The Tale of the Boatman
I wrote this a while ago because I was in the mood to write a new fairytale.
Appropriate for: Young Adult and upwards
Cautions: grief, loss, death, romantic love
She’d loved the boatman from the very first quickfire spark of romance which entered her breast at fourteen.
She hadn’t known a time he was absent from her life. He simply was. In the watercolour abstracted memories of her childhood he had always been there. A stalwart piece of town folklore.
‘With the boat’. It was saying particular to her town and her town alone. ‘With the boat’ meant whenever the boatman next alighted or departed their shores. A piece of time so intrinsically part of life that clockmakers set their pieces to the boat’s arrival rather than to the awkward diligence of astronomical calculation.
‘Be home with the boat!’ was a saying oft-called by mother’s drying their hands on aprons as they hurried to catch giggling children before their stampeded feet were out of earshot.
‘Not now, but we can talk about it with the next boat’ is how father’s would gruffly sidestep earnest, wide-eyed pleas for sweets money.
Being brought up as such, the boatman’s ubiquity had rendered him a near-figment of her imagination. A concept more than a man.
She’d seen the boat of course, its slow harmonious cadence rippling the colossal expanse of opaque teal water upon the edges of which her town thrived. It left twice a day and arrived twice a day, appearing through the fog which forever misted the horizon. Every day, without fail. Through sun days and sun nights; dark noons and darker eves and through the seasons between where sun and dark revolved about each other like lovers never quite able to be united.
She’d always supposed the boatman had a home, always supposed he lived a life as ordinary as any of them.
She had never stopped to think about why the boatman was able to punt through the still, still, ever-so-still waters when anyone else would whiten in horror if they got too close.
It was a ritual, she thought, a marker of growing up. One in which children were snatched from darting too near the shore with harried, desperate whispers of ‘You mustn’t!’ A fable carved into their souls, claimed into their culture. Arms would swaddle and draw them away, shivered fears passing from flesh to flesh.
She had heeded the warnings. Those of her parents and her parent’s parents. She stayed away from the stony shore. Until, that is, the ever-day night she saw the boatman—truly saw him.
Her cheeks turned red and she took note. Her heart beat and she took note. Her lungs quickly inhaled and she took note.
For what was this curious sensation? What illness had befallen her which forced her to contemplate her mortality—her aliveness—so vividly? Surely not the swarth of brawny arms about his pole. Surely not the deep mystery in the glint of his eyes beneath the wide brim of his hat. Surely not the bow of his lips in exhaled relief at setting his feet upon land once more, sack hefted over one shoulder.
But so it was and she found herself pulled every day: with the boat, to the shoreline, to the boatman. It was mystical. Magnetic. She tingled with magic, the magic of a swooping stomach, of a fluttered pulse, of a wistful bloom in her heart.
He never noticed her, of course. He never acknowledged her, of course. As he had been tapestry to her, so she was to him. A townchild. A girl like many girls. A concept, not a singularity.
She’d thought it might fade. As the world turns and childhood becomes adolescence there are fewer and fewer lessons to learn. She’d thought this to be one of the last, perhaps. A love unlike that for mother or father; sister or brother. Unlike even that of friend. Love which shattered her when she found she held no courage to speak to him. Tore her when he passed her by with nary a flicker away from his path home. It ravaged her and gnawed at her.
And it did so for years.
The town talked. Of course they did. ‘She’s hopeless, that one. Reckless,’ they said as her longing drew her closer and closer to the shoreline. She was moons beyond chastisement now, any harm she came to was now hers to own. Her parents only shook their heads in disappointment: ‘Hopeless’. Her brothers and sisters only tsked their derision: ‘Reckless’.
But still her days and nights; her night-days and her day-nights were whiled with the boat. The hours in between stretched through errands and housework; doing for others what they could not do themselves. However, through it all she itched, a metronome in her head counting, counting, counting until she could be at the shoreline again with the boat.
Still it itched. Still it gnawed.
Enough, she thought. She’d been afflicted long enough.
It was a night-day’d night upon which she gathered her courage. Standing on the shoreline, a brave five feet from the lapping foam, her heart ticked, ticked, ticked keeping time with the boat. The boat which was due soon, so soon.
She saw a shooting star and wished but where there was one shooting star came another. And one more. More and more until the skies heaved with them, streaks of light illuminating further into the fog than she’d ever seen before.
And she knew. Today was the day her story with the boatman would finally begin.
For surely the stars would not weep in crystalline delight if it was not today. Surely so majestic a sight must hold a meaning. Surely.
The boatman’s silhouette approached, looming large in the velvet blanket of fog-cloud, lit by a perigean moon and she thought she saw an otherness. Something ‘elsewhere’ behind him.
Sudden fear scratched at her bravery and she closed her eyes but the stars lay beyond her lids to inspire her once again. She set her shoulders, elongated her spine, opened her eyes and the ‘otherness’ was gone.
The boatman punted through the waters to the shore but this time the glint in his eyes beheld her, saw her, acknowledged her and she felt her mortality again.
“Hello,” she managed, the end squalling as if it keened in the wind.
He alighted the shore and nodded. “It’s late, you should be aways home, miss. These waters are a fright of danger. Wouldn’t want you harmed now.”
He left, walking his path home. Shooting stars lit the sky, danced in her veins. Contentment filled her for the first time since the first quickfire spark had entered her breast all those years ago.
She returned, night-day after night-day.
“Hello,” she’d say.
“Miss,” he’d reply.
His nods eventually turned to small smiles. The glint in his eyes became a twinkle. His tone, at first perfunctory, was now warm.
One day, his reply changed.
“Miss, why is it you come here? Does the water hold you in a spell?”
“No,” she frowned, puzzled. “Not the water.”
Her eyes widened. She’d told him something too telling.
“Ah, miss…” he shook his head dolefully. “‘Tis not wise. You know the river tales.”
“They say it is dangerous,” she said, quiet like the shush of the shyest tide.
“Aye,” the boatman replied. “Afraught of it. As are those who commit their livelihood to the braid.”
“You?” The question was pulled, ripped from her. “You cannot be dangerous.”
Her mouth lay open. He seemed such a gentle creature, even how he plied his pole through the still waters was done with care.
He only smiled, hefted his sack and carried on home.
“Would you–?” her query lost its sails. He paused nonetheless.
“Miss?”
“Take me with you?” she asked, breathless in the gust she made to force the request from her lungs. “Would you take me with you one day? Beyond these shores?”
He looked sore.
“Ah, you cannot wish that upon yourself, miss,” he said. “My journeys are naught but pain for most and not suited to one such as you.”
“Then why do you enlist yourself to such voyages?” she enquired, brow furrowing. “Why should you place yourself in such peril that you would warn others from it?”
His expression grew sad. “Because someone must, miss. Because someone, at least, must.”
“Then,” she implored. “Do it not alone. Take me with you.”
“Ah, but miss,” he said. “I cannot.”
It became routine. “Hello” and “Miss” their beginning; “Take me with you” and “I cannot” their end. Day after day; night after night. Day-night after night-day. Noon-night after day-eve.
Turn after turn. Season after season.
“Hello.”
“Miss.”
“Take me with you.”
“I cannot.”
Her love grew and it shattered, splintered pieces of her heart slicing her lungs, every breath an injury. It grew and it tore, the tattered shreds of her listless no matter how strong the breeze. Her love grew and it ravaged. Her love grew and it gnawed.
It was a day-night’d day upon which she decided she must change. Follow a new cardinal. A correction of course.
The town had not yet awoken and the boatman readied to push off the shore. The day’s first journey.
“Hello.”
“Miss.”
She said nothing further, only watched him. Braced around his pole, his brawny arms, in her silence, slackened. The glitter-glint of his eyes dulled. The curved bow of his lips became stern.
“Miss?” Confusion spun on his face, making him directionless. “Are you well?”
She smiled. “Quite.”
He turned to the water as if it itched as she itched. As if it called to him as he called to her. He turned back.
“I have realised,” she said. “I would only be a burden to you.”
His lips parted but he could make no refutation.
She keeled her head. “For that I am sorry. I shall seek to improve myself.”
“That will be difficult, miss,” the boatman replied. “For I see naught which could be improved.”
Shame licked her cheeks, pricked at her eyes.
He smiled once more. “I meant no insult,” his words lapped. “Only that I fear if you were to make such an attempt, you would become an impossible thing.”
Her heart beat. Her lungs quickly inhaled.
The twinkle in the boatman’s eye became a glisten. “See, miss, I rather prefer you to be possible.”
She tingled with magic.
“And still,” she said.
“And still,” he agreed. “I cannot take you with me.”
His gaze found the horizon. He waited, waited, waited until he beheld an unseen herald and pushed from the shore.
She watched, transfixed, enthralled by the swarth of his arms, of the care of his pole as it broke the still, still, ever-so-still waters of the braid.
“I will improve,” she said to herself and followed.
He never turned back, never turned back.
“I will not be a burden.” Her feet touched the water. Cold. So cold.
He never turned back, never turned back.
“I will be released from this danger.” She let her form float. Ice. So icy.
He never turned back.
“I will be yours and go with you.” Her lungs quickly inhaled and she let the water take her.
She would learn its ways. She would not be afraid.
She let the water take her.
The boatman returned. She stood, dripping, on the shore.
“Miss,” he said in a swell. “Oh, miss.”
He dropped his pole, splashing it in silt and stone, care forgotten as he hurried off the boat.
“I improved myself,” she beamed. “I learned the water and its ways. I lessened the peril so now—now, dear boatman, now will you take me with you?”
He looked at her like his every defence was now hopeless. Like she was impossible. Reckless.
“Yes,” he whispered, voice cresting, cresting, cresting until it broke. “Yes, I must take you with me.”
He hefted his sack, shoulders slumped as if its burden was heavier than ever before. He made his way home, she’d always supposed he had a home.
She followed.
They traversed beck and dale, hillock and vale. They came upon a cave set into a cliffside. An opening of earth which felt like a final embrace, loving and sorrowful. A stone-hewn basin was set into a far wall. A waterfall trickled from the dark heights of the cave ceiling. Tears falling forever, scoring scars into the rockface.
The boatman approached the basin so she did, too. Upon the bottom lay a collection of stones. Some large, some small. Some rough, some smooth. All alike yet so very different, a speckle like a birthmark on one, an indentation like a dimple on another.
Curious, she watched as the boatman untied his sack and brought out a chest. He balanced it upon the wide lip of the basin. The boatman placed his hands upon the chest’s sides, it clicked open, though she saw no latch.
With care, with reverence, the boatman gathered each stone. He caressed them with his thumb, rested them briefly against his lips before placing them inside the chest. Each had their own space though some the boatman arranged some to lie together.
“Why?” she asked.
“This is how they wish to be,” he replied, simply.
Replacing the chest inside the sack, they left. Through vale and beck, hillock and dale they returned to the shore.
She glanced at the sack as if seeking to penetrate it with her gaze and look upon the stones once more. “What are they?”
“You know what they are,” the boatman said.
She cast her eyes to the shore beneath her still-wet feet. She searched about. Not there. Not there either, until–
She bent down and picked up a stone. It was nothing special – gray, round but smooth. A stone which had been washed over and over by the tide. She held it out to the boatman. He shook his head.
“We have our journey ahead of us,” he said. “Give it to me once it ends.”
Happy, she nodded.
He helped her aboard, his hand trembling in hers.
The boatman pushed off the shore and began his slow punt across the still, still, still-as-death waters.
She did not face what was ahead, only looked to the boatman feeling a final contentment as if her life’s purpose was complete. She smiled. The glisten in the boatman’s eyes fell upon his cheek.
Through fog, he guided them. A blue-hewn moon rose through the sun-kissed night and a quickfire spark danced in her veins. Through otherness they journeyed. She ignored her fear and magic swooped her stomach. Through ‘elsewhere’ they sailed. A whisper’d bloom pulse lit her heart for the boatman was as majestic a sight, just as she’d known he would be.
The boatman wept, tears falling like a waterfall not a star.
They breached a new shore.
She turned to look, but beyond the shivering sand, there was nothing.
Confused, she watched the boatman. He did not alight upon the shore, instead he carefully took a seat beside her at the prow. He removed the chest from his sack and performed the rite of opening it once more.
With care, with reverence, he angled the chest so the stones could roll out. She watched, transfixed, enthralled as the stones rolled themselves towards the nothing. Some haltingly, others with purpose. The stones which had travelled together, hugged each other close. If one stopped, the other started them again.
One by one, they disappeared.
The boatman beheld her, holding out his hand. She placed her stone upon his palm but did not let go.
“See?” she smiled. “There was no danger. I am in no pain.”
He tried to return her gladness, but it crashed before it could even curl.
“There was pain,” he replied. Sinking, rudderless. “But I am a might pleased it ‘twas not yours.”
His hand cradled the back of her head, his thumb caressing her temple. Drawing her close, his lips touched her forehead. With care, with reverence. With love.
She tingled with magic. Her hand withdrew from his.
He gazed down at the stone in his palm, its edges fuzzy and blurred, his vision unable to hold her as he’d wished to.
The boatman placed the stone upon the ‘elsewhere’ beach. Gray, round and smooth from a life which had too much water washed over it. A most precious stone, if only to him.
The stone hesitated. It did not want to leave the boatman.
With a wracking sob which failed to echo in the ‘elsewhere’, the boatman stood, gathered his pole and pushed himself off from the sandy shore where, for the first time, he’d left a part of himself behind.
The stone watched. Farewell’d the brawny arms about his pole. Missed, desperately, the glint of his eyes underneath the wide brim of his hat. Hoped the bow of his lips would someday know relief.
The stone watched. Transfixed—enthralled one last time—until the boatman’s form disappeared beyond the horizon. Then, and only then, did the stone roll.