Don’t Pay The Ferryman

Since before the dawn of recorded time, the boatman has worked the oar to bring the dead across the river Styx.

He has forgotten the number of nameless faces his boat has ferried from the land of the living to the land of the dead.

One thing has always bothered him: The dead seem bewildered, unaware of their situation. The worst are the young. So naïve about life itself, having only a moment to experience it.

Sometimes, he’s glad to ferry a soul across the water. To him, the soul he carries will be freed from life’s pain and suffering—the woman dying of cancer. The man whose body could no longer breathe but fought on with every gasping breath.

He knew they would feel no pain where they were going.

Once in a great while, he makes a wish and asks the gods to allow him to rest, even if it means fading away to dust.

But rest never comes as the boatman. He has done his job too well, and the gods are too lazy to find a bigger fool than himself.

Today, he brings a darkling who died in battle, a great honor. He will end up the same as the cowards who ran or great victors who died of old age—all the same once they cross the Styx.

Still, he hopes that one day someone will ask, “You look tired. May I carry your burden for a while?” as he did long ago when he was free to roam the sunless lands.