CROSSING

The last thing I remembered was the sharp pain under my breast bone, like so
mebody was twisting a knife in there, then I was on my knees on the thick carpet
in my study, clawing under my shirt at my chest. The pain got worse after that
and I suppose I must have passed out.
When I came to I was fully clothed, lying on top of a large bed. It was pret
ty comfortable there, the bed swaying gently from side to side and I lay awhile,
just staring at the ceiling, so glad the pain had gone.
‘Somebody must’ve found me and called a doctor,’ I thought. ‘They’ve given m
e a shot and left me here to recover.’
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the comforting swaying of the bed. Then a few t
hings occurred to me.
‘Hospital beds don’t usually sway from side to side,’ I thought. ‘The rooms
aren’t as bare as this. There’s usually someone around.’
Where was I ?
I sat up slowly, a hand tight over my chest, not wanting that pain to start
up again. My head felt surprisingly clear, considering what they’d given me and
I swung my legs onto the floor. Gingerly I stood up, waiting for the knife to tw
ist in my chest but thankfully it didn’t. I walked over to the door, opened it a
nd looked out.
There was a broad passageway ouside the door. Beyond that a wooden topped ra
iling. Beyond that water.
Water !?
Puzzled and a little afraid I leaned against the doorway, wondering how I ha
d come to be on this boat instead of recovering in hospital. Maybe I was dreamin
g, having a nightmare of some kind brought on by what they’d given me for the pa
in.
But the slap of the water against the boat’s hull sounded real enough to me
though.
I stepped out and glanced up and down the passageway. There was no-one else
around. I walked over and and leaned on the wooden rail and looked out. The boat
was on a very broad river moving diagonally against the current towards the opp
osite bank but it was too far away to make out any details.
Just then I heard a door opening further up the passageway. I turned and saw
a man coming out. He must’ve seen me when he glanced round but he didn’t give a
ny indication. He walked over to the rail, took a pipe from his jacket pocket an
d started cleaning it out with a short silver knife.
He didn’t seem particularly sociable and I would normaly have let it go but
he seemed to be the only one around and I had to find out what was going on. I s
trolled up beside him and leaned on the rail but he didn’t look up, just continu
ed cleaning out his pipe, tapping the bowl on the rail and letting the ashes fal
l over the side.
“I think there’s been some mistake,” I said to him eventually but he didn’t
even acknowledge my presence and carried on scraping at the bowl of his pipe. “T
here’s been a mistake,” I repeated. “I shouldn’t be here. I ought to be in hospi
tal.”
He continued to ignore me and tapped his pipe on the rail again and emptied
it. I could see some coils of dead tobacco falling into the water below.
For the first time I noticed how black the water was. Black like I’d never s
een before. Black and deep. Where the boat knifed across the current, the water
foamed white against the hull but this only made the black even blacker. A tiny
shiver of fear wriggled through me but I tried to shrug it aside.
I looked back at the stranger beside me. His attitude was beginning to irrit
ate me. “Look, there’s something wrong here !” I said sharply. “How did I get on
board this boat ?”
The man finished cleaning his damned pipe then slowly looked round. He stare
d at me for a time before speaking. “You don’t know ?” he grunted.
“Know what ?” I asked.
 “Why you’re here ?”
“Of course not,” I told him.“ The last thing I remember was the pain in my c
hest then I must’ve passed out. When I came round I was ….”
The look of understanding that came into my eyes must’ve told him I suddenly
knew. He turned away and started filling his pipe.
I gripped the rail tighter, the realization of what had happened stunning me
. “So I died !” I muttered aloud, gazing out unseeing over the dark water. “Back
there in my study – I died !” I glanced at the stranger for a reaction but he s
aid nothing so his silence confirmed that I had guessed correctly.
Fear and wonder ran through me at the same time. Dead ! I was dead !! My lif
e had ended !!! At least it had happened quickly and I was grateful for that. Th
ere had been no long drawn out suffering.
Then something else occurred to me. I was dead yet still felt, well….alive.
I mean I could see, hear, think, feel. If there was supposed to be nothing after
death, I wouldn’t be capable of these, wouldn’t be here now.
“So there is life after death !” I muttered in amazement.
“For some,” the stranger muttered, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe.
I didn’t really hear him. I was still staring out over the river, still gett
ing used to the discoveries I’d just made.
We were nearing the opposite bank now and I could make out some of it. A jet
ty pointed towards us, stcking out into the river like a long, bony, beckoning f
inger. There was a figure standing on the bank watching us approach but I couldn
’t make him out from this distance.
I glanced back at the stranger. He had filled his pipe and was now lighting
it, holding a match over the bowl and puffing out small wisps of smoke. I smiled
at him, suddenly understanding his earlier attitude. He was puzzled and afraid,
just like me.
“So you died too ?” I said, still smiling at him.
He shook his head and continued to puff on his pipe.
I frowned. “Not dead ? Then who ---.”
“I’m the Ferryman,” he interrupted, taking the pipe from his mouth.
“The Ferryman ?” I repeated, frowning. “You mean this is your work ?”
He nodded.
It all seemed strange, unreal somehow but I decided I had to play along with
it all till I got to the bottom of things. Then I thought, if this chap says he
’s the Ferryman I suppose I ought to humour him. I felt for my wallet but it was
n’t where I usually keep it. I searched through my other pockets but they were a
ll empty.
“I’m sorry,” I said to him, “I can’t seem to find my wallet. I won’t be able
to pay.”
He glanced at me. “You will,” he replied.
His pipe was well lit now and he seemed satisfied with it. The smell of the
tobacco was strong and sweet as the soft breeze wafted it past me. He turned and
started back to the door he’d come out of earlier and I could see now that it w
as the wheelhouse. I caught his arm as he walked away.
“If you’re the Ferryman you’ll know where we’re going,” I said.
He jerked with his pipe in the direction of the approaching jetty. “There,”
was all he said.
“Does it have a name – this place ?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, just stared at me in silence.
“Well the river then – do I know it ?”
He continued to stare at me. It was a strange look. Not pity or contempt or
anything like that. More puzzlement. Like I should have known.
“It’s called the Styx,” he said eventually, then jerked his arm free and wen
t back into the wheelhouse.
I staggered back against the rail then turned and looked down at the dark ri
ver. Something started gnawing away at me then. Cold and black. Like the water.
The boat started to slow and I glanced up. We were nearing the jetty and the
figure I’d seen earlier was strolling along it. He seemed in no hurry, like he
had all the time in the world.
 It was with a sickening comprehension that I realized who he was and why he
was there. He was coming to meet us.
To meet me.
The throb of the engine died in the boat and it coasted slowly in the last f
ew yards then bumped softly against the jetty.
The figure walking along was closer and I could make him out quite clearly n
ow. Quite clearly.
And he was grinning.