Page 31 - Ferry Tales

Zoltaine

“Bah! I’ve never heard that excuse before. You think you’ve got
yourself covered for all eventualities, that judgement and punishment
are not as real as the misdeeds triggering them.”
“No, I didn’t say that, either.” I checked, and Zoltaine had indeed
been an argumentative type. No point in producing more monsters
for his consideration. I had to let him drone on.
“Maybe some oxymoronic incorporeal body remains after death,
and is put through the traditional wringer. Of course, that is absurd:
whatever thinks or perceives or feels has a physical basis. When that’s
gone, it’s the final curtain. It would be illogical of me, however, to
discount the possibility that logic itself is just one more delusion
internally or externally imposed on humans. So it is possible that you
are who you say you are, the ferryman of the Styx, and that I will
soon be punished for my sins. I wonder if doubting the afterlife is
one of them.”
“It’s not your doubt that will get you tortured: it’s how you acted
on it.” Now I was authoritative. “You are here because of your sins,
however we may define them—it’s not our definition that is, so to
speak, definitive. I’m not a Hellhouse lawyer; I’m a bailiff with access
to many records. Nothing I tell you matters, in the end. Judgement
has been made, and there is no appeal. Here is the riverbank. Step
lively! I have a lot of work ahead: one of those mass casualty disasters
you mentioned has occurred up above, and I soon will have a lot of
passengers to handle.”
“Perhaps.”
That was his last comment, Cerberus, and it is a little troubling.
What if we are the ones in whom false memories have been
implanted, either by our passengers or the Evil One himself? In the
first case, the instant Zoltaine is completely dead, we will disappear,
as well; in the second case, what use are we once a dead soul passes
through the gates? We could be erased until needed again, each time
with a full complement of memories. How can we know our own
reality if the passengers do not know theirs? Well, don’t let it bother
your ugly little heads, old sport of the unnatural. I’ve got to get
moving. See you next crossing—I hope!

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