The Truth About Immortality

By Faith Jones

I’ve always suspected that I might be the world’s greatest sceptic, believing only the experience of my eyes and ears. If you question everything, what survives intact at the end must be important, right? Therefore, I question; until people stop listening to me. Often longer.

You’re wondering if I was always like this, de-linked from standard female impulses. Well, from your perspective, I have to concede that I lived through a stranger’s version of childhood, although a miniscule statistical possibility remains that my early years could have been an implanted memory (Bertrand Russell said that). I can at least be functionally certain I have a memory of the day my parents told me my name. I said “You made that up!” and they folded.

On the very instant I finished my last day at school I began a long walk to compose my sceptic’s manifesto and I’m not entirely convinced that journey ever finished. When I returned home to confront my parents on the overlapping issues of reality and perception of truth through the lens of existence, I found they’d already rented out my room.

My achievements up to my mid-twenties had been fairly constrained. I’d spent all my time questioning what had been done so far by others and never tried anything new myself. I also didn’t have much help from my colleagues because when I tried to talk to anyone for more than thirty seconds, they looked as though they wanted to back away before I peed on their sneakers. You know the look. You probably see it everywhere, like I do. For anyone converting to scepticism late, the adjustment can be a trial but if you are born hyper-cynically pedantic like me, one of the magnificent few, not being socially welcome is no biggie because that eyebrow-locking reaction is all you know.

I remember getting thrown out of the Sceptics Society for questioning their terms of reference. I mean, setting it in stone and all that, when picking away at accepted knowledge is what proper sceptics are supposed to do. There we all were, spiralling ever inwards into a black hole of suppositional challenges, looking forward to the cheap funerals of a job well done. The Sceptics Society were too trusting, I found, and I was too sceptical. One of us certainly had to go.

Flying backwards out of the door and landing on my bum in a freezing puddle gave me food for thought. I needed to operate in a specifically defined field of scepticism if I wanted to have any chance of making a big breakthrough one day.

Well, I did just that and spent the next nine years systematically disproving any supposed evidence for immortality. It might seem like an easy win to you but I thought somebody needed to make this contribution and it might as well be me because I didn’t have a social life.

One inconvenient splinter did appear in the crystal eye of my realism, something I would normally only confide to my friends, but as I don’t seem to have any of those right now it might as well be you. The thing is, I have always lived with an inner certainty that I will be allowed to make one magic wish. Now, you’re laughing at me aren’t you? You’re laughing. This is outrageous. Well, anyway, stop it or I won’t say what happened next and I’ll go tell a milk carton and then you’ll be sorry.

Thank you for your temporary suspension of disbelief, as I wouldn’t extend the same courtesy to you. Secret wishes then. No, I don’t understand how that works. I’ve never admitted to or cashed in this implausible knowledge before now because it would defeat my raison d’etre and I could simply wink out of existence like anti-matter, but I’ve always known something was there. It was a paranormal doubt taunting in my mind, cowardly but cocksure, waiting for the day when it could emerge, take flight and seriously embarrass me in front of multiple witnesses. When that finally happened, the day of the wish, it unfolded like this:

I was walking home across the common one chilly evening, something that had never held any fear for me before, even on that night with its dark clouds massing. I knew that reality acknowledged no supernatural creatures, no wolf had entered any city within a thousand miles of here since the Middle Ages and if anyone attacked me, I’d talk to them until they contracted pneumonia. The rain really was hardening from a patter to a sting now, which was borderline annoying, and I felt the first sign of water in my so-called waterproof shoes (as with everything else, be sceptical of advertising). I kept going, contented by the thought that I surfed an equilibrium because I couldn’t stand the world and its weather couldn’t stand me.

As if the natural world heard and agreed, I was cracked flat by a bolt of lightning. Amidst a glow of buttons, a vibrant trail sparked my nose but I was unable to feel it. Never underestimate rubber boots. I think that no one saw this happen, or if they did, no one ran over to help. Possibly they feared the lingering risk that I might not be completely dead.

The first and possibly only thing I can tell you for sure about being struck by lightning is that time moves very, very slowly. That gives whoever’s on the receiving end half a paralysed second to think — time in which they are supposed to regret — but what I thought of in that blinding burst of illumination was one question. It wasn’t a question, exactly, but more of a wish. “I wish”, I thought to myself as in the background I spectacularly incinerated, “I wish I knew the truth about immortality.”

The next nerve response of which I was aware was foot pressure. I opened my eyes and found myself standing on one bank of the river Styx, looking for all the world like a lost backpacker. I hadn’t thought any of the world’s religious traditions could possibly be correct, so was doubly astonished to see an after-life with someone like me in it. I can only describe it as like going to heaven and spotting Dominic Cummings.

Some of the other people waiting on the riverbank looked like they had been in the same position for many years and also gave the impression weren’t enjoying it. Some attempts were evidently being made to keep their spirits up, as I noticed the bluish wisps that were formerly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers gliding around the mud-flats.

“How do we get across?” I enquired of a nearby Stygian shade.

“Depends. Did they lay out coins on your eyes when you died, girl?”, said the opaque matron.

“No, I very much doubt it, but I doubt everything.”

“No coins, no belief, is it? Then Charon won’t take you. You’re damned.”

“Thanks. I see what you did there, with the river motif.”

“Enjoy the gloom.”

I soon learned that conversations like this were fairly usual down here and achieved very little but I could equally imagine that activities would be even more dour in Hades proper, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad, not being able to get across. It was like Do you have the money to buy a ticket to get a painful slap? No? I’m sorry then, we can’t slap you. Mental shrug.

I didn’t appear to need any food or water to sustain my admittedly watery-looking form, so I searched around for whatever passed for entertainment in this undead vacuum. Reaching for an analogy, I supposed: how do people pass the time in Doncaster?

It’s obvious when you think about it. The only interesting thing you can do in the afterlife is interview people about what they did during their handful of years they saw in the land of the living. It’s a reporter’s dream because you can have first-hand accounts and conversations from outside of your time period. They can tell you about the Renaissance and you can tell them about Pokemon Go and how far we’ve come.

I know, yes okay I know I’d wasted all of my life criticising, so relating my bio to others didn’t take long and I soon turned the subject around to them. Spirits can’t clop you over the head or anything physical, so to rile up a good conversation I liked to provoke them a little. I came upon the shade of a woman who had actually lived and died in Ancient Greece, then opened with my usual charm.

“You look thousands of years old. I bet you were impressively boring.”

“How dare you! As I contemplate your foul visage, my dear, you look burned to death. Were you a lesser quality courtesan?”

“Cheers”, I replied graciously. “So what are you then? I don’t suppose you achieved anything in your life.”

“I did, you presumptuous witch. I was Herakles’ wife! You may know him as Alcaeus or Hercules, if you have read Euripides? No, of course you wouldn’t have schooling.”

“Hercules was a fictio… fic… charact…?!” I couldn’t finish my sentence, and pulled at where my tongue should have been. “Um, what has just happened to me?”

“You are in the Underworld, drooling harlot, and in this place you cannot lie. I shall prove it. Try to give me a wrong answer. What is two plus two?”

“Thhh-eventiieee… na-ta-da… unun. Nuts, that’s really difficult! — and it totally ruins my job of being a sceptic. Hey! How come you were able to call me a slut?”

“A common harlot. A slut considerably outranks a mere harlot.”

“Sez you”, I mustered, failing to use the barrage of reasoning at my disposal. I probed her for more of her story and the old shade looked at me, undecided or unwilling to reveal. In the end she relented because, realistically, there was nothing much else to do down here.

“I was the second wife of Herakles. He was married several times because he lived for more than 300 years.”

I was about to demolish this point when I remembered that she couldn’t be untruthful.

“How can anyone live for 300 years?” I asked.

“It can be done, when the living man is subsumed into his own immortal reputation”, she replied.

“Rubb…ergsh, what cra…up. Oh. How is that supposed to work then?”

“Tiresome ashen slut, there really is something of the bottom rim about your language.”

– Slut now, was it? Perhaps she was starting to take a shine to me, if slut was a promotion. Anyway, I kind of had done that thing with that boy who let me ride on his motorbike, but that couldn’t be common knowledge all this time later. Then there was ouzo night in Ibiza when they made a flag with my knickers, but let’s not recede that far. Back in limbo then…

“I met Herakles at the first Olympic Games”, she told me.

“Bollo….neuurrghh. Oh, that’s true too, is it?”

“Yes, it is true, fallen wastrel.”

“Fair enough”, I conceded. “Carry on.”

“It wasn’t called the Olympic Games until after the event had taken place, but yes it did grow from that seed on a small Aegean island into what I hear became a considerable international festival. In those days it wasn’t as you might have come to know it in later years. We had a procession of the unmarried ladies taking goods to the shrine, then four days of religious observance followed by sports taking place only on the final afternoon. There were three contests; a running race in full armour, throwing the discus and Grecian wrestling. Herakles won all three events and so his legend was blessed by Hera with a true beginning.”

“That three hundred year thing? That can’t… I mean, how do you explain that?” I questioned.

“The competitor Herakles won his first Olympic games, several more and then his last, three hundred years later. On any Aegean island or city-state you visit, you will find that Herakles attended a sporting gathering and is recorded as having won events there. It is carved in their basalt and marble.”

“Okay, we’ll come back to that, but how did you meet Hercules? Were you one of the la-de-dah posh ladies in the procession?”

“Ye… erggh…rr ku’pa, no. I met him following the wrestling event, when I was tasked with wiping him down with finest olive oils.”

“Ah-ha. It is like Ibiza. You had sex with him before you were married?”

“Nev… oggeuurgh…”

“I thought so. Maybe I don’t even need you to answer these. Let’s see: you did not fuuuuurg… c… neaurg. Okay, so you did let him shag you in a tent that stank of goatskin. I love this game! He wasn’t the first visiting wrestler you had either. Nail-on-the-head! I am so good at this. It’s hilarious. You licked up and down…”

“Silence!”

“Oh you did? … and it probably tasted salty, so like a submissive wench you went for the olive oil…”

“Shut up, foul-mouthed bitch!”

“Slut. Harlot, right back at you. It’s fascinating that I was allowed to say those words about you too, isn’t it? Can’t wait to meet Cleopatra and Princess Di. I’m loving this place! I can’t believe it took a lifetime to discover the Underworld!

“I wish our interaction to be at an end,” she said, turning to float away into perpetual gloom.

That reminded me about my magic wish. Here was my chance to know the answer.

“Wait!” I said. “I beseech thee, or however you old gits put it, to have a truce. I really want your opinion on something.”

She turned back. “Go on, barbarian.”

“How do you honestly think Hercules became immortal?”

“Ah, the truth. You are what people think you are. When flesh and bone are gone, remembrance is all that matters.”

“But Greece has a recorded history.”

“You asked a question. Should I proffer an answer? If so, be silent, listen and learn, you petulant rotting crisp.”

“Okay, okay!”, I answered, wondering how most of that had got through the accuracy filter.

“We were not in my lifetime a nation in the sense you expect. In the 8th century BC we were individually governing islands, territories and distant cities. The only things we had in common were language, fishing and the games. When a young man, an athlete, arrived at a sporting gathering such as the Olympic Games, or many smaller and more local festivals, he wished to be taken seriously, be accommodated and given food by his hosts. He also wanted to intimidate his sporting opponents into submission. By using the illustrious name ‘Herakles’ he would achieve all of this and if two men named Herakles arrived in the same place, they would wrestle and everyone would know that the winner truly was the real Herakles. When that man died and his burial was marked, another Herakles would arrive at another games in another place, at the peak of his own fitness and he would win too, as the name he appeared under would sap every opponent’s confidence.”
“Got it. Psychological advantage.”

“These were divine, religious festivals first and foremost, so they had endorsement, validation. People would remember the story of Herakles coming to their festival and winning in the time of their grandfathers and the times before that. Herakles would always continue and add to his legend.”

“So Hercules was the school goldfish.”

“What are you saying now, wretched piss cinder?”

“In the holidays from school, or what you might call the gymnasium for brains…”

“No, our schools were called gymnasiums”, the old hag corrected.

“… the goldfish goes home to be looked after by the family of one of the children and it normally chokes to death and floats to the top when they forget to change the water, so the parents feel really guilty and secretly replace the goldfish with a newer one from the pet shop. They look after that one a little better and so it goes back to school for the next term, where a goldfish with the same name effectively lives forever. Ta-Da! Hercules. He’s the school goldfish — and I notice that got through the filter. In your face, sister.”

“Herakles, not Hercules and I am thankfully not your sister. The Romans stole our legends and two of their emperors paid tribute to the cult of Herakles. We named a festival after Herakles and they continued it. The Heracleia, they called it.”

“More people have called him Hercules since, so you’re out-voted if you take weight of numbers”, I suggested, winding her up.

“Foul, smoky creature, respect what we are for you are us! These hordes can never leave this bank and neither ca-ueewwurghh. Look, crossing the Styx will be very difficult. What I have said about immortal renewal stays in the underworld and Hercules’ reputation remains out there in the living world, forever!”

“What happens in Vegas…”

“Do you ever pipe down, ignorant child? Does this Vegas of which you speak have becolumned temples? Fountains? Statues? Does it have pyramids? Then I bid you desist!”, she admonished.

“I think it might, actually. I can’t help noticing you are also stuck on this side of the river. Hercules had two coins on his eyes and went across ages ago on the ferry, didn’t he?”

“Yes! Not just ordinary obols but golden discs shining like the sun! — but he did not perish, for from thence he was set amongst the stars!”

“I bet that if he’s immortal, that means you died first. Which means he didn’t give up two of his many coins for your burial. Am I on the right track? That means he didn’t fancy you sitting next to him nagging away throughout the afterlife.”

She gave me a withering look. “This occasion tells me some things are still unchanged from the world I knew nearly three millennia ago. I can see from you that they still allow stunted imbeciles to fuck.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I? Of course I am.”

“That man was always an ungrateful oaf. Heracles rerouting the rivers Alpheus and Peneus, the legend of the Augean stables — I embellished those into memorable stories, not him! Do you think he was a poet? — but how does he thank me? By running off with a Thracian craftsman’s daughter half his age who was ugli….rrr… neurghhh… who was much less travelled than me and had very little time for wrestl… ney-agagg…” — she raised her eyes to the sheer black sky — “I wasn’t referring to the inappropriate form of so-called wrestling, which I am sure the little tart excelled at but…”

“He loved her. She got two coins on her eyes when she died, didn’t she?”

“She did have coins, silver not gold. I saw her when she came through this place and headed toward the boatman Charon, as he tarried by the Stygian ferry. I recognised her duplicitous face and walked up to ask how it went. She shouted ‘Begone, foul fiend, dread drab, for I am the wife of Herakles!’”

“Dread drab? So what did you say to that?”

“I didn’t say a word. I just smacked her on the back of the head, which doesn’t work here of course, but the newest un-acclimatised ones duck away from force of habit, and so a coin fell from out her eye socket, so I snapped that up and cast it into the riv… cough neurghhh.”

“Good for you … hang on! You couldn’t say ‘in the river’, could you! Ah-ha, so what did really you do with that coin?”

The old shade fell into introspection for a moment before piecing together the courage to answer me. “I carry it still in the folds of my cloak. The coin is my hope, yet also my tragedy. I remain on the bank with very few souls from my own time for company, as funerary rights were observed for almost all back then. Except, that is, for a handful who were cursed or died in extreme poverty without their man, or those whose bodies were stolen from the living as the sea surge swelled through their shattered planks.” She paused, once proud but now wistful and defeated. “This bank was nearly empty when I arrived here and now I look across teeming billions. All strangers.”

“Can I see it?”

She reluctantly eeled a hand into her simple clothing and fetched out a glimmering coin with the outline of a silvered owl hammered deep upon it. She held it up.

“It is all I have from my husband. It is also no help to me now as I cannot cross the river with one coin. I cannot take the second because the other wife of Herakles will see me coming and know my intent. It is a test I cannot pass.” She paused for a moment and a strange emotion seeped over the features of her once spirited face. “Here, it is yours”, she said chipping the little owl into my palm. “It is not as if you can spend it.”

“Wow. Thanks! But, wait. What good does that do me? To get the matching coin for crossing the river, I‘d have to search amongst billions to find her! It would take an eternity!”

“You have an eternity.”

“Good point. Really good point. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Acantha.”

“Thank you. I understand. Immortality is to become a meme”.

“Mimema”, yes. Then she gave me a nod, a ghost of a smile and drifted off to contemplate solitude by the lapping, oil-dappled river as it washed from nowhere to nothing, oblivious to our boundless oblivion.

Just Acantha. No longer ‘wife of Herakles,’ as the legend had grown too strong to need her. Acantha alone, destitute, abandoned. Perhaps this could be my own Herculean labour, my penance for how I’d lived my life, never helping, always criticising, chasing away every potential friend.

I set out that evening in the indigo realm to embark on a very long journey indeed, a vow I know now I can never break, to speak to every single lingering spirit on this side of the river bank, to find, to steal the second archaic coin and then bring both precious owls back to Acantha. I could become a meme.