The Ferryman

The green light of the heart monitor pulsed from left to right with a steady, rhythmic beep. Around it, chaos unfurled.

A pair of doors slammed shut and the walls began to rattle with controlled violence as their contents hurtled towards their destination, the discordant melody of a siren blaring from above. Two men, clad in green uniforms, worked in fluid unison to close that which should not be open, and to keep open that which threatened to close. Amidst the chaos, the woman between them opened her eyes and screamed.

A ferryman’s life is a quiet one, for the most part. You take peoples’ coin, row them across, and return for the next passenger. Sometimes passengers want to talk a little before boarding; to share their story, and get to know their ferryman.

Not so long ago, I met a woman who didn’t want to board at all. She seemed to want to wait a while. You get those sometimes, as well.

“Hello,” I said, because that is a helpful way of informing people that you are also a person, “do you have payment?”

She looked confused, which is common nowadays. It feels silly to ask the question at this point, but tradition is important, even if it is meaningless. “Not to worry. Would you like to come aboard?”

“Where am I?” She asked.

I told her.

“Oh.” She replied. “Who are you?”

I told her that, as well.

“I see.” Her face was pale, her brow furrowed. Her light eyes reflected the soft, green light of the river. “Sorry. I’ve usually got better manners than this. I’m Abigail.”

“Would you like to come aboard, Abigail?”

“Why?”

“To reach the other side.” She looked away. “You wish to wait.” She looked back.

“Would that be all right? Just for a while.”

I rested my oars in the ferry and sat. “For a while, yes. But not For Ever.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“Would you like to talk?”

“What about?”

“About your life. Or your death. Or why you are waiting.”

She was silent for a time. “All right,” she said.

I began to listen.

“Since we were very young, my brother and I have been getting into trouble. Or rather, I’ve been getting him into trouble. I remember a time when we were kids, riding our bikes off-road in the old woods. There was a hill - Wickery hill - which loomed over the town like it wanted to gobble it up. The path to the top, if you could call it a path, was notoriously steep. I kept daring him to ride down it, which of course he did. He almost died.

I had to pull him out of a hole at the bottom, he was dangling by one hand from a tuft of grass - that was all that stood between him and following his bike into the pit. Crazy thing is, when I’d finally hauled him out, he thanked me. My goading had lost him his bike, almost got him seriously hurt, or worse - but all he saw was that I’d saved him afterwards. That was the kind of person he was: full of gratitude.”

Time passed, the river flowed, and Abigail spoke. She told me about a childhood spent scrumping for apples, and swimming in neighbours’ pools, and exploring forbidden places both urban and rural. Most of all, she told me about her brother.

“Jason was born with a dodgy heart, but we refused to let that stop him from living. Doctors said he wouldn’t see ten, and we drank to their continued fallibility when he turned 16, then 18, then 21.

I used to joke that the real problem with his heart was that it bled too easily. He couldn’t walk past a homeless person, or a fundraiser with a bucket. Annoyed the hell out of me, but what could you do? He said he didn’t have long, so he had to do as much good as possible with the time that he had. I said that he had to do as much living as he could with the time that he had. He was smart, and I was stubborn, so arguing didn’t get either of us anywhere. In the end, we compromised.”

Abigail’s story was not long, by my standards. In the end, there was nothing left to tell except for, well, the end.

“We were coming home from the shelter. We spent every other Sunday volunteering there - that was the deal: one weekend having fun, one weekend giving back. It’s funny; over the years I’d come to look forward to his weekends more than mine. For all my trying to make his life worthwhile, he ended up giving me so much more.

It was raining hard, but I knew the roads well enough. We were fighting over the stereo; he wanted jazz, I wanted rock. I saw the lights coming, but didn’t realise they were on the wrong side until it was too late…”

In the reflection in her eyes, I saw it. The rain hammering down on metal and glass, all but silencing the music being squabbled over. The truck which took the corner too fast, skidding on slick ground. The laughing faces changing to terror, Abigail slamming on the brakes even as she spun the wheel, turning away from death’s advance to face her brother.

“That was not the end.” I say.

“That’s all I remember.” She replies.

“And yet that was not your final act.”

She stops, and thinks. Her pale hand strokes her chin, then trails down, towards her empty chest.

“Did it work?”

“That is not for me to say.” She does not argue, for which I am grateful. She simply sits, and thinks.

“Do you mind if I wait here for a while? To make sure he’s okay?”

“For a while, yes.” I reply. “But not For Ever.”

She nods, so I leave her. I have other passengers to care for.

Days pass. The river flows. Abigail waits. I am on my way to ask again if she is ready when I see him.

He looks lost, as many do, and afraid. But his skin bears colour still, and his eyes do not reflect the river’s light. He looks much like I imagine Abigail did, before.

“Are you Jason?” I ask. In my hurry I forget ‘hello’. He does not seem to mind.

“How do you know my name? Where am I?” His voice is strained, cracked. He is in pain.

“Somewhere you should not be.” I reply.

“I’m looking for my sister, Abigail. Do you know if she’s here?”

I am not sure whether I should answer. “Yes,” I decide.

“Can you take me to her?” His eyes are pleading. “Please?”

I cannot. “I am sorry,” I reply. “You are not supposed to be here.”

“I don’t think she’s supposed to be here either.” He steps towards me. “She made a mistake. I have to see her. Please - she made them give it to me. They could have saved her - I want to give it back. Please let me give it back.”

“She has made her choice.”

“But it’s my fault!” He is crying now, desperation suffusing his voice. “She shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have been distracting her. I shouldn’t have even still been alive...”

“Yet you were.”

I leave the boat to lay a skeletal hand on his shoulder. He seems so small, so fragile. There are glimmers of green in his eyes now.

“She chose to live the way she did because it made her happy. She found meaning in it. You gave her that happiness, and in exchange she gave you life, in the hope that you would find happiness as well.”

He is silent for almost as long as I am willing to give him. “What if I don’t want my life?”

“Then give it to those who need you. I understand volunteering is good.” I steer him by the shoulder around, away from the river’s light, towards the place where he belongs.

“All lives are short by my reckoning. Live yours as Abigail would have wanted you to. Try to find the happiness she wanted for you. You can spend For Ever on the other side when you are finished. I will be here to hear your story, and to ferry you across.”

“Will Abigail be here as well? Will I be able to see her when I...” He asks, turning back.

“Not until it is your Time.” I reply. It is what he needs to hear.

Abigail is watching the river when I reach her. I join her, for a while. It is beautiful.

“Are you ready to cross?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I need to know that my brother’s okay.”

I should not tell her. “He is.” But I am allowed to make mistakes, occasionally.

She looks at me, bright eyes trying to read a face that is not there.

“How do you know?”

“That is not for me to say.”

She looks past me, out across the river. Towards the other side. “What will I find there?” she asks.

“That is not for me to say.”

She sighs, stands, and steps onto the ferry. I begin to row; long, silent strokes which carry us gently across emerald waters.

“What is for you to say?” She asks.

I think.

“I hope you will be happy there.” I reply.

This story was loosely inspired by the song The Ministry of Lost Souls by Dream Theater. Give it a listen below:

This story features a phenomenon known as Survivor's Guilt. This is an element of PTSD experienced by some people when they survive a life-threatening experience which others do not.

Symptoms of Survivor's Guilt can include obsessive thoughts about the event, feelings of helplessness and disconnection, and thoughts of suicide. If you or someone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please call your local hotline.