Down the river

Mitros stepped onto the boat which wobbled gently underfoot. The boatman pushed off the dock straight away, and Mitros stumbled before finding his balance. He was the only passenger tonight. He trod gingerly down the length of the boat. It felt quite stable, but he had always been a bit skittish when it came to boats. He didn’t quite trust them.

It was a beautiful boat though, no matter what he thought about being on the water. Long and narrow with high prow and stern, like a larger version of one of those gondolas they had in Venice, made from some dark wood and built by hand if he was any judge. He let his hand glide along the gunwale as he walked slowly up to the bow, enjoying the smooth finish. He tried to take pleasure in all things these days, even the smallest. He put on a brave face for his wife, of course, though she worried nonetheless. And in front of their little girls he was the same dad as ever, joking and teasing. He was adamant he would never show any fear or weakness in front of them. They were only five, and should not have such worries in their lives. Time enough for that later.

And after all, there was perhaps no need for all this worrying. As his doctor kept insisting, cancer was no longer the death sentence it had once been. Many people, most even, recovered these days thanks to modern medicine.

“You must not give up, Mitros!” Doctor Pappas had been adamant, his stern gaze pinning Mitros down as he sat in the doctors office. “The will to live is essential in beating this, remember that.”

And Mitros had remembered, even if it was sometimes difficult. There was a tumor in his brain and it had begun to affect him, though he tried to hide it from everyone. Sometimes he became confused, not sure where he was or what he was doing there. Like this boat ride. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone down to the river and gotten on board this vessel. But he had decided to just go along with these things when they happened. He must have had some purpose, and eventually it would reveal itself. He would remember why. He usually did.

The waters were calm and dark, as was the sky, overcast with no sign of stars or moon. It felt somewhat eerie, as if he was floating in a void, far from any discernible reality. What was he to do? He was trying his very best to follow Doctor Pappas advice and stay strong, stay fighting. But it was hard to hold the fear at bay. Most of all he worried about his family. How would they fare when he was gone? Oh, they’d get by. Misha didn’t have a job at the moment, but she could always go back to teaching, and both their parents and the rest of the family would surely do everything they could to help. They would not lack for anything. But he worried nonetheless. His children, his two beautiful little girls. He didn’t want them to grow up having barely known their father. They were still so young. How much would they remember of him? How much did he remember from when he was five? Only glimpses and fragments. And while Misha was tough and capable, and would surely find a way to go on, he desperately didn’t want her to have to do that.

The water lapped quietly at the sides of the boat as it glided slowly and silently down the river. Holding on to the prow he gazed at his reflection in the water. He had never liked his own face, if he was honest. Ears too big, chin too small, and a pair of eyebrows you could lose a badger in. In the dark water his face looked pale and hollow somehow. But Misha liked it, or so she said. Especially his ears.

“Where else should I grab a hold of when I want to ravish you?”

Always with that impish smile. Though they had been married for ten years she could still make him blush. He shook his head and smiled. He must have done something right in this life, or possibly a previous one, to have gotten Misha. It had been love at first sight, even though he hadn’t realized it at the time. He felt his good mood dissipate and the leaden weights of dread and worry lodge in his stomach again. It wasn’t fair. He was a good man, he loved his wife and children so much it hurt to think of it. Why him? He knew, rationally, the cancer wasn’t something conscious, some nefarious or sinister thing out to harm him. It was just bad luck. But reason was in short supply when you were dying.

Mitros sighed. This was why from time to time he just had to get out of the house and go where there were no people. To let his fear out, to agonize and not have to worry about Misha or the kids seeing it on his face. He had never thought it could be such hard work, appearing happy and carefree. It hadn’t been before. But then again, before he had been happy and carefree. It turned out he wasn’t much of an actor. So instead, whenever the fear and hopelessness became too much to contain, he went out for a walk. Not with any destination in mind, just to get away. And sometimes he’d forget why he had gone out in the first place. He’d forget, because in his brain a lump of out of control cells was growing inexorably and pushing at the delicate tissue surrounding it. Tick, tock. He shivered and tried to push the morbid thoughts away.

The boat creaked gently in the light swells, mingled with the soft, grinding noises of wood on wood from the oar as the boatman steered the craft down the river. The sounds were soothing, somehow. The boatman was not the talkative type, and for that Mitros was grateful. The last thing he needed right now was to talk to people. He took a few deep breaths and looked straight ahead. No matter what happened, he would not give in. He would not go gently into the night. Like the good doctor had said, he had to fight it, not give in. So, if he wanted his girls to grow up with a father he had better make damn sure he was there to be that father! He grabbed a hold of that thought with new determination. Maybe he would eventually succumb to that chaotic growth in his head, but not without a fight. Not without trying to live first.

The boat drew nearer to the shore, and Mitros was feeling much better about himself now. He was resolved, he would go home to Misha and the girls, and he would make sure they never saw an ounce of worry on his face, no matter what.

The boat bumped gently against the wooden dock, a soft scraping and then silence. There were no people about, no buildings either in fact. The quality of the light had changed somehow. He looked up at the sky, only to realize there wasn’t one. He was in a cave of some kind, though big enough that he could barely perceive the ceiling high above. When had they gone into a cave?

“We are here, mortal,” said Charon. Mitros turned around and stared at the ferryman.

“Oh, of course, I forgot,” he whispered as his memories came trickling back, “I died, didn’t I?”