The Ferryman

The Ferryman stood upon his golden-pearl boat, watching the worn, shimmering path that led to his riverbanks.

The path wound through tall, whispering willows whose roots stretched down and drank deeply from the river, their glistening silver and emerald green tendrils shimmering with the waters of both forgetting and remembering. It was through the trees and along this path that the memories began shed, returning to the river to be seen by the souls once more before they vanished as if they had never been.

The waters of the river itself were mesmerising, as wild and soft as the fleetingness of dreams and memories. A gossamer silver mist hung around the waters and the boat upon it, winding into indistinct shapes and swirls. The waters themselves were a gently flowing milky, pearly white with flecks of silver and gold.

The Ferryman himself was pale, with long silver hair and a pale grey cloak. At his breast his wore a single large poppy, red and vibrant against the muted colours. His eyes were dark, almost black, but like the softness of the night sky, not the black of the Abyss.

His boat was long and slender, carved with delicate lotuses of gold.

And it was at the banks of the River Lethe that he waited for the souls of mortals who dreamed of a life anew.

The Ferryman had been ferrying souls down the River Lethe for what seemed an eternity. He could not count the number of souls he had carried on to their new beginnings. It was his entire existence, down here in the place where Time no longer held any sway. It could have been a single day, it could have been an Age in the mortal world above. He did not know. He did not concern himself with the workings of the world above. Only in the souls that came into his care.

He received the souls of all who wished to be reborn, to forget their mortal lives. For those not condemned eternally by Divine Decree to Tartarus or Asphodel, or even those who had tasted of Elysium and wished to try for the Isle of the Blest, the River Lethe was open to them.

Some souls came fresh from Death, desperate to forget, desperate to try again, desperate to avoid repeating the mistakes they had made, those desperate to find the one they had loved in life who had been taken from them.

But once they drank of Lethe, they would not remember. Nothing would remain of who they once were, except maybe perhaps an echo that would occasionally sound in their ears in the moments of silence between breaths.

It was his job to ferry them down the river to the Gate where they could drink and forget.

The souls came to him in all forms: young, old, short, tall, angry, sad, regretful, hopeful. He watched them all, some bearing the scars and memories of the injuries or maladies that had taken them from the Above to the Below.

There were the old ones; some bowed and bent with voices like a whisper, full of regret for youth wasted, or full of contentment that they had lived their life as they wished.

There were the warriors, all bearing marks of bloody red, angry or full of grief for the battles they had lost and the loved ones they had left behind. They thirsted for a chance to start anew, to win and defeat their enemies, although they would no longer remember who they were.

There were the rare lovers, the soulmates who journeyed the River Lethe together after finding each other again in Asphodel or on the banks of the Styx, one waiting for the other until they could cross with Charon together. These ones wanted a new life together and although they would be born far apart from each other, the Ferryman knew that they would find each other again.

Soulmates always did.

As he travelled along the river, with each of his souls, the water grew clearer, like soft silver, and the mists framed the images within. He watched the memories of each soul’s life float by, watched as the souls wept or laughed or raged. The emotions flowed through them and into the river, taking them away, forgotten, lost, at peace. The souls usually grew calm after that, and the Ferryman felt as though he knew them, knew who he carried, knew what he would help them forget.

After the soft silver waters, darkness encroached. It was not a heavy, evil darkness. It was the soft darkness of night, the darkness that cradled you into the small oblivion of sleep, the darkness that washed away your days and helped you forget.

The water grew darker and darker, the riverbanks disappearing until only the River remained. Then slowly, softly, the stars came out. The Ferryman did not know if they were actual stars, but they glittered like tiny diamonds above and below him, beautiful and mysterious. There was no sound except for the whisper of the water and the only light came from the glow of the souls, the Ferryman and his boat.

The souls did not speak here, the silence almost sacred, empty of the memories and emotions each soul had shed.

And so, he continued to push his boat along with his oar-pole until the souls reached the Gate.

The Gate was like swirling moonlight in the night.

The dark water coalesced, the diamond-star points blending together creating a fountain made of water that bubbled on the soft, grassy piece of land upon which the Gate stood.

“It is time to drink of the Lethe and forget,” the Ferryman would intone.

And each soul would step onto the sacred land and drink of the bubbling fountain.

The Ferryman often wondered what it would be like to have no memory. To no longer be a witness to countless mortals and their memories.

Out of all the Immortal beings, the Ferryman of the River Lethe felt the most human, for he had so long floated upon the currents of mortal lives.

*****

One day though, or one moment in a timeless place, the Ferryman took on a passenger who would surprise him.

He was not usually one for surprises, knowing all the River knew.

His surprise came skipping through the willows, caressing each willow frond, drinking in their ethereal glow. It was a young girl, no more perhaps than 10, with long golden-brown curls and eyes as emerald-green as the trees.

She followed the road without thought, her soul carrying her towards the River Lethe.

She stopped suddenly on the edge of the riverbank and cocked her head at the Ferryman.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am the Ferryman,” said he, a brief flicker in his eyes.

“And what is your name?” she asked again.

The Ferryman paused, a slight frown bending his brow.

“I do not have a name,” he replied.

The little girl gasped.

“But everyone has a name!” she exclaimed.

“I am not everyone.”

The girl pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

“That is very sad. You must have a name. Do your friends not call you by your name?”

The Ferryman paused again, unsettled by this unusual conversation.

“I have no friends.”

“Well, now you do,” she replied and, seemingly making up her mind, boarded his boat. “So now you need to have a name.”

“Peace, child. We travel on the River Lethe. Let it soothe you.”

He pushed his boat from the riverbank and on towards the Gate.

The children, when they came to him, made him almost feel something. Almost made him feel…mortal. They came to him from five years old, old enough to walk the path alone. Most did not know why they came, but the Underworld pulled the young towards the River Lethe. To let them grow older in the world above, to have a chance at Elysium, or even Tartarus, for the worlds need balance.

Some came bearing great injuries, the casualties of war, a tribute to the Gods’ violence. Some came bearing no marks of their death, taken by pestilence, a tribute to the Gods’ vengeance.

It made the Ferryman question those he called his Masters, just for a moment.

This child came to him with no marks and a golden glow that the Ferryman found intriguing. Only a few had that glow, the soul mates for one, and the others few and far between. He wondered if they were the pure souls, the potential for goodness not given enough time to bloom to be welcomed into Elysium.

He did not know. He only watched.

The girl’s eyes sparkled as she took in the waters. She stretched out her hand and the Ferryman nearly told her to stop, but she touched the water and it coalesced around her arm, tickling her it seemed for she giggled.

The Ferryman was almost curious to see her short life.

She was born as a farmer’s daughter, poor in money but rich in love and land. She spent her days as a babe on her mother or father’s back and listened to them sing and whistle as they worked. She had friends indeed, from her family’s livestock to the other children in the nearby village.

Her name was Cassandra. She loved pink flowers and honey. She had a dog she called Hermes as he was swift and sly, a consummate thief of food and sandals. She liked the sound of the stream near her goats’ field and the wind blowing gently through her hair. She played catch and chase with her friends, a young dark-haired boy always making her blush whenever he looked at her.

Her life had been a happy one.

Then it had ended all too quickly. First she could not eat her honey. Then she could not run with Hermes, for she could not catch her breath. She no longer had the strength to visit the goats or dip her feet in the stream. Her friends were barred from her house, for fear they would catch whatever curse she had received. She fought for every breath until at last she finally grew tired, then she grew still.

And now she was here, with the Ferryman.

He watched her memories as they swirled by, and again he felt that strange feeling he could not name.

“Hermes will miss me,” she suddenly said, her face leaning on the edge of the boat as she watched her life flash before her eyes. “I was the best at running. He loved running too.”

They sat in silence for a long while, a silence that the Ferryman was familiar with. Souls never usually spoke to him, did not acknowledge him, too lost in their memories to notice him.

Eventually though, Cassandra turned to him, her emerald eyes very serious.

“You need a name. All my friends need a name. I gave all the goats names so they didn’t feel like I wasn’t their friend,” she said.

“I do not need a name. I am the Ferryman.”

“Yes, you do. Names help tell who we are. When he was a puppy Hermes stole my sandals and then my biscuit quick as lightning. That’s why I named him Hermes. What are you good at doing?”

“I ferry souls along the River Lethe to be reborn,” he intoned.

“Hmm. You could be a traveler then. Maybe Peregrinos?”

The Ferryman remained silent.

“Or how about Hodios?”

No reaction.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened and a stubborn look overcame her.

“I will just keep talking and giving you names until you like one,” she warned.

And so she did.

The Ferryman should have felt annoyed by the interruption of his silence, but he found himself almost enjoying it. A soul who for once was not caught up in their mind of memories, their end accepted, their spark not dimmed.

She fell silent though once they reached the waters of the stars and night.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, once again reaching her hand down to touch the waters.

The Ferryman spoke then, his voice melding into the darkness.

“Let the darkness soothe you,

the lights to guide your way,

drink deeply of the River Lethe,

and begin a brand-new day.”

The girl looked up at him, eyes glistening in the darkness.

“I won’t remember anything will I? Not Hermes or the goats? Not my parents or my friends?”

“No, dear child. The River Lethe washes you clean, to start afresh, to live longer than you did.”

The silence continued again and he felt the sudden absence of her voice.

“Well, I am still giving you a name,” she said. “Then at least you will remember me.”

And so she continued, although at a hushed whisper.

Her whispers echoed with that of the River, silent to all but him. It almost hummed at him sometimes, the sound wrapping around him like the mist. He wondered if it was the memories of the mortals speaking to him still. Perhaps he was doomed to never forget the souls that passed through here, to never forget the glimpses of their lives, their memories, their feelings. Perhaps it was his job to listen to them always.

“How about Linos”? the girl asked, piercing his thoughts.

“Linos?” he questioned.

The girl started grinning in expectant triumph.

“Yes! Linos, the song of loss.” she paused. “That is not the happiest name though.”

“Linos.”

The Ferryman tasted the name. What was his job but to hear the songs of the lost, of grief, of losing oneself.

“You like it?” Cassandra asked eagerly.

“Yes,” the Ferryman simply said, the ghost of a smile trying to break the marble hardness of his face.

Cassandra grinned even wider.

“Hello then, Linos,” she said.

“Hello, child Cassandra.”

She held out her hand for him to shake. The Ferryman looked at her. He did not touch the mortals, he could not, for they were only ghosts given form by their memories.

Instead, he bowed his head in response and fixed his gaze towards the moonlit gleam that marked their arrival to the Gate.

Cassandra forgot about him as the Gate came closer. The whispers grew louder, and the bubbling of the fountain drew nearer.

“What is that?” she breathed.

“The Gate, dear one. Once you drink of the Lethe you go through the Gate and be reborn into the mortal world above. You will start a new life.”

Cassandra’s lip trembled.

“I don’t want to forget.”

The Ferryman felt the strange urge to comfort her.

“There is nothing wrong with forgetting. New memories will always be made, will always flow down to the River Lethe and keep feeding the river until the end of times.”

“Will I forget you?” she asked.

“You will forget that you have met me, yes. But you will know of me, for all know of the River Lethe.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Not at all. It is simply like taking a deep breath and letting go.”

She looked up at him, her eyes seeming to pierce his soul, if he had a soul. Do those who never die have souls?

“Okay,” she finally said.

She took a deep breath and stepped out of the boat and onto the sacred land.

“It is now time to drink of the Lethe and forget,” he intoned.

The girl cupped her hands and held the sparkling liquid in them. She looked over at him.

“Since I will forget your name, you make sure that you remember it, Linos,” she almost commanded him.

He bowed his head in acquiescence.

“I will, dear child.”

She smiled again and then drank.

The mist swirled around her and her body began fading, becoming one with the mist. There was a breath like a sigh and she vanished into the swirling Gate.

She was gone.

The Ferryman turned his boat around back to the River’s start, ready to collect his next soul.

It was different now though, his journey. For now he had something of his own.

A memory.

A name.

Like a crack splitting through immovable marble, the Ferryman smiled.