(2) Death and the Ferrymen

It was a normal working day and I was busy updating my contact database for Gods and deities. Most gods these days are ex-directory, they never answer a prayer let alone a phone call, but as Death’s PA I am grudgingly given a direct line for emergencies.

I once brought my son Tom to work with me during the school holidays. A mistake! A short while afterwards I found the christian god’s phone number written in graffiti on the bus shelter near our house, under the words: ‘If you fancy an easy shag ring Mandy Thomas on this number’. According to god’s PA (who I’m friends with) they received a dozen phone calls as a result. We had quite a laugh about it, but it was the last time I brought either of my kids to work with me.

The nature of Death’s domain is that we get very few visitors. Those who do visit are usually gods, or Death’s fellow horsemen. Some of them knock before entering, or even ring to make an appointment, but it is not unusual to have someone suddenly materialise in front of me, so I was not at all put out when the Ferryman appeared out of nowhere.

“Good morning,” I said. “We don’t often see you here.” In fact he had, to my knowledge, never left the River Styx in the past 1,000 years.

“I have come for my payment. I intend to take a vacation.”

“Of course,” I said, “I’ve been keeping your money for you. Going anywhere nice?” A while ago Death started taking donations of a single coin for the Ferryman. The money had soon become a small fortune, which I kept for him, in ready cash of assorted denomination, as well as a proportion in gold (a metal whose value is as immortal as Death himself). Having lived for many thousands of years the Ferryman distrusted the fleeting nature of banks and refused to have the cash deposited with them.

“I am going to begin my life. Since before the dawn of time I have worked for Death, ferrying the souls of the dead across the River Styx. Though I am a mortal I have never had a mortal life, I have never loved, never lived. I go out to seek a soul mate, a companion, before it is time for me too to meet my fate and be ferried across the River Styx for a final time.”

I handed him a printout of his Excel balance, and made him sign for the cash I handed over.

“Very nice I said. Well, if you need any help with dating give me a call, I’ve had a few experiences on that front. What’s going to happen with the souls of the dead while you’re gone?”

“The souls of the dead shall continue to be ferried. I made an arrangement a while ago with a boatman I met at a ferrymen and boatpeople festival. I shall summon him here before I depart.”

So saying he gathered together his gold, coins and notes and made ready to enter into the world to seek a normal life, whatever that may be. “The boatman will take my place,” he said gravely and in that instant was gone.

In his place two appeared two middle aged, carelessly dressed men, who looked about themselves with clear bemusement.

“Are you the boatmen?” I asked cautiously, “because I was only expecting one of you.”

The shorter one, who seemed to be in charge, responded, whilst the other was still gaping around the room. “We’re the acting boatmen ma’am,” he said, “I’m Dr Alun Davies and this is my colleague Jed Wood. The boatman is taking vacation in Canada.”

“Goodness, it’s really boatmen’s holiday time isn’t it?” I replied, though of course they didn’t understand my reference. “Do you have a contact number for him, a forwarding address? Is just that I need to get hold of him somewhat urgently.”

“I’m afraid not. Is there anything we can help with?”

“This is rather awkward,” I said. “Let me try and sum this up as quickly and clearly as I can. This is the realm of Death. The Ferryman, who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx, has departed on vacation. By previous arrangement your boatman was to take over from the Ferryman, but unhappily, this has coincided with the boatman’s own vacation. Without means of contact either the Ferryman or the boatman the souls of the dead will pile up along the banks of the Styx, unferried and unable to meet their destiny.”

Jed was still gazing around the office in wonder, as if he had never been in an office before, let alone Death’s realm. “So this is Death’s waiting room?” he said.

“No, no,” I replied, “this is Death’s office. The dead don’t come here, He comes to them. Death’s waiting room is the nickname we give to the Earth, as he will come to visit everyone there eventually.”

Alun returned to the business in hand. “We may be able to help you, miss. Though we are not so experienced as the boatman, we are covering for him during his holiday so it make sense if we take on this role that he’d agreed to. I can steer a boat and I’m a doctor, so I’m used to dealing with the dead.”

“I’ll help Alun,” Jed said, “I’m a writer so it will be fascinating to meet all of those dead souls, it might give me inspiration for a story.”

“There is one problem though,” Alun interrupted. “We’re covering for the boatman, providing essential supplies to the islands on our archipelago, who’s going to cover for us? We’ve got Professor Mary Beard coming to our island for a book launch next week. We’re the sole residents and it will be a disappointing turnout if we’re not there.”

I smiled, I rather like Mary Beard, my image of what an academic should look like, and I had the image of her turning up on an abandoned island, cursing her agent for another dead-end gig.

“No need to worry about that,” I assured them. “Death is able to play around with time, so that you can fit the entire job into a couple of afternoons a week if you want to. It’ll be hard work and you’ll feel like your bodies being stretched through a fourth dimension but it’s great for flexible working. I’m a full-time mother when I’m not working here.”

It was thus agreed and no sooner was a verbal contract echoing through the air than
we were transported to the shores of the River Styx.

Death was already by the River, waiting to meet and greet his new recruits.

“WELCOME JED, WELCOME ALUN. BEHOLD THE RIVER STYX, BEYOND WHICH LIES THE SHORES OF THE DEAD, WHERE NO MORTAL SHALL EVER TREAD.”

“Hello,” said Alun, shaking Death firmly by the hand.

“Nice to meet you,” said Jed.

It was all very formal.

“So what’s the job entail?” asked Alun.

“THIS BOAT IS USED TO FERRY THE SOULS OF THE DEAD ACROSS THE RIVER STYX.”

“I don’t know the way, is there a sat nav? Compass? Map?”

“THE BOAT OF THE DEAD ALWAYS FINDS ITS WAY, YOU DO NOT NEED TO STEER. BE WARNED, HOWEVER. YOU MUST NOT, EVER, SET FOOT ON THE SHORES OF THE DEAD, ELSE YOU WILL BECOME TRAPPED, EFFECTIVELY DEAD, UNABLE TO LEAVE.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” said Jed brightly.

“So how does the boat work?” asked Alun, “Is there an engine, I mean I’m fit, but we couldn’t row back and forth every day, my arms would fall off.”

“IT IS POWERED BY FATE, BY THE INNEVITABILITY OF DEATH, THERE IS NO NEED TO STEER, NO NEED TO ROW. SUCH ROWING AS THE FERRYMAN PERFORMS IS FOR CEREMONIAL PURPOSES, TO REASSURE THE SOULS OF THE DEAD.”

The two men climbed into the boat with Death, still demanding more information and instructions. Death patiently explained how the oars could be used with minimal force to retain the image that the boat is being rowed, just to please the dead souls.

Jed suddenly shuddered. “I’ve come over all icy cold. It’s as if I’ve climbed into the fridge and shut the door on myself.”

“He did that once,” Alun explained to Death.

“I wanted to see if the light stayed on.”

“He was stuck for days. We had to call the boatman out.”

“IT WAS FORTUNATE FOR YOU THAT YOUR BOATMAN WASN’T ON VACATION AT THE TIME. ELSE WE MIGHT HAVE MET BEFORE NOW.”

“But what is that chill I feel in the boat?”

“It’s the souls of the dead, Jed. There is one in the boat with us.”

“YOU WILL SOON GET USED TO IT.”

However, for once Death was wrong. Jed panicked, backing away from the chilling feel of the soul and, it being a small boat, managed to knock Death overboard into the water.

Alun acted quickly, trying to rescue Death with an oar, but the current of the River Styx was too strong, even for Death himself, and in no time at all he was washed away.

“Look what you’ve done now, Jed. You’ve killed Death.”

Any good PA is in her element in a crisis. Rather than panic I knew exactly what to do.

“We can’t help Him,” I said, “the current of the Styx is too strong for any mortal.”

“We can’t just leave him.”

“I’ll call assistance. We need the help of an immortal, a god.”

“God?” said Alun. “We’re going to meet god?”

“Not the god you’re thinking of. We need one who’s willing to muck in, get wet, fight currents, drag bodies, preferably one who’s good in water.”

I offered up a prayer to Croccy, the Peruvian crocodile god I worship.

“Dear Croccy (my prayers tend towards formal letter style I’m afraid) Death has fallen in the water. Please help.”

Luckily, as Croccy’s sole living believer, my prayers are always answered promptly and Croccy appeared before us.

After the briefest of introductions Croccy dived into the water, promising to rescue Death from certain death in the River Styx.

“What do we do now?” asked Alun.

“We must continue without Death. One of you will have to take over from Him. I will act as temporary Ferryman.”

We returned to Death’s Domain where I passed the men the spare set of the Robes of Death and the Staff of Mortal Doom.”

“This is usually reserved for special occasions like the fall of a god,” I said passing them the Staff, “but it will help you perform your duties. And these are the Robes of Death.”

“But how do we collect the souls?”

“There is a thin blue lifeline visible in the newly dead. Simply strike through it with the staff and you will free the soul so that it may journey to the Styx. I’ll take over from there.”

We parted to begin our surreal game of ferryman’s holiday.