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Souls Town
Stygian Jewel

Stygian Jewel

The Stygian Jewel glides smoothly through ink-black waters that reflect the stars above so clearly, Beau isn’t sure where the sky ends, and the water begins.

The water, belonging to that of the infamous River Styx, will bring them out of Death and back into Life, as Frankie explained. “The Passport Office isn’t the first step for most people. Actually, most people don’t qualify for a passport. If we had died, we would have gone through a different entryway,” she said, as they boarded the ferry.

In fact, there is only one known permanent imperfection in the fabric of reality, and it serves as the main threshold between Life and Death. How the Imperfection occurred and how long it has existed is undocumented, but, as the centuries fly by, its presence remains. It acts as the primary point of entry for anyone passing between Life and Death. A fee is required to cross one of the rivers that spread out from the Imperfection and beyond, to what is often considered Death proper.

And yet, not everyone who passes from Life into Death travels along the River Styx, or any of the sister-rivers for that matter. Some are assigned a Reaper, who has the unique ability to circumnavigate this process by opening a door to most anywhere in Death. And of course, there are some who are unwilling or unable to pay their fare to continue on the correct path, causing a bit of a bottleneck at the Imperfection’s threshold.

As people began to settle in, refusing to move forward for various reasons, Souls-Town-on-the-Styx was soon created, cobbled together from ramshackle wishes and regrets and other random accoutrement that seemed to appear out of thin air. Like most things going against the current, the current soon gave up, happily circling around the island in an aquatic roundabout and branching off at various points to once again form the five rivers of Death. Souls Town has since become a major hub that is unavoidable if one desires to go from Life into Death, or, in some extremely rare cases, Death into Life.

The Styx is the most direct route between Death proper and Souls Town, and so it is the most popular. The Stygian Jewel is just one of the vessels that sail the dark waters of the Styx, and it offers the most economical mode of transportation into Death proper.

Occupancy on the ferry is sparse today and the trio sit on the lower deck, on a hard wooden bench pockmarked from years of use. However, the Stygian Jewel is a pleasant enough vessel, with a small bar upstairs and an observation deck dotted with reclining chairs. The red-and-white striped awning whips in the breeze above them, yet the waters are calm and the ferry glides along with little disruption.

Despite these attributes, Beau still wonders why they can’t exit the same way he and Frankie entered: through a magical door conjured by Frankie.

“We can’t trust doors right now,” Frankie says, but Beau has a feeling that it has more to do with the shaken look in Frankie’s eyes when she realized that her magic had done something wrong. That it had escaped her control just long enough to lash out at the nearest living creature, like a car sliding on a slick wet road.

“I can’t wait to get home,” says Penelope, leaning against Beau. “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel warm again.”

Probably not, he thinks. Still, he dutifully slips out of his jacket—Frankie’s jacket, though he doesn’t tell Penelope that—and places it gently around her shoulders. She kisses him on the cheek in gratitude.

“Maybe when we get back, we can try that cute Italian restaurant on Tenth Street?” she asks, hugging the coat tighter. It’s an awful color on her, but he’s at least smart enough not to comment on the fact. She may not be able to curse him like Frankie, but there are some punishments worse than boils or suffocation.

“That sounds great,” he says enthusiastically, though he can feel the reluctance at the back of his throat. He wishes he had a cigarette; the smoke would feel more pleasant than this noxious half-truth.

But what is the full truth, he wonders. Is it that he no longer has feelings for Penelope? Somehow, this doesn’t feel quite right either. He still holds a tender sort of affection for Penelope, an almost-love that could grow into something more if given the time, and he most certainly doesn’t want to break her heart.

Yet, he can’t deny his feelings for Frankie. It’s like a river of fire coursing in his chest and, even now, he licks his lips, remembering how close they had been to Frankie’s just a few hours ago.

No matter what the truth is, he refuses to lose Frankie again, and he wonders how long you should wait after someone dies before it’s okay to break up with them?

Frankie would know, he thinks, looking over at the silent, brooding figure to his left. She always has an answer. He envies her for it.

Frankie is hunched over, her coat bunched up around her ears. He knows she has been crying, her eyes rimmed with redness. He’s not sure what she’s feeling, but he has a few guesses. Shame, regret, foolishness, and maybe something toward him? Something soft and yielding, like a moonflower, slowly unfolding for the night sky?

Something changed in that room.

They changed in that room.

“I’m going to get a drink from the bar upstairs. Would you like to join me?” says Penelope.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Penelope narrows her eyes at him. “You’re going to smoke a cigarette, aren’t you?”

He gives her a smirk and lifts a shoulder in a silent You got me, as he reaches for his crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket. She rolls her eyes, almost affectionately despite the fact that smoking is one of his many habits that she despises.

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When Penelope is out of sight, Beau turns back to Frankie, slipping the unsmoked cigarette back into his coat pocket. He nudges her boot with his own. “You okay?”

There is no answer. She might as well be among the stars twinkling above them. The space between them seems to be shifting, growing, changing. There is a gulf opening between them as Frankie stews further in her emotions.

So, he fills the silence. He talks, crafting long, winding sentences that don’t quite go anywhere and posing questions he answers for himself. He starts with uplifting platitudes, expecting at least a snort at his “We all make mistakes,” or maybe a long-suffering sigh when he says, “At least you updated your passport, so this won’t happen again.”

Frankie remains adrift, so he segues into the mundane, making useless observations about the weather (“It’s pretty dark out here. I’ve never seen stars like this before”) or jabbering away with pointless comments about school (“Mr. Singh said my essay was boorish. Can you believe that?”).

He knows Penelope is waiting for him. He can feel her impatience like a physical beam of light, aimed in his direction despite the fact that he’s not in her line of sight. He thinks of her waiting at the bar for him, alone, probably drumming her nails on the counter and pouting.

But, still, he fills the silence around Frankie, enveloping her in the mundane to bring her closer, back to the river stretching beyond them.

Back to him.

He feels quite frantic to do so. They have lost so much time already, their friendship frayed by his immaturity and fear. He wants to make it right before they disembark.

He is telling her about a comic book he read last week when the coat unfurls, and Frankie sits up. She shifts out of the coat and rolls up the sleeve of her sweater. She angles her elbow so he can see the shiny, pink scar, courtesy of Mrs. Howell’s flamingo-shaped mailbox and a dare.

“You still have it?” He runs a calloused finger across it. “Why did you tell me you didn’t?”

“I could have gotten rid of it, but I didn’t want to. It reminds me of you. And I didn’t want to forget you. When I die, that is.” She pushes her sleeve back down and, after a moment of thought, grabs his hand. “We can’t change the past.”

He nods. “Another time, another place…”

She shrugs.

The water laps gently against the boat, the smell of fish and sulfur mixing in the air. The salt from the water is already drying on their cheeks. The coldness of Death begins to slink away, their limbs humming with warmth.

The silhouette of Souls-Town-on-the-Styx looms closer, a cluster of multi-colored lights, a rainbow amidst the black and gold of the Styx.

In the distance, a thick, shiny tentacle rises out of the depths, as if stretching after a long day’s work, and then disappears so gently the water doesn’t even ripple.

Frankie and Beau are still holding hands. He knows Penelope will begin to wonder what’s taking him so long, that she might be tempted to come back down—and when she does, he knows he shouldn’t be holding Frankie’s hand, but he can’t move.

Not yet. Not when the moonflower has just begun to twist open under the starlight. He wonders when he became so poetic. How’s that for boorish, Mr. Singh?

So, he holds Frankie’s hand, and he holds his breath, knowing this moment will break and trying to remember every second of it before it does.

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Penelope sips her cocktail, appreciating the hint of absinthe and orange on her tongue. She’s happy to note that although her body feels cold and oddly numb, her taste buds are still functional and the anise flavor lingers pleasantly on the inside of her cheeks.

There are so many things to learn about this new reality, but Penelope’s mind wanders as she gazes absentmindedly out at the river. The view isn’t so bad, if one can get used to the sheer monotony of it. Just stars and black water.

It could even be considered quite pretty, really, with the stars sparkling like diamonds against the stark contrast of the dark sky. She wonders if Souls Town is like that as well, darkness and luminescence sitting side-by-side. As Frankie describes it, it sounds dreary but she holds out hope that it’s glitzy and metropolitan, and perhaps Frankie is just uncultured enough not to notice.

Regardless of her personal opinions, she knows this is a vista she would do well to acclimate to, seeing how she will be viewing it every month.

She imagines herself sitting here at the bar, sipping cocktails with her monogrammed luggage set she received for her birthday last year. She envisions herself passing through the glamorous Souls Town once every month to have her special—important—passport stamped.

She will wear her Chanel sunglasses and perhaps a scarf over her hair so she’ll look particularly glamorous and mysterious. She will wear her favorite shade of red lipstick (Fire Vixen No. 2) and Beau will meet her at the dock to take her to their townhouse in New Haven, where he will attend classes at Yale and she will…

She cocks her head to the side, wondering how she will occupy her time. In Life, she had activities and obligations. Can you still have hobbies even if you’re dead?

She decides that she will start her own personal styling business. That’s what she had intended to do when she was still alive, and she sees no reason to change her plans now.

Yes, she thinks, looking around the bar, noting the troll in an ill-fitting suit. Not only is he wearing the wrong size for his body type, but black is not the best color for him; he’d do better with a soft, warm brown and a double-breasted jacket.

She observes the pixie whose shift dress barely allows for her gossamer wings. She’d have far better movement and comfort if she went for an empire waistline and a longer skirt. At the very least, something sleeveless would highlight her wings, which are the loveliest shade of lavender.

Penelope takes another sip of her drink and smiles at the silhouette of Souls Town looming closer. Yes, she certainly has her work cut out for her, but luckily, Penelope Church loves a challenge.

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“Why did you think you had killed her, anyway?” asks Frankie, softly, after a few moments of silence.

Like Beau, she knows this moment will fall apart. Any second now, he will go upstairs to continue his date with Penelope, leaving Frankie to ponder if she will ever feel his lips on hers.

No, not even that.

She would be left wondering where their friendship could have gone if left unfettered by life and her imminent death.

Souls-Town-on-the-Styx should be a comfort. That they have all come out of this relatively unscathed should be a relief. Frankie’s contract with Beau will be complete and her payment received. It’s why she agreed to this whole thing in the first place, after all—the money. It was purely selfish, she reminds herself, and then follows it up with a concerted effort to believe it.

And yet, she hates the sight of the island, looming closer to them.

Beau sighs, bringing her attention back to him and their hands entwined and the question she had asked him. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask earlier.”

“Plausible deniability.” She bumps his shoulder with her own. “So…?”

“I had a mango martini before we started making out.”

“And?”

“She’s allergic to mangoes.”