12th Part

From the mountain crest it had looked like the sea, or what he supposed the sea would look like. The blue-gray faded from horizon to horizon, capped in fog and undulating like a pregnant woman's belly in the midst of labor. He stared for a long time before making a descent.

The road down the mountains was poorly kept but smooth as if from many feet. The hermit was tired, and wondered how far he'd fall should his feet slip, but he didn't loose footing and made it all the way to the bottom without hurting himself. Then he drank a little water and ate some dried meat, and walked toward the water without looking backward.

He sensed before he saw that it wasn't a sea. It was too cold on the surface, and too many tendrils of steam or fog or mere odor grew from the surface like unhealthy and insubstantial plants. A pang of worry stabbed his legs and his guts, but he walked in a straight line and kept his eyes lifted and straight ahead.

The man with the boat appeared to be waiting for him. He stood cloaked, the mist wrapping him in weird arms, and was silent till the hermit stood before him.

"Hello, old man," he said.

"Who are you?" asked the hermit. "What do you want?"

"I'm the Boatman. I'm here to take you across."

Then the hermit knew why the cottagers had looked at him as though at a ghost, why they'd feared he was a soul come to take their child away from earthly things. He'd heard of the Boatman, and met him in books. It was odd that the Boatman should be here before him, plying his trade. It made the stories at once more terrifying and more absurd. He reached in his pocket for a few coins.

"What are those?" the Boatman asked, not taking the pennies. "Why are you giving me money?"

"I thought—" but the old man stopped, because he didn't know what he thought.

"You thought I required payment. I do. But not that, and not till we get to the other side."

"Should I leave my things here?"

"Do what you want."

"Will I need them?"

"Do you think you'll need them?"

The hermit left his pack in the mud and climbed aboard the vessel. It rocked in the waves, but he had no fear the boat would capsize, not with the Boatman at the helm. He sat on the bench and folded his arms with his hands beneath his armpits to keep them warm, but it didn't work. The mist was stronger than the heat of his own body.

"Am I dead yet?" asked the hermit.

"Not yet," said the Boatman. "But almost."

The hermit resolved to keep his mouth shut for the duration of the trip. He looked ahead, but he could see nothing. The way was altogether hidden. He supposed he'd expected nothing less, and wondered how his wife and daughter had felt, huddled on this small boat with such a taciturn guide, going who knew where and completely at the Boatman's mercy. If it is mercy, the hermit thought, and wondered what price the Boatman would ask of him, on the other side of all this darkness.