He never said a word, the man who rowed the boat, carrying lost souls. His dark hood obscured his his face, but the lantern chained to the front of the boat illuminated the vast expanse of pitch black sea. White spectral serpents rushed past, rocking the boat. A passenger fell in; however the Oarsman didn’t stop, there was no intent to save the victim. The serpents swarmed to the drifter and consumed him. As his essence smoldered and smoke rose from the primordial murk, I turned towards the Oarsman, he didn’t move. I waved my hand in front of his face, but he continued to ignore me. “Hello, what is this, who are you?”

Without missing a movement or looking at me, he sighed, “This is the crossing and I am the Oarsman commissioned to bring you to your final destination.”

“But you lost a passenger; if it’s your job to bring us to our final destination shouldn't you make sure we make it across?” I looked under the hood, the Oarsman’s face was not only covered by his hood, he had a grey scarf wrapped around his face and his eyes were blue spectral lights.

“The serpents were the final destination for that soul. I am not the judge, I only deliver souls.” He turned his head, looking out in front of the boat.

Looking around I realized that none of the other passengers were speaking; none of them were even looking up from their feet, “why don’t they speak?”

“They do, they are, but lost souls only hear what they need to.”

“What does that mean?”
“You aren't supposed to hear them, I am, you are only meant to hear me,” He kept rowing, seldom moving in any other way unless it was to check behind him. It felt like hours had passed, and the water was absolutely still. Boredom overtook me but I heard something faint. It was raspy breathing. Upon peering under the Oarsman’s hood again, I noticed that the scarf was becoming damp and moved as if he was breathing heavily through it. With each row the sound became more desperate. “Do you need help?” no reply. He continued rowing but his heavy breathing became desperate grunts and pathetic whines. “Here, I’ll help you,” I outstretched an arm offering to take an oar, he grabbed my hand with his thick leather gloves, the material was rough and his grip tightened, cold, leathery fingers digging into my skin.

“I must row, it is my purpose. The man with the shovel digs, the man with the broom sweeps, the man with the blade cuts, and the man with the oar . . . rows. The man with the oar rows.” He suddenly released my hand and I almost fell out of the boat.

He returned to his business as he did before. There was no more heavy breathing and I began to feel tired. Leaning on my hand I gazed into the abyss of what I could only hope was water, I dozed slowly; my eyes fighting to stay open, but they soon lost.
I awoke blinking; I was at a dock, sitting in an empty row boat. I looked to each side. There was nothing but the dock and featureless people walking towards my boat. They stepped in, not disturbing the small vessel. Once it was filled I tried to talk to them, “hello, who are you?” no reply. I grabbed the oars, they felt good in my hands; they fit as if they had been carved for me. I stroked. The passengers began speaking amongst each other, but were they speaking to each other, or trying to speak to me? Is this what the Oarsman heard? Absolute chaotic chatter until . . .

“Where am I?” one asked, then returning to the unintelligible chatter.

“The crossing.” I replied without thinking, I wasn't even sure if I actually said it. As I continued rowing I kept listening for another to speak, but when I tried to speak, despite the volume of my voice, they never responded. I came to the conclusion that, I could only speak when asked a question and I can only answer that question. I couldn't ask them anything myself or say anything else to them.

“Why am I here?” the voice came again.

“What is all of this?” a second.

“Who are you?” a third.

“Am I dead?” yet a fourth.

“You are here because you are a lost soul in the midst of crossing,” again my speech was out of my control, “This is the crossing and I am the Oarsman commissioned to bring you to your final destination,” I kept rowing, despite myself, “I am the Oarsman commissioned to bring you to your final destination,” my words were not my own as I continued rowing and answered the last question, “Not yet.”