“Way down low where the sun don’t go, there’s a horror down there that words can’t show…”
                The baritone voice carried dead weight over the smoky yellow haze of the premoridial bayou. It hovered for a second, then sank, like a stone, or a body, into the murky slime.
                “Way down here where the stars know fear, there’s a horror with us from which the angels steer clear…”
                The turquoise blue plants with clotted orange flowers stood stock still in the lack of breeze. His voice echoed for a minute, across the empty waste lands, reaching no ears. Charon, ferryman of the dead, poled his run-down raft through the slimy waters, slowly, slowly, with nowhere to go. No dead today, no dead to ferry, no dead, no death, no sound except his lone baritone voice carrying heavily across the aromatic haze of the yellow-green-orange bayou. He floated in silence for a minute, pondering the next verse, and became distracted by eternal questions and the ancient dreams of a ferryman. He dreamed of an ocean, or a river, or of a lake, clear like crystal. He dreamed of seeing the bottom, or of being tossed about by currents. He dreamed of salt in the air, or rain, or thunderstorms instead of the heady, soporific perfume that eminated from the plants and the muck. He drifted, until with a soft bump, he hit the far bank, the final destination of the dead, the silky sand padding his landing. He stood on the raft, lazily regarding the low lying shrubbery and the tall grasses, the trees reminiscent of savannah trees, with human faced lions that lurked beneath. The grass rustled, and Charon slowly turned his vision to the noise. What came through the turquoise and straw colored grasses was a man, or not quite a man, depending on how you looked at it. He wore a soft blue robe over his shoulders, and he had a kind face.
                “Hello Charon,” he said with his gentle voice.
                “Ah, Ramiel,” Sang Charon, “how nice to see you again. How are things?”
                “The same as they ever were. And you, Charon? How is it for you, ferrying the dead?”
                “Slow,” Said Charon, “slow. I wonder if it has finally grown still on the other plain. Still as this bog, but stiller.”
                The man regarded him with steady, unwavering, but clear eyes.
                “Perhaps,” he said, “Perhaps it is over.”
                They were silent in the silence.
                “Come with me, Charon,” Said Ramiel softly, “leave your raft and come with me.”
                He offered his hand. Charon shied away.
                “Forgive me, Ramiel,” he said, “for I cannot leave my raft.”
                “Yes you can, Charon, if you wish to.”
                “I am too scared,” he whispered.
                “Then farewell, ferryman, may your journey be an easy one.”
                And with that Ramiel went on his way, through the long, skeletal grasses. He walked along the soft, yellowed peat, softly inhaling the haze. The bayou was strewn with bodies, naked, slumbering bodies that barely moved in their eternal sleep. Unprotected souls that had given in to the heat, and then the haze. He alone was awake. Sphinxes and manticores with lolling heads and rolling eyes padded softly past the sleepers, as guardians, appetites long since gone. Above, the lone harpie would wheel overhead, occasionally uttering a soft, whispered cry. There was no pain here, just silence, and the haze. Ramiel stepped gingerly over bodies and around trees, carefully watching his path as he walked. His body could not sweat, but he felt the heat close in and sink into his robes and his bones. He knew their names. He knew all of their names, and sometimes as he walked he would softly speak to them, say their names, mention their lives, tell them to sleep well. He was, after all, their keeper.
                Finally, the grasses parted, the ground grew harder and began to rise, and he began to climb, up that little hill, to the little shack that sat atop. It was a simple, pitiful thing, this shack, constructed by his own hands, from rough hewn planks from crooked marsh trees. He came to the door, cleaned his feet, and entered. He walked to the front of the room, and kneeled in front of the planks of wood nailed together on the wall. Once, long ago, many souls had come to kneel beside him, and say with him passionate words of love and hope. But one by one, slowly, slowly, they had all stripped off their humanity and fallen asleep in the haze. Ramiel had watched them go, and was now left on his own, wondering what it was that they dreamed of.
                He kneeled in silence, and prayed. He prayed harder than he had last time, and that time he had prayed harder than the time before, and each time he came here he prayed harder and harder, until he nearly convulsed with concentration. His jaw was shut tight, like a trap, the veins in his head stood out, and tears squeezed themselves out of his eyes and rolled down his face. He prayed to his god that his god may, someday, forgive him for his sins, for his wrongs that were committed so long ago. More than anything, Ramiel wanted to be forgiven. At long last, Ramiel stood, kissed the cross on the wall, and turned to leave his beloved little sanctuary. He would journey back across the bayou, through the dark forests and over the rough mountains, just to journey back again the second he was done. He had made this trip a thousand times, each time just to show his love to God.
                He walked slowly, pensively, towards the door, silent in his longing. But there was a light in the door way, as bright and golden as the sun that he hadn’t seen for an eternity. A man walked through the door, seemingly pursued by the light. He was a tall, sculpted man with a stern face. He had mean eyes.
                “Ramiel,” Said the angel.
                Ramiel said nothing, but simply looked at him with pleading eyes.
                “Ramiel it is time. Why have you not arisen?”
                The kindly man said nothing.
                “Where is the beast? Where is the whore? Where is your army?”
                “The beast,” Said Ramiel softly, “was as gentle as a puppy and only wanted to be loved, so I made him my pet. The whore was only a dreamer, so I listened to her words. And my army was troubled, so I let them go to sleep.”
                He averted his eyes from those of his heavenly visitor.
                “And why have you not arisen?”
                “I no longer wish to go against the Lord,” choked Ramiel, “I only wish for his love, and that is why I built this church and changed my name and led my army to do the same.”
                “Some church,” sneered the angel, “the church I built was one of marble and alabaster, and truly fit for the glory of God. And you could change your name for all of eternity, but you will still always be Satan.”
                “Please Azaerat!” Cried Ramiel, “spare me your judgment, for my only wish is that God will forgive his wayward people!”
                “He will never forgive you,” Said Azaerat, “So you may as well arise, so the prophecy can be fulfilled.”
                “I will not,” Said Ramiel, or Satan, “the prophecy will not be fulfilled, for I am only full of love for every being and soul in existence. There is goodness in all of us, from my darkest demons to you, and our maker. To rise up and spark war among all would only betray my love.”
                “Then you put us all in a tough place, Satan, surely God will love you even less if you do not follow his orders.”
                “God is infinite!” Sobbed Ramiel, “God can change age old prophecies and give us all happiness and love!”
                “Perhaps,” Said Azaerat coldly, “but I’m sure that he will be waiting. For you are still Satan. You are not a being of love.”
                And with a flash he disappeared, leaving Ramiel kneeling on the floor of his church. He never left that place, but rather spent the rest of eternity in prayer.