It is raining, turbulent. The Ferryman and I are hunkered down in the boat, heads bent, keeping our weight low. A song comes through me, from the water, from the chop itself, and the wind. The song lights a fire in my heart. I sing.
There is another layer to this now. There is blue sky and a fluttering of birds, at the same time as the pelting rain and turbulence. There is also a calm protected darkness, a stillness in which I might lie down and rest in the bottom of the boat. All these simultaneous. Perhaps it is a matter of choice which to occupy. I wonder about that.
I rest my hand on the bottom of the boat, sense the River King below. In answer to that presence, I flow through the planking into the depths. There is a calm there below. The River King welcomes me, invites me to tea. I am concerned about leaving the boat untended in the storm. “What need have we of a boat?” he asks.
“Maybe you don’t, but I think I do.”
“There’s something you don’t know about me,” he says, and turning, opens a brown chest in the corner. Sunlight erupts from the chest, gysering up through the grey water, opening space like the throat of a flower. The River King opens his arms to me. We stand together in the light. We dance.