The River Between Worlds

“I know what you’re thinking,” George droned drunkenly across the walnut desk of his cabin, as a travel clock slid gently from side to side in time with the gentle waves. The fresh water had run out about three days ago and now there was only ale to drink. It was the only thing that stayed fresh enough, “You’re thinking that you should never have come here. That you should have never agreed to come on this doomed voyage.” Captain George of The Bullfinch staggered out of his seat uncurled a finger from the neck of his bottle and pointed it aggressively at his first mate, who stared back at him with round hollow eyes. “Well, no one forced you! You knew where you were coming the moment we left that dock.”

His aggression died as quickly as if came and he leant forward on the table, the clamshell locket hanging loose from his shirt like a pendulum. He spread his free hand out across the walnut wood and letting his empty bottle clatter to the floor he placed his hand around the pendant and breathed a deep sigh. “Well maybe you’re right. Maybe you really shouldn’t have come. Gods, I shouldn’t have let you even consider coming.” The bottle rolled with the sloping boat, making a singsong rumble sound as it went. The first mate’s mouth opened as the boat lolled, “No, no. You don’t have to explain yourself.” George said, raising his hand in quiescence. He turned away to looked out of the murky, panel-glass windows. It was black outside, with the only light coming from the candelabra that hung suspended in his cabin.

The light lapped at the walls of the cabin revealing warped planks, holes, splinters and loose nails. The wood was soft with damp, infected like untreated wounds, stained black with mildew. The Bullfinch groaned sickly underneath him from the rot that devoured her hull and sails. This place was death. The water licked the mouldy belly of the vessel like a hungry carrion beast. The wind raked mysty claws through her sails and basked her in its pestilent breath. Getting to this river hadn’t been so bad but, now they were on it, it was killing them. George turned back to his first mate, who still sat in his chair watching him with empty eyes. “Oh Simon,” He said with a note of affection in his voice. “I wish you were still here.”

The corpse of Simon didn’t respond. He’d died just the day before, in the very chair where he now sat. His face was pale but peaceful, and George had taken care to arrange his limbs to make him look like he was sitting comfortably. He had been the last of the 8 other men aboard the vessel and was easily his oldest friend. His eyes were still open and beginning to turn glassy but George wasn’t ready to accept that he was gone just yet. “I’m going out to stretch my legs and pace the deck. You stay in here and keep warm. Another game of chess when I come back, I think. Yes? Jolly good!” George put on a jovial voice and squeezed Simon’s shoulder before passing through the double door onto the deck.

The air was foetid and clouded by shreds of myst that rolled across the deck in ghostly formations, carried by diseased breaths of wind. “Ah Simpkins. Keep that mainsail at half-mast. We don’t want to move any faster than we are, let the current take us,” Simpkins lay propped against the wooden rail, acting as an anchor to the mainsail rope, keeping it in position. “Owen, Keep her steady!” George ordered to the wheel man who leant over his wheel in death, tied on by his wrists and neck. There were more of course but, some of them had started to rot so George had been forced to either cast them overboard or, burn them on rudimentary pyres.

They had been terribly loyal to come this far with him. He had been honest right from the start that this voyage could easily spell doom for them all but, they had stood firm. After years of service they were not going to give up on their captain now. He stood out on the prow and looked at the roiling water. It was like black ink, slopping against the hull, with greenish mysts belching from the occasional bubble that burst on the surface. They had long lost sight of the sky in place of the ever-present night of the underworld; starless and void both infinite and imprisoning. At what point had they crossed over? He couldn’t remember. The river Styx supposedly had these properties. If someone were to fall in their memories would be permanently wiped clean and they would sink to the bottom as shallow husks of men. Just being near it was enough to sap sanity. George scoured the blackness of the toxic water’s surface, gripping on to his pendant and hanging on the memories that had brought him here in the first place.

There was a thunk, and George looked down to see a bit of wooden debris bounce off the prow. But as he looked down, he noticed that the ripples were catching a light, a green light, a light that was not coming from his ship. He turned and as quick as a lemur, scrambled up the tallest mast to the crow’s nest and, pulling out a telescope, unfolded it and looked ahead. He could see it now, the source of the light. A small green lantern hung from a hooked figurehead attached to a skiff, within which there was one occupant. A thrill overtook him like he hadn’t felt in weeks. He pulled out his knife, shinned along the boom of the mainsail and cut the chords that held it. The sail unfurled like a battered flag, riddled with holes and tatters, but still proud and ready to work. It caught the faint breeze and filled pushing The Bullfinch forward like a toy in a pond.

George climbed down from the top so fast he nearly fell down before he sprinted to the prow and climbed out, so he was hanging on to the figurehead. He began to shout to the boatman, screaming at the top of his lungs. As he inhaled the mists entered his body and he gagged and coughed but kept shouting. “Boatman! Boatman Please! Hear me!” The skiff was drawing closer with each second, though George wasn’t sure if he had been noticed or not. Suddenly his boat gave a crunch and a lurch. Looking down he saw black stone fangs protruding from the water, biting into his boat like a dog on the throat of a burglar. George’s grip, weakened by alcohol and adrenaline, gave out and he fell toward the water. The black lunged up to consume him and he felt its sapping chill before he was even in it.

He landed on something hard with a smack. It was narrow, round and wooden and he was balanced precariously inches from the water surface. The narrow pole swished him across the surface of the water and he found himself deposited on solid wood. It reeked of age, blood and decay and he looked up into the eyes of his rescuer, who placed the oar onto the deck to lean on. He looked like an old man, with a crumpled face, short wiry beard and drawn features. He wore a black gown with a heavy hood that covered his face in shadow but allowed two bright purple eyes to shine out from the darkness. “Boatman…” George whispered aghast. The Boatman regarded him coldly before pointing with the pole end of his oar. “How did you get a boat down here?” His voice was rasping and dry, as if he had never tasted water. “I… There was a map. A riddle. It took me years, but I found a way to travel here from the overworld.” The Boatman’s eyes narrowed.

“You should not have come,”

“I know. But please, you need to help me. You’re the only one.”

“I don’t help anybody,” The Boatman seemed angry now. “I ferry people who pay from one side to the other, that is all.” He raised his oar like a sword, dripping the water of the Styx like blood from a victim. “And I crush the souls of people who would cross me or avoid my fee.” George held up his hands. “No wait please! Please! I know you can’t bring back the dead, that’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” The boatman asked, his oar still raised. George fumbled for his locket and pulled it open, revealing the photo inside. “This is my wife,” He explained quickly. “She went missing, 3 years ago. She’s still missing, I just need to know.” He swallowed hard. “Has she crossed your river?”

The boatman faltered. The strange captain, who had sailed to the literal ends of the earth, only wanted to know if his wife was alive or not. He had been begged before to have people returned, or to be allowed to return to the living, but never this. He lowered his oar and, leaning on it heavily, examined the tiny photograph. “She is beautiful,” The Boatman mused.

“Thank you,” George smiled. “So, have you seen her?” The Boatman stared for a long moment before leaning back. “She has not crossed this river.” George’s eyes widened, and a tear formed in one, “So she’s alive!?”

“I said she hadn’t crossed the river. I didn’t say I hadn’t seen her.” George’s face fell.

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife died in an accident. She drowned after falling from a weak bridge and her body was never recovered. No one to give her a coin. She is trapped on the other side.” The Boatman informed him coldly, pointing toward the bank behind George. “Souls can only cross if they have the coin.” George’s face hardened

“That’s why I’m here.” He pulled out a whole pouch of coins from his pocket and handed it to the boatman. “I want to pay for my wife to cross safely. I hope the extra coin goes some way for covering the delay in payment. Please accept it, I know it is not conventional but, I hope you understand.” The Boatman stared at him for a long moment, then turned his eyes to the brown leather back that the captain held out before him. He stretched out a gnarled bony hand and collected the fee. It disappeared into nothing as he did so, then returned his hand to the oar. “This is, acceptable. However.” His eyes focussed in hard on George. “There is no going back for you. You should know that no-one can cross my river and hope to return.” George lowered his face.

“I… Suspected as much.” He met the Boatman’s eyes again. “My crew, they were all good men, I put coins in all their mouths. Please treat them well won’t you.”

The Boatman turned to look up at the boat. “You brought a crew with you?”

“I’m sorry to say I did.”

“And they followed you all the way down here? Knowing where they were going to?” George smiled.

“They are brave men, all of them. Treat them well.” The Boatman raised a crooked hand and as if at his command, the wind stirred up and with sudden ferocious force, blasted the boat back up the river. “I don’t usually do this,” The Boatman said, his face in an expression of lazy concentration. “But I feel that your crew, are not ready to join this world yet.” George wiped his eyes and stood up to watch his boat disappear into the gloom. “Will they?” The Boatman nodded.

“All present on the boat will awaken when they return to the upper world. I cannot claim what isn’t mine.”

The wind quietened down, and the river Styx was suddenly very still. “Would you like to come with me to collect your wife?” George nodded.

“I would very much.” He was made to seat, and with long deliberate strokes, the Boatman began to row them through the water.