The Debt of The Extraordinary

Thanatos was chained by Sisyphus. A moment of curiosity with a secret aim led to death having no power over humanity. Sisyphus made it so. But this story is what the myth gets wrong.

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The liminal sky dressed blue beyond the gate and stretched further still toward their destination. There was a story in the clouds. They formed and shaped an illusion of movement as the earth spun. The illusion of Sisyphus’ life. The daisies moved, the green grass lull, and the living trees held their breath.

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While everything lived still, like the low-cut grass and the ants trailing somewhere off to the side of their polished shoes, they were going to work; the ants, they were. The breeze awoke the goosebump skin of men in suits. The leaves, dried, feared to cross their paths but skittered lazily on.

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These men weren’t men with women or lives. They were men alone, and so they lined up before The Labour’s Crown. Each of them wore their socks pulled high and their trousers pulled even higher, groomed into a uniform of financial desperation. They all shuffled, except Sisyphus; he lifted his chin above his collar and pushed forward through the open gate of the crown. No one glanced at each other.

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But they all shouted: “CONQUER! DEFEAT DEATH! CONQUER!”

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In the songs, the poets kept singing to modern flesh that Sisyphus was a king of Ephyra who put death in a box. He was shrewd enough to chain the reaper and leave the world without a death sacrifice or a funeral for a year. That’s the awful crime the legends talked about. But as he looked at his callous hand and chalked, dried skin, work outside and work inside felt like a nuisance; it felt like a cult-driven attack on his peace.

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Sisyphus was a man with a thick neck, a button nose with two black holes for breath, and a jaw that seemed too firm. He was clean-shaven with razor bumps that were fading, but pimples popped up in the wrong places, and he wore his hair low. Under his scrutinizing brows, his eyes fixed on the gate, studying whether a camera was installed; then, the guard moved toward him, and Sisyphus saw the lens of a camera mounted to the man’s chest.

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The guard was close. His breath was an unrung bell of scorn. The wind blew away the mint scent that dried on his tongue. His eyes were marble, the way tiles were; you could not see your reflection in them, and his emotions remained buried beneath that polished round sphere. One of the guard’s burnished buttons did not make it through the hole of his overcoat. He took a cuff from his belt, pushed the key in, and grabbed Sisyphus’s left hand, then right, and clasped it around his pale wrist. The guard held it there for a second to dare Sisyphus and the other white-collared bastards to fall out of place. When no one moved, the guard pushed Sisyphus towards The Labour’s Crown.

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“It is the fear of death that awakens greed, then labour wins and there’s no pay.”

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Before Sisyphus could comprehend what was being whispered under the breath of the guard, he saw a castle in bright yellow off in the distance. It was a beacon of limpid light for those inside, but for him, it was a stygian reminder of everything out of reach. The structure was so far away it looked small enough to hide behind his thumb. Women were piling inside with prom dresses and masks. All the trees that should’ve been blocking the castle were freshly cut down. Where these trees once stood was the boulder Sisyphus was staring at.

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He reached the stone and lifted his handcuffed hands. He pushed. His chest heaved; the stone stayed put. His suit tore at the shoulder. There were many of these boulders blocking him from reaching the castle. Some say the Gods put it there. But only the ordinary believe in God on the word of the extraordinary. Sisyphus had a log to stand on; he still wasn’t tall enough.

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The legend described a rugged peak in Tartarus where divine winds fought the climber. But Sisyphus knew the mountain was men manipulating men over the other side of a boulder; like a migraine, it left him hyperesthetic and he climbed with these divine winds only to find his enemy made him nauseous and exhausted, all while presenting a weaker counterpart as both the cause and the weapon.

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Sisyphus jammed the log against a fulcrum left in the dirt, heaved with his legs until the wild element of wood bark marked his upper back, and used the leverage to hoist himself onto the first boulder. After he caught his breath, he began a long climb.

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“Most have heart attacks before they even descry the floor plates,” the guard said leadenly.

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Sisyphus didn’t look back. “I’m not most.”

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The guard wiped his nose. “Truth’s thicker than blood, Sisyphus. Rushes to the head too fast.”

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Sisyphus eyed the lens on the man’s chest. “Trade places. You die, I go home.”

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The boulder felt like a nail file: gritty, but smooth enough to leave no residue. The stone was bumpy and firm; it made him wince as he pressed his knees against it.

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It wasn’t dark yet. Sisyphus’ jaw dropped, loose and locked. His grey eyes unfocused. The air in the mouth was warm; the breeze was cold. His cheeks were warm, his hands too, and the green veins bulged, snaking under his sleeves. The climb had promised a kingdom for his ego, but the summit offered only a realization that tasted like doom. He could feel himself being choked by what he saw once he could stand.

…

Sisyphus descried the redesign. A partner wasn’t the prize; he’d been sold a collection of masked mannequins in prom dresses. He was told that the zips would fall, if he just kept climbing; if he just showed them the money. But from the summit, he saw the yellow castle was just another factory floor. The legends lied about the Gods pushing the stone back down. He felt the floor plates vibrate as a mechanical release hissed; the ramp tilted, and the extraordinary had reset the line. Sisyphus wasn’t moving. He sat on the boulder. Took his shoes off and saw where his toes wore through the leather at the inner front of the shoes. Now his feet were cold. The mannequins stayed on the factory floor, they were to be his future consorts. His responsibilities grew; the burden systematically tightened.