the item you seek is there."

"Good," replied Heracles. "Have you anything else to say?" His brusque manner was not uncharacteristic, although it was heightened by his loathing for Hades.

Hades, a being of infinite patience, overlooked the breach of hospitality and implied insult. "Yes. I will guide you to the place. I will take you past the gate of adamant, past the endless grey plains and fields where nothing grows, to the places whereof no man speaks. This will I do, and one thing more: I will lend you my helm of invisibility, so you may travel amongst the beings of the Dark Places unseen."

"Hm. Good." If Hades expected any sign of gratitude from the man, it was clear that he would be disappointed. They continued walking in silence.

 

(4)

The pair had passed through featureless grey terrain that seemed to Heracles to stretch the length of twenty Earths. "How much longer, Grey One?" he finally asked, as madness threatened to swallow his soul.

The ashen face of Hades was not unlike the color of their bleak surroundings. He answered, "We are here." As he spoke, they came to a precipice that Heracles hadn’t notice before, and he had to catch himself, lest he plunge headlong into the great chasm that loomed ahead.

"How deep is that?" Heracles asked.

Hades only shrugged. It was unclear whether the gesture implied that the god did not know the answer or simply did not wish to say. "To climb down, you will have to make your own handholds. Take this," he added, handing the hero a bronze helmet carved with thaumaturgical symbols.

Heracles stuffed the helm into a pouch slung over his shoulder by his quiver. As if the implications of his mission had struck him for the first time, he suddenly turned to Hades and said, "What are the chances that I will survive this quest?"

With a look as cryptic as Charon’s perpetual expression, Hades answered, "That you will survive? Very good, I’d say." Then, he was gone.

Nonplussed by the god’s abrupt disappearance, the stocky man swung over the cliff, driving a powerful fist into the solid rock. The rock gave way, forming a handhold. Keeping that hand in place, he smote the rock wall with his other hand further down. Thus did he proceed down countless miles into the encroaching darkness below.

At last, he could see a stone floor beneath him. He dropped lightly to the ground, and, looking around him, withdrew and placed on his head Hades’ magical helm. It seemed that no-one and nothing had observed his arrival. He crept stealthily forward, not knowing what to expect. So profound was the darkness that he nearly ran into a leg, before he recognized it as such. Looking up, he saw it belonged to a man-like creature of immense proportions with 100 arms. The beast loomed over him as a mountain looms over a man. He knew this must be one of the Hecatonchires spoken of in the old stories. He quietly moved away from the monster.

He passed many of the hundred-handed creatures and others, huge beings with the aspects of men and women, but the bodies of giants. Such entities would have dwarfed man and god alike. These could only be the Titans, the elder gods. Some were raging, a fearsome sight that seemed empty of substance in this cold, dark place, but most of the Titans sat in quiet contemplation.

As he passed one of these, a female, she turned to regard him. "I know why you have come, little man," she said softly.

Curiosity got the better of Heracles. "You can see me?"

The Titaness laughed. "There are no magicks conceived by man or god that can deceive the eyes of Themis." Her expression darkened. "I can tell you where to find what you seek, if you truly wish to know."

Heracles was bemused by this comment. "Of course I want to know. Where is the Doombringer?"

"Hm. You may regret that you ever obtained the information later. But that is your choice." She frowned. "I warned Zeus about that atrocious object centuries ago. If only he had listened." She sighed, giving Heracles detailed directions to the resting place of the object of his geas.

The hero thanked her, to which she responded with a bitter laugh. Never one to overanalyze things, Heracles didn’t give this strange response much thought. He continued his journey.

Heracles had never seen or imagined a place more grim than the Underworld. However, gloomy as the House of Hades was, it was a perpetual festival compared to this place. As he approached the grove described by Themis, he was overcome by a sense of evil greater than anything he had known. It was overgrown with vines with black foliage that reflected an eerie red glow that seemed to emanate from within the grove. All the vegetation, from the smallest blade of grass to the twisting, gnarled bushes, was the same odd black color. He stepped inside, crunching the curiously brittle grass underneath his feet. He sensed that the source of both the unnatural red light and the great waves of evil that washed over his soul was the large red box in the center of the grove. Peering inside, he saw a single red flame. He reached in to extinguish the flame, but his hand passed through it. He punched the box, only to find that the effort had damaged neither his fist nor the box. Reasoning that Tiresias would know what to do with it, he hefted the box, pondering how he would get it up the cliff unseen. Even as he thought this, the box shrank to fit in the palm of his hand. Puzzled but pleased, he placed the box in his leather pouch and retraced his steps. As he left the black grove, the vegetation crumbled, as though it could not survive in its withered state without the light of its evil sun.

 

(5)

Travelling across Thessaly, Heracles noticed an owl that seemed to be following him. "Hoo! Hoo!" cried the bird.

Heracles ignored it, lengthening his stride.

"Hoo! How are you planning to destroy the box?" asked the bird.

That made him stop. He turned to regard the animal. "What do you know of such things, bird?"

"Answer the question, strongman," was the bird’s only reply.

Heracles cocked an eyebrow. "I understand. You are no bird. You are an avatar."

"Yes. Messenger of Athene."

"Very well," said Heracles, "What have you to tell me?"

It was the bird’s turn to regard him quizzically. "There is but one way to destroy the box. Are you strong enough to do it?"

Heracles scoffed. "Is there anything a mortal man might dare that I cannot do?"

"So be it. This is what you must do: find ten people, pure of heart and spirit, who are willing to throw themselves inside the box and die. When they have done this, then will the box be shattered, its power broken forever."

Heracles was stunned. "What?! Is there no other way?"

The bird gazed at him impassively. "There is another option. You can leave the box here or take it back to where you found it—either way, the single red flame will spawn a conflagration of such proportions that it will engulf and consume all life on Earth. That is your choice." Then, it turned and flew toward the heavens.

    *     *     *

Heracles wandered for days, unable to think rationally. He walked aimlessly through a great oak forest, not knowing what to do or where to go. He lost track of time and his sense of direction. . . .

When he came to, he found himself in a strange house. He struggled to sit up. "Where am I?" he asked rhetorically, not really expecting an answer.

"Ah, the Dazed One awakes," came a man’s voice from another room. The owner of the voice walked over to him. "As to the answer to your question, you are in my house. I am Perion. Barley and figs are my stock-in-trade. This is the small village of Gaiakles. Some of the local boys found you passed out in the woods. They brought you here."

"I am Heracles."

Perion’s eyes widened. "Your name precedes you, son of Zeus. What misfortune leads you to wander the woods outside our tiny hommlet?"

"I. . . I cannot say," Heracles answered. He was afraid to reveal his story, lest some hapless fool actually volunteer for his doom.

"You don’t remember? Did you hit your head?" Perion asked, concerned.

"No. It is simply not appropriate to speak of this matter."

"You must tell someone," Perion demanded. "When we found you in the woods, you looked as though you had not eaten or slept for weeks. Whatever could drive a man to such distraction may yet be the death of him."

"Perhaps it would be better if I were to die," Heracles answered quietly.

Perion was unrelenting, however, and he eventually coaxed the story out of Heracles. When the tale was told, Perion sat back and let out a great sigh. "From anyone else, I would call such a story a fabrication. It is an extraordinary tale. And it seems your troubles are not yet over." He hesitated. "I have an idea. Wait here." Perion left.

When he returned, Heracles leapt up. "I must leave. I must. . . do something."

"Relax," Perion said, "These people would like to speak to you." He stepped aside, and an old man entered the room. "Greetings, son of Zeus. My name is Olias. I have lived a long life and produced three fine, strong sons. I know that I probably have a few years of life left in me, but I know of no better use to which I could put it than to save humanity."

A woman followed Olias. "I am Terisena. I have not lived such a long life, but I have a wasting illness. Within days I will die. Perhaps your coming will allow me a less ignoble end."

Others followed, each with a similar story. The hero was struck speechless with a mixture of shock, horror, and grief. "You cannot just die. It. . . it’s murder! It’s like mass murder!!"

Perion laid a hand on Heracles’ shoulder. "It is not murder if they wish it so. It is their choice."

At last, he acquiesced. So it was done. And so were we all saved.

 

(6)

His long quest at an end, he came to face the blind man who could see. "Why?"

Tiresias frowned, irritated. He waved his staff at the sky. "Do you ask why the sun goes from one side of Earth to the other day after day? Why, when rain falls on seeds, crops grow? What use are such questions?"

The other man simply continued to gaze at him, not understanding.

The old seer sighed. "You persist in questing after that which does not exist—the reason. ‘Why?’ is the child’s question. The man does not seek the wherefore; he makes his own meaning. You see, the journey was not really about your choice, but rather about the choices every man must make for himself. It is the greatest freedom and the greatest tragedy of Man and of men—the power of choosing. Those who sacrificed themselves recognized this and recognized that it is the choices that one makes which give one’s life—and death—meaning."

"I think I understand, Old One. The gods may bring doom to our lives, but only a man may doom his own spirit."

Tiresias smiled at his old student. "Indeed. The agony and the ecstasy of freedom both are embodied in the choice. In the end, ‘why’ is the question for which each man must forge his own answer." So saying, he turned away from the setting sun and hobbled down the hill.