I have a reputation.
As the Boatman of Styx, I am associated with the process of dying — with the sickness, nausea, weakness and frailty that are so common on this path. For many, I have become so intimately tied with the process of moving to the other shore that they assume my nature must be of Death itself. I must have some air about me of the sadness of loss, of the reek of disease. That somehow, all of the souls I ferry must scar me.
And that is not far from the truth, but also not exactly right. It comes down to the difference between being scarred and being affected. And in that difference lies a world of import.
I share the ride with the souls of the departing, and in each journey, there is an exchange. No, not the coppers. Gods, don’t get me started on the copper obol people historically buried with their dead to purchase passage across. I never asked for these grave goods. On the Far Shore there is a giant mound of them, unspent. Perhaps one day the Earth will yield them no more, but that would probably be the day it no longer needs me. I see no danger of that any time soon.
So, back to that exchange. It is important. Critical. It is a part of me for a part of them. Part of our souls. Not the largest part, but enough to feel it. There is something about sharing that boat that leaves neither passenger unchanged.
Because I am not really a ferryman. The truth is that all of the souls would eventually find their way. It is what souls do. So while they do ride with me, I serve less as driver, more as their guide. Sometimes, when the passage is long, we even become a kind of friends.
This crossing is a journey all must make (even me, someday), but I can sometimes help to defer that voyage, for a time. Those who thought they needed my service immediately are thrilled to be given a voucher for future conveyance. That is the side of my work that most don’t see, yet it is part of what makes my vocation bearable. The young often live their lives as if they won’t ever need to make this passage. But Life has a way of making them aware of her scarcity. Once they know, no, once they believe that they, like all before and after, must die, then there are few joys as profound as a crossing, delayed.
Crossing the Styx is hard. I can’t make it easy or less sad, but I can make it a bit less lonely. And this is my true calling. The ferry ride itself gets most of the attention, the temporary stays get all of the thanks. But the companionship on the ride, that is where the sublime happens.
It can be as simple as a hand, held. I think all of the noise and flash of modern communication obscures this. Whatever simulacrum of companionship you may get from your device, for all its dazzle, it conveys none of the magic and warmth of human touch. Hold the hand of one in pain, and though you may take on a tiny part of it onto your shoulders, you lift far more weight from theirs. It is the odd math of human misery. One burden, across two backs, becomes less than half.
It can be a moment, shared. It can even be a dream, deferred. Or denied. It is as simple and hard as sitting with someone, being present in the same room as future plans are crumbling. Places that will go unseen. Milestones that will be missed. Being willing to sit together and acknowledge that awful truth, that nothing can be done, is not much.
But it is something.
I do that, as well.
For one who deals with death and souls, you might think I have a better knowledge of what comes after. I do not. Not even the Boatman knows what happens when you leave his craft. And though I have seen the map of Hades, I don’t presume even that to be the final word. Souls have an energy to them that seems to speak of a destiny. I don’t know how better to explain it or what that destiny is.
All I can say is that I think it is not nothingness.
In those moments, where the one is so near to passing, and I am sharing that with them, the veil between our world and the next becomes very thin. So thin that you can feel it, something greater, beyond. The barrier doesn’t get weak enough to know anything certain, not even enough so as to be sure it is not imagination. But I have my theories.
I believe that when I and my passenger are sharing this moment, that we sense something larger. It is greater than we and more than we can entirely take in. It is beautiful. It is terrible. It is Death. It is Life. End and Beginning. Alpha and Omega.
It is the ultimate human journey, and it has been my profound joy, honor, and burden to share it with my passengers. My patients.
I may appear to you as simply an oncologist. But for those with whom I have made the journey, for whom I am their companion to what comes next, I have another name.
I am Charon.
Thank you for this human and poetic essay.