It is dark all around. Dark but translucent. Weight with space in it. I am in deep water. There is a bouyancy to being here. The water does not negate the pressure and turmoil in effect at the surface, but it does provide a certain buffer. The water holds its own. Me. The water holds me.
I reach out my hand and the Ferryman takes it. I cannot see him, but he is here with me. I am not alone.
There is movement in the water, slow and complex. Currents of warm thread the currents of cold. I am anchored but fluid, a water plant, riding the currents but not leaving this spot. Small fish come and go, curious kisses.
The River King is there too, not far away, hunkered down with elbow on knee and chin on fist. He releases a string of small bubbles from his mouth, as if blowing out smoke, a bi-product of his contemplations. Ribbons of bubbles rise all around him defining the space he occupies as separate and special. I watch, thinking he might speak to me, gather me in, but he does not. He is thinking.
After a time he lifts his head in my direction. He blows a swath of bubbles my way. When they break on me they release tiny, bright musics. I am serenaded.