Pay The Man

They stood on the banks of the river, waiting for the boat to approach. Jason had his hands in his pockets and was whistling a merry tune, seemingly oblivious to the soul-sucking gray-scale into which the world had reverted.

Harry studied the boatman as he approached. The man wore a striped shirt that was patchy at the elbows and dark overalls of some unidentifiable color, darker with spray from the river. He guided the boat with a single long pole, like a gondolier. If the bank and arching cave ceilings weren’t so morbid, Harry might have expected the man to break into La Traviata or something equally operatic.

The boat reached the bank, creaking against the little wooden dock someone had cobbled together with rough-hewn logs and hand-woven rope. Jason didn’t move.

Harry stared at him. The boatman stared at both of them.

Eventually Jason stopped whistling. “Well, pay the man,” he said.

Harry arched one eyebrow. “Pay the man? What for? With what?”

Jason’s smile was enigmatic and utterly maddening. “Check your pockets, lad.”

Harry was quite sure he’d had nothing in his pockets with Jason approached, but he jammed a hand into one of his pockets to appease the man all the same. And his fingers met cool metal. Harry drew out two coins made of some unidentifiable metal, so worn with age the the faces on them were barely human.

Jason said, “Pay the man.”

Harry dropped the coins into the boatman’s outstretched hand, then stepped onto the boat. It wobbled beneath his weight, but then he steadied himself.

Jason didn’t move.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“My journey is not yours,” Jason said. “Be careful when the Styx crosses Lethe. Keep your mouth shut, don’t swallow the spray - wouldn’t want you to be an amnesiac bore before you reach His Infernal Highness, hm?” And he stuck his hands into his pockets and sauntered away, whistling once more.

(323 words)