This is a holiday special, though the holiday in question is somewhat vague. I don’t think we can call it Christmas, or Yule, or even Agnostica. I think it’s just ‘winter,’ since this is after all a myth about winter. This is a special, in part, because it steps away from the normal mission of these our myths of the modern world.

This is, in short, a recognizable myth to a lot of you. A myth of the ancient world. But I like to think that the retelling makes it a bit modern in other ways. And if it’s recognizable, I also like to think there are ways that it isn’t.

It concerns the changing of the seasons. Which sometimes means the changing of autumn to winter. And sometimes means changes of another kind entirely. It’s called Prosperina.

I hope you like it.

And yes, this should mean we’re back. Thank you for your patience, all.

Prosperina
A Mythology of the Modern World Holiday Special
by
Eric A. Burns

Her name was Prosperina. Or perhaps it was Proserpina. Or Persephone. Or Libera or Kore. It all depends on who you speak to, really. The important thing is she was young, and she was vibrant, and her parents were loaded, like a lot of pretty young things in a lot of cities.

And like a lot of them, she wasn’t terribly happy with what was after all a pretty privilaged life.

Oh, she knew she didn’t have it that badly, really. She knew she wasn’t hungry, or poor. She had a roof over her head. Sometimes she admitted to herself that she had a lot more than almost everyone. She was a goddess, after all, and that’s not nothing.

But it’s hard, sometimes. Especially when your mother is Life itself.

Her father was the King of the Gods, at least at that time. In more modern times, my understanding is they’ve experimented with various systems. But back then they liked Kings, and he was actually pretty good at it. But he was a womanizer at best and he didn’t really do birth control so he had a lot of kids running around. Prosperina was just one of them, and one he didn’t have to worry about. Not with her mother.

Call her mother Demeter, or Ceres, or Kabeiriia if you will. It doesn’t matter, really. What’s important is she was Life itself. Growth and abundance. The good harvest — or the bad. Without her, there was no living, no warmth, no green things, no nothing. And that’s a pretty good racket to be in, if you think about it. She was rich, and powerful, and used to getting her way. Prosperina was her eldest daughter, and she knew exactly what Prosperina was going to do with her life. What job she would have, what part of the family business she’d help take care of, all of it, really.

It was a small part, really. Prosperina’s mother didn’t want to overburden her eldest (and, everyone knew, favorite) child, and there were so many important details to look after as it was. Really, it was easier for her mother to just take care of them herself. Which is the problem with dynastic businesses where everyone involved is immortal. You never actually die off or retire, which means the next generation never takes over.

As a side note, why did Paradise Island even need a ‘Princess’ Diana, since Hippolyta was never going to die or even get bored with the whole thing anyway? Also, where did their textiles industry come from? But I digress.

This state of affairs went on for several decades. Which is also important to bear in mind. At the time this whole situation went down? Prosperina was somewhere around retirement age in a human. But when you’re immortal your age is less a function of time and more a function of definition. And right then, Prosperina was defined by ‘daughter,’ not by anything she did. So she remained a young woman.

Oh, there was that fling with Adonis, but that led to issues, and Prosperina’s mother put her foot down. And that meant no more dating, period.

So yeah, Propserina was as prosperious and fortunate as her name implied. Still, she wasn’t exactly happy about it all, and it’s hard to fault her for that. So she took to wandering the back alleys and streets of the city, finding the right bars to hang out in. The clubs her Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in. It is also safe to say she wrote self-absorbed poetry for a while, and used her share of black eyeliner. Not during the planting season, obviously. There was too much to do then — she was involved in the planting, even if everything she did was superfluous. But during the growth of the summer or the harvest of autumn, she was at loose ends. And then of course planting came again.

On this night, it was raining in the city, which made her eyeliner run just a touch. It was midsummer, which meant she had nothing to do. The word had gotten around about the whole Adonis thing, so Prosperina couldn’t even find a one night stand to save her immortal life.

It was a hole in the wall, in a bad part of the city, though there was really no danger to Prosperina. Everybody had to eat, or so they said, and everyone knew her mother was insistant. And besides, she was a goddess, and not that many people were stupid. Still, she kept to herself and tried to keep people from figuring out who she was. She went into the bar and she wandered to the back. She slipped into the end booth. Up on a stage that was little more than a stoop, a man in a white suit and hat plucked a banjo from behind sunglasses. He sang in a voice well acquainted with cigarettes. He sang of death and the blues, and Prosperina drank a Long Island Iced Tea.

Few people know the peninsula was named for the drink, not the other way around. But now you’re one of them, so feel good about that. But I digress.

She sipped her drink. The man on the stage crooned into the old mike. “I want to be seduced… let a woman talk to me suggestively… wanna know that she’d like me to be with her tomorrow morning — drinkin’ hot jasmine tea….”

“Story of all our lives, huh?”

Prosperina glanced over at the table closest to her. A man was sitting there, a tall beer and a whiskey set in front of him. He was handsome, if you liked that kind of thing. His hair was somewhat unruly. And his coat was black.

“I wouldn’t know.” Prosperina said, and took out a cigarette. She held it to her lips, and the man leaned over to light it. She breathed in deeply, and exhaled with a long breath.

“Cloves.” The man wrinkled his nose. “Smoke enough of those, you’ll sound like Leon up there. What’s your story, anyway?”

Prosperina shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I’m told the next chapter.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, your mother can be quite a bitch.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “Not many people get away with calling her that.”

He shrugged. “She’s nothing to me, friend.” He took the shot, then followed it with a long pull off the beer.

“Hard drinker,” Prosperina said, shifting to watch him.

He shrugged. “A beer and a bump. Nothing big — a poor man’s Boilermaker.”

She smirked. “In five minutes you’ll be calling it Texas Tea. So who are you, anyway?”

He half-smiled, nodding to the waitress, who nodded back and went to fetch him more liquor. “Dis Pater,” he said. “Or just Dispater. Friends call me Dis.”

Prosperina grinned. “Dis Pater? Rich Father? You sound like a pimp.”

Dis shrugged, grinning.

Prosperina leaned forward, propping herself on her arms. “You sit at the big boy’s table. Major sphere. The Dead, right?”

Dis chuckled. “Death. The Underworld. Wealth. I’m also a mean hand at debugging crufty source code.”

“Is that why you’re not worried about insulting my mother?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to me. The Underworld handles its own food.” He half-smiled. “That seems to appeal to you.”

Prosperina took a drag off the cigarette, breathing out the clove smoke. “It doesn’t break my heart.”

Dis’s smile grew smug. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you a drink?”

Prosperina leaned back. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you one?”

Dis chuckled. “I wouldn’t say no.”

In the background, the singer growled. “I might demur politely, falter slightly, if she starts to fondle my knee… but I’m relatively certain I’d compromise if I know me… I want to be seduced, I want a woman to talk to me suggestively — I want to hear her say she’ll be with me tomorrow morning, drinking hot jasmine tea.”

Dis spent a lot of his time in the Underworld, of course, but when he was up in the city, he and Prosperina spent a lot of time drinking in a lot of dives. They got to second base a few times, especially in dance clubs, but even if Dispater had nothing to fear from Prosperina’s mother, there was no good reason to tempt fate. He’d heard the rumors about the Adonis situation too, after all.

“So what the Hell are we doing?” he asked finally, leaning back on a rooftop looking at the night sky.

“Smokin’ a joint and staring,” Prosperina said. “If you want to try something, I don’t think there’d be a thing over it, tonight.”

“No, what are we doing?” Dis rolled onto his side, looking at her. “I mean, is this a thing, or am I just the guy you vent to because no one else would understand?”

Prosperina breathed out blue smoke. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“You know, other people have relatlonships.”

“Other people aren’t me.”

“So that’s it? You’re done? She won, and you got nothing to try?”

Prosperina turned to look at him. “Where do I go, huh? What do I do? Where do I stop being her daughter? How do I get out from underneath that?”

Dis looked at her. “That depends. How much do you like me?”

“You clean up pretty well.”

“Not good enough. Do you love me?”

There was a pause.

“‘Rinny?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I love you.”

“Enough to marry me?”

She stared. “What?”

“Do you love me enough to marry me?” Dis laid back, looking up at the sky. “I’m serious here.”

“Yes,” she said, softly.

“Then you have an option.”

“Marry you? Trade being a daughter to being a wife?”

Dis snorted. “That’s what you call being Queen of the Underworld?” He looked at her. “Beyond how I feel about you, I need help. I need something more than I can give. Things have gotten too complex. I need something — someone who I can trust and who has the authority to whip things into shape.”

“What sort of things?”

“Infrastructure. Health and human services. Not to mention food distribution.”

“The dead eat?”

“The dead eat their food, yeah.”

She frowned, taking another hit. “So… you’re saying you’d make me a partner?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d have work? Real work? Important work.”

“Yeah.”

She looked at a star, high in the sky. Bright enough to cut through the smog. “Do you love me?”

There was another pause.

“Yeah,” he said. “I love you.”

“Okay then.” She half-smiled. “But getting out will be a problem. We go to the transit authority, people are going to want to know why I’m leaving town. Someone will call one of my mother’s cronies…..”

“Yeah. And I don’t think you’ll fit in a diplomatic pouch.”

She snorted. “Not without a serious diet.”

“It could be a nasty scene.”

“And that’ll be the end.” She looked back up.

“You’re an adult,” he said. “More than an adult. You’re a goddess. You make your own choices, Prosperina.”

“I know. But she’s too powerful. And she won’t listen.”

He nodded. “Hrm. Can you leave the city on your own?”

“It’s summer. I could go on a day outing with some of the nymphs.”

“To Leucippe Meadow? By the IHOP on Route Sixteen?”

Prosperina snickered. “Will we get pancakes?”

“Nope. I’ll pick you up there.”

“And then carry me off to a booty call?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“I’ll bring you down to the Underworld, but we’ll take our time to court. You can get to work, get yourself established — decide if you like me beyond rebelling. And if you do….”

“Then we’ll see.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

The nymphs were happy to go with her to Leucippe Meadow. They were moderately vapid creatures — some nymphs have depth, but these didn’t aspire to that. “–so cute,” one was saying. “I swear, he gives me a look and I just melt.”

“Prossey, tell Aglaope she’s insane,” Peisinoe said. “That guy’s just gutter trash and she should know it.”

Prosperina shrugged. “Maybe, but if gutter trash makes her happy, who’s to say she’s wrong?”

“We are,” Thelxiepeia giggled, and the others — even Aglaope — giggled with her.

“Yeah,” Prosperina said. “Of course.” She was wearing a white dress belted with a flowered belt, walking and waiting.

“Guys,” Peisinoe said, frowning. “Do you hear something?”

“Like a rumble? Or an Earthquake?” Thelxiepeia was frowning. “Guys… maybe we should get back. It may rain or–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, softly.

“Oh Jesus, I do not want to get rained on,” Agalaope said. “Come on, let’s get the car and–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, more loudly.

There was a moment’s shock.

“Wait… you mean… you… you don’t care if you get rained on?” Peisinoe said, softly. Trying to talk herself into it.

“I mean I’m not going back. If you guys want to leave, feel free.”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. You’re running away?” Thelxiepeia said. “Oh God Prossey! You can’t do that! I mean… I mean…” she looked around, fanning the air with her hands in panic.

“What do we tell your mother?” Agalaope said, the panic contagious.

“I don’t care what you tell her,” Prosperina said. “Tell her anything. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“That’s not fair!” Thelxiepeia shouted. “She’s going to blame us! It’s easy for you — no matter what you do she’ll just haul you back home, but she might give us wings or beaks or–”

“Guys!” Peisinoe shouted. “That noise is getting really loud!”

And with a crash and a roar, a gigantic car burst from the ground and thundered down State Route Sixteen. It was a black Cadillac Eldorado with the license plate ETNA on the front. Sleek and finned, like from the fifties, it rumbled with pure black horsepower as it thundered down the road towards the girls.

The nymphs shrieked and ran back, cowering at the edges.

But Prosperina just unbuckled her belt, and tossed it aside. It landed in a nearby pond. She skinned out of the loose dress. Underneath, she wore a white tank top and cutoff jeans. She scooped up her backpack and waited.

The Caddy pulled alongside her. Dis was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Goin’ my way?” he asked, half-smiling.

“God, I hope so,” Prosperina said, and moved around to the other side of the car. She climed in, tossing the backpack into the back seat, and the car thundered off.

“You sure we can’t pick up where we left off,” she asked as the car plunged into a ditch and then down into a cleft in the very Earth.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I want to too, but we need to let this grow.”

Prosperina snorted. “You have no idea how sick I am of growing things.”

“Then you’re headed in the right direction.”

For six hours, they drove deep into the Earth. They stopped for McDonald’s on the way, of course, but it was Cleftway Service Plaza McDonald’s, so it was way expensive. But finally the car pulled out into a huge cavern, and Prosperina’s eyes went wide.

The city was magnificent. Carved in all directions from the stone itself, with stone spires and building reaching up sometimes thousands of feet, not just close to the cavern roof but sometimes forming a pillar with it. Electric cars whizzed by and the shades of the dead moved from place to place, and a soft white light seemed to suffuse the area. There were plants down here too. Black things, with pale berries, and trees that reached up with thin branches and dark leaves. It was eerie, and it was beautiful.

The most beautiful place that Prosperina had ever seen.

It is safe to say, in these times long past, that Prosperina loved Dis Pater, the Wealthy Father, who also goes by other names. But her first love was the great city of the Underworld. The moment the goddess laid eyes on it, she knew this was the place that was meant to be her home. The place where she would make her mark.

The place where she would not be the daughter of the Fertile soil and bounteous harvest. The place where she would not even be the wife of the Lord. It was the place where she would be Prosperina, the Lady of the Underworld, who sat upon one of the twin basalt thrones and rendered wisdom and judgment in measure.

And next to her, Dis smiled slightly. He knew she was the right — the only choice. For his queen, for his wife, for his partner.

The car climbed one of the ramps and took the side bridges, and drove high over the city, heading for the garage and a new life. Or afterlife, depending on how one looked at it.

“This is amazing,” she said, as she looked over her quarters. “How… how did you do all of this?”

“My basic labor pool is the dead. They have all the time in the world and plenty of reason to want something to do.” Dis smiled a bit more. “It is an equitable relationship.”

“I guess so.” She reached for a glossy, deep red apple. “This is just–”

“Don’t.”

Prosperina blinked, looking at Dis. “Huh?”

Dis walked over, scooping the apple up. “You can’t eat the food of the dead,” he said. “Especially the fruit of the dead. It doesn’t fuel life. It fuels death.”

Prosperina cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

“If a living mortal were to eat any of this food — even the tiniest bit — it would destroy him. Kill him instantly. Render even his shade weak for years.” He held the apple cupped in his hand. “For a goddess, it is taking in the substance of Death, of the Underworld into yourself. Part of you would die — even as a Goddess. Every bite would infuse its death essence into you, until finally your divinity itself crumbled and you died. Even a single bite would tie you to the Underworld. Too much, and you could never leave, even if it didn’t kill you.” He looked at her. “There would be… other effects, as well.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “So what do I eat?”

“We’re importing food. You’re not the only one down here who needs to eat the food of the living. We’ll keep you well stocked.” He smiled a bit, and took a bite of the apple. It seemed to snap as he bit.

“It seems like you can eat it,” she said, smiling a bit.

“I’m Death, remember? Food of the living, food of the dead? It’s all good. Sometimes, I like to sauté them together — let them fight it out.”

Prosperina giggled. “I’ll bet you do.”

Dis smirked, looking at her.

“What?”

“You giggled.”

“What?”

“You giggled. I think the City of the Underworld agrees with you.”

Prosperina grinned. “I think you’re right.”

“Settle in first, or get to work?”

“Let’s get to work.”

And so they did. Prosperina settled in with the staff, working most directly with a Chthonic deity name of Hecate who knew secrets ranging from ancient magics to how to convince the Food of the Living vending machine on the 433rd level to give up free Snickers bars. Prosperina also got to know the various shades and other spirits of the dead — to meet the damned and the blessed, and see where each lived and the rules that governed them both. She learned that the tunneling and shaping of the stone never ended — more people died each day, passing across the River Styx through the front gates, in what was then called Psychopomp Docks but which would have other names over the coming eons. She learned about public services and utilities, and how to be firm but fair to those teeming tenants of the world beyond the world.

But of course, this story is not just about Prosperina. After all, we have mentioned Prosperina’s mother often enough that you know she couldn’t be kept out of the story for long. You see, she figured out early on that her daughter was missing. What she could learn from Peisinoe, Aglaope, and Thelxiepeia just made her upset — they didn’t know who had ‘taken’ Prosperina, and they hadn’t tried to intercede. So, as they had worried, she did indeed transform them, remaking them into sirens, winged and beautiful with voices that lured, in hopes that the goddess’s daughter would be lured out — or her kidnapper, anyhow. Later, after the sirens were left to their own devices, they became a rather dangerous menace to navigation. Still later, they would become a moderately popular pop music act. You can figure out which one if you think about it. I’ll wait.

That’s right — them.

Anyhow. The investigation involved many divinities, and sooner or later they worked out where Prosperina might be.

However, during this time… well, all was not well in the land of the living.

Prosperina was in a meeting when it came to a head. “–outline the water reclamation system,” she was saying. “Why we need a sewer for the dead isn’t quite clear to me yet, but I’m willing to accept it. Dale, put together–”

There was a knock on the door frame. Prosperina looked up. “Yes?”

It was Hecate. “Sorry,” she said, a slightly feral smile on her face. “There is someone here to see you.”

“They can wait,” Prosperina said. “We’ve been working to get this ready.”

“He is from the King of the Gods,” she said, her smile not slipping. “And from your mother.”

Prosperina stared for a long moment. She then looked at the shades around the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. “Someone get everyone coffee. None for me — your coffee would stunt my growth.”

The goddesses stepped into the receiving room. Dis Pater wore formal attire, as did the Messenger. “Lady Prosperina,” he said, bowing formally. “I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, and of course your mother, the Lady of the Harvest.”

“I thank you, Master Logios,” Prosperina answered, for in this, the Messenger was acting as the master orator, not the thief or the lord of boundaries. “When you return, please convey my regards.”

“Ah,” Logios said, “but you misunderstand. This is a rescue mission, Lady Prosperina. I am here to save you from the man who stole you from the sunlight and your mother’s boon presence.” The clever lord’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Then you may convey to my mother and the King that I came here of my own free will,” she answered. “At the same time as you convey my regards.”

Logios laughed. “Very good. Very good!” He looked at Dis Pater. “Lord of Hades, you do find a way to make the most interesting enemies.”

“And the most interesting friends,” Dis Pater said, his fingers steepled. “But come, Dolios. Let us dine before you return with your news.”

“It will not be received well,” the messenger said. “They have made it very clear and very public that the pure and kind, warm and loving daughter of our Lady Harvester has been stolen away. There is no room in that for a daughter who wants to stay where she is.”

“That is their problem and yours,” Prosperina said. “I’m happy here.”

“I’m sure you are, Lady,” Logios said. “But the people above aren’t happy. Your mother has withheld her beneficence. Absent it, the fields grow barren. The air is cold. Ice falls, and ice crystals blanket the fields in white powder. Nothing is growing up there, Prosperina. And eventually, all of mankind shall starve.”

“Then someone needs to force my mother to grow up,” Prosperina said. “This is where I live now. I won’t go back to be her favorite pet.”

Logios half-smiled. “As you say, Lady. I will convey your message. I should expect a response, were I you.” He looked at Dis Pater. “Old friend, surely you will see the need.”

“Not terribly,” Dis said, his own slight smile on his face. “Our world has all the food and warmth it needs, quite without the Lady Harvester. I’m sure the world above is an unhappy place right now, but all that means is we’ll have to step up construction efforts to accommodate all the deaths. In the end, you might be put out of a job but I won’t.”

“And were it just I out of a job, then perhaps that would be the end of it,” the messanger said, his smile growing ever so slightly. “But though your kingdom is your domain, old friend, you are not alone in this world. You too have responsibilities. You too must be accountable, and come to reckon.”

“Well then,” Dis said. “I guess we’ll see what response you have for us, won’t we?”

“So you say,” Logios said. “So you say.”

“You’ll have a meal before we go?”

“I’m afraid not. This is an issue that is at least somewhat pressing, and I need to beat the major cleftway traffic. The Styx/Lethe Bridgeway is a bitch if you get caught in rush.”

“We’re working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. Lord. Lady.” He bowed, and then was gone, as swift and silent as a thought not spoken.

The two looked at where the messanger of the gods had stood.

“Well,” Dis said softly.

“How do you think this will play out?” Prosperina asked.

“That depends. If your mother is willing to destroy the planet out of grief–”

Prosperina snorted. “Try spite. Or a denial or reality.”

Dis shrugged. “Like I said. If she’s willing to destroy all of humanity, then we’re going to have everyone on our asses.”

“The other gods?”

“The gods, the spirits, the nymphs, the personifications. Everyone.” Dis looked at her. “There are… logistical difficulties in fighting a war against the entire massed force of creation.”

“Would we win?”

Dis’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Unquestionably. But as the messenger so dutifully reminded me, I do have responsibilities.”

“Yeah.” Prosperina looked down. “We all do.”

It didn’t take long for a response to come. Dis Pater was summoned to a meeting of the full assembly, the high table of the Gods. Prosperina didn’t pretend that was a good sign. But before he left, for the first time since they had descended into the underworld, she kissed him. And she watched him leave, driving his Eldorado. It made a statement, or so Prosperina was told.

She was sitting in the dining hall when the messanger returned. He was flanked by Hecate, who seemed unusually somber.

“Master Logios,” Prosperina said, softly.

“I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, your mother the Lady of the Harvest…. and the assembled Lords of Olympic Creation, Kore Maiden of the Planting,” Logios said in response.

“Does that include the Lord of the Underworld?”

“He is in the assembly, Lady. And it is the assembled forces and the will of the King I bear now. And it is a will that may not be appealed, nor denied.”

Prosperina nodded, rising. She walked over to the tables where the food was laid out. It was buffet style. On one table there was the food of the living. Meats, cheeses, breads, vegetables and fruits — not to mention Aeacus’s underworld-famous three alarm chili. On another, there were the dark fruits and foods of the dead. Glossy, shimmering with secrets and the quiet places. Blackened meats, dark, rich breads and broths, roots and tubers, the glistening, hauntingly beautiful fruits of the underworld — and not to mention, Aeacus’s underworld-famous four alarm chili.

Aeacus always claimed, for the record, that the dark meats of the dead made vastly better chili, and besides shades were willing to have way hotter habaneros in their food.

Prosperina paused at the food of the living. “Would you like something, Lord?” she asked. “It’s really quite exquisite.”

“The King of the Gods has decreed that the world and humanity is more important than the desires of the Lord of the Underworld,” Logios said.

“Then why does he not order my mother to restore fertility to the world?” Prosperina replied.

“He has. She won’t. And he has no means to force her.”

“But he can force Dis Pater to give me up?”

“No.” The messenger looked somber. “In the end, he can only decree. And it becomes a question of who blinks first. Of who sees the broader picture more than their own desires.” Logios picked up a slice of melon from the table of the living, and took a small bite. “This really is good,” he said.

“Dis Pater has dominion over the Underworld,” Prosperina said. “No one can take that from him.”

“No one can, and no one has,” Hecate said, smoothly. “But consider, my Lady. To the King was given the Sky. To the Lord of the Seas the depths and waters. To our Master the Underworld and all that lies within. But the King was granted dominion over the whole, specifically so he could adjudicate in disputes of this nature. If our Master were to challenge — to refuse to accede… it would not simply be this dispute that would be broken. It would be the covenant. The peace. Eventually, that leads to war between the Gods themselves.”

“And to the end of humanity, and in the end that is too high a price to pay for your wishes or happiness,” Logios said, not unkindly. “We all have our duties.”

“So. In the end my mother gets what she wants because she will willingly destroy the entire planet if she doesn’t, and somehow that becomes Dis Pater’s responsibility instead of her’s. Is that what you’re saying.”

“That is indeed what I am saying,” the messenger said. “Sometimes, we have to compromise.”

“We do. She doesn’t, apparently.”

“Apparently.”

Prosperina sighed. “So,” she half-whispered. “You’re here to take me back.”

“I am, Lady.”

Prosperina turned. One of the accents of the table of the dead were asphodel flowers — a bloom and herb that the dead prized greatly. There were rumors that Aeacus simmered his meat in the herb when making his chili. The vehemence of his denials seemed to confirm those rumors.

“Lady?” Hecate asked.

“Dolios,” Prosperina said, smoothly, now using the epithet of the schemer and planner, the thief — not Logios the messenger, nor even Diaktoros the courier of the Gods. “The core of all this trouble and all this pain is my mother, yes?”

“Yes, Lady?” the thief answered. The timbre of his voice had changed. He knew that Prosperina had a plot, and though it might cause the end of humanity itself, the swift thief of the Gods did so love a good plot.

“And because she is stubborn, and because everyone else can compromise, she doesn’t have to compromise. Yes?”

“Oh yes, my Lady.”

“That’s what I thought.” Prosperina looked at the bloom… and then let her eyes play over the fruit and food of the dead. “I think….”

“Lady?” Hecate asked. She sounded… anticipatory. The ancient power didn’t know what was happening, but if the thief loved a good plot, Hecate just loved when authority’s plans got screwed over.

“I think it is time my mother learn what it’s like to face a situation she can’t out-stubborn.” Prosperina’s voice was soft. She was glad Dis Pater was away. If he were not, the god would certainly protest, and he could be so reasonable — even while being so contrary in other ways — that she might even have listened.

The two other deities said nothing. Prosperina looked over the fruit, before smiling and reaching her hand out. A glossy, magenta/black pomegranate, still in the skin, sat plump and ready, heavy in her hand as she lifted it. Perfect.

“Lady…” Dolios’s voice trailed off. He understood. It was, in the end, a scheme.

“I love pomegranate’s flavor, don’t you?” Prosperina said, her voice still soft as she worked open the peel and husk. Her hands were delicate but strong, as befit a planter. She did not even burst any of the seeds.

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said in a hush, as the sweet seeds, the tiny fruits of the dead within the peel were revealed.

Prosperina looked at them — the normally dark purple fruit rich and almost black. This was food to sustain death, not life. There was no mistaking it.

She did not hesitate. She plucked a single seed, and slowly slipped it between her lips. She bit down, and felt the skin of the fruit burst, the juice’s rich dark flavor spreading over her tongue, the seed crunching on her teeth. She swallowed, her eyes closed, and she felt it flow into her, and become a part of her… felt that hint of death, of the end, of destruction and dust that no god ever need fear willingly spread, touching each of her cells. She shivered as her nature and the new element warred, and inevitably colluded.

She took a second… and then a third… the others were not the seminal experience of the first, but they deepened and strengthened this new bond. And she knew then, as she had the third spread through her, and her bones and blood became chill, that if she had twelve seeds — just twelve seeds of this one pomegranate — that would be enough. She would be given all into death, and her divinity would fail, and she would be nothing but a shade, of no use to Dis Pater, and the world would die at her mother’s hand.

Very well. That gave her a limit.

In the end, she chose six. They were heady and potent, and she felt them working on her insides, their nature flowing through her veins and changing the air in her lungs and seeping into her spine, her bones, her brain. She closed her eyes even as they clouded, and when she reopened them, six seeds now a part of her, she saw the world slightly differently. She looked at her hands, and saw that her skin had become more pale — not wan, but almost like she had become harder. Like marble. The marble of a tombstone or memorial, or a statue raised to remember.

“I’m cold,” she said, in a voice filled with whispers. “Fetch me some robes.”

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said, and Prosperina could hear adoration in her assistant’s voice. In this moment, Hecate would be her friend forevermore, and it is said that devotion lasts to this very day, in this very modern world.

The robes were comfortable and warm. And wearing them, Prosperina’s transformation seemed complete. She had been lovely before. She was beautiful now. Regal. And her eyes glittered, reflecting things only she could see.

“I am ready, Diaktoros,” she said to the messenger. “Let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in midtown.”

And the messenger led her to the Acura he’d parked in one of the upper garages, and the two drove up, into the light. And Prosperina smiled as she looked at her city — her beloved, beloved city — because she knew that she would be back.

“–has happened to her!” Mother’s voice was shrill, and she slammed her hand on an end table as she shouted.

The surgeon of the Gods was a good looking man, with a warm smile and demeanor that made him something of a playboy. It was hardly his only job — he was a musician on the side and also had something to do with the sun not going out. It’s complicated. But right at the moment he was there as a doctor, and he wore the white coat to prove it. “She ate some of the food of the dead,” he said, smoothly. “It’s a part of her nature now.”

“So she’s half dead?” Mother demanded.

“No. She’s not any dead,” the doctor said, soothingly. “But her nature has changed. She is now balanced between the upper and under worlds, perfectly. In order to survive, she will need to spend equal time in both places. Otherwise, she will weaken and she will die.”

“Fix it!”

“I can’t.”

“That wasn’t a request!”

“And that wasn’t a refusal,” the doctor said. “I’m not saying I won’t heal her. I’m saying I can’t heal her. Her nature has changed. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to be done for it.”

The King of the Gods looked at the two, then walked over to Prosperina. Dis Pater stood nearby. He wore a slight smile, though Prosperina had seen pain in his eyes when the Lord of Hades had realized what she had done. Well, as much as she loved Dis, she hadn’t done this for him. “Hello, daughter,” he said, quietly.

“Hello, father,” she answered. Her voice was rich. Cultured. Maturity was in her bearing now. “You haven’t called me daughter for a long time.”

He chuckled. “Well, you know. When your children number into three digits–”

“Three digits,” his wife snorted. She was not a fan of his freewheeling ways. “Try four.”

“I understand, father,” Prosperina said. She smiled a small smile. “You’re not happy with me.”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not. Why?”

“Because–”

“Why? Why?” Mother’s storm had been turned towards the pair now. “I’ll tell you why! It was him!” She stabbed a finger at Dis Pater. “He couldn’t get what he wanted, so he poisoned her!”

“It wasn’t poison, mother,” Prosperina said, with a slight smile. “It is just… a different kind of nourishment.”

“Besides. You know I’m innocent,” Dis Pater said. He seemed… amused. Almost distant. “I was up here, with you.”

“You planned it! You…” she whirled, a finger stabbing at the messenger. “And you! Did you see her do this?”

“Yes, Lady,” the messenger said. He was enjoying this. “I and the Lady Hecate were on hand when your daughter chose–”

“You tricked her,” Mother hissed. “Do you hear me! You tricked her! This monster kidnaps her — rapes her–”

“Mother, stop this. We haven’t been intimate. We won’t until we go back. After the wedding.”

“The what?”

“Oh yes,” Prosperina said, rising. “He courted me. I accepted. We are to be wed. And if you keep this up I won’t invite you.”

“This is unacceptable! This is all unacceptable! If it is not resolved, then there shall be no break, no relief, no crops or food or life for–”

“Oh shut up,” the King snapped. “I’m sick of this childishness.”

Mother was shocked into silence.

“You demanded we find her. We found her. You demanded she be returned. She’s been returned. We’ve done everything you asked. Now you’re demanding what — that we undo time? That we change what is to something else? Get it through your thick head — there is no going back from this. And if you withhold your blessings from the world now, I swear by the River Styx and by the blade I slew my father with you will come to a reckoning for every life lost! Do you hear me?”

Mother stared at him. “He–” she started.

“Dis Pater complied with your wishes. He is not culpable now.” The King turned to the doctor. “What does this mean?”

“The Lady Prosperina must spend half her time in the Underworld, from this point forward. She shall spend half of each year in that darkness, and half in the light. Otherwise, she cannot endure.”

“Perhaps I shall alternate weeks,” Prosperina said. “That should keep everyone happy, I should think. It will give me a chance to get my work done–”

“No,” Mother snapped. “I swore an oath you all heard. Every minute my daughter was in the Underworld would be a minute my blessing was withdrawn from the Earth. I could not break that oath now if I wanted to! I will not break that oath now! She has been abused and I will see justice!”

“She has been abused?” Dis Pater asked. “Or you have? It’s hard to be thwarted, isn’t it?”

“You think you’re so clever,” the goddess snapped. “I will spread the world. I will tell all who can hear what has been done. This crime will echo through the ages — this kidnap, this rape of my daughter shall become a part of the enduring legacy of the ages! And the trick — the hideous trick you and this Hecate and this thief have done–”

“Fine, mother,” Prosperina said, rising smoothly. Her robes added dignity to her. Her movements were graceful. And as she approached her mother, all in the room could see she hadn’t just changed in nature. Where she had seemed girlish, even after decades, she was now a woman. All the more beautiful. And as strong as her mother, and able to look at her on eye level.

“Prossey,” Mother half-whispered.

“If you are going to curse the Earth every time I’m away, then clearly we must plan for it. I will spend half the year in the Underworld. There is no choice about that, and the sooner you accept that the less embarrassing this will be for everyone.” She looked her mother in the eye. “I will leave after the Harvest. So all of humanity must learn to prepare — to plant more in the spring, tend better in the summer, and then harvest well, because as I leave your curse will take the fields and plants. The trees will sleep, their leaves shriveling and falling. The land will go barren, and ice and snow will fall. And then in the spring, not long before the planting you have always insisted I help with, I will return and so too can your blessings return. And I shall remain until the harvest comes once more. Will that satisfy you? Or must the world die and you be outcast before you accept that sometimes you don’t get what you want?”

Her mother looked at her daughter — at the woman before her. “You are my daughter,” she whispered.

“Yes. But I am also the Queen of the Underworld, given equal rank to the man who will be my husband, and I will brook no more disrespect.”

Mother’s chin raised up. “I will tell everyone what has happened.”

“Tell them whatever you like, Mother. It won’t matter in the Underworld.”

She looked her eldest daughter in the eye. And finally, for the first time in Prosperina’s memory — indeed, for the first time in any of their memories — she looked down, and turned away. “Fine,” she said. “Half the year above, half the year below. The Harvest shall become autumn in the wake of your passing, and then winter will descend. And spring will only return when you do.”

Prosperina nodded. “Very good. Now. I am back, so I expect spring and the planting can begin. Yes?”

Mother looked back. “My blessing is restored to the world,” she said, sadly. “For this year, anyhow. But it will fade as you do.” She snorted. “I should have let you have Adonis.”

Prosperina smiled. “I’m happy enough that you didn’t. I believe we have taken up enough of these good peoples’ time. Dis Pater, may I see you out?”

“Of course, my dear.” And he took Prosperina’s robed arm, and they stepped out of the room.

“We’re getting married?” Dis asked, as they went out of earshot.

“Of course,” Prosperina said, half-smiling.

“Shouldn’t we, you know, have had a proposal or something?”

“We did.” She nodded towards a building they had gotten high on the roof of, what seemed a lifetime before. “You asked me if I loved you enough to marry you. I said yes. I asked if you loved me. You said yes. Now I’m calling in that debt.”

“Semantically, that wasn’t a contract. Just a question.”

“Semantically, your people like me more than they like you. Do you really want to piss me off?”

“No.” And they kissed.

And this is where the story ends, more or less. As she threatened, the Lady Harvester spread the tale far and wide — the tale of a Lord of the Underworld who kidnapped and raped her pure daughter, carrying her down into the underworld. The story of how during that time, her daughter, the Kore, the Maiden, refused all food and drink until the Gods forced her return, but the canny and lustful Lord of Death tricked her — with the help, some say, of Hermes, and others say of Hecate — into eating some seeds of a pomegranate. Now, her daughter was the Queen of the Underworld, and half her life was spent in darkness, but the Lady Harvester grieved so during those times that the world itself became cold and barren, until her daughter was once more returned to the light.

That may seem unfair. But these things aren’t always fair, and as we have said before, everyone must compromise. Neither Prosperina nor Dis Pater overly suffered by the popular version of the story. When heroes attempted to ‘free’ Prosperina, she was more than happy to trick them and punish them for their hubris.

And yes, Prosperina was forced back up into the overworld every six months, but during those times she found herself content. The planting was no big deal — it never was, since her Mother had given her the duty as make-work. And she could continue to do her work for the Underworld even in the sunlight, working through couriers and dispatches. Dis Pater visited often, and the rest of the time Prosperina was accorded the respect of a Queen of the Underworld, an equal to her husband and partner. She went robed at all times now, for she was often cold, but her beauty was only magnified by her position and her maturity.

Over the centuries, she and her mother reconciled, of course. And eventually her mother grew content with her son in law as well. The curse remains, of course. As the Harvester herself said, such curses do not end just because we want them to.

But none of this changes the excitement — the hint of girlishness still existing — that Prosperina feels when the harvest draws to a close for another year. For she knows that after six long months of exile, she gets to return to her beloved city, to look at its beauty, to see the shades who have come to adore her, to sit upon her basalt throne, twin to her husband’s, and to once again know she is where she most wants to be.

So when the autumn comes and the air becomes crisp, and we sip cider and watch for the first snows… take a moment and consider Prosperina. As we get the coldest and most brutal parts of the winter, know that Prosperina is at her happiest, and know that she will give up her contentment come the spring so that we all might be fed for another year. And as I write this, having seen the first winter storm of the year hit my town, I raise my mug of something warm and feel joy for the woman who has gone home, and I invite you to do the same.

Oh, if you want to know why the Southern Hemisphere’s winter comes during our Summer? That’s simple. It’s the Coriolis effect. Everyone knows that. Hush now. Daddy needs his medicine.

Today’s myth comes to us from “zeruslord” (who, I am given to understand, is Lord of Zerus, and there is no doubt one does not want to be on the bad side of the Lord of Zerus, so you’ll understand if I answer the request, I trust. Mythologists have to err on the side of caution where Locii are involved). And zeruslord asks:

why do humans have cities and suburbs? I’m mostly talking about the outermost suburbs, like how all of New Jersey is a suburb of New York, and people are commuting from Front Royal into DC, and Los Angeles exists at all. Why are people willing to drive for hours to get to their job? why don’t the jobs move out faster?

It is a good question, really. After all, cities were meant to centralize humanity, giving them greater access to work, goods and services. So, why would men, women and families intentionally go farther afield, sacrificing convenience and adding hours to their workday in the form of “the commute?” Why would they restrict their potential mass transit options to what is in their suburb (or to their car), despite the price of gasoline and maintenance and the environmental impact and all the rest? What, in the end, is the deal?

Well, you probably shouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s all thanks to a jurisdictional dispute. So let’s leap right into it, shall we?

*** *** *** ***

We have already shown that there are half-gods who walk the Earth and the realms beyond it. Where there is a concept, there is often some being who represents that concept. We’ve met some of those folks in the past, of course. The Queen of the Baristas. The Viscountess of the Northwesterlies. The Manager of the Economy. Folks like that.

What may or may not be apparent is the innate hierarchy these half-gods — or Locii, as we have taken to calling them — exist in. Some concepts are naturally subordinate to other concepts, and it follows that there would be some authority designed to smooth things out. The Pub Sovereign can’t very well go on without the Master Brewer’s blessing, since a pub without beer is, in the end, a lunch counter. The Master Brewer, on the other hand, must answer to the appropriate Locii of yeast, grains, hops and the like, but truly works for the Aqueous Incarnate. After all, you can substitute lots of stuff and still call something ‘beer’ (or if not beer, some other brew), but take water out of the equation and you’re pretty well stuck. And, when the Master Brewer needs the good graces of the Preceptor of Yeast, he’s competing with the Dude What Makes The Bread among others, and there can be arguments between them — but since you need water for bread as well, the Aqueous Incarnate can resolve differences and set regulations when it is necessary to keep everyone happy, or at least quiet.

So it was with human habitation. We know that many cities have Locii of their own — we have met the Duchess of Los Angeles, for example. Naturally, the various Lords, Ladies and the like who hold dominion over the individual cities must themselves work with and under the City Planner, a position responsible for the development of urban culture through the ages.

But, that’s only one side of the City Planner’s dominion. There are common elements to all cities (and indeed to all human habitation) the City Planner has to coordinate. The Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac, the Imperator of Sidewalks, the Street Lamp Guru and the like all have to report in too, because their components all come together to form cities as we know them. And when you need different Locii to work together, you eventually get into arguments. Sometimes for the highest and most noble reasons, mind.

And sometimes… well, not so much.

Benjamin walked into the back of the co-op. Up front, people were shopping for food. The prices were better than a lot of the supermarkets though of course they had to pay a membership fee. There was a lot of organic produce, a lot of hemp based soaps — stuff like that.

Benjamin looked like he fit in pretty well. Green tee shirt, flannel over it. Old worn jeans. Chuck Taylors. Short hair, slight sideburns. He looked almost angular as he walked. He was holding a paper slip in his hand — one torn off a flyer. It said to meet at the back of the store.

Sitting at a table in the back was an old woman. Heavyset and black, hair white. She was playing solitaire. Sitting next to her….

Benjamin stopped. He had no idea what that damn thing was. It was small — maybe eighteen inches. It had a humanoid body, but its head was disproportionate. It looked almost like a puppet — wood with fur or brown moss growing out of it, but it was… it looked alive. With a high, reedy voice he was making a running commentary. “–ust saying. The two goes on the ace of spades, then the three of spades from that column, you move the three of clubs up–”

“I know how to play solitaire,” she snapped. “I like to keep my cards in play. You play them too soon, you cut your options down.”

“Don’t play them at all, and the game never ends,” the little creature said, and looked up at Benjamin. “On the other hand, sometimes endings show up on you.”

“Uh, hi,” Benjamin said. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Um, I’m… is this where the volunteer job is?”

“From the flyers?” the woman asked. “Serve your community and your community will serve you?”

“That’s the one.”

“You bet, sunshine. Congratulations. You’re Neighborhood Coordinator.”

Benjamin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m tired, son. I’m tired and I want to retire. You’re the one who answered the flyer, so you get the job.” She smiled a bit. “You’ll like it, most days. Some days you won’t, but most days you will.”

Benjamin blinked again. “Um… I understood this was some kind of volunteer thing?”

“It’s the ultimate volunteer job, son.”

“Yeah, but…” Benjamin sighed. “Look, I’ll come clean. I thought there’d be a lot of people here. I’m new around here, and I thought this would be a way to, you know… meet people.”

“You thought you’d meet cute girls who wore oval glasses and smelled like patchouli,” the little creature said.

Benjamin flushed. “Well–”

“You’ll meet women,” the old woman said. “Oh yeah. But it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here, and you got the job now, son. Try not to screw it up too much.” She looked down at her cards. “Hm.” She moved the last six down onto the seven of hearts, letting her drop the five of diamonds and turn over the last card. She nodded, and began moving cards up onto the four aces.

“Look, what job? You said–”

“You’re the Neighborhood Coordinator,” the small creature said. “The spirit of the neighborhood is reborn in you. You are the most local manifestation of community, of people getting to know those around them, take pride in their home, and lay down roots.” The creature leaned forward. “You can feel it, can’t you? Feel your heart pumping it. Feel the home town spirit, the sense of the place where where young couples raise children and pensioners know the local greengrocer and everyone knows Mister Tyler the Phys Ed teacher was gay and no one cares because hey, they know Mister Tyler.” The creature smiled a toothy smile. “Mister Tyler is a neighbor.”

Benjamin opened his mouth to speak… but then he could feel it. Feel the thudding of his heart in his chest. Feel the thrum of community centers and neighborhood watches and midnight basketball and street gangs alike flooding through his veins. He could feel his perspective open, feel the sense of every street name, every mass transit schedule, every old tarmac basketball court and every crumbling tenement shiver through his being. Every locus is different. Some are immortal and eternal, but others pass their titles on, through many different means and methods. Benjamin could feel his individual cells expand and explode, his body shifting and altering within as he went from mortal to half-god — a lens for the very world, filtering the vision of the world through the ineffable concept of neighborhood.

Benjamin rubbed his brow. He was sweating. His eyes seemed to ache. “I… I never… never imagined….”

“I know,” the creature said. “I know. It’s all right, Benjamin. Take your time. Breathe it in.”

He looked around, seeing the co-op so differently now. He understood how each person fit into this place — how each shopper and each volunteer connected to all the others. The outsider who rarely spoke to anyone but who left money in every Salvation Army can at Christmas. The outgoing and enthusiastic organizer of Little League at the park who reined in his racism and forced himself to let even the little brown kids play. The pretty girl whose outer disdain masked a deep compassion she didn’t dare let out, lest her heart be broken by those around her again. These were the people in the Neighborhood — the people that you meet each day. They were Benjamin’s people now.

He was the Neighborhood Coordinator.

“This is amazing,” he murmured. “Miss — was it like this for you too?” he asked, turning–

The old woman’s hand was on the final king — the king of spaces, placed on the last pile. And anyone could see she was dead. Her skin even seemed to be sagging, her body shrinking in on itself. Becoming dust.

Benjamin’s eyes grew wide. “What…?”

The creature turned, and gasped. “Noa,” he murmured. And he knelt on the table by her game and cried.

Benjamin looked around. A woman was dead and falling into dust, and a wooden muppet of some sort was crying his grief out in the process, but….

“Why hasn’t anyone noticed?” he murmured.

“They can’t see us,” the creature said, getting his sobs under control. “Your nature prevents it. This is your business, not theirs. Even though they are your business.”

“What happened to her?” Benjamin asked softly.

“Noa retired,” the creature said simply. “She chose this. I didn’t… I guess this is what it looks like.”

“So… this is going to happen to me someday, too?”

The creature stood. Only a few wisps of dust and the card game remained, now. “Yes,” he said simply. “But only when you’re ready for it.”

Benjamin nodded. “Who… and what… are you?”

“I’m a Brownie,” the creature said. “A neighborhood spirit, who helps keep things running behind the scenes. I work for you. You couldn’t pronounce my name, but Noa called me Matthew.”

Benjamin nodded. “You’ll… have to help me get used to this,” Benjamin said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at the card game once more. “Yes, I’ll help you,” he said softly. “She would have wanted that.” He turned. “Come on. We have business in Saint Louis.”

“Saint Louis?” Benjamin blinked. “I’m going to Saint Louis?”

“Today you are. For just this part of today. I’ll get the clipboard. There’s a lot to do.”

“Okay — but I have to be back at Starbucks tomorrow for seven. I’m opening–”

Matthew looked at Benjamin for a long moment.

“I don’t work at Starbucks any more, do I?”

“Someone else will push the buttons to make the lattes,” Matthew said. “Come on. We might as well get started.”

Benjamin looked back at where Noa had retired. It was just a card table and a chair now, with a completed solitaire game. No dust, no sign there had ever been anyone sitting there. “Okay,” he said. He turned to follow the Brownie, who had hopped down and was darting through the co-op’s aisles.

At the door, he looked back. There were three neighborhood kids at the table, apparently ready to play cards. Benjamin felt his heart lurch as they scooped up Noa’s last game and began to shuffle, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s all right,” Matthew said, sadly. “The cards are there so people can play. It’s neighborly.”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said. “Yeah.” They stepped out front.

And Benjamin froze.

Sitting there, in front of the co-op, was a giant red metal trolley car — like from San Francisco, or any number of cities from the turn of the century.

Matthew bounded up onto it, then looked back. “Come on,” he said. “You’re not going to walk to Saint Louis, are you?”

“No,” Benjamin said. “No, I’m not.” He stepped up onto the ramp.

“Token please,” the driver said quietly.

“I–” Benjamin said, startled.

“Check your pocket,” Matthew said, quietly.

Benjamin blinked, and pulled out a flat brass token.

The driver nodded to a dispenser, and Benjamin put it in with a clatter.

“Thank you, sir,” the driver said. “You’re the new Neighborhood Coordinator, then?”

“I… yes. That’s right,” he said.

The driver nodded. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, though he was somber.

“You’re going to miss Noa?”

“A lot of people are going to miss Noa, sir,” the driver said. “Please take a seat, sir. I need to get going. I have a schedule.”

Benjamin nodded, stepping back. Many seats were taken up — there were fairies and dryads cradling bonsai trees. A minotaur was reading the Wall Street Journal. And there were several humans sitting, looking out at the neighborhood with slightly haunted looks. Benjamin recognized one of them from the grocery store he usually shopped at.

“What’s their story?” he asked Matthew as he slid next to the Brownie. He could more or less accept the mythological creatures on the Trolley, but the haunted men and women were disturbing.

“We take a run through Psychopomp Station,” Matthew said, as if it explained everything. “The Trolleys help cover those neighborhoods without other mass transit options.”

“Oh. So… this isn’t my Trolley?”

“Yes it is,” Matthew said. “But there’s no need to be selfish about it.”

“What’s Psychopomp Station?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He handed over a clipboard. “We have rather a lot to do today, sir. And we should really get to it.”

And so they did. And within a couple of weeks, Benjamin found himself settling into the routine nicely. It was pleasant, being the Locus of Neighborhoods. There was plenty of work, but there was always a sense it would actually be helpful to people — and sure, he sometimes had to manage so-called ‘bad’ neighborhoods too, and that was unpleasant, but he figured out early that you needed to have a contrast or people would take the good they had for granted. Besides, a bad neighborhood gave the people who lived there a chance to meet a new potential, to redeem and rebuild, and the cycle would continue anew.

And he had to admit, it was a pretty cool life. He got up in the morning, made a thermos of coffee, stepped outside his brownstone and the trolley was waiting for him. He swung up inside, nodded to Fred in the cockpit, respectfully acknowledged the men and women on their way to Psychopomp station, said his hellos to the mythological regulars, listened to the bell ring as he sat down, and read the paper while the Trolley pulled out and brought Benjamin within a few blocks of whatever neighborhood in the world he was working in that given day. That was pretty sweet, any way you looked at it.

It was on a bright spring day, stepping off the trolley a few streets down from Greenwich Village, that Benjamin accepted the clipboard from Matthew. “What’s the good word?” he asked.

“Galoshes,” Matthew said.

Benjamin blinked. “Excuse me?”

Matthew shrugged — an adorable move on his tiny little brownie body. “It’s an awfully good word.”

“I suppose so. What are we doing today?”

“The usual.” The Brownie artfully darted around trash cans put out for collection. No one seemed to notice the daemon as he walked through the streets, but then Brownies are rather skilled at not being noticed. “A few meetings. We need to inspect a few facilities. Perhaps have a conversation with the Neighborhood Spirit. Oh, and the City Planner is having an informal get together tonight. You should probably plan on showering and wearing something nice.”

“Why should I care what the New York City city planner does? I mean, is this an exceptionally good party or something?”

Matthew chuckled. “Not Amanda Burden’s office. No–”

“Wait. New York City’s city planner is named Amanda Burden?”

Matthew sighed. “Yes. Please work your way through the jokes quickly, sir. This is rather important.”

“What? Some party?”

“The City Planner’s party, sir.” Matthew stopped, looking at him. “You understand how important you are sir? Important and significant to the neighborhoods of the world, to the spirits of those neighborhoods, to the humans who need to rally and connect with those spirits? And to the world?”

Benjamin frowned. “I’ve sort of had to.”

“The City Planner is responsible for all the cities of the world in the same way. And the neighborhoods of those cities are her purview. She is one of the most powerful Locii the World has ever seen, sir. And while your influence spreads into all human habitation, not just cities, the greatest concentration of your neighborhoods can be found there.”

“So… this is a political thing?”

“To a degree. And a networking opportunity. There are a lot of Locii whose aspects are related to yours. A solid working relationship can only help everyone.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“It sounds kind of stiff.”

“Perhaps, sir. On the other hand, it’s entirely possible there will be one or two women there. Maybe even wearing oval glasses and smelling like patchouli.”

“You’re never going to cut me any slack about that, are you?”

“It seems unlikely, sir.”

Benjamin laughed. “All right. Have someone get appropriate clothes cleaned. Take them to that dry cleaner’s out in Seattle. You know the one?”

“Aubrey’s on Fifteenth, sir?”

“That’s the one.”

“Very good, sir. Do we have time to get a bagel before we begin today?”

“God, I hope so.”

The City Planner currently went by the name Isabella Hima, and her party was trendy and upscale, with sophisticates and piano music. Benjamin had a black silk shirt and jacket over slacks, and wondered if he was underdressed. He drank mixed drinks made with Ketel One and made pleasant noises to people like the Underlord of Sewage Treatment and the Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac, and mostly felt like he was trapped in perdition.

He sat at the bar, a cold blue neon light reflecting off his face as he ordered a drink.

“These things are always so dry, aren’t they?”

The voice was pleasant and warm, and Benjamin found himself smiling before he even turned.

Her eyes were hazel. And she was indeed wearing glasses — almost more octagonal than oval, but he could make allowances. She wore tie dyed silk as a blouse and light capri pants, and her hair was almost alive around her face.

“Wow,” Benjamin said, blinking.

She giggled. “That’s hopeful.”

“Or really pathetic.” He chuckled. “Wow. I’m Benjamin.”

“Benjamin? I don’t think we’ve met?”

“I’m pretty new. I’m the Neighborhood Coordinator.”

“Oh! Of course. Noa retired, didn’t she. I’ll miss her.” She shook her head, her hair cascading. “It must be hard to… I dunno. End. I’m glad I’m eternal.”

“I’ll bet.” Benjamin chuckled. How could someone so… so… perfect not want to be eternal to boot. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

She giggled again. “Probably because I didn’t tell you. I’m the Djinni of the Block. Call me Jen.”

They shook hands. “Wow,” he said. “We really should be working together.”

“Working together?” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Now now,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way,” though of course he did. “I mean neighborhoods. In urban centers, the neighborhood is practically synonymous with the block — you have stores and places to live and schools and even parks all within that one little subdivision. It’s like every block is a single cell of the whole city,” he gestured with his hands, “but it has the whole city in microcosm.”

Jen giggled. “You used to smoke a lot of marijuana, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did major in Philosophy.”

“Same thing. We should talk.”

“We should.” He paused. “What’s that scent?”

“Do you like it? It’s a BPAL — Namaste. I love this perfume. It’s like, sandalwood and jasmine and cedarwood and patchouli.”

“Close enough,” Benjamin said, grinning.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. C’mon. Let’s go get Chinese.”

The phone rang the next morning. Benjamin got it on the fourth ring. “Yeah?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I don’t mean to be a pest but the Trolley’s been waiting rather overly long and they’re getting concerned about their schedule.”

“Oh. Mrph. I overslept?”

“Astutely observed, sir.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Y’know what? We’re taking this as a sick day, Matthew.”

There was a pause. “A sick day, sir?”

“That’s right. I’m not really feeling up to it today. Let Fred know he can move on. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t aware you could get sick, sir.”

“Are you saying I can’t take a sick day if I want, Matthew?”

“Of course not, sir. I wouldn’t presume to say that.”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t. Because… um….”

“Because you’re the Neighborhood Coordinator, sir?”

“Exactly. So… um….”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, sir?”

“That’s right. You will! Good bye, Matthew.”

“Good bye sir. Feel better.”

“Oh, I will.” Benjamin hung up.

Jen turned over. “That sounded funny,” she said, stretching. She wore a bedsheet particularly well.

“That was Matthew. He’s kind of my majordomo. He’s a Brownie.”

“Oh yeah — I met him once. I was working with Noa on some project. Midnight basketball or some shit.”

“Heh. You used to do stuff with Noa?”

“Well, not a lot.” She reached out, patting her hand on the nightstand next to her, finding her glasses and putting them on. “Really, I felt like we should do more than we did. I mean, in urban centers, the block is the heart of the neighborhood.”

“You know, I totally agree,” Benjamin said. “And you’re right. Your office and mine — we should totally work together.”

“Yeah,” Jen said, smiling more. “I think that’d be great. I think you and I — we could totally redefine the community within the city.”

“Totally. You want breakfast?”

“Cook me eggs, smart guy.”

It was nine weeks later that Matthew tried to talk Benjamin out of proposing. “You just met this girl,” he said. “And it’s not like you really know her.”

“Hey, I know her,” Benjamin said. “How can you say I don’t know her?”

“Sir, she’s thousands of years old. She rose up out of the concept of buildings bisected by streets. She is eternal. You don’t know her because you don’t begin to have her frame of reference.”

“I know her. She’s a part of my neighborhood! I know the people in my neighborhood!”

“Please don’t start singing, sir.” The Brownie rubbed his eyes. “And she’s not a part of your neighborhood. The Locii have a professional courtesy between them. Even if they should fall within each others’ aspects, by convention they do not.”

“Look, I’ve never felt like this before, Matthew. I’d like you to be happy for me.”

“I feel positively giddy that you’re having fun and improving your sex life, sir,” Matthew said dryly. “But as it works out, I rather like you and I want to be sure you understand what you’re getting into. There’s no need to rush, you know. She’s immortal and you’ve got at least a few centuries in you.”

Benjamin sighed. “Look, I’m not a child.”

“You’re not a human, sir. You’re a Locus. I’m not sure you’ve quite gotten your brain around that fact yet.”

“I thought I was doing a pretty good job.”

“You are, sir. And your work with Miss Jen has been excellent. You’ve had block parties, you’ve organized a real convergence of the neighborhood and the block in any number of cities. I respect that.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your respect,” Benjamin snapped. “You work for me, not the other way around.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I want to propose tonight, I will. And you’re going to do whatever I need you to do to make this a superior night for both me and Jen, aren’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want anything to go wrong, tonight. It’s going to be perfect. Do you hear me?”

“Deaf men can hear you, sir.”

“Damn straight.” He stormed out the door. “Get to work.”

Seven hours later, Benjamin was storming again. But not exactly the same way. “You unmitigated whore!”

Jen frowned. “What the Hell does that even mean?” she asked.

Benjamin slapped the table. “Don’t change the subject!”

“No, I want to talk about this. What is an ‘unmitigated’ whore? What is a mitigated whore? Is that a whore who lives in Nevada? Or one who whores in mitigating circumstances.”

“Jesus Christ, Jen–”

“And let’s stop and examine the ‘whore’ part of this.” The Djinn was angry now, her hair whipping around her head like it was caught in a cyclone. “When did it become okay to equate the sex trade with women acting uppity, anyway?”

“Jesus — if you’re not going to talk about this–”

“You’re not talking,” Jen snapped. “You’re shouting. And over nothing!”

“Nothing? Nothing? The Marquis of the Bridge was all over you. His hand was on your ass while you were introducing me to him!”

“Of course it was! I’ve known him for a thousand years! We’ve been married twice! Just because he’s got a sense of familiarity–”

“Familiarity? Familiarity? What would you consider intimate?”

“Jesus, it’s not like I was sleeping with him, Benjamin.”

“Yet.”

Jen’s eyes flared. “That’s right. ‘Yet.’”

Benjamin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve been around the block a few million times, Benjamin! I’m thousands of years old! So have a lot of Locii! And sometimes we sleep together! Or we sleep with mortals! It breaks up the monotony of eternity a little! It feels good and it helps remind us we’re not the only half-gods in the universe! And since you’re one of the half-gods I’ve slept with, I’d expect you to appreciate that fact!”

“I thought we were building something together!”

“We are! We have a great working relationship! We have a lot of fun! And believe it or not, I haven’t had sex with anyone else since our first night together!”

“But you reserve the right to?”

“Jesus Christ — we’re not getting married, Benjamin!”

“Who says we’re not?”

Jen stared. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Benjamin sputtered. “What? You’re saying you–”

“We’ve known each other — what, five minutes? Talk to me in three or four years — a decade would be better!”

“We’re perfect together! Our aspects match up perfectly, our–”

“So perfect you’re calling me a whore for letting a man I have been married to touch my butt instead of being uptight about it?”

“That’s different! You’re with me now!”

“Yeah? About that? I think maybe not.” Jen spun and stormed out of the room.

Benjamin stared at her, then turned and threw a glass against the wall. He breathed hard for a couple of moments, then pulled out his cell phone, pushing the autodial for Matthew.

“Hello, sir. Shall I start the band playing?”

“No. You wanna go have eight or nine drinks with me?”

“Trouble, sir?”

“Oh yeah. You don’t have to go drinking if you don’t–”

“I trust you’re buying, sir?”

“Oh yeah.”

It took less than fifteen minutes to meet up, in the bar across from the IHOP on State Route Sixteen, in the back roads behind the worlds. It was a popular hangout for Brownies and other urban spirits and daemons. And in this case, a popular place for a Locus to get drunk on well drinks. “I just… I feel like an idiot,” Benjamin said, looking into the bottom of his glass. “You know what the worst thing is?”

“Having a Brownie say he told you so?”

“Worse.” He waved his hand, at least somewhat drunk. “Much worse.”

“What, then?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to go to work, and I’m going to have her stupid blocks thrown in my face over and over again! I mean, for weeks we’ve been building up neighborhoods all around her dumb — who even… I mean… who wants to live their life bounded by four streets? We have a world open to us!”

“It hurts,” Matthew said. “But you’ll get over it, sir.” His voice was soft. “You’ll even begin to understand her with time — understand the difference between your mortal life and your life as a Locus. Understand the ways–”

“You know what? Screw the Djinni of the Block! Screw her to the wall!”

Matthew sighed. “Get it all out, sir. You don’t want to let this affect your work.”

“The Hell I won’t let this affect my work! She used me!”

Matthew blinked. “Sir, there’s no conceivable way she used you.”

“Of course she did! She said she wanted Neighborhoods and the Block to work more closely together! She got what she wanted and she dropped me like… like butter!”

“You’re drunk, sir. And that made no sense.”

“It makes sense to me!”

“No one drops butter, sir.”

“Shut up! She’s not going to get away with this!”

Matthew blinked and looked at his employer. “Sir, I beg you to just drop this quietly.”

“No! Screw her! She wants the — she wants the block to replace the neighborhood! That’s what she wants! Well screw her! Neighborhoods are about something! Blocks are about… geography! No, we’re going to do something.” A light began to burn in the drunk Locus’s eyes. “We’re going to do something fantastic.”

“We… we are, sir?”

“Absolutely. We’re going to reclaim the neighborhood. We’re going to make it what it used to be! And it’s not going to have anything to do with her blocks.”

Matthew slowly looked down. “Of course we are, sir. But sir… do be warned. The actions of the Locii have impact. And even they can’t be certain what those actions will be.”

“Maybe. But I know one thing’s for sure.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Jen is not going to like this.”

Matthew sighed. “That seems certain, sir.”

Unfortunately for everyone involved, when Benjamin got his mind set on a grudge, he got his mind set on it. Now, time is an odd thing to Locii. I can say that he worked his plans over several weeks or even months, and it makes perfect sense from his point of view. But from the point of view of the world… well, history can show that the trends and movements he intended extend back decades through history. The universe has to cover for Locii, after all, lest it all become too obvious. So it’s hard to say how quickly the City Planner called the Neighborhood Coordinator into her office, except to say that enough time had passed that said City Planner? Was pissed.

“Sit down,” Isabella Hima said to Benjamin after he entered.

Benjamin sat. “You called?” he asked.

“Yeah, I called. You’re screwing with my cities, boy, and I want it stopped.”

Benjamin arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play cute with me, child.” Isabella’s eyes flashed, with the sound of distant thunder — the sound a fully loaded semi made when it thundered across a bridge into a city. “People are moving out of the city. They’re citing crime, and danger, and congestion. They’re blaming bad neighborhoods.”

Benjamin nodded. “I know.”

“You know?”

“But you shouldn’t be mad.”

“In what universe shouldn’t I be mad. They’re leaving my cities!”

“Are they?” Benjamin smiled a bit. “They’re moving into the suburbs. Building new communities, bound by lifelines of road and steel into the heart of your cities. They have their neighborhoods they live in, but they work and play and shop in your cities.”

Hima narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you’re doing me a favor?”

Benjamin chuckled. “Of course I am. These ‘bedroom communities?’ They usually end up organizing as cities themselves. Or they’re part of the ‘greater metropolitan areas of their cities. They extend your reach. They extend your influence. Are you going to tell me you’re diminished by this?”

Hima’s eyes remained narrow. “So what do you get out of it?”

“What else? A resurgence of the neighborhood as the basic unit of society.”

“And a lot of people driving around. Commutes of a couple of hours, sometimes….”

Benjamin shrugged. “It’s a price to pay but a small one.”

Hima leaned forward. “And if I told you I was unhappy?”

Benjamin smiled a bit. “I’d feel badly, of course, Madame City Planner. But to be honest, there’s not a lot you could do.” He shrugged. “A city without neighborhoods is a collection of buildings, not a home. You need me. You need my good graces. If you drove all the neighborhoods out of your cities, they’d fall silent, while people would still form towns and villages and communities. The neighborhood would still survive.” He leaned forward. “But this way, you don’t have to be unhappy. The definition of city expands. Urban sprawl still contains the core urban elements. We both win.”

Hima paused a long moment, and then smiled. “True enough,” she said. “All right, Benjamin. We’ll see what this does for a while. But don’t kid yourself. If you became my enemy, your existence would be miserable.”

“Then let’s hope I am never your enemy, ma’am.”

Hima chuckled. “All right. Good day, Benjamin.”

Benjamin stepped out of the office. He felt pretty good. He wasn’t sure how this meeting was going to go, but–

“Are you seriously this petty?”

Benjamin paused.

The Djinni of the Block was standing in the outer office, staring at him.

“Hello, Jen,” he said amiably.

“I’m serious. You were so pissed off because I wasn’t what you expected you decided to drive humanity out of the city neighborhoods and into the suburbs?”

Benjamin shrugged. “I think I’m upholding the honor and responsibility of my office and my aspect the best way I know how.”

“By encouraging chunks of major cities to become demilitarized zones? By remaking humanity into commuter culture? All just to spite me?” She shook her head. “God, you’re so immature.”

“You’re the one who assumes this is all about her.” Benjamin smiled a bit more.

“I don’t assume anything, Benjamin. And you know it.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what this is supposed to accomplish, though. Suburbs still have streets and cross streets. They’re made up of blocks, just like cities are.”

“Yeah, but those blocks lack density.” Benjamin smiled a bit. “One block won’t usually have homes and schools and stores on it. They’re long streets of houses and yards, and a few blocks away there’s the school, and the grocery store is a few blocks in the other direction — and oh hey, there’s the KMart down the way….”

Jen snorted. “Meaning?”

“Meaning your streets and cross streets? They’re just waypoints in the suburbs, Jen. They’re just navigational aids so the pizza guy can find your house.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said. “I’m sure you are.” And she turned and walked out.

Only this time, Benjamin was smiling when she did it.

And I could end the story here, I suppose — it answers the question. Thanks to pettiness and jurisdiction and a newcomer to the world of the Locii the suburbs rose and humanity would drive hours to get to its urban work. But that isn’t quite the end of the story. Because as we’ve said before, every action of the Locii has profound affect upon the world, and when a Locus is stymied, they find another way to make their point. And that’s what eventually leads our Neighborhood Coordinator to one more office — this time, to the Lord of the Road.

“Hey,” the Lord said, shaking Benjamin’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said, “You too.” But the Neighborhood Coordinator didn’t look happy.

“Do you want me to get some coffee? Maybe some soda?”

“No. No thank you.”

“So. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. But we have a problem.”

The Lord frowned. “We do?”

“Yes.” Benjamin sighed. “Neighborhoods are suffering. People aren’t shopping locally. They’re driving to WalMart in another town. Doing one big grocery run every couple of weeks. They’re…” He shrugged. “They’re not coming together. They’re not getting to know their neighbors or going to the community centers together.”

The Lord nodded somberly. “I know. But that doesn’t mean we have a problem. It means you do.”

“Well, yes, but–”

“Look, I feel for you, Coordinator. I really do. But when people began to gravitate out of the cities — but not return to towns — then they created a borderland. And they started living out of their cars. They spend hours in their cars. And they get used to them. They can’t run home for lunch, or down to the local cafe. And the stress of work and the stress of commute means either they stay at home or when they go out, it’s as simple to go out across town as across the street. This is the culture that’s formed around their lives and their livelihoods. This is the nature of a culture that uses transportation as its most basic tool.” He shrugged. “it’s nothing personal, but people like going to the Mall, or WalMart, or the Longhorn. They like going to the big theater with the surround sound and sixteen movies even if it’s a half hour away while the local theater’s five minutes. The world reflects their preferences. And if I benefit, that’s good for me. And if you don’t, I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sure,” Benjamin said, “Well, I had to say my piece, right?”

“Of course. And look — the neighborhood’s hardly dead. There’s still plenty of places where it flourishes. I have every confidence you’ll bring it back in some new form.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Benjamin stood. And paused, seeing a picture on the Lord’s desk.

“Oh, you noticed her?” The Lord smiled. “My girlfriend. She’s amazing. You should meet her sometime.”

“We’ve met,” he said quietly. “I’m surprised you… have things in common, though.”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “Get us off the highway, and everything I do comes back to blocks. Heh — you know what she told me? She said that in the end, the street and its cross street is the ultimate navigational aid. It’s what tells the pizza man where your house is!”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said. “She’s right about that.”

And Benjamin left the office, and went down to the street. He handed his token to Fred, and nodded to those on their way to Psychopomp Station. He said hi to the regulars and he settled into his seat. Maybe it was time to do a big PTA thing — get people in the communities back into schools. Or recycling. Recycling was always big. Maybe start a new ‘keep our community beautiful’ campaign. There were lots of ideas.

And besides, that always brought out volunteers. Maybe cute ones.

But not oval glasses and patchouli. He was so off that. He was more into piercings and musk, now.

The bell rang, and the trolley rolled out. Off to another day, and another neighborhood.

Still, that’s a question we’re missing in the lexicon, so it makes some sense that this week we would in fact answer two questions. And as it turns out, there are three — count them three — questions that directly correlate to one another.

The first of these questions comes from Filipe Cadete, who asks us:

Pigeons. How come those flying disease vectors and overall polluters are fed by thousands of people all over the world?

The answer, of course, is “ninjas.”

But that leads us to a question by long time reader, friend, and Superguy-gadabout-town LurkerWithout, who asks us:

Ninjas. Why the hell them and not one of the other pseudo-religious/mystic cults of killers?

And the answer to that is, as you can imagine, is “Manannán mac Lir,” sea god and psychopomp of Manx mythology.

Oh, this surprises you?

Well, we’ll elaborate on all of this soon enough. Because we still have a third question that was asked, in direct response to LurkerWithout, this time by Joel Wilcox:

In addition to Lurker’s comment: Why pirates vs. ninjas?

See, now we’re getting into details and that means that really, we should just be starting the myth already and not being all stressed out about the whys and wherefores. And that brings us, inexorably, to:

Manannán mac Lir and the Isle of Ninjas.

For those of you who follow these myths, you know we don’t often talk about the myths of old. Well, that’s not true. We talk a lot about nymphs and nereids and eudaemons and kakodaemons and the like. But we don’t talk much at all about Zeus or Thor or Thoth.

There are many reasons for this. Licensing, for example. And questions of libel. One wouldn’t want to write a myth comparing Freya to Ishtar to Aphrodite, for example, because there’s a very real chance you’ll offend one, two or all three of them, and if you can think of something more frightening than offending one to three goddesses, then thank you for reading my blog, Stephen King.

But more pressing a reason is… well, these are the myths of old we’re discussing, and the series is called the mythology of the modern world. It’s not that these Gods don’t all still exist. For the most part they do. But that doesn’t mean they’re still doing the full divine thing. Oh, they still interact with humans. They still give revelations and nudge events for those who know how to ask properly. But they don’t smash continents with their wrath or make grand gestures any more. That sort of thing they license out to television and the movies.

(If you’re wondering why Hera let Hercules: the Legendary Journeys portray her so unflatteringly? The answer involves a lot of zeroes and significant real estate holdings. If you’re going to live forever? Live well. But I digress.)

One god who remains an exception to this rule is the aforementioned Manannán mac Lir. In antiquity, he was known as a sea god, a god of mystery, a psychopomp who directed the dead to their destination… and as the first ruler and continuing presence upon the Isle of Man. Which is itself an interesting place, as it is at the absolute center of the British Isles, with almost the same distance between it and Northern Ireland, Scotland and England. This is mac Lir’s domain and ancestral home, and to this day the Manx people still pay mac Lir a ritual rent each year, and the Triskelion — referring to the mac Lir’s defense of his lands by becoming a huge three legged wheel of destruction — remains one of the core symbols of the island.

However, the ‘Isle’ of Man is in fact more than one island, with the Calf of Man, Fort Island, Kitterland, Chicken’s Rock, St. Patrick’s Isle, Conister Rock (the legendary Tower of Refuge) and others known. So too was it known that mac Lir himself held sway over more islands than just the Isle of Man. As psychopomp, mac Lir would ferry his charges to the Isle of the Dead, where he continues to have property, as an example. The Isle of Storms was his, as was the Isle of the Mists. And mac Lir is the Lord of the Isle of the Mists Between The Worlds, which is not to be confused with the Isle of Mists itself. Which means that as one passes between the realms, the outer world, the ‘real’ world, and the backstage areas and back routes of the world we like so much, one is passing through Manannán mac Lir’s territory.

The thing is, mac Lir has islands that don’t get a lot of press. After all, the Isle of Man is one thing, and the Isle of Storms or the Isle of the Dead is quite another… and compared to those, the Isle of Fruit Poptart Processing just seems banal. Sure, mac Lir himself enjoys the Isle of Naturally Occuring Hot Springs as much as the next person, but the Isle of Drizzle is at best an unproductive tourist spot in the Backworlds. And then, there are the Islands he commands which have to remain secret, for interests of security.

Which is where the Isle of Ninjas comes in.

I know you don’t consider Ninjas Celtic, Dr. McNinja aside. That should have been your first clue — obviously, so secretive and mystical a society wouldn’t allow its true origins to be even remotely public. At the same time, they needed to effectively root themselves in the so-called real world, which meant they needed a place to be ‘from.’ So, back in the fourteenth century, with mac Lir’s blessing, they made their way through the backways of the world and began to build a reputation in Japan. But in the process, they first were trained in many ancient arts of misdirection and assassination by the mac Lir, his wife Fand, and many other figures in myth and legend. He taught them the secrets of using the mists to conceal themselves — best known in the movies as tossing down a ‘smoke’ bomb and vanishing in its wake. He taught them the ways of misdirecting and passing through scenes without being seen. He taught one or two of them to become a three legged wheel, but that doesn’t make for good cinema.

And he taught them espionage and infiltration, which brings us back to mac Lir and the world. You see, most divinities were scaling their activities back over time. One can make references to the rise of Christianity and other such religions, or secularism and the Enlightenment, and I’m not going to debate why they did what they did. What, you think I want Apollo mad at me? Skin cancer’s no joke. But while this was going on, mac Lir was, quietly, expanding his spheres of influence. And with the rise of modern culture, of cities and steam (and what is steam if not the harnessing of the sea to do work), of urban culture and of espresso (and what is espresso if not the harnessing of steam to become awesome?), Manannán mac Lir has quietly made his operation global.

What his goals are and, indeed, what he is doing is beyond the scope of this essay. It is known he has something to do with the ferrying of the dead, though it is a mistake to think that Psychopomp station and the light rail lines belong to him. Though he does possess a fare card that seems to work on any mass transit system on Earth, and one of the fastest ways he can travel the globe is through judicious transfers. It is known that the boundaries between the real world and the backstage of the world — the back routes and byways — are somehow connected to the Isle of the Mists Between the Worlds, which means that as people duck between the two worlds, somehow there are tolls being levied by the mac Lir.

Whatever Manannán mac Lir is doing — it’s big. And the ninjas of the Isle of Ninjas are at the heart of it. Wherever humanity gathers, the ninjas are there, watching and learning and preparing to strike at their master’s command.

However, the core of Ninjitsu — the very essence of being of this ancient order — is being unnoticed and unseen. Which means actually running around all the cities of Earth in black wrap pants and hoods is actually not an effective means of concealing your activities. But once again, the public face of the ninja is a dodge. A hint, but nothing more. Because one of the darkest, most complete arts of the ninja is transformation, and that is at best hinted at in the legends.

It is, of course, a rather common element of the legends of the Celts. And indeed, the art of transformation was not originally mac Lir’s to teach. That belonged to his beautiful bride — Fand, Queen of Fairiekind, Tears of the Sea and Pearl of Beauty. Fand is well known in the myths and legends of the Celts and Irish as having the power to take on the form of sea birds in flight, and this informed her training of ma Lir’s ninjas. However, sea birds only really work as a disguise in coastal societies like the Isle of Man, Ireland or the like themselves. In order to truly disguise the invisible warriors, spies and assassins, they needed to find another form. One that would be accepted wherever man congregated. And in true form, the ninjas would hide among the peasantry, even as they did in Japan.

The most peasant of birds, known throughout every city and most towns where mankind has settled, is the pigeon. They seem to spread as quickly as civilization, and they are so ubiquitous as to be invisible. Which makes sense, really, since Manannán mac Lir can easily arrange for transportation to any new gathering place or overly large town, and the ninja is nothing if not unnoticed.

Of course, ninjas have pride. And notice ill treatment or violence. And also, fair or not, reward those who act with kindness and respect towards them. And while mankind may not have consciously realized that the pigeons that seem to plague public spaces are actually deadly ninjas, but they did notice the occasional flurry of mysterious assassinations, arsons, and clever humiliations of public figures. In the early days of urban life, it was thought this was just how things went in cities, and indeed this was used as a primary argument for a return to a simpler, more agrarian lifestyle. It was a refrain that William Wordsworth often returned to time and again in his poetry, remarking upon the beauty of nature and its unsullied innocence, while within the squalor of the cities one might find themselves slain by a clever blowdart fired, perhaps, from a marsh reed or had one’s throat cut by some curved blade which, when the constables investigate later, appears to be some kind of sickle or farming implement.

It is worth noting these passages were generally edited out of the Lyrical Ballads.

However, some of the elders of some of the villages just on the cusp of cityhood had learned — as elders often do — that the best way to appease such matters would be to befriend and be kind to the pigeons which collect in the city parks and squares, and after some time it became a regular habit. Soon, ‘pigeon fanciers’ were raising the actual birds and training them, and being kind to and feeding the wild pigeons — which is to say the ninjas — they would find in the parks.

Today, the process is more or less unconscious — the better cared for the pigeon population, the quieter the streets and the fewer sword and tiger-claw based injuries reported in the emergency rooms. Completely without realizing it, these good souls help to protect their homes and communities from the cold breath of the hidden assassin and clever spy.

At the same time, it’s clear to all involved just how pervasive Manannán mac Lir’s modern influence is. There are pigeons wherever one goes, on every continent and in every town. At one whispered word from the Lord of the Sea and the Guardian of the Blessed Isles, thousands — tens of thousands of dark clad warriors would rise up from their feathery disguises, ready to strike fear and death where they silently step. As it stands, all the governments of mankind could be eliminated in one fell swoop — a true night of the long knives, where ninjas outnumbered politicians and policemen alike by a frightening multiple, plunging humanity into a new dark age.

Which may be why pirates as a whole do not like ninjas. It is known that no less august a pirate lord (or privateer, as the histories call him) as Sir Francis Drake, when sailing his mighty Golden Hind across the Atlantic, did make landfall upon an uncharted misty isle where he found himself contending with dark clad warriors with an almost legendary cleverness. And it is well known that after that voyage, Drake never spoke a serious word where a pigeon could be seen, There is also some thought that as Pirate strongholds in the Spanish Main grew to cities and ports, the sea birds seemed to grow thick and pigeons appeared as if sprouting from the ground. And more than one pirate was particularly fond of squab, which couldn’t have helped matters.

Of course, modern pirates are more known for their place in boardrooms and law offices than on the Spanish main. But the captains of industry are civic leaders, which means that the ninjas are watching them all the closer… and no pirate likes having his secrets compromised.

As for the mac Lir and his beautiful wife, Fand… their ultimate goals remain shrouded in mystery. They are old gods, having predated the Tuatha Dé Danann they are most familiar with, and their power is potentially terrible.

But it is a power they have not chosen to exercise. Indeed, mac Lir is as much trickster as psychopomp, and it is known he travels the rails and the seas to this day. He and Fand were last credibly known to reside in Seattle in the early nineties. mac Lir is thought to have made the goatee popular, and there are reports that they were in a number of bands and for a while Fand was working as a studio musician — generally on the Bass though she apparently is a fine hand at the electric mandolin. And of course, the mists are thick around Seattle, and sea birds and pigeons alike dart along the streets, and the mass transit system is particularly effective and the morning commutes actually take place on ferries over the sea, here and there.

Still, that was well over a decade ago, so it’s entirely possible they have moved on, and so of course shall we. But in the meantime, when you pass a pigeon in the street, think about tossing them a crumb or two, or a bit of popcorn if you have it. And if your friend makes jokes about rats with wings, try not to agree with him, at least where the pigeon can hear. Certainly, it’s possible it’s just a bird… but all too many amateur comedians have felt the hair on the back of their necks stand on end in the dead of night, knowing with a strange certainty that they are being watched… only to whirl and see nothing beyond their window, and hear a cooing sound in the distance, and get the strange feeling that now ‘they’ know where they live, and that perhaps their affairs should be put in order soon.

This week, we get our Myth from long time friend of the writing Kirabug, who asks us:

Why does every small (15lb or less) dog I meet seem to think she’s 150lbs?

Now, interestingly enough, there is a specific answer to the specific question that Kirabug’s asking. That answer is, of course, that Kirabug is to dogs as mushrooms are to Mario. When a dog gets near her, it immediately grows 10 times its size — at least emotionally. So, if I’ve managed to make Kirabug subconsciously hear the theme music to Super Mario Bros. as she walks down the street from now on, I will consider myself a success in life.

But there is a much more general principle at work here. I mean, for such expansive thoughts to be triggered by Kirabug walking by, there is clearly a universal element at work. And we have all seen examples of tiny dogs acting like they’re huge. And for that matter, huge dogs thinking they’re tiny. The animals clearly don’t have a coherent body image, and while it’s easy to think that stems from their brains being far less developed than human brains and therefore incapable of really good complex thought, as it turns out that’s only part of the story. The rest of the story really rests on the story… of Dog Reincarnation.

*** *** *** ***

It might surprise you to consider Dog Reincarnation. After all, there is considerable question of what final destination humanity reaches after they ride the mass transit to Psychopomp Station and get their connecting trains. Do we go to Heaven or Hell? Do we reincarnate? How do our actions affect our afterlife? Is Jack Chick actually right when he says that the worst mass murderer gets to go to Heaven if he finds Jesus in the last twelve seconds before he’s electrocuted, while a kind hearted man who does well by everyone he meets who happens to be an agnostic burns in everlasting torment while being poked by demons who shout Haw Haw Haw? How can that be right?

Given these weighty matters, often the question of dog afterlives don’t even come up. “It’s a dog,” people say. “Who cares!”

The answer is, of course, children. Children want to know what happens to dogs when they die. Well, children and dog owners. It’s hard to be a dog owner. There’s no good theological solace to be found after the passing on of a beloved pet. Children, on the other hand, are naturally curious. I would say they’re more kindhearted too, but I was a child once and I remember that I and all my childhood friends were sadistic bastards who, if there is justice, will have our arms and legs pulled off by giant ants for at least six or seven days after we finally kick the bucket.

But I digress.

Dogs do indeed endure beyond life. And like many — though not all — species on our world, they reincarnate. Each life ends and the next begins, as they seek to generally improve themselves until they reach a peak element and transcend to a new level.

The problem is? Dogs have very small brains comparatively. They are sentient — which is to say they can perceive their environment, conceptualized in specific circumstances, understand reward and loss, and undergo suffering — but they are not sapient. They lack true understanding, true wisdom, true self-awareness beyond the animal basic. This is true in life, and this is true in afterlife. So, when a dog passes beyond the pale, leaving behind his mortal remains and passing through the veils on the karmic wheel to a new life, until such time as they achieve Moksha… there is more than a little difficulty in determining exactly what karma the dog has accrued in his life.

For centuries, judges and spirits tried to determine the balance of positive and negative karma — the yearning for material benefits versus the desire to achieve a far more beautiful and lasting spiritual fulfillment — within their canine charges before setting them through the wheel to rebirth in an appropriate new dog body. However, dogs as it turn out can’t talk. And generally have no concept of time. And have no idea what you’re discussing. And unless they’re actually present at the scene of ancient glories or ancient terrors they underwent, no real sense of the past, those glories or those terrors. Put bluntly: they’re dogs.

Further — what exactly constitutes the evolution of a dog’s soul? For a long time, that evolution seemed to be tied to their ancestors — the spirit of the wolf, or fox, or coyote. However, that was finally rejected. After all, human beings do not get closer to spiritual Nirvana and ultimate Moksha by becoming more like Neanderthals or other primates. There was some thought that perhaps they were striving for the ultimate rejection of their primitive past. However, that way seemed to imply that teacup poodles, chihuahuas and those ridiculous looking Japanese chins were the ultimate incarnation of dogdom, and pretty much everyone rejected this out of hand.

Further, with an explosion in the dog population, there became a real need for dog souls to continue on the cycle as quickly as possible, with little regard to whatever spiritual development the dog did or didn’t have. For practical purposes, at least one older dog soul should be among every dog litter, to help in the education and training of the young — not that they have conscious understanding of this, of course. So, the ‘judgement’ of dogs in the modern world tends to be taking them into the halls of the Karmic cycle, giving them a good brushing, asking the dog “who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?” and then assuring them that “yes you’re a good boy! Yes you’re a good boy!” There is some throwing of the ball and the soft frisbee, and of course opportunity for treats and eating, and if there’s time a good nap on a sofa.

And then the dog moves back into the world to do it all again.

Which brings us to canine behavior. You see, unlike humans, dogs have a consciousness about their past lives far closer to the surface than you might expect. This might imply some deeper wisdom being accrued over time, but in truth dog brains just aren’t sophisticated enough to have past lives be buried through layers and layers of the subconsciousness. Which means that dogs who’ve undergone a lot of reincarnation can sometimes have a little bit of confusion built into their behavior patterns.

Of course, dogs don’t have conscious conceptualization, so this confusion needs to be triggered by events. A person walks through a door in a room the dog has spent a lot of time in. The dog is, perhaps, a Pekinese, but in his past he was once a German Shepherd painstakingly trained as a guard dog. He immediately goes into defense mode, barking and trying to drive the intruder off, confident that his large body and powerful jaws will give him both the intimidation and the power to back it up.

Which, to the person walking into the room, seems patently ridiculous. It’s a freaking Pekinese, and the only exercise it’s ever gotten was its thrice daily waddle off the back deck to poop and pee.

This is not reserved to small dogs, of course. It can be silly to watch a full grown Irish wolfhound try to climb into a hole that it would have fit perfectly through that time it was a cocker spaniel, only to get its nose stuck, or a great dane get confused, think it’s a toy poodle, climb into its owner’s lap, and crush the hapless soul to death.

It’s not the fault of the dogs. They don’t understand reincarnation. If they did, they’d probably be working towards their ultimate goal.

That ultimate goal is two staged, for those who are wondering. The ultimate dog breed — the one that only the most rarified souls can appear as, is actually the African Basenji. The Basenji is a highly intelligent breed, capable of mimicry and much broader conceptualization than most dogs. It does not bark (unless imitating another dog) but its vocalizations are highly expressive. They are fastidious, cleaning themselves in almost catlike ways and avoiding water lest they become messy. And if not given sufficient entertainment, they will make their own fun, often in destructive ways.

They also can climb over chain link fences, which has some pundits believing that the ultimate evolution of the dog involves burglary.

In this, of course, they are wrong. There is an ultimate stage beyond the Basenji for the dog who achieves the proper spiritual enlightenment. A Dali Lama, if you will. This ultimate achievement gives the dog true consciousness and affability, the ability to conceptualize and advocate, a greatly expanded lifespan and the capacity for both hard work and great fun — which can lead to tremendous success and enjoyment.

In other words, all dogs aspire to reincarnate as television legend Bob Barker.

Only one has achieved this to date, of course, and that was the aforementioned Mr. Barker. Mr. Barker is human, of course, and one would not cast aspersions onto this. But his soul contains multitudes you and I could only dream of. A soul that had a thousand thousand lives as dogs of all shapes, all sizes. Dogs with good lives and bad. Dogs with happiness and pain. Dogs that worked and dogs that played. If you look into his warm eyes you can almost see them — a pack of one.

Mr. Barker is not consciously aware of his past lives, of course. He has always been sensitive to the plight of the pet population, using his various forums to advocate better conditions for all animals. Most famously, he advocates spaying and neutering, being all too aware (if subconsciously) that other dogs will not achieve Bob Barkerdom until the pet overpopulation crisis subsides and their souls are given a chance to seek out true Basenji nature.

The only hints of Mr. Barker’s true origins have come, perhaps predictably, on the Price is Right set. Back in the seventies, for example, announcer Johnny Olson took a shiny red ball away from Barker during rehearsal and Barker instinctively tackled and savaged him. Mr. Barker’s quite innocent dominance behavior around ‘Barker’s Beauties’ led to a number of allegations of sexual harassment. Frankly, I would have sued too.

Later in life, as Barker settled down, his canine instincts receded almost entirely into the background, and he ended a remarkable fifty year run continuously on television just recently. Indeed, the only continuing nod to his past was his continued use of a tethering microphone instead of a wireless, as this had been deemed necessary to keep him from chasing the new cars as they were driven across the stage.

Today’s myth offering answers a question posed by a fellow called CrazyDave. And you know, I’m not about to mess with him. Guy’s crazy. I was going to go with a different myth this time out, but then he posted this to the last open forum and it just hit me right between the eyes. He writes:

Who are those people who don’t get off when a train reaches the end of the line? (Happens all the time on the Central Line to Ealing Broadway).

As it turns out, there’s a good answer to that, though I rephrased the question just slightly. I’m like that. So, the question is: why do some people stay on the train past the end of the line?

The answer? Follows. Because I am going to tell you.

I kind of like this one. It goes all the way back to story, with actually fewer digressions than normal. Let me know what you think.

*** *** *** ***

His name was Bobby, and he was a nice enough fellow. Good to his mother, kind to kids and small animals he met, always on time to work (he worked at Starbucks, having a natural affinity for pushing the buttons on automatic espresso machines and personally preferring espresso to drip coffee) and without significant word spoken against him.

Bobby had only one real problem, and that was curiosity.

Curiosity is considered a virtue, but it is worth noting there is some room for doubt. It is curiosity that drove Galileo to learn the truth of gravity and the stars and other worlds, and that ended up with some inconveniences here and there for him, plus house arrest and public repudiation of all his works to appease the ruling elite. Any number of cats have been curious about oncoming traffic. Human beings have to touch areas marked as wet paint ‘just to be sure.’

And Bobby was curious. When friends of his would have tension between them, he would be driven to find out why, even if it made matters worse. When a coworker left ‘to pursue other interests,’ Bobby had to work out what really happened. And while he never actually put a recording device into the ladies’ room to find out what girls really talked about when they went to the bathroom in groups, he had priced small tape recorders and wireless audio transmitters and he had thought about it.

But Bobby never meant any harm. He just wanted to know.

Bobby lived in Boston, which is a nice city to live in, among other things, because its public transportation system doesn’t suck. Oh, people complain, but there is a truth that’s hard to ignore: if you have a CharlieCard, you can pretty much go anywhere you want in the city. Bobby and his girlfriend Nit spent plenty of days and weekends just exploring the city, hopping from one T line to the next, taking trains and buses all over the place, seeking out interesting places and good food and one of the rare good cups of tea in the city.

What’s that? Oh, you want to know about Nit. Well, that’s not her name, of course. That kind of proper name gets parents calls from Child Services. Her name was actually Neith, but she hated that, so she went with Nitty or just plain Nit. When she took up knitting after she turned twenty, it seemed to fit all the better. And of course, her knitting habit gave her something to do on long rides on the T during their explorations.

Bobby didn’t need anything to do. Bobby was too busy looking everywhere at once. Looking at the people as they got on board. Looking at the people as they left. Looking out the window as they rode through the streets or over the streets, depending on the T-Lines. Watching the lights fly past as they rode underground from subway station to subway station. He wanted to see it all. And, as we said, he was very curious.

One night, Bobby got out of Starbucks later than usual. He was closing, and tonight there was also inventory and cleanup, so he’d only made it to the T-Stop long past his usual commute time. Nit worked down to Neiman-Marcus, and she’d long since gone home anyhow, so he was on his own. It was a cool night, in early Autumn, and so he’d wrapped his arms around himself.

The train arrived. It was heading inbound — Bobby rode the Green Line in to Park Street, then transferred to the Redline for the trip out to Braintree, where they sublet a small apartment. He’d been riding that for months.

But it was late, this night. And as he climbed onto the train, he found a seat near the back, and as it pulled forward, he let himself drowse. He nestled back, the train lurching and bouncing. It was maybe a quarter full, people sitting on either end, meaning they faced both ways. Old and young, well off and poor… ‘the democracy of the MBTA,’ he’d called it once….

He drowsed, and that melted into sleep, to the sound of the ‘chunkachunka’ of the car’s wheels on the track, the sway back and forth that was second nature to him now, and the voice of the train operator — “Tappan Street… Washington Square… Fairbanks… Brandon Hall….” monotone over the tinny speaker, the recorded announcements probably broken again. He slid further, barely noticing as the train ducked underground, and passed through Kenmore Station and headed on….

“North Station. Change here for the Orange Line. Last stop. End of the line.”

Bobby blinked, sitting up. He felt a bit bleary — he’d clearly fallen asleep. Looking around, he could indeed see that they’d reached North Station, which was indeed the end of the line. He’d have to grab another train going back a couple of stops to Park Street. He pushed out of his chair, grabbed the knapsack he carried, and bounced down onto the platform.

Looking back, he paused. Inside, there were still five or six other people. They were all in the forward part of the car. Men and women. Black and white. One looked like a mother, another like a lawyer, a third like a vagrant… it varied from person to person.

Bobby frowned. They didn’t seem to be getting up.

There was the double-tone sound, and then the doors closed.

One of them — a man in his thirties, his hair thinning on top, turned slowly. He looked out the window, into Bobby’s eyes.

He seemed sad. Or resigned. And he touched the window as he looked at Bobby.

Bobby watched the T pull foward, into the tunnel, where he had always assumed it went to be cleaned or serviced before turning around. It pulled forward and was gone. Gone to the end of the line.

Bobby frowned. Why hadn’t they made those people leave the train?

He decided they must be going the other way, and it was just easier to get on the train, ride it to the end, and ride it back up towards Brookline or Cleveland Circle. He’d just hop on it with them, since he had to ride back down to Park Street to catch the Red Line. He walked over and sat, waiting.

An E train went by. He let it go. The same with another E. He felt a little foolish, but something was nagging him about this….

And then a C train rode into view. The same one, or so he thought.

But the car was empty. The only person on board was the operator in the front.

Bobby frowned, and let the car go. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was a different one.

Then another E went by. And then another C.

Empty.

He glanced back to the other side of the platform. He saw a C train arrive there. It had a long graffiti tag in white. Very distinctive. He watched as three people stepped off.

And he noticed there were several people staying on the train, before it pulled away.

He turned back, watching another E train pull into view. It moved on. He waited. It was just getting later, of course, but now he really wanted to know….

The next C train pulled up. With white graffiti on the front.

It was empty.

Bobby got on board. “Hey,” he said to the operator. “Where’d everyone go?”

The operator glanced up. “What?”

“There were people still on the train when it went past the end of the line. Where’d they go?”

“This is the first stop on the line, sir,” the operator said, bored. “No one could get on before North Station.”

“I know that — but there were people going northbound on the other side–”

“Please sit down, sir.” The operator, bored and slightly annoyed, turned away. The doors with the usual two tones.

Bobby sat down, frowning, and let the train pull him southbound, towards Government Center and Park Street.

That night, he tried to explain it to Nit. “It’s like… it’s like there was no question that they would keep going,” he said. “They were….”

“Bored?” Nit asked. She was working on a small blanket for her cousin.

“No. Resigned.” Bobby shook his head. “It was weird.”

Nit snickered. “Wait, you saw something weird on the T? I’m shocked! Call the papers! Weird stuff on the Boston T! That never happens!”

Bobby grinned. “I know. It’s such a bastion of normal life, right?” He looked out the window. “Still….”

Nit sighed. “You’ve got that look.”

“Which one?”

“The puppy dog look. You want the ball.”

“The ball?”

“Sure. Someone threw the ball. You chased the ball. But the ball bounced under the couch. You can’t have the ball. But you want the ball. So you bark, and you whine, and you dig, and you’re just sure if you do all this just right you’re going to get that ball.” She shook her head, fingers working on the weave of the blanket. “You want the ball.”

Bobby looked at Nit. Looked at her indulgent smile. Her warmth.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want the ball. And I’m going to have it.”

Nit arched an eyebrow. “This ought to be good.”

“Tomorrow, we take a ride out to Park Street. We get on the C train and go out somewhere in Brookline.We have a lovely breakfast. And then….”

“Then?”

“Then we ride the train back, and we stay on it past the end of the line.”

“Oooo,” Nit said. “You’re naughty.”

“The naughtiest, babe. You in?”

“Of course I’m in.”

So they did. They were up early — Nit was a habitually early riser and Bobby woke up when Nit got out of bed, always — and they showered and got ready. Flannel shirts over tee shirts, jeans and comfortable walking boots rounded them out. Bobby grabbed his knapsack. Nit grabbed her knitting bag. And the two headed out to catch the T.

Breakfast was at an outdoor eatery in Washington Square. It was a little bit nippy, since the autumn was progressing as autumns do, but it was sunny and nice enough that they could eat outdoors happily. Nit had left the blanket at home, and was instead working on a new project with an off-white yarn.

“What’s that?” Bobby asked, gesturing with a bit of croissant.

“Knitting!” Nit said, brightly.

“Okay, technically you answered, but I can’t say I know anything more than I knew before.”

Nit giggled. “It’s going to be a scarf. This wool just demanded it.”

“Okay then.” He grinned once more. “Are we ready?”

“We are.”

They settled up. They went back to the T-Stop. They flashed their CharlieCards and got on the next train to arrive. It was three quarters full, but there were seats near the back, once more , and the pair slid into it. Bobby sat near the window. Nit sat next to him, angled to lean against him, and kept knitting with the smooth practice of an experienced subway knitter, shifting as the train shifted to keep the process smooth.

This train’s automatic speakers were working. The cool voice announced each stop, both above ground, and after they descended through the train portal in the underground. Stop after stop, through to the very heart of Boston, and then just beyond….”

“The next stop is North Station,” the automated voice said. “Change for the Orange Line. This is the last stop for this train.”

“This is it,” Bobby murmured. Nit flashed him a grin.

They pulled out. They rode a long moment, and then the tiles of North Station came into view.

“This is North Station,” the voice said. “Change for the Orange Line. This is the last stop for this train.”

All around them, people pushed up out of their chairs, even before the train stopped. They moved to the doors, all along the train. And they passed through.

Leaving Bobby and Nit… and four others, all at the front of the train. As before, they looked resigned.

The doors closed, and the train pulled forward, into the tunnel, and began to ride. The tunnel lights moved by as it built up speed. And then, just as suddenly, there stopped being tunnel lights, the interior light from the train illuminating the walls instead.

“Here we go,” Nit murmured, sitting up.

Bobby just grinned.

At the front of the train, a man stepped out from where the driver drove. Bobby blinked — he was dressed like one of the conductors on the commuter rail. Only his uniform was slightly archaic. “Transfers,” he said, cheerfully.

One by one, the four pulled what looked at a distance like white paper out. Paper transfers — the kinds train conductors marked off with paper punches.

Bobby frowned, watching the conductor. He nodded at each, not bothering to mark them off or even look at them. He then stepped to the back of the car. “Hello there,” he said, pleasantly. “Can I see your transfers?”

Nit sat up. The two looked at each other. With some fumbling, they both dug out their CharlieCards.

The conductor’s smile didn’t waver. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Those aren’t any good here. You should have gotten off at North Station.”

“I’m… sorry,” Bobby said. “We must have missed it.

“No worries, son. No worries,” the conductor said. He leaned over, and pulled the cord that ran along the top of the car. There was a ding, and the ‘Stop Requested’ light came on.

Almost immediately, the train began decelerating. It was a sharp deceleration — both Bobby and Nit had to brace on the seat ahead of themselves not to fall over. The conductor stayed upright by taking a firm, practiced hold on the guard rail.

With a lurch, the train came to a stop. Bobby could see that there was a single light on one side of the tunnel now, and the doors opened right in front of it. “You’ll have to get out here,” the conductor said. “There’s a ladder you’ll need to climb. That’ll get you out.”

“Can’t we ride back?” Nit asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” the conductor said. “Regulations. You’ll need to get out here.”

“What if we walk back to North Station?” Bobby asked. “Do we really need to climb up and out?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t walk back,” the conductor said. “There aren’t any safety service ports or maintenance crawls, so when the next train comes you would be hit and killed.” He chuckled. “No one wants you two getting hurt.”

“But we can’t ride back?” Nit asked again.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“They’re riding,” Bobby said, nodding forward.

“They have proper transfers.”

“Where are they going?”

“I’m sorry, son. You have to leave now. We’re already running late, and there’s other trains behind us.”

Nit looked at Bobby. Quietly, they gathered their things and climbed out of the train, stepping down into the lit alcove. It was white tile, turned almost blue with fluorescent lights. At the back and to the side, there was an inset with rungs. The ladder.

Bobby looked up. And stared. It was a narrow shaft, and it went up what looked like hundreds of feet, with fluorescent lights all along the way.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nit said.

“They need to let us back on that train,” Bobby snapped, turning–

The doors to the train closed. The Conductor stood, waiting. He was smiling, still. And he looked relieved as the train pulled away.

“Wait!” Bobby shouted, but it was too late. They could hear the train’s echo down the tunnel as it sped up, and away.

“Oh God,” Nit said. “This isn’t happening to us.”

“There must be… must be some other way,” Bobby said. He stuck his head out, looking both ways down the tunnel.

To the left, where the train they’d been on before had gone, he could see a far distant light. The train. It had already sped up and away. To the right, there was pitch darkness.

“Do you have a flashlight?” he asked.

“Do you think we can make it?” Nit asked. “He said–”

“We weren’t on that long. If you have a–”

Bobby trailed off. Far distant, down the right, he saw a light. But it was a long, long way of. “Nit?”

“Yeah?”

“Get back into the alcove.”

Nit pushed back, all the way against the far wall. Bobby joined her.

The sound reached them first. A rush, like a wind or a storm or a giant tsunami. And then the train blasted past them, far faster than they had realized the Green Line could go.

And then the wind died down, and the echoes grew fainter.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s not try to walk it?”

“Good thinking. We climb?”

“We climb.”

It took a long time. Fortunately, the shaft was narrow, so they could rest by leaning back, with no real chance of falling. Nitty’s knitting bag was slung over her shoulder, so she wouldn’t lose it. Bobby’s knapsack was hooked over his own. Rung by rung they climbed, for what seemed like forever, until they reached the top, and a heavy lid.

Bobby pushed. It seemed stuck. He shoved hard, and the lid popped up and off. He pulled himself up and out, then helped Nit.

The light of the day was harsh, after the dim light. “Where are we?” Nitty asked.

Bobby squinted, eyes adjusting. “We’re… just off the Commons.” He turned — they had come out next to the Orpheum Theater. “Wait — we’re nowhere near North Station. How’d–”

“Did you put the manhole cover back?” Nit asked, frowning.

“Huh? No?” But the cover was back. And looked very solidly placed at that. Bobby kneeled and tried to hook it back up, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d like to go now. I’m tired, my arms hurt, and I’m hungry.”

“Right. Want to hit the Trident?”

“Yeah.”

The two went to the Trident on Newbury. They made good tea, and they got bagels with cream cheese. Bobby drummed his fingers, looking at the bonsai trees in the windows, thoughts a million miles away. Nit was knitting. It was getting long.

“You want to go back, don’t you?” Nit said, finally.

Bobby kept looking at the bonsais.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I want to go back. I want to know. I have to know.”

Nit shivered. “Would it be okay if we took a taxi back to our place? I really don’t want to ride the T right now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, a’course.”

Once back to their place, Bobby went into the library. Which was really an ambitious term for “room we have all the books piled.” Years of T riding had led to an impressive book collection in a never ending effort to stave off boredom. And since he used to need to switch to the bus back before the CharlieCard system had gone into place, it seemed likely that somewhere….

Yes. Here. In his copy of Resurrection Man, serving as a bookmark even after all this time. A nearly pristine transfer ticket.

Bobby smiled. The old conductor hadn’t even looked at the transfers. He was apparently content to see they had them.

Bobby showered, then put on a different set of clothes. Layered. Hoody over sweatshirt over tee shirt. It would be a cool night. His rattiest, most comfortable jeans. His Doc Martins that he didn’t wear so much these days. He wanted to look as disinterested and perhaps wistful as any of the passengers they let through.

He stepped into the living room. “Hey,” he said.

Nitty was sitting in a chair. She didn’t look happy.

“I… assume you’re not coming with me?”

“You mean you assume I don’t want to climb ten stories up another ventilation shaft when we get caught? You assume right, Bobby.”

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’m nuts.”

“Yeah, well. Hang on a minute.” She worked the needles before tying off and finishing. “Here.” She handed over what turned out to be a scarf.

“Dude,” Bobby said. “Dude, this is nice.”

“Yeah. I figure you’ll need it. It’s going to be a cold night.” She stood up, taking the off-white scarf back, and carefully wrapped it around his neck and shoulder. “Yeah, that looks nice.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said.

They kissed.

And he went out the door.

Bobby took the T back to Park Station, then rode his usual back out to Brighton and Brookline. This time, he rode it all the way to Cleveland Circle — the far end of the branch. He got out and found a place — a little bar, where he could have some coffee and a drink or three, and he waited.

Just after midnight, Bobby made his way to the Inbound platform at Cleveland Circle. That was the last trip of the night. The 12:10.

It was an older train — one of the doubles, with the accordion joint between them. There was a good number of people waiting, but Bobby got in among the first. He headed to the front of the car, sliding into one of the single seats along one side. He adjusted for comfort, and affected a sense of calm. Of apathy. Of wistfulness. Just like those he’d seen before.

The train pulled out. The last run of the night began its long ride down. He watched the familiar sights through the window — he was back-to most of them, since these seats faced the rear of the train, but he saw them go by. The Store24s. Kappy’s Liquors. The closed bagel places and boutiques. Across the aisle, through the window, he could see the light from the train reflecting off the wrought iron fence separating the outbound and inbound tracks.

He rode.

Just after St. Mary’s Street the train went underground. It went through Kenmore station, then moved on, up past Hynes, and Copley, and Arlington and Boylston. Past Park Street, where he would have gotten off if he were going home. Past Government Center. Past Haymarket.

“North Station,” the operator said. The announcements tape was broken again. “Change for the Orange Line. Last stop. End of the line.”

Bobby set the side of his head against the window, and watched the late night clubgoers filter out, one by one. He watched the train slowly empty. And finally, there were just three people left. A woman, young, wearing a nice black dress and a jean jacket over it. A sixty five year old black man in a suit and tie. And Bobby himself.

And then the doors closed, and the train began to move. Down into the tunnel. Down with the lights.

Bobby’s heart was pounding. He waited….

“Transfers, please?”

Bobby turned his head. It was a different conductor. Younger than the last.

Bobby slid his old transfer out, holding it up with as much indifference as he could muster. The other two took their own transfers out.

The conductor stood, glancing at them briefly, and nodded. “Won’t be long now, folks,” he said quietly, and walked back to the front of the train.

Bobby dropped his hand in his lap, relieved. He looked out the window. The lights were moving past faster now. And then it was black. The train was really moving. They rocketed past a single light — Bobby realized it must have been the alcove they’d dropped he and Nitty off before — and then farther and faster. Miles and miles, with the train unencumbered by stops or other traffic or people in the way. The ultimate express.

And then they rocketed past new lights. New scenes. Side tracks, with ancient trains and what looked like beached boats up on blocks underneath cinderblock skies. A shantytown came into view, with people gathered around a fire. Then through another tunnel, and out past what looked like a rave, the music inaudible as they shot past, but so many packed in people, dancing and moving to a beat Bobby couldn’t hear.

And then the train began to decelerate. It pressed Bobby back into his chair, far more tightly than any deceleration he’d previously felt on the Boston T. He realized that was why everyone stayed close to the front of the car — if they were facing forward, they might pitch violently out of their chairs….

Things slowed…. and they entered a T station Bobby had never seen. It certainly wasn’t the Science Park station that was next on the Green line, that E trains went past. It was lush, with dark green tiles and a lot of activity, despite the hour. And a sign on the walls that they passed that made Bobby’s mouth drop.

“Psychopomp station,” came a voice over the speaker. It was the voice of the conductor, Bobby realized. “All out for Psychopomp station. Change here for the Golden Line, the Black Line, the Grey Line and the Crimson Line. Please have your transfers ready.”

The doors opened, with that same old double tone. Heart pounding, Bobby got up and swung out. The others were leaving too. He looked all around. On the other side — the Inbound track — he saw a green line train lining up. though there were iron gates keeping the passengers away from that side. Looking around, he saw blood red tiles leading to a walking bridge to what claimed to be the Crimson Line. In another direction there was shining metallic tiles leading up to the Golden Line. Below those were the black tiles to the Black Line. He didn’t see an exit to the Grey line from here, but he imagined there would be away.

“Amazing,” he murmured, looking around. There were quite a few people, he realized, though each was making their way to different exits. Toward different train lines. With a start, he realized he saw no street exit. There was no way out — just ways to other trains.

“It is amazing, isn’t it, son? I remember the first time I saw. Of course, they’ve remodeled since then.”

Bobby blinked, turning.

It was the old conductor. The one who’d put Bobby and Nit off the train the first time they’d tried to come here. He was smiling, though he looked a bit sad.

“It is. What… what is this place?”

“I had a feeling I’d see you again,” the conductor said, not answering the question. “I recognized too much of myself in you. It was too much to hope the climb would put you off.”

Bobby half-smiled. “I… I’m sorry. It’s just….”

“It’s just… that you had to know, right?” The Conductor smiled a bit more. “It was the same for me. You needed to know where those people were going.”

“Yeah.” Bobby shivered. “And… it’s crazy, but… I think I know.” He looked around. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“Of course, of course.” The Conductor looked around. “The movement of the dead to their final destination has always been a matter of mass transportation. Boats, ferrymen, horsemen — what have you. In the end, why not use trains? They’re convenient, they’re clean, and they have a schedule.” He looked back at Bobby. “Of course, there’s always the question of fare. Pennies for Charon. Or in our case….”

“A transfer ticket.”

“Exactly.”

Bobby shook his head, half-smiling. “It’s amazing. It’s wonderful. Where do they all go?”

“That’s not my department. Or it wasn’t my department. Now, it’s not your department.”

Bobby blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, son. Come now. That transfer ticket isn’t any good, is it? You faked your way into here.”

Bobby felt a sudden chill. “So… you need to send me back, right?”

The Conductor’s smile turned sad again. “There is no going back, son. You rode to the lands of the dead. And you did it without payment. Well, you did it without your payment.”

“Without my payment? What does that mean?”

The old conductor reached his hand out. “Give me the transfer, son.”

Bobby felt a chill… and slowly handed the transfer to the conductor. In the old man’s hands it seemed to blur… and a golden bar appeared across the top.

“Well,” he said quietly. “What do you know. The Gold line. Better than I could have hoped.”

The conductor took off his coat, and handed it to Bobby. Bobby accepted it, and realized that instead of just the coat, a full conductor’s uniform was hanging on a hanger in his hand. “Wait — you mean… but… but my life! My… my girlfriend will…”

“Your girlfriend is getting a call right now,” the old man — now dressed in the clothes of a working man from decades before — said. “Apparently, her boyfriend hid on a train, got to the end of the line, and was poking around the transfer station when he tripped and fell on the third rail. By four this morning, she’ll be in the morgue, identifying the body. I’m afraid that life is over, son.”

Bobby felt shaky. He shivered, and sat down on one of the benches. “So… what happens?”

“What you’d expect. You’ll come to work tomorrow. You’ll ride the train out. You’ll ferry the living to their destinations, and the dead to their destinations. Or at least, to the first step along the way. And maybe you’ll find yourself transferred, to ride the rails of the Metro in Boston, or the L in Chicago, or the Tube in London. I’ve seen a lot of the world in my time conducting the dead. Though always from the trains or the stations.”

“How… how long do I do this?”

The old man chuckled. “Isn’t that obvious. Every year, some number of men or women get curious. They find ways to sneak onto the train or stay on or stay hidden until it pulls into Psychopomp Station. And as each one of them comes in, the longest serving conductor gets his transfer ticket and moves on. You’re at the end of the line and the bottom of the heap right now. Given enough time, you’ll get your transfer and move on.”

Bobby shivered. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“You can do your job well.” The conductor paused. “Why do you think we don’t look so closely at those transfers, anyhow?”

Bobby, despite himself, chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “So… why’d you put me off the train before?”

The old man shrugged. “Son, just because I wanted to hurry the queue along is no excuse for not at least trying to protect the living. But once you falsified a transfer, you had made an informed choice. You knew you weren’t supposed to come and you came. And now you’re going to work your fare off.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said.

“You’ll find out more. That was the last run of the night. Go through to the office and they’ll get you a place to stay and run you through orientation. As for me…” he smiled — a smile of profound joy and relief — “I have a train to catch.”

“Oh… okay… um… what’s your name?”

“Charlie,” the old man said, before turning and walking to the golden tiled stairwell.

Bobby watched Charlie go. He touched the wool of his scarf, and then made his way to the office.

It was, in the end, a nice enough job. Bobby got into the green line train, climbed up into the operator’s cockpit, and rode out. As he passed between that world and Boston proper, his uniform became the modern uniform of the T operators, his face changed, his voice changed — no one would ever recognize him. He worked his shift like all the others. He got breaks, to grab candy or coffee or food from the kiosks. He saw the living. He got to know one or two regulars. It wasn’t bad.

And each run, after he reached Cleveland Circle and came back, included one or two or more people who sat near the front. People who were already gone, and simply making their final trip. And as they passed through past the End of the Line, he checked to make sure they had transfers and took them on his way.

His one affectation was his scarf. It never got dirty or dingy, and he found it comforting.

It was two years later that he saw her. He was walking back through the cars after checking on a woman who’d fallen, when he saw her sitting in a seat. She was vibrant, full of life, but slightly chastened compared to the last time he saw her. He paused, though he knew his face was different. She wouldn’t know him. But still….

She glanced, and did a double-take, and bit her lip.

“Excuse me,” Bobby said, looking down and keeping going.

“Nice scarf,” Neith said.

Bobby looked up.

Their eyes met.

“My girlfriend knit it for me,” Bobby said softly.

And perhaps not understanding, Nitty smiled a bit more. “She must really like you.”

“Yeah.”

And Bobby made his way to the operator’s cockpit. Nice moment or not, he had a schedule to keep. He pulled forward, and clicked the intercom — the damn recording was broken again. “Coolidge Corner,” he said. “The next stop is Coolidge Corner. Change there for the number sixty-six bus.”