The Crossing

The first thing is the silence. But it’s not empty. It's full, thick, humming in my teeth like the pressure of held breath underwater. It’s not pretty, it just is.

I wake up and there's sand everywhere. It goes on forever, or maybe it doesn't, maybe I just can't see the end because the light is so weird. Is it morning? It doesn't feel like morning. It doesn't feel like evening either. The sand is pale, an extravagant, crushed-pearl white. The sea does nothing but breathe. In and out.

There are people here. They’re moving around and weaving things. Boats, I think? Boats from driftwood and reeds and, wait, is that light? They're holding light in their hands like it's thread. That can't be right. Nobody's talking. Everyone just knows what to do, apparently. Everyone but me.

When I try to stand my legs are useless. Completely useless. Like they forgot how legs work. The water touches my ankles, it’s warm and forgiving against my skin.

There's this flutter in my head. A memory trying to happen. It doesn't.

I ask this man nearby, he’s a skinny guy, weaving rope—"Where are we?" And he just keeps working. His hands don't stop. I wait and wait and finally he says, "At the beginning of your crossing."

What kind of answer is that? It’s a bullshit answer. I want to ask to where, but the question feels senseless, like asking why the sky is up. So, I stay silent.

There's a light way out there. Beyond the waves. Blinking on and off. On and off. Like a heartbeat.

I stare at it for a long time.

***

Time here isn't time. It's tide. You don't notice the passing until it’s suddenly gone and you’re standing somewhere else.

I build. My hands remember things my brain doesn't. How to tie knots. How to balance things. The way wood bends when you're gentle with it. But every time—every single time—I push the boat into the water, it just... gives up. It either capsizes or fills up and sinks like a stone.

Everyone else's boats are fine. They glide away like it's nothing. Like the water wants them. There's a current I can't see, and it takes them, and I’m left here starting over. Again and again and again. And my chest gets tighter each time, like I’m being pressed down into the sand.

Then one day, perhaps morning, if the light means morning, a shadow appears.

He’s tall and wearing a gray cloak. His hood is up and he is leaning on a pole that looks like it was carved from night. He just appears and the air around him ripples like heat off pavement.

"Are you the ferryman?" I know he’s the ferryman.

He nods. Once.

"You take them across?"

Another nod.

I point at my disaster of a boat. "Mine won't float. I've done everything right." Have I though? Maybe I haven't. Maybe that's the problem.

He stares at the boat. He reaches into his cloak, pulls out a shard of glass the size of my palm, and presses it into my hand.

Oh god.

The world moves. In the reflection there's—there's a window with rain on it, and someone's hair being smoothed back, and a blue dress so blue it hurts to look at. A name tries to surface then dissolves. My own face flickers. Young then old then gone.

"What is this?" My voice cracks.

He just lifts his hand in neither blessing nor goodbye before he drifts down the shore like smoke.

I throw the glass into the water. I’m not furious. I’m terrified. The ache it left behind is unbearable.

That night (is it night?) the tide says my name. I can't quite hear it, but I know its my name.

I cover my ears anyway.

***

The sea starts giving me things.

Random things at first. A silver ring. A feather that's practically on fire it's so bright. A torn piece of blue cloth. I pick them up without thinking. They feel heavy. Not physically, but with the weight of meaning

The ring makes me remember laughter. Not actual laughter, just the shape of it. The feather is wind through a car window. The cloth smells like rain and skin—a child's skin, soft and perfect.

Oh. Oh. The sea is giving me back myself.

My boat changes when I rebuild it now. The wood is lighter and glows a little. It knows what it's supposed to be. Each piece fits without me having to force it, like it's remembering too.

One evening I look up and the ferryman is watching. His boat is in the shallows, just sitting there.

"You could help me," I yell. Damn, I sound pathetic.

He doesn't move.

"Why won't you speak?" Now I’m angry. Good. Anger is better than pathetic.

The water shifts. The air gets thick. His lantern flares bright and suddenly I can see his face.

No.

No no no no no.

"Daniel."

The name falls out of my mouth like a stone dropping into water so deep you never hear it hit bottom.

He comes closer. His eyes are sad and kind, like the tide pulling you under and holding you up simultaneously. It doesn't make sense, but nothing here does.

"You were..." I can't finish because the memory is crashing over me now: the hospital; the monitors beeping; his hand so cold in mine; and then silence. That terrible silence.

I drop to my knees. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He kneels beside her. "Because you weren't ready."

His voice breaks me completely. I’m crying so hard the world disappears. When I can see again, he's gone. Just the lantern burning on the water, alone.

There's one more piece of driftwood next to me. Heart-shaped and smooth as bone. I press it to my chest, a silly gesture but I can't help it, and fit it into the boat. It seals a crack I hadn't even noticed.

The boat floats perfectly.

Of course it does.

***

The light is different when I wake up. It’s not pale and uncertain anymore, it's rising. Golden. The sea decided to have a dawn, apparently.

Everyone else is gone. Just my boat, gleaming where the tide reaches it.

I touch it then run my hand along the sides. It's warm. The heart-shaped piece glows softly and I want to cry again but don't. I’m done crying.

Daniel's voice comes from nowhere: "You remember now."

I nod, feeling as though I should say something in response but knowing words weren’t necessary.

I get in the boat. The water lifts me like it's been waiting for this moment. Like a blessing, which is dramatic but true. The lantern—his lantern—hangs from the bow. Steady. Alive.

The current takes me. The mist parts. Ahead the light is so bright it hums. I can actually hear it reflecting on the water.

I look back once. The beach is already fading into white mist, like when warm, moist breath meets cold glass.

"Goodbye," I whisper. Not to the beach. To fear. To all of it.

The light ahead gets wider. It’s softer and endless.

I hold the lantern. Its warmth pulses with my heartbeat. Or maybe my heartbeat pulses with it. I’m not sure but it doesn’t matter.

The sea goes on forever but I’m not afraid of forever anymore.

I’m not afraid of anything.