The Oarsman

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 1,942
7/29/2021

Hungry waves lapped against the creaking hull. A soft wind carried a heat and odor that denied Wim the relief he hoped it would bring. Hand to head, he struggled to seat himself upright, his temples beating in time with the methodical slap of an oar behind him. First to the left, then the right. Each row like the beat of a drum, emphasizing a rippling moment as it stretched across the stream of time. Ever forward.

“Where are we?” The question pressed beyond the curtain of night and faded away, betraying nothing concealed beyond. Not even a hinting echo.

“In my boat, young sir.” The Oarsman answered from behind him with a weary voice. A once deep and commanding tone succumbed to age.

“I don’t remember boarding,” said Wim as he strained to restrict the surrounding fog from entering his mind further. “On which river do we sit?”

“I was told its name once.” Every odd syllable lengthened unnaturally to conceal the groan of another paddle. “I sat where you did, as confused as you. But that was so long ago, I’ve forgotten.”

“If not the name, at least tell me where it flows.”

“Below you, young sir.” A stifled chuckle quickly turned to a cough.

“Must you answer so obtusely?” Wim turned with a force of indignation that nearly sent him over the side.

“Answers to match their questions, young sir.” The man before him was equal parts muscular and gaunt with a long beard of near luminescent white which tangled upon itself and stretched in every direction. A dim lantern sat on the bottom of the boat between his feet casting a shadow across where his sunken eyes would be.

“And what questions should I be asking?” Wim let a few drops of venom hang from his trailing question mark.

“Not location, but rather destination.”

“Anywhere is fine so long as it means I depart your company.”

“With certainty, we will never see each other again, young sir. Yes, one of us will depart.”

Wim waited a moment. Perhaps the Oarsman would elaborate or break into another coughing laugh. “One of us?” He asked when no answer came. “Do you plan to leave me alone with your boat?”

“The boat does not belong to me.” If he was making light of the situation, his eyeless face did not hint toward deceit.

“To whom does it belong?”

“Perhaps I may be granted my own question tonight.” When Wim did not object, he continued. “How did you arrive as a guest on my boat?”

“I… I just woke up here.”

“And before?”

“I was in my house. Sheltering from the quake with Idette and my mother. And then–”

“–then suddenly you were here and they were not.”

The old man’s words sliced through his remaining dignity. His fingers pressed into his skull, nails digging deep as he mentally clawed through memories for temporal connections. There must have been something between then and now. He couldn’t have just appeared on this dilapidated boat. He couldn’t have just left Idette alone in the middle of a disaster. Unless… his mouth formed around the first words they could

“What’s out there?”

“A fair question at last.” His smile, though hidden beneath a mat of tangled hair, could clearly be heard within his words. “This darkness, this river, this journey? You would not recognize their names even if I could recall and were to teach you them. But you know them all the same.”

“This can’t be.”

“You’ve reached the final leg of your journey, young sir.”

Wim jumped toward the gunwale, desperate to–he didn’t know, but he couldn’t wait to make port. He’d swim, back the way he came. Before even a finger could touch the glassy black surface, the Oarsman caught Wim with his oar. The dull end of the handle jabbed Wim across the chest, sending him backward. He laid on the bottom of the boat, arms tightly clutching his now stinging sternum. Like a body in an open casket. The imagery, too much to take.

“I can’t be dead. I can’t leave Idette. We’re sworn to each other. Forever. I have to see her again.”

The oar dropped to the boat with a clatter. The lantern moved forward as the Oarsman sat. The light, now directly between them, revealed expressive but wrinkled grey eyes.

“I have a tale to tell. A request to make. A warning to give. And then one of us must depart and one of us must stay. Which of us goes where, I leave the choice to you.

“What becomes of me if I depart?”

“You step into the darkness. Beyond that, even I do not know.”

“And If I stay?”

“You row. And row. You’ll row until your muscles ache enough you’ll wish you departed all those eons ago. And then you’ll row some more.”

Wim pushed himself up to a seated position. “My thanks for the warning.”

This time, the Oarsman did laugh. It was severe and marked with an undercurrent of sadness, but it was recognizable as a laugh. “that was not the warning.”

Wim could do nothing but nod his acknowledgment, but that was enough to send the Oarsman into his tale.

“I was once like you. I died young and had a new bride I could not leave. I pleaded for a way back for any way to see her again. The Oarsman before me was all too eager to give up his duty. He gifted me this oar and left me to learn its benefits and drawbacks on my own.”

For a time, he looked toward the starless sky. Silently he replayed thoughts to himself as the stream trickled past the hull, leisurely easing them forward to… the end. Wim struggled not to urge him onward. Time was running out.

“It’s been so long,” he finally spoke, “since I saw her again. Since I carried her to the far shore. To my shame, I cannot recall her name. I see glimpses in the corner of my mind’s eyes. Features in the faces of those I usher across the stream that are familiar somehow. Her nose was thin, her hair was red. I think. Eternity seems enviable to so many, but it robs you of your mind, one precious memory at a time.”

He sighed deep enough and long enough to fill the river a thousand times over.

“She lived a long life. Married twice more, once for a decade with a soldier who fell in a pointless battle. I ferried him across without knowing our connection. The second outlived her by another 2 years. He said not a word on his trip, but I suspect he knew well his destination. She had a dozen children between the two marriages and held twice as many grandchildren before her time. It was a good life, and for that I was glad. Even if I was not a part of it.”

He wiped away tears before their formation and sharpened his focus.

“I loved her. Would have done anything to see her once more, even if it meant a lifetime of backbreaking work. But I also loved myself. Although I spoke her name when requesting to stay aboard this boat, thoughts of my continued existence were there also. How much did they shape my decision? How righteous was my request?

“Which is where I must break to describe to you what my predecessor never did me. This river… is a circle. I receive my passenger. I row downstream unto the shore. Then I row onward and receive another. Never do I row against the current. Never do I stop to rest. There is a force at work here that I cannot describe, but it insists that I must not stop, must not sleep. Forever onward.”

“And if you do stop?” Wim asked. “What then?”

“I can only imagine. And then I sense my imagination is not fit for the task.”

As if on cue, the boat began the bob and quiver as whirlpools formed nearby. The oarsman retook his position and rowed once more. He waved a dismissive hand toward the black sky and uttered a curse in another language Wim found incomprehensible. The waters soon returned to their gentle selves.

“While waiting for my bride, I thought about our reunion. What I should say. How it should be said.” The Oarsman timed his words with his strokes, transforming his story into practically a chant “All the while, the question of my true motivations circled my mind. Had I chosen this eternal rowing for her or myself? Had I been romantic or selfish? But then the answer struck me. My predecessor had given up his place to another. Why couldn’t I? I could give my bride this task. Pass on while granting her a crumb of extra time. Now that would be unmistakably selfless. If only she hadn’t taken so long to arrive, I may have followed through. But instead, she lived on, and I… I was left alone with my thoughts. What if she didn’t wish to remain? What if she viewed it not as a gift but a burden? I would be escaping eternal exhaustion by forcing in on my love. Or worse yet, what if she accepted. Not to save me. Not out of gratitude for my sacrifice or pity for my blight, but out of selfishness. The same selfish thoughts which drove me here to begin with.

“The day before she arrived, I was presented with another question which shook my conviction. What happens at the end of the world? The end of time? When there are no more souls to ferry, what happens to the ferryman? Does he too get his well-earned rest? Or will he forever row, awaiting the next soul which will never come?

“My presence should already have given you my decision. We embraced. We shared old stories. She told new ones I was denied access to with my death, and I listened with fervor. And then…”

The boat jolted to a stop, its nose imprinting on the fine sands of the far shore. Wim strained to look beyond, but there was only darkness.

“I let her go without telling her a whisper of transference. To protect her from waiting too long and then never joining her family on the other side. So I told myself a thousand times. Or was that the same lie in different clothes?” He stretched out his hand, holding the oar to Wim. “My tale is told. My request: take this burden from me. Let me rest finally.”

Wim reached forward and told hold of the oar. “I cannot leave Idette. How dreadful it must be to die and be carried beyond by a stranger’s face. If I was there to comfort her…”

“As I once said, young sir. Perhaps you are pure enough to mean it. Perhaps you are strong enough to see your decision through. Now my warning: the end of time will come one day. And the Oarsman of that time–be it you or her or another–will forever be trapped between these few boards. Whatever decision, make it before then. There is no place for regret within eternity.”

No sooner had the old man, the Oarsman no longer, set foot into the fine sands of the shore than a blanket of black was enveloping him. He seemed to dissolve as much as he was obscured by the night. Wim pushed away from the shore and paddled along with the stream. First to the left, then the right in a methodical rhythm. Alone with his thoughts. Moving ever forward.