The Boatman rowed on through the gray nothing. There was no horizon, only mirror-smooth water that faded into the still fog. There was no temperature, no time. Just gray light and the Boatman, rowing alone.
The only sound was that of the rowboat. Oars gently slicing into the water on the downstroke, droplets of water falling on the upstroke. A low groan from the hull and a gentle creaking of the lantern at the prow, swaying back and forth behind the old man. His hands were gnarled and calloused, and he hummed some tuneless song as he rowed on and on, pulling the boat along. The Boatman’s long gray beard ran down faded yellow fisherman’s overalls and, when it got tired of running, laid down and slept peacefully at his feet.
A dock crept out of the haze. There was no land beyond, only the water and a wooden dock that seemed to stretch on forever. And at the end of this dock sat a single lonely shadow, feet dangling just above the featureless water.
The Boatman pulled in the oars as the worn, old rowboat bumped up against the pilings. As he reached for the frayed rope to moor the boat, he glanced up and saw a familiar face.
“Hello again.” said the Boatman.
“Hello.” said Death.
“So that’s it, then?” he asked.
Death pulled a white cigarette out of a pocket and lit it, inhaling. “Seems like it.”
They both sat still for a moment in that empty world.
“The last few all thought they were the final one.”
“Well, one of them had to be right eventually.” said Death.
The Boatman smiled an easy smile, crow’s feet blossoming at the corners of his eyes. “I suppose they did.” he said. Then he waited, like he had so many times before. Until his passenger was ready.
Death sat still, looking into the gray, smoking one last cigarette.
“So, what do we do now?” asked Death. “Well,” said the Boatman, carefully stroking his long beard, “I’d say we’re done. We can go now.” Death’s dark countenance faltered, eyeing the rowboat moored to the pale dock. The Boatman simply sat, waiting for the next question that always arrived.
“Do I have to get on?”
The Boatman looked up at Death. “In the end everyone does.” he said finally.
Death looked around gravely and exhaled more smoke. “I’m not ready.”
“Most people aren’t.” said the Boatman. “That’s alright.”
And so they sat, the Boatman watching Death take a final look around. Eventually, Death stood and put out the cigarette butt on the boards of the dock. Then, Death climbed onto the rowboat, wobbling a bit before settling into a seat across from the Boatman.
Unmooring them, the old man in yellow tossed the rope back onto the dock and began to row. The Boatman watched the dock disappear one final time, swallowed by nothing. The fog enveloped them and, once again, the only sounds were the oars, the droplets, the water lapping at the hull, the lantern. They rowed for what would have been forever had there been time, and then some.
“Am I dead?” asked Death.
“You’re the expert.” said the Boatman with a chuckle. It was a chuckle that came from the chest, in a rather grandfatherly way. It always seemed to bring a smile to the soul sitting across from him, and Death was no different.
“I just... I don’t really know what to do. How to die. Or be dead, or whatever this is.”
“Nobody does.” replied the Boatman.
“But you must have some idea.” said Death, watching an oar dive back into the still water.
“And why should I know?” asked the Boatman with a smile. “I never lived.”
“You’ve rowed every single soul to ever exist across this water. You must know what happens. Where we’re going.” said Death.
“Well, the truth is,” said the Boatman, thinking between oar strokes, “I don’t know where we’re going, really.”
“But you go there on each trip, right? How can you not know?”
“For starters,” said the Boatman with another chuckle, “I’m facing backwards.” Death smiled at that, too. “But in all seriousness,” the old man continued after a while, “the soul, whoever it was, they would talk to me as I rowed. Just like you’re doing now. Some would talk for a long time, some very little. And eventually... Eventually they had said whatever they needed to say.” The Boatman shrugged. “And then we would be there.”
“But where exactly?” pestered Death.
“Wherever they were going.”
Death was silent for a time, trailing a hand through the shallow ripples pulled along by the boat. “They all got there in the end? To wherever it was they wanted?”
“Wherever they wanted? I can’t say. Wherever they were going, yes.”
Death looked the Boatman in the eye. “Do you think we’ll get to wherever we’re going?”
“I would like to think so.”
Death and the Boatman rowed on, through nothing, and into the gray.