pardon the pun. My right foot was hovering over the water when
her hand on my shoulder sent a shock through my spine.
“ Don’t
go in the water.”
I returned my foot
to dry land and shook my head as I dragged myself from her touch
before all the blood left my brain. I blinked a few times to clear
the mud from my thoughts.
“ Why
not? I thought you said to go to the city.”
“ We
do, but you can’t touch the water of the River Styx.”
I stared at her for
a moment, looked at the stream, then back at her, trying not to
laugh—I didn’t know if doing so would hurt her
feelings—but couldn’t stop myself.
“ The
River Styx. Really? Disappointing.”
She raised an
eyebrow.
“ I
expected something bigger, a bit more...torrential.”
I gazed back at the
over-sized creek, searching the flowing water for signs of damned
souls sliding by under its surface, eyes blank, mouths open in
eternal screams. Think I saw one of those ornamental Japanese
goldfish—koi. Big, but I didn’t notice any teeth.
“ How
do we get to the other side?”
She looked left,
then right. “I suppose we have to find the ferryman.”
The
second the word cleared her lips, a solitary puff of fog appeared on
the far bank. It roiled and moved in place for a minute, then struck
out across the creek, misty tendrils trailing behind. A minute and a
half later, it reached us. The fog cleared to reveal a flat-bottomed
raft bearing a stooped old man with long pole in hand. A black patch
covered one of his eyes, the other bulged and stared beside his hook
nose; long, stringy hair hung past his shoulders. He looked enough
like Marty Feldman’s rendition of Igor in Young
Frankenstein that
I expected Mel Brooks to shout: ‘Action!’.
Piper took a step
toward the boat but I caught her by the sleeve of her shirt,
stopping her.
“ Whatever
you do, don’t pay him 'til we get to the other side.”
She looked at me
like she thought she’d been wrong about the brain damage.
“ Come
on...Chris de Burgh. ‘Don’t pay the Ferryman’. You
must know it.”
She shook her head.
“‘ The
Lady in Red’? ‘Spanish Train’? ‘Patricia the
Stripper’?”
A blank stare.
“ You
guys need better tunes up in Heaven.”
Nothing worse than
funny references your audience doesn’t understand. It felt
like I was talking to my ex-wife—she never appreciated classic
rock humor, either.
“ Are
you done?”
I paused a second
before nodding. She stepped onto the raft, making it rock gently; I
hesitated but followed. The bent ferryman stared at us with his one
eye but didn’t push off. I looked at him expectantly—this
was his job, he should know what to do—then turned my gaze on
Piper, who was staring across the stream toward the city. I sidled
up beside her.
“ What
are we supposed to do now?” I asked out of the corner of my
mouth, one eye on the ferryman.
“ You
can’t wait until the other side to pay him, no matter what
this de Burgh fellow told you.”
Her mouth crinkled
up in a smirk and I almost laughed aloud, but the urge dissipated
quickly as the man’s unblinking eye bore into me. He extended
his hand. I patted my pockets and found them as empty as when I’d
set out to feed the ducks.
Shouldn’t
have left all my change to tip the barkeep.
“ Pay
him what?”
“ I
don’t know, I’m an angel. Ask him.”
I took a hesitant
step toward him. The wrinkles in his cheeks and forehead were deep
enough to be crags; I thought, if I looked close enough, I’d
find tiny mountaineers scaling them. I didn’t want to look
that close.
“ Excuse
me, sir. We need to reach the other bank.”
He stared at me,
mouth pulled down in a scowl. I swallowed the lump forming in my
throat and rephrased the question, not liking how this was
proceeding. I gestured across the stream.
“ What
will it cost to get there?”
His palm up,
expectant hand turned, the exaggerated knuckles folding all but one
of his twig-like fingers back until his hand
her hand on my shoulder sent a shock through my spine.
“ Don’t
go in the water.”
I returned my foot
to dry land and shook my head as I dragged myself from her touch
before all the blood left my brain. I blinked a few times to clear
the mud from my thoughts.
“ Why
not? I thought you said to go to the city.”
“ We
do, but you can’t touch the water of the River Styx.”
I stared at her for
a moment, looked at the stream, then back at her, trying not to
laugh—I didn’t know if doing so would hurt her
feelings—but couldn’t stop myself.
“ The
River Styx. Really? Disappointing.”
She raised an
eyebrow.
“ I
expected something bigger, a bit more...torrential.”
I gazed back at the
over-sized creek, searching the flowing water for signs of damned
souls sliding by under its surface, eyes blank, mouths open in
eternal screams. Think I saw one of those ornamental Japanese
goldfish—koi. Big, but I didn’t notice any teeth.
“ How
do we get to the other side?”
She looked left,
then right. “I suppose we have to find the ferryman.”
The
second the word cleared her lips, a solitary puff of fog appeared on
the far bank. It roiled and moved in place for a minute, then struck
out across the creek, misty tendrils trailing behind. A minute and a
half later, it reached us. The fog cleared to reveal a flat-bottomed
raft bearing a stooped old man with long pole in hand. A black patch
covered one of his eyes, the other bulged and stared beside his hook
nose; long, stringy hair hung past his shoulders. He looked enough
like Marty Feldman’s rendition of Igor in Young
Frankenstein that
I expected Mel Brooks to shout: ‘Action!’.
Piper took a step
toward the boat but I caught her by the sleeve of her shirt,
stopping her.
“ Whatever
you do, don’t pay him 'til we get to the other side.”
She looked at me
like she thought she’d been wrong about the brain damage.
“ Come
on...Chris de Burgh. ‘Don’t pay the Ferryman’. You
must know it.”
She shook her head.
“‘ The
Lady in Red’? ‘Spanish Train’? ‘Patricia the
Stripper’?”
A blank stare.
“ You
guys need better tunes up in Heaven.”
Nothing worse than
funny references your audience doesn’t understand. It felt
like I was talking to my ex-wife—she never appreciated classic
rock humor, either.
“ Are
you done?”
I paused a second
before nodding. She stepped onto the raft, making it rock gently; I
hesitated but followed. The bent ferryman stared at us with his one
eye but didn’t push off. I looked at him expectantly—this
was his job, he should know what to do—then turned my gaze on
Piper, who was staring across the stream toward the city. I sidled
up beside her.
“ What
are we supposed to do now?” I asked out of the corner of my
mouth, one eye on the ferryman.
“ You
can’t wait until the other side to pay him, no matter what
this de Burgh fellow told you.”
Her mouth crinkled
up in a smirk and I almost laughed aloud, but the urge dissipated
quickly as the man’s unblinking eye bore into me. He extended
his hand. I patted my pockets and found them as empty as when I’d
set out to feed the ducks.
Shouldn’t
have left all my change to tip the barkeep.
“ Pay
him what?”
“ I
don’t know, I’m an angel. Ask him.”
I took a hesitant
step toward him. The wrinkles in his cheeks and forehead were deep
enough to be crags; I thought, if I looked close enough, I’d
find tiny mountaineers scaling them. I didn’t want to look
that close.
“ Excuse
me, sir. We need to reach the other bank.”
He stared at me,
mouth pulled down in a scowl. I swallowed the lump forming in my
throat and rephrased the question, not liking how this was
proceeding. I gestured across the stream.
“ What
will it cost to get there?”
His palm up,
expectant hand turned, the exaggerated knuckles folding all but one
of his twig-like fingers back until his hand
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