The Seventh Day
The Seventh Day
by Patrick Hurley
The night after I killed my wife I had a strange dream.
Cold black waves ebbed away from my feet, pulling at the sand between my toes. I looked up to an ebony sky speckled with red stars. Behind me lay an endless gray country and before me, only dark water.
Then I noticed the boatman.
He wore only gray overalls and a black cap. A puzzled look flashed across his face when he saw me.
“Why Mr. Gerry, you’re here early! This almost never happens! Not to worry though, special accommodations can be made. I dare say we have room for you on this trip.”
He indicated the ship behind him. It looked like a cross between a steamboat and a hearse. Cobwebs hung from railings and elaborately carved trestles, gathering like gray conspirators in shadowy corners. The vessel was completely black except alongside her prow where someone had painted the name STICKS ‘N STONES in garish bright gold letters. I asked the ferryman what her name meant and he let out a dry cackle like the snap of burning twigs.
“Noticed that did you?’ he said, his eyes twinkling, “It’s a silly pun, nothing more.”
He said no more in the way of an explanation, but suddenly cleared his throat and looked serious.
“Now then, Mr. Gerry, to business. Do you wish to cross?”
I told him that I did; though in truth I wasn’t so sure.
“Then before I let you board my happy little riverboat, I must ask: do you have the necessary fee?”
I asked him how much and he looked at me strangely.
“I hope you’re not trying to pull one over on me, Mr. Gerry. Everyone knows my fee. They have always known my fee. It has been, and always will be, two. Two. One for each eye forever closed by the weight of a coin. Two! Whether they be dollars, ducats or rupees: it’s always two. People can say what they like, but I’m not changing my rates—even now when I am able to transport in bulk.”
I reached into my pocket and fished out two pennies. His face was solemn as he accepted them.
“Thank you, Mr. Gerry, thank you very much. Now if you will please step on board, we’ll be departing shortly.”
Besides the ferryman and myself, the ship was completely deserted. Walking about the main deck, I pictured row upon row of people, all silent, all staring ahead, faces devoid of expression. Then, the creaking wooden paddlewheels of the Sticks‘n Stones began slowly to revolve, startling me out of my reverie.
“Ah, Mr. Gerry!” he said as I entered the pilot’s quarters, “do come in. It’s so nice to have company. Mostly at this point passengers are so occupied with their own thoughts that they’ve no desire to speak with each other, let alone me.”
I sat and asked him if he had been in the ferrying business long.
“Sometimes it feels like an eternity,” he answered smiling. “Back in the old days it was so much simpler. All I needed was my wooden canoe and one large paddle. There were few, if any, delays in line. Of course, back then there weren’t nearly as many people coming. Folks are showing up in droves now, sometimes even by the thousands! Still, one must move with the times. If nothing else, I pride myself on flexibility.”
The boatman tapped the control board of his steamboat proudly.
“With an influx of guests comes an influx of profits, and I’ve been able to afford a bit of an upgrade. I shudder to think what would happen if I all I had was my old ferry. The mind quails, Mr. Gerry, it absolutely quails at the thought!”
As we made our way across the dark river, I asked for his name.
“Oh my, how perfectly rude of me! I should have introduced myself on the dock. I am entirely sorry.”
While keeping his eye on the horizon, the ferryman extended a bony hand in my direction.
“You may call me Charley. I am at your service.”
I shook his hand and we both were silent for a while, staring out into the darkness. Tendrils of fog had begun to caress the sides of the Sticks‘n Stones, slithering upward until the boat was completely swallowed by haze. Far off in the murk, will o’ the wisps began to dance back and forth, illuminating the outlines of distant buildings in their fiery glow.
Without warning, Charley pulled on an ornate tassel hanging from the ceiling. A chorus of deep groans and high screams reverberated through the riverboat. I stood in amazement, knocking my chair over.
“No fear,” Charley shouted as he kept the rope pulled down, “it’s just the Sticks’ foghorn. Needs to be used. Believe me, we wouldn’t want to run into anything on this river.”
After a more few horrible moments, he released the rope and the din ceased. The fog soon cleared, and it was then I began to hear something strange.
Carnival music.
The calliope melody reminded me of childhood travels to Coney Island, and I soon saw why. With the fog gone, the will o’ wisps had dwindled into neon lights of Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds awaiting on shore.
Suddenly Charley turned to me and said, “Now, Mr. Gerry, if you’ll please proceed to one of the lower decks. We’ll be landing shortly.”
I sat down in a large hall where a crowd was already gathered.
“Hello! Hello! Welcome! Welcome!”
A rotund man walked out on stage. He wore a thick walrus mustache and a leering grin beneath it; the type of man who gives children sips of whiskey or shows them pictures from pornographic magazines.
“So, the newest batch! Fresh off the boat and wondering what’s next. Fear not, o intrepid souls. We’ve been waiting for you a long time, a long time indeed.
“Now then,”—and he harrumphed once—“please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Daze, and I’m one of the facilitators of this fair establishment. It is my job to enlighten you as to how things work here. Contrary to what some of you might be expecting, you are in for a fantastic time! Fun for everyone!