The boy peered beyond the river to the desert beyond. Somewhere in all that desolation, a monstrous city teaming with souls awaits. He could still go there. His option to cross the river is still on the table.

Then there was the alternative. Stay with the ferryman, learn from him, and awaken the thing inside him. He has felt something growing in him, pressing against his ribs, aching for release. It had been a gift passed down to him by his mother. Until now, he always considered himself cursed with her talent.

The boy can see the dead. He has seen those who wander the iron sands of Gehenna, trying to find the city of Enoch. He glimpses those who dwell there, walking the streets, building and crafting, even love-making.

Love-making. That idea still tickles the boy. He had yet to find his own love or experience sex, but he never thought that spirits were capable of such an act. Curiouser and curiouser this life is becoming.

Well, unlife, actually. The boy, still in the throws of puberty-laden teens, died. He needed help understanding the passage of time here in Gehenna. There is no sun or moon here. The sky is lit by a borealis with flickering motes of light that lazy hang in the air.

When he awoke on the shores of the river Styx, he had been lying next to others who had died, or so he assumed. Their spectral bodies lay side-by-side in a row that trailed as far as he could see. Each one sat up in time and, as if by instinct, stood in line.

The boy wondered if they were entranced, compelled somehow, to just stand in line and wait. They didn't even seem to be able to see or hear each other, and when he went to greet one, they didn't acknowledge him. He screamed at them, even tried to push one person, only to have his hand pass through them.

He began to despair when he heard a horn call in the distance. The song it bellowed reverberated across him. The horn must be enormous to shake him from a distance beyond his sight. After a few blasts of the horn, the boy could see a ship in the distance.

The boy watched the ark. Because of the size of the ship, that term seemed more appropriate as it cut through the river's rapids. The monstrous vessel was prominent in the distance, and as it pulled up to the shoreline, the size of it made the boy tremble. As it laid anchor, he wondered how such a thing could float.

No sails or ores were jutting from its sides. A massive chain drained into the waters, its links bone-white and almost glowing in contrast to the darkness of the wood that made the hull. The boy saw there were more anchors, each one sleepily drifting down to the waters. Each one, like the chains, carved from ivory metal.

The wood was so dark that the boy wondered if the planks had been charred. The amount of lumber to create the vessel must have been substantial, thought the boy. He stepped closer and investigated the planks more closely. Each piece of wood had a lustrous dark stain that reflected the lights of the shores and sky.

No, not reflected but emanated. As the boy looked closer, there was light in the glossy blackness. Green and yellow and white swirls of light and color. He watched as some of those lights coalesced into shapes. Into people. Some knelt in prayer, others rejoiced and sang to the sky, and others curled up in supplication.

"I wouldn't get too close to those waters, boy," a thick, grave voice came from behind the boy, "if you even touch those waters, that'll be the end of you."

The boy yelped and spun. Leaning on a tall staff, an old man stood, staring at the boy. The old man's face had been etched and carved into by time. His skin was tanned and leathery, and the thick mane of hair he possessed was black and draped down his shoulders in thick curls.

His robes were simple and sturdy, and he wore a red sash around his waist. Around his neck, he wore glittering amulets and chains of gold and silver. His weathered hands had rings with rare baubles fastened in the center. Each gem glowed with an inner light.

The man's age belied his strength, for the boy could see that his shoulders were broad, and as he approached, he saw his muscled forearms. He moved across the sandy beach with the ease of someone walking across a carpet.

His blue eyes pierced into the boy, and instantly, he knew he was more than human. His presence swallowed the boy. He felt power radiating from him, his stare peeling away his thoughts and memory like the pages of a book.

The old man stopped short a couple of feet from the boy. The boy fell to his knees, losing the strength to run, the gravity of the old man overcoming him. He stared up at the man in awe and wonder.

"You see me? Hear me, boy?" The old man asked as if he was surprised to find this possible.

"Y-y-yes, sir, I see you and hear you." the boy stammered, "What are you?"

"I'm Charon, the Ferryman," the old man said as he examined the boy, "and who are you?"

"Karen?" the boy said incredulously with a chuckle nearly escaping his lips. The old man's gaze stopped examining the boy and hardened, boring into his eyes and skull. "S-s-s-sorry, sir. My name is Phineas, Phineas Thatch, sir."

"Come with me." The old man said, and he curtly turned and began walking away.

For a moment, Phineas stood on the bank of the river, stunned. Looking back at the boat, the river, and the sands, he wondered if this was the moment he had waited for his whole life. To die.

"Now, boy!" Charon's voice rumbled in Phineas's head. Shaken from his wonder, the boy quickly moved to catch up. He just now noticed the massive planks that had erupted from the ship's side. Those who stood on the shore next to him were walking up the long ramps and disappearing into the hold.

# # # #

Phineas moved quickly to catch up with the old man. By the time he was at his side, Charon was standing at the foot of a ramp that no one had used to board the ship. Phineas looked up and saw that the long stretch of wood planks led to the deck.

"Come along, boy, we have much to discuss." The old man grabbed him by the collar and shoved him up the ramp. Instantly, the space around Phineas and Charon began to blur as the ramp transported them to the deck. When they got to the top of the plank, Phineas braced himself to be launched off the ramp and into the adjacent river.

Phineas shut his eyes in anticipation of his launch and threw his arms over his head. He sat curled up in a ball for several moments, but he never left the plank's surface. Phineas didn't feel himself even lurch suddenly. He just stopped moving.

After a few moments, Phineas peered out from behind his forearms and looked around. The deck was bare, aside from a small wooden structure with small windows fixed to see all around the boat. When he looked up, Charon was staring at him with some amusement.

"On your feet, boy! If I wanted to toss your scrawny ass into the Styx, I sure wouldn't do it from here." Charon said with a chuckle.

"Where am I?" Phineas had been asking this question himself and was finally glad to have someone who could at least answer that for him.

"Beyond the Veil. The lands of the dead. Gehenna." The old man croaked as he walked to the stern of the ship. There, an ornate rudder with intricate designs and painted gold sat. From the rudder, a smooth wood pillar sat, awaiting someone to begin working it. It was as

Charon walked up to the oar and placed his hand on it as gently as one would a skittish fawn. He closed his eyes and turned his head as though he was listening to a song on the wind. His brow furrowed, and his lips twitched, and finally, he relaxed and opened his eyes.

"Time to go," Charon said as he gently pulled the large ore, pulling the ship away from the shore.

"How does this ship move?" Phineas said as he examined the hull and watched the river lap the vessel's sides. "Why is the water so dangerous? You said it would end me if it touched me."

"You will have many questions, even more still as we travel," Charon began, "but first, you must tell me about yourself."

"What do you need to know?" Phineas said, shrugging as though it didn't matter.

"How long have you had "the sight?" Have you been able to see and speak to the dead?" Charon asked as he looked to the horizon,

"Are you the only one in your family?"

These questions, though innocuous, brought forth the barbed memories of Phineas's parents. The last memory he had of her, wasted away and broken, pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. Then the dam broke, and the shame flooded over him. He left his family and his only friend, George, alone with the corpse of his father.

Tears threatened to swell in his eyes, and he felt that bend of his arm ache, pleading for the needle. His throat tightened, and he cried out for a drink, something to numb the pain. He wanted to stop it all, the memories and hurt. Phineas looked out over the water again.

"Your gift has brought you suffering, I see." Charon finally said.

"Caused others to suffer too?"

"Yeah, something like that," Phineas said with a smirk. A shiver began to run through him. Even though he knew he was dead somehow and nothing more than a spirit, he was surprised to find his addictions hadn't simply gone away. "I suppose you don't have a drink handy?"

Charon looked at Phineas with a knowing look, one that knew Phineas's illness personally. Phineas looked up and momentarily caught the old man's stare and immediately looked away. The old man sighed and walked away from the ore.

"Come here, boy," Charon said. With a wave of his hand, two chairs rose from the deck. Each one was intricately carved from the same wood as the hull. Between the chairs, a brazier rose as well. Phineas watched in amazement as a blue flame came to life from the pit.

Phineas stepped over to the pit. He didn't feel the heat from the fire. He felt the memory of heat, and that memory warmed him. He slowly reached toward the flame, and when he was close enough, he felt that same memory of heat grow. Then he realized that spirits, as he was now, may not be harmed physically but through memory.

With a yelp, Phineas pulled his hand back. He hopped up and down as the bright white sensation raced up his forearm. He looked down, afraid to see what had become of his hand. He expected to find his hand was charred or blistered. Instead, the fingers licked by the flames are now less substantial.

"What the fuck?" Phineas exclaimed in horror as his hand began to mist and slowly evaporate.

"Just like a child," Charon said with a chuckle, "at the first sight of fire, you reach out to touch it."

The old man cupped Phineas's injured hand in his own palms. Phineas tried pulling away, afraid of more pain or injury, but found that Charon's strength was too great to resist. His grip was firm but tender. Phineas felt the memory of his mother's touch pour into his hand.

Flashes of memory lit his vision. His mother blew on his scrapped knee. His father's caress as he held him and his brother after their dog died. The song of their mother's lullaby when thunder cracked, and the shadows grew too deep.

Phineas felt the memory of that love fill him. It tickled his form and filled him with light. He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. The old man removed his hands, and Phineas's hand was restored.

"How?" Phineas looked at Charon with wonder.

"Told you, boy, many questions to come," Charon said without any cheer. "I have one more for you."

"Ask," Phineas said, looking over his hand.

"How would you like to float this river with me?" Charon said, his voice was grave.

It dawned on Phineas that he was being given a choice now. Go with the other souls, currently packed into the cargo hold of this vessel, or stay here and learn from this strange being. This Ferryman of the River Styx.  

"If I stay, will you teach me how to do what you do? Control my so-called gift?" Phineas said with pleading eyes.

"We'll see. At the very least, I could use the conversation," Charon said to the boy. Upon seeing a look of disappointment darken his face, he gave a wry smile, "and maybe if you show some talent, I'll show you how to become Death."