The dank smell of the river Styx mingled with the darkness to cause a hush of anticipation from the “guests.” The darkness was not quite absolute . . . it had a peculiar, sulphurous glare to it, as if the full moon was shining behind dark clouds. Stumbling a little, the group was shepherded towards a vast, towering gate, the entrance to Hades . . .

As they entered the great hall, the guests caught their breath. Although pleasantly warm, it was not uncomfortable, although all around them was the reddish glare of great fires, burning unseen. There appeared to be a mountain ahead, although that turned out to be a great mural covering the entire throne room of the Hall. As they entered, dozens of black jet columns soared to a ceiling so high that it was lost in the gloom; the jet sparkled with a sober brilliance.

All the walls were covered with images of the dead; crossing the Styx, paying their pennies to Charon, avoiding Cerberus, wandering the gloomy corridors of the Underworld. There were stories of Hercules, wrestling with Cerberus; Orpheus, seeking his lost love, with tragic results; of the many heroes who had successfully entered the Kingdom of the Dead and returned to tell the upper world of its gloomy magnificence. Everywhere were bowls of dark fruit, including the gleaming pomegranate, whose seeds condemned the sun-loving Persephone endlessly to rule with Hades in his dark halls – for half of each year.

Slowing approaching a dais at the end of the great chamber, with a little thrill of awe, they saw Hades and Persephone themselves, grandly seated in thrones, viewing them as from a far universe. Hades was tall, dark, and grim; he never smiled, although his manner, as befitted a son of Zeus, was grand. Persephone, although subdued, showed by her brilliant eyes that her memories of earth’s gaiety were not gone. The guides bowed and sank to their knees before the great King of the Dead.