Page 10 - Ferry Tales

Lightfoot

Did you get a piece of that one, Cerberus? I had a bad viewing
angle on the last couple of jaw-snaps as he tumbled over the
precipice. No? Too bad we don’t have instant replay down here. If
we had to earn our keep we could sell highlight videos of graceless
exits. And maybe we should change the sign over the gates to read
“Watch that first step: it’s a doozy!” Just kidding. But he deserved a
rousing send-off: I rarely have such an argumentative passenger. If I
didn’t know what was swimming around just under the surface I
would have jumped in the river and let him pole himself across to
Glory—yes, he remained convinced that I was administering a final
test of his fitness to enter the Kingdom of Heaven—as if I were
Satan and had to get behind him. Well, the ferryman does have to
stay astern to do his job, but he kept turning around to face me with
his objections.
“What’s this on my eyes?” He expostulates, right from the get-go.
But he knows. I don’t bother answering such a stupid question. He
was about to throw the coins overboard, as if they were a bribe—or
at least a down payment on his soul.
“Slow down, there, Reverend Lightfoot,” I says. “Put them in the
tip jar. Yes, that’s right. It’s de rigueur, you know. Ha-ha! My little
joke.”
Then his shriveled shreds of suppressed pagan mythology kick in
and he crosses himself and mutters some sort of incantation. I didn’t
feel anything, and lightning is superfluous down here.
“St. Anthony in the desert faced worse than you, foul fiend! Maybe
I’ve died—the doctor said to cut down on red meat—but you cannot
stand between me and my reward!”
“If I could dream of doing anything, it wouldn’t be that,” I rejoin
cryptically. “In fact, I’m getting you there as fast as I can.”
“Yes, now I’m sure of it,” he mutters, taking stock of his internal
and external circumstances. “I’m on my way to join the elect, to take
my seat by the throne of God.”

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