Page 2 - Ferry Tales

Weedle

Any trouble with that last one, pooch? Yes, well, most of them give
it up when they see three sets of bared fangs. I had a feeling he
wouldn’t go quietly: what a complainer! I know, they usually try to
find some way to avoid the inevitable. I’ve got a little time before any
more passengers show up over there. Let me tell you about that guy.
After a bit of panic once he realized where he was—those two
pennies they have to cough up are a real eye-opener, if I may mix
metaphors—he says he wants out because he made a bad bet. Of
course I’ve heard that one before, Cerberus! I’ve heard them all. But
they’re not on a joy ride: why shouldn’t the torments of Hell start
right there in my little ferryboat? So I like to soften them up a little
before they hit the Pit. Psychopomp is a serious profession, same as
Guardian of the Gates; but I do enjoy what little fiendish pleasure I
can get while pushing that pole. And I’m the first fiend they meet.
Oh, relax: number two isn’t bad, either.
“This isn’t right!” says the decedent. His name was Roland Weedle,
per the manifest. “If you are Charon, and we are crossing the Styx to
Hades, then I was gypped!”
“Do tell,” I say, ever helpful to those who would dig themselves
deeper into the deepest depths.
“And by a Frenchman!” Weedle was indignant.
“Oh, that’s just awful. What on Earth happened?” I was giving him
a bit of sympathy—or so he thought.
Weedle was eager to give me his whole sad story.
“The wager was simple,” he says. “Beautiful logic, easy to follow all
the way to the grave. Either there’s an afterlife or not. Can’t argue
with that. If there isn’t, then it doesn’t matter what you think or do
about following the straight and narrow. In that case, death is final,
lights out for everyone. But what if it does exist? That means you risk
going to Hell if you’re not virtuous. Big loss on that bet! Some people
take it for granted, one way or the other—no logic, no thought.

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