Crossroads

    Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
    There's a woman who lives further down the path, where the dirt widens into crossroads.  La Llorona they call her-- the woman who weeps.  She'll let you pass, for a fee.  I try to sell her my soul.  She says my currency's no good here.  She's got eleven in kind, worthless to every foot of ground they occupy and she doesn't want the dozen.  I have nothing for her.  I can only offer a wager.  Her sobs turn into quick huffs of laughter and I find myself pulled to the other side of the road.  I guess she liked her odds.
    The fields stretch  until your vision is strained, as if everything is seen in your peripheral vision.  When the world comes back into focus, I notice the driftwood at my feet.  It doesn't drift in water, it litters the mud.  The Styx River wasn't always a channel of dirt.  There used to be a current here, y'know?  From what I'm told, it was littered in Summer swimmers.  Now even the ferryman is out of a job.
    Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
    You'll get to the coastline on the other side.  They always do.  The Garden used to be what they called "lush".  It had all them pretty words to chaperone it.  The only thing that grows here nowadays are the clouds getting darker.  Rocks and dirt occupy the hills.  It's still a magnificent view, but you can see it's a shell of the good days.  There's a tree on a distant hill, you squint and you can see the bold trunk carrying the twigs upon its head like a crown of triumph.  You get close enough and you can see the last of its harvest dropped and rotting at its roots, back when this place had seasons.  You can see it for youself.  I have, we all have.  It's easy to lose yourself here, easy to stay and forget why you came.  The longer you wander, the quicker he comes.  He's old now, withered in his age, though he still looks good in his bowler hat, suit, and tie.  He'll invite you to dinner, and everyone knows to decline.  Unfortunate for me, I act the role of Tourist to pay La Llorona what she's owed.
    He lives nearby it turns out, just down the crags of what was once a waterfall.  He's fashioned shapes from the rocks that look like weathered steps.  I follow behind him slowly as he groans at every step.  He tries to hide his discomfort but I know he's gotten old.  Everyone knows.  He doesn't want to be feared, he just doesn't want your pity.
    Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
    It's hard not to let your mind wander too much here.  No, it's important you not let your mind wander too much here.  There's a fog in your mind, turns your thinking to mush, makes you stay, complacent.  Happens to the Tourists all the time.  Me, I just let him think I'm part of the crowd.  The cave he leads me to is well decorated, for a Soviet flat in the 1960's.  To each their own.  The wallpaper is red, of course.  Why wouldn't it be?
    I let my mind wander a bit too much for my liking.  The fogging feels good, like a kind of high.  Makes you forget to wake sometimes.  When I snap myself from the daze I'm sitting at a small plastic table.  Me on one side, him on the other, and the hinges to fold everything up inbetween us.  It makes me sad to think he once feasted at grand oaken slabs with a hundred guests.  Then as the years went by, the tables got smaller.  Then I look down at the bowl of flies he's arranged for me and I lose my appetite.
    He doesn't say much, he just likes to keep company.  I stay focused on one thing so I don't lose myself to the haze.  I switch my focus to something else so I don't lose myself to the same.  At some point I snap into focus and notice the little well-dressed man isn't there anymore.  I must've lost myself at one point or another, we all have, it happens.  I don't know where he's gotten to but I can hear him mutter to himself in low groans and tongues only feral dogs can understand.  He's walked down the hallway, perhaps in need of the bathroom, perhaps calling it a night.  I sweep into the living room and notice the smell of rot.  Not of flesh as much as it is the plants he refused to care for.  Too lazy to throw out the dead leaves, he's made a room of accidental potpourri.  I sift through the artifacts he's so proud of on the shelf.  His greed for attention allows them to be presented unguarded, but unfortunately for him, unnoticed by anyone.
    The bag of silver weighs heavy in my palm.  With this, La Llorona can get rid of all those surplus souls that occupy her yard.  A hundred souls could coast over the river for a single piece of silver better than any copper coin.  She'll stay in business a while.  As long as there's someone to die, there'll be a woman to weep over them.  With the declining death counts, though, she'll be lucky to stay her ground before the thirtieth coin is spent.  All of a sudden I feel a chill in the stagnant air and wind sweeps my hair.  I pull my focus away from the coin pressed between my fingers and look around.  I'm back in The Garden, the bag in my coat pocket.  I've lost myself to the world again.  Lost my focus.
    Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
    The ground sweeps under me.  It's like I lift my feet and the land moves itself for me.  The daze is getting stronger, I'm losing track of what I was doing a lot quicker.  I must be getting closer.  There were once the bones of leviathans buried deep into these fields, creating hills for all the souls to picnic on.  But the wind, it's gotten warmer and sharper.  It's cut away at all the stone and grass and now the bare bones of the countryside are beginning to show again.  On one of these hills I look to the pyramids that've shrunk in size, still a monument to the ego as much as they ever were.
    My steps take me to the edge of the tallest one.  But it's no monolith by any means.  Not anymore.  Not these days.  Even the stones are decomposing.  There's no one to worship these old tales anymore.  The gods still live, but they've stepped out from the shadows now that they know there's not an audience to be had.  That's what makes it so easy to gain the attendance of the old sun himself.
    He still looks like a bird, but his feathers are in patches due to lice or fleas or whatever ails the gods nowadays.  I tell him why I'm here.  I've come for the sun.  He says nothing but I know the proud bastard wouldn't dare speak in words, only actions.  He'll either let me turn my back on him and walk down his chalky bricks, or destroy my body and let my ashes get swept into the gray.
    I tell him the people don't believe in anything anymore.  They come here and still believe it's a fantasy of their own making.  If I had the sun, the people would worship again.  They could rejoice in something that hasn't been seen in generations.  I focus on my speech and the haze comes back into my mind.  All of a sudden, I see the old bird walk away.  I don't know how much into my speech I got before he decided to stop listening, or if he ever listened at all.  But his answer is clear.  I don't know why he let me live, maybe he pitied me.  The last believer.  I stand upon the peak of his monument and let the fog into my mind.  I've given up.  I let the body wander.  The world shifts through my peripherals and I feel the mud stick beneath my boots.
    But La Llorona weeps and smiles.  She got what she wanted, but we all can't, can we?  I stand at crossroads to decide another path.  La Llorona smiles between sobs and decides her next fee.  These gods used to be a reflection of the people that worshipped them.  And I suppose they still do.  They're just as weak and tired and ready to die like the rest of humanity.  Like the last of them.  But I suppose they keep to their jobs to occupy the final chapters of this world.  Gotta stay relevant.  Gotta keep your head above water.  But when the River Styx itself has sank below the mire, what's the point of drowning your anger and regrets in your last few moments?
    Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?