Pull of the River

One story, one sitting. I'd consider it an accomplishment.


Jeffrey usually predicted storms correctly. If he didn’t it would mean a bad catch and a hungry family. This is why he rightly panicked upon seeing one pop up from a western sky in a matter of minutes. He was easily an hour and a half from shore, two with the kind of waves kicked up by a storm this large. His boat, which was hardly more than a large canoe, was not well-equipped to deal with weather and massive swells.
Instead of resigning to his fate, Jeffrey began rowing himself as fast as he could to the faraway shore. Seeing lightning in the distance and steadily advancing, his resolve strengthened. He had to get this fish, meager a catch as it was, to shore or risk going without supper for a night or two. His arms grew tired and heavy and the shore remained far away. Then the storm hit him.
Bolts of lightning struck the ten-foot crests, everywhere else on the ocean, and then on the boat. A particularly massive wave carried Jeffrey up, only to capsize the boat and pull him under with it. Everything went dark. He tried to breathe but took in only water. Everything was water. Where was up? Light, flashing somewhere, showed the surface. The boat seemed to be on fire. Out of air…everything faded.
Jeffrey came to floating on his back in much calmer waters. A light rested on the horizon, a massive globe of a sun. He didn’t know whether it was peeking above the water, or hesitantly sinking into it. Why did it matter? He was without a boat, without fish, and without any real way of getting to shore. As he was about to give up, Jeffrey saw a man in a rowboat advancing towards him.
“Help! Help!” he shouted at the rowboat.
“I see you!” said the man on the boat, quickly rowing over and helping Jeffrey in. “Some storm you caught yourself in,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jeffrey. “I still have no idea where it came from. Right now I’m just so glad you saved me. Where are you headed?”
“There’s a coast not far from here, which I think is also your destination.”
“So you’re taking me home?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yes,” he said. “So, tell me about yourself. What’s your name? How old are you? What’s your life been like? After all, we’ve got plenty of time to spend.”
“Well,” Jeffrey began, “My name is Jeffrey Carver. I’ve lived by the sea my entire life, forty years. I’ve never known the feeling of money overflowing my pockets, but I’m fine with what I have: a family, a boat which I apparently just lost, and a life mostly over open waters. What about you? What’s your—” He cut off as a sharp movement from the strong-looking man told him inquiring the latter’s name was the wrong question to ask. Just looking at the man, Jeffrey saw something almost familiar about him.
He was certainly oddly dressed, wearing a black robe and brown loafers. Continuing suddenly, Jeffrey said, “What’s your profession? You look sort of like a monk.”
“I’m not a monk. I am more of a spiritual guide. I help people solve their problems, usually by having them look inside themselves,” the man said.
“What do you think about me?” Jeffrey asked.
“I think you have regrets,” he said.
“Well, I regret never buying a bigger boat, or trying to hire out more people. I would’ve liked a little more money for a better home or for better food for my wife and children. I wish I could’ve sent my son to school, or even my daughter. I regret not being able to give them more opportunities.”
“I see,” the man said. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Jeffrey said after a pause. “I wish I had given some more thought to faith, but I said I never had time. I could always have left and tried to find out the answers to the hard questions I didn’t ask myself often enough, but I stayed for my family, for their sakes. I don’t know how my life would be different right now.”
“I’m not sure if I can answer the question you hid in that,” the man said. As they had been drifting along, the man’s robes faded, beginning to turn gray. The sun was, in fact, setting, as wispy clouds gathered around it and caught color, showing off oranges and pinks in the sky. In contrast, the man seemed to grow weaker and frailer, his robe tattering and becoming one with the shadows at the sleeves.
“I know I’ll never get an answer from you unless I ask you now. Who are you, how is it you came at just the right time, and where is it we’re headed? I don’t know this place. These mountains around us…what are they?”
“Very well,” the man said. “I’ve known you for your entire life, from the day you were conceived to this day—the day you died. You are right now crossing the border, to a land beyond. For you, there may be nothing, for the dead cannot find faith like the living can.”
“Does this mean you are…?” Jeffrey asked.
The man nodded. He pulled his hood off his head, exposing a sickly, rotting face, covered in brown spots and small patches of thin hair. His eyes, glowing light green, were engulfed in flame. He lacked a nose; he smiled and his lips peeled back, exposing a few yellow teeth. Death, now fully exposed, pulled his oar from the water and placed it on the deck. It shifted into a scythe: beautiful, gleaming, malevolent silver and steel, curved just so.
Bowing his head, Jeffrey’s eyes brimmed over. Tears began spilling down his face. “What about my family? Will they have to suffer the same fate?”
“You don’t even know your fate,” said Death.
“Of course I do. Nothingness, a pure lack while others get everything. I never got what I really wanted. I always did things for the sake of others, and it lands me here. Why didn’t I win?”
“None can fight the pull of the river. None can withstand the sweetness of my call. Your time came, and if you did not use it correctly, then there can be nothing but regrets for you. Faithless, you found yourself as lost as you are right now, a compass without magnetism, and no way to tell others your story. This is your end, Jeffrey.”
“What kind of monster are you?”
“I’m only the guide. You’ve now seen what’s inside yourself. Are you content with your fate and ready to resign to it?”
Standing up, Jeffrey got off the rowboat, thanked Death for the ride, and walked up the beach, path obvious to him. “None can fight the pull of the river,” he whispered.