The Ferryman

In a simple black boat, on a dark black river in a far away place, a ferryman is waiting.

He sits in the prow, a picture of patience, while the sands of time shift around him, yet his weathered face remains unchanged. His hair is silver and his skin is nut brown but his eyes, his hooded eyes are enormous pearls that see into the souls of those who seek passage as they nervously stand on the river banks. If he sees light, he will smile, a heavy eyelid will slide down in a wink, he will carry you to peace. If he sees dark, he will pity you, for you must be taken to his lord and master for judgement.

Nobody knows how old the ferryman is, nobody ever will. He has brought safe passage to those who have sought it since the beginning of time itself. He will not break the silence that engulfs the river, and neither must you, all he asks is a gold coin to slip in his brown leather purse, you need not say a thing, he will take you where you need to go. For all eternity he has collected coins, yet his purse is never full, for all eternity he has ferried souls, yet he never sleeps a wink, and for all eternity he has worked alone, yet he has never uttered a word.

The ferryman is a man of few possessions, always has been and always will be. He has the clothes on his back, the purse at his belt and his boat, for what is a ferryman without a boat. She sits low in the water, her tarred black hull would be invisible on the dark river but for her white painted eyes and her prow that rises majestically upwards, tapering to a graceful curl. She is his only company in his solitary duties, he guides her across the river with tender loving care, stroking the ripples with his single oar, it appears almost as though he is her friend, gently pointing her in the right direction while she carries them both across.

Some days, the banks of the river are crowded, some days, he simply waits. But no matter how many souls he must take at once, they must all pay their fare, they must all wait their turn and they must all look into his eyes. Here, everyone is equal. The ferryman never alters his pace; ever slow, ever steady, despite the crowds that sometimes gather at the shores, not a complaint is heard nor impatient word offered, in fact, no matter the numbers, silence still reigns as they all stand in the majesty of the terrible black river.

Nobody ever comes back over the river, all he offers is a one-way trip. The ferryman see us all at sometime or other. You can run but he will always be sitting there, waiting. Nobody can hide from him, nobody escapes the ferryman. Some are pleased to see him and greet him like an old friend, some feel released, some are terrified, some are thankful, some are brave, he has seen them all; the too young, the desperately old, the tragic lovers, those who have brought themselves down to the river. They are all the same to him, thieves, beggars, liars, lords, ladies and kings, all will find their way to him eventually. He is a very patient man.

In a simple black boat, on a dark black river in a far away place, a ferryman is waiting. He is waiting for you.