You stand upon the bank of a dark river. The restless water moves against any rational tide, as though it reaches out to draw you in. The small waves, each struggling against the others, whisper to you, offering all the unanswered secrets of your life, yet something keeps you from diving into that umbrous tide. There is no wind the air instead carrying its own hollow current, flowing past you without scent or feeling. The grey, uniform stone on which you stand stretches forever in both directions, following along the coast of that restless stream before you, and reaching into the impenetrable distance. There is nothing behind, a vague, meaningless void once thought to be filled with everything important, yet no longer holding any interest or meaning. You have no past, nor even a meaningful present; only the way ahead remains available to you, across the stygian water.
You are not alone on the bank. Your guide, you do remember a transcendent guide that brought you here, has long since departed. You think you catch brief glimpses of that chthonic messenger, bringing an unending flow of new arrivals, yet you cannot be sure of the nature of this guide. Even as with that fleeting idea that brought you, and all the others, you cannot make out the details of your companions upon that unending grey beach. Everyone has the same arms, legs, torso, and such, and everyone looks about with the same expression of confused disorientation that you, yourself, feel. But their faces… you have trouble making out the specifics of their faces, denying any real sense of identity. Each of those surrounding you has the same barren, hollowness. You wonder, briefly, if you also lack any identifiers of self. You wonder this, because you cannot remember, nor can you remember if you care.
The ominous river and its ashen coast are your only realities, the only over-whelming presence, within you. You care not for your lack of breath or pulse, nor do you care for your lack of hunger or thirst. Such things lie in that forsaken nothingness behind you; best left to those still burdened with such trifles. Your companions, pressing in all around, are just as unimportant as are the memories of your time before the river. None of these things concern you; you are beyond concern or desire, beyond save for one, overwhelming urge. You only yearn for what might lie beyond the river.
You notice, from time to time, one of your featureless companions moving into the river. Many of those assembled at the cheerless water’s edge, yourself included, pause in your restless shifting to witness the attempted passage. One of the agitated shades, unable to resist the lure of the waves, drifts forward, moving through the bleak tide in a shadow of swimming. From the moment this detached seeker enters the river, you notice the dour waves moving closer, wrapping themselves around the desperate shade. The water-that-is-not-water, too thick and sentient to be water, rolls over your lost companion, draining the faint light you each contain, until nothing but a lost phantom, a pantomime of its former self, merges with the others that make up the sepulchral flow. Now a part of the grisly channel, your former companion moves with the others of its kind, reaching for you. You, and the remaining others on that shaded beach, move a step back, but only for a moment, before the pull of the morbid current draws you back.
There is a passage, a safe means of navigating this inevitable course. A craft appears, not a boat or any other recognizable means of voyage. This vessel seems made of the same material as is the mysterious river, though hardened and stilled from its ceaseless tide. Upon the deck of this craft stands a lone figure, robed in night, that guides the crossing. In its shadowed hands, the boatman wields a guiding pole, dipping ceaselessly into the river to propel his launch. Atop this great stick is a lantern, a glowing beacon that the river’s inhabitants yearn for yet cannot approach, even as you, yourself, feel irresistibly drawn to the comforting glow of the boatman’s lantern.
He reaches the coastline and his vessel comes to a stop, the lantern emitting an even more welcoming brilliance. You and all your companions waiting on the beach surge forward. You cannot enter the presence of that lantern, though, as its warmth becomes a luminous wall that denies you. All those surrounding the boatman’s ark reach out, trying to penetrate the scorching radiance of the lantern. Some of your companions do penetrate the barrier, each of them holding a point of light that matches the glowing beacon ahead. Only a few carry this pinpoint of hope; only a few can pass onto the ferry. When each figure reaches the boatman, the small light they carry raises up and joins with the lantern, increasing its fiery brilliance. Most of your companions do not have the light, and are unable to approach.
You feel a warmth in your hand. You look down and see a small point, a tiny circle, like a half-remembered coin. Within this golden currency, you perceive faces and all the emotional memory assigned to those faces. You remember, then, through those dancing images, weighted by grief; you remember your name and the time when you had a beating mortality. You move forward, your sense of identity carrying you towards the boatman. You hold up that shining point, that marker of significance, of recognition. The boatman looks down and nods, “You are mourned,” it says, and allows you to board.
The vessel moves away, then, from the grey, unmourned shades. It glides across the inscrutable river, towards something beyond. You can see another coastline, in the distance, yet can make out no details. A strange mist conceals what lies ahead, yet you can see other shapes, waiting on that distant beach. They are familiar, and they are welcoming.
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