To the hell dogs that couch beneath his throne,
cast that fair prey.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley,
"The Daemon of the World"
They sailed due south for Hades with a crew full of lamentations and hangovers, and a pair of sacrificial sheep. With a fair wind to carry them, they crossed the river of ocean and came at last to a bleak coastline shrouded in a swirling mist.
McKenna peered into the world of gray. "Jeez, I wish this stuff would blow away."
"It never does," said Jerry. "This is the frontier of the world. It's supposed to be beyond where the sun shines."
"So this is where the monkey puts his nuts!" said Liz. "They said it was a place where the sun don't shine." She was exceptionally moody today. One minute up, and the next snapping your head off. Jerry wished he could be sure why. But then he'd always found women to be slightly more confusing than calculus.
They sailed into a river mouth. On the low banks, groves of tall black poplars loomed out of the mist. It was a bleak place, enough to sink anyone's spirits. The talk dried up. The water was still and oily, covered in a network of floating willow-catkins. Unnaturally long and dark catkins. "The Acheron," said Odysseus. "I go no further." There was a level of implacable grimness in that statement, which let them all know that they'd reached the edge of how far they could push him.
Medea took a deep breath. "Very well. Set us ashore. And then wait beside your black ship. I place this geas on you. Surely none of you will ever return to the lands where the sun shines, if you abandon us." She began chanting sonorously, flicking droplets of red wine from her fingers.
A low moan went up from the sailors.
"I think they might just be here when we get back," said Cruz.
"They have a reputation for being recidivists of the worst order," said Jerry, darkly.
Medea scowled. "Indeed. That's Hellenes for you."
The hull of the black ship grated on the coarse sand. Jerry and his companions helped to haul the ship up. Then they set out through the gloom between the black poplars towards the place where the River of Lamentation joined the River of Flaming Fire.
Henri was not terribly keen. He offered to remain at the ship as he particularly wanted to examine the black foliage of the plants. As a botanist . . .
"Typical frog-eater," said McKenna, dismissively. "Got no guts."
The cold mist was lightened by the apoplectic Henri's flaming red face. "How dare you, you insolent puppy? How dare you?" He stood on tiptoe to bristle his eyebrows at McKenna's chin. And then, pulling in his ample supply of guts, he turned. "I will lead. I will be your guide. For the honor of la belle France!"
Unfortunately, the drama of the occasion was immediately ruined. Charging ahead, Henri stepped unwarily into a muddy stream.
"Oh! Merde! My shoes! This place it is terrible! Oh my shoes, my shoes. The leather will be completely ruined! Oh, this is terrible. Even my socks they are muddy."
Jerry whispered to Lamont, under cover of the French footwear dirge, "I think we may just have found the River of Lamentation . . . "
But it must just have been a tributary of that rushing river. After that, the ground became rapidly steeper and more uneven and the lamentations grew in volume. And they weren't all coming from their French "guide."
Soon they stood beside the rushing torrent of weeping and wailing water and the gnashing of rocky teeth. "Where now?" yelled Cruz, above the anguished waters, struggling with the ram he was leading.
"Downstream," replied Jerry. "We're looking for where it meets the River of Flaming Fire."
Liz had apparently discovered a common thread between herself, Jerry, and Lamont—Monty Python. She nearly killed the other two with her next comment. She pointed to the river. "I think it's pining for the fjords."