Charon & Co.

Out in the lake’s depths the faces of the water-weirds gazed gloomily towards the shore. The mid-winter high gravity had pinned the water surface drum tight. Under that glassy pressure the bubbles containing their songs could not float into the air to pop. Along with the entire valley they ached for the day when ripples would be free to skitter across the water and their whale-song melodies could  rise and once again greet each new sun rise.

Then one cold witching hour the fat winter moon started to shrink back to its old haunt in the night’s sky. Within a fortnight it had retreated enough for the lake’s water to rise and for water-weirds everywhere to rejoice in bubbly joy.

It was a vivid morning when a solitary raft took to the lake.

Swirling eddies danced where the long pole broke the water. The raft’s wake was gossamer fine; a testimony to how water worthy the large lily-pad, turned lake faring vessel, really was.

The soft breeze disturbed the downy fluff that remained on Errol’s scalp. Of course his nerves were rattling at this new enterprise. Still, there was something about the rhythmic lean that accompanied every gentle plunge of the oar that calmed him some. So he settled into his out-of-time rowing action and found himself meditating on feeling nearly at ease …and purposeful  … for a change.

Errol’s companion suddenly shifted his weight at the stern of the raft. The front of the lily pad yawned into the air and Errol’s thoughts rapidly returned  to drowning, social inadequacy and prematurely thinning hair.

“Please sit still,” he spluttered as the lip of the raft slapped back into the water with an erotic slurp.

Ming languished like a docile silverback gorilla at the stern of the raft. He feigned surprise as if he had woken to find he had company.

“Is that anyway to talk to your first passenger!”

“You’re not a passenger,” Errol spluttered, keen as ever to avoid any form of confrontation “We’re business partners in this, remember? When are you going to do a bit of rowing?”

“Hey I know I can row,” Ming squinted suspiciously at Errol. “But I can’t say with any degree of certainty that I know that you can.”

Errol attempted to process this and after a moment gave up. With a little sigh he reached into the water and scooped up the oar which he had dropped. He steadied himself once more into a rowing position.

“It would be nice if you helped out once in awhile, that’s all,” Errol pouted.

“I am helping on many levels … you’re just not aware of any of them yet.”

There was no certainty in this business venture. In fact Errol got heart palpations when he contemplated the enormity of the task he and Ming had set themselves. To avoid an onset of said palpations Errol closed his eyes and thought back to that moment with Si-Ying Li.

“It is a good thing to do”, she had whispered in his ear when he first mentioned the idea to her. He had looked at her unsure what to do next. Anyone else – he supposed – would have slowly leant in for a kiss. But,  it had been enough to content himself with his reflection luxuriating in her eyes. “It could bring the Edenists and Atheists together,” she had continued. He had wanted to remind her that the other Settlers did not call themselves the ‘A-word’ … but he conceded the moment was too fragile to dispel with a semantic difference of opinions.

“It … is … a … good … thing,” those soft words had followed Errol around like a persistent butterfly ever since.

“Hey twat!” Ming’s reprimand cut through the luxury of Errol’s memory.  “What kind of Ferry Man ferries with his eyes shut?”

Errol jarred back to reality and glanced around  to get his bearings.

“Sorry … I guess I’m getting the fear,” he offered by way of apology. Ming nodded sagely from back where his weight threatened to submerge the aft of the vessel. This would be the first encounter between the two settlements since the Night of the Schism. The two ferry men had no idea how they would be received by their once friends back in the Habitat.

“Yeah, well don’t forget I’m only tagging along to make sure you don’t get yourself drowned or lynched,” Ming settled his chins into his chest about to return to slumber. “The sooner we get this over with,” he mumbled sleepily, “the sooner I can get back to The Garden and those chubby, nekkid, virtuous chicks.”

Errol craned in a bit closer after missing that last mumbled sentence. “Sorry?”

“Oh you know,” Ming yawned behind closed eyes. “The usual: stuff … ‘Praise Be’, ‘Hallelujah’ and all that jazz.”

Errol  suddenly felt  small and alone  out there in the middle of the lake. Alien mountains pitted the horizon and the happy-drowned faces of the water-weirds peeered up at him from the water’s depths.  For the briefest of moments he contemplated turning back. Then distantly, and with growing insistence, he heard the beating of a butterfly’s wings … and knew just what he had to do.

Dedicated to Midas  (R.I.P our rodenty chum)

~ by hedgemonkey on September 19, 2009.