Down the River

After death there is me. This was decided a long time ago – an immutable truth, set in stone to emphasise its hard, cold permanence. I am part of the establishment, a link in the chain. The chain is like all chains: a heavy, scraping, clattering trap. It is tight, and it chafes, cutting mercilessly into my flesh. And I can’t remove it. It drags along behind me – invisible, but no weaker for that. We go through the motions, tugged through them by the remorseless chain: the Gatekeeper passes the dead to me, and I sail with them across the river of blood. 1

My next passenger is a little girl. My boat glides towards her, across the smooth red river. I have just deposited the one before her on the other shore, leaving him in the capable arms of the Doorman. He seemed barely aware of what was happening to him – his trip down the river with me beside him didn’t register on his face, which he kept angled downwards, staring at the floor of the boat. 2

I was pleased to be rid of him. He smelt of sun-burnt tarmac, and had the traces of tyre-marks still stamped on his cheeks, like a brand. His forehead was lined with sweat, a dank sticky fluid that ran into the wrinkles around his sunken eyes. It reminded me of the currents of blood that propel my boat along. I, too, kept my eyes fixed on my feet for the duration of our journey. I wanted to ask him about the death he’d just experienced, the one I saw – when I occasionally glanced up, to ensure the boat remained steady – flickering across his lifeless face. But I doubted he would reply. So I let the silence thicken around us. He appeared to appreciate this. At any rate, I was rewarded with a shy smile when the Doorman reached out his hand to help the man out of the boat. By then, it was too late to ask. The man I had just transported, in a dank cloak of silence, across the river of blood had been handed over to the next link in the chain. I had missed my chance to find out what had brought him to us. I comforted myself, on the lonely return journey, with the belief that I could probably imagine his death in a far more interesting way than he could tell it. This is usually the case.3

With the girl, however, I am not granted any clues. Her face brightens when she spots my boat coming toward her. Her feet, as she restlessly shuffles from one to the other, tell me she is tired of waiting. She has taken the Gatekeeper’s hand in hers; an action the Gatekeeper appears slightly embarrassed by, and which I am convinced is a token gesture on her part anyway. Perhaps she is simply playing on how she thinks we would expect a little girl to behave. 4

In which case, she is mistaken – I have accompanied a large number of newly-deceased children down the river of blood, and none of them have ever smiled. I have smoothed their hair with my brittle bony fingers, and listened to their anguished cries and whimpered questions – “Where’s mummy?” “Are we going home?” “What happened to your face?” I have sung my lilting, half-remembered lullabies to them, trying to coax them to sleep. I have told them it won’t be long, soon we’ll reach the other side, and mummy and daddy will be there waiting, don’t worry, it’s alright… I have seen the fear on their trembling faces as the Doorman looms down and lifts them from the boat, pulling them up as though they don’t weigh anything. By this point, the outlines of their bodies are already growing fainter. Often, they look like little more than reflections – shimmering, watery – as the Doorman leads them away. Some of them call out for me, tugging on the Doorman’s arm to be released. They don’t understand that I am just fulfilling the duty I have been assigned, and so is he. The fear will pass. 5

There are no hints of fear on the girl’s face when the Gatekeeper lowers her into my boat. I run my hands over my skirts, smoothing them down, and turn to her, attempting a smile. She beams back as she sits down beside me, taking my hand as a substitute for the Gatekeeper’s. Her grip is firm, surprisingly so. I wonder if she is trying to ascertain whether or not I am real – if her hand slips through mine, unable to hold on to anything solid, I will have failed her test. She must be alarmed at the thin, brittle feel of my fleshless fingers twining around hers, but if so she does not show it. 6

“My name’s Rosie,” she announces, and then her clutching hand tightens on mine as, smoothly, fluidly, the boat turns itself around. Now it is facing down the river, and is ready to take us on our journey. No way back now, as it glides away from the platform where the Gatekeeper stands. He has already turned from us, watching the imposing iron gate that it is his job to guard. Sometimes the gate surprises him, spewing a group of people out of its finely-wrought mouth before I have returned with the boat to transport them. Death doesn’t follow rules, after all.7

“Oh!” Rosie cries, as the boat swings gracefully beneath us, “What did you do?”8

This reaction amuses me. Usually my passengers assume the boat’s ghostly self-steering mechanism is simply another inexplicable feature of the land of the dead, and pretend they haven’t noticed it. They’re right, of course – it is not my duty to steer the boat down the river of blood, since it does this without my help – but the girl’s question makes a refreshing change from their lack of curiosity.9

“I didn’t do anything,” I inform her, “The boat moves by itself, you see.”10

“That’s weird!” Rosie says. The way in which she elongates the e, stretching it till it distorts, suggests that the word “weird” is a new discovery for her, which she is testing out to see how it sounds. She looks behind her, back at the Gatekeeper. He is already distant.11

“Why didn’t he come on the boat with us?” she asks. “He’ll get lonely now, standing there all by himself.”12

“He’s used to it,” I reply, “Don’t worry about him, Rosie, he’ll be alright. Do you like my boat?” I am attempting to identify the peculiar odour emanating from the girl’s body – it will tell me how she died, which for now I am unable even to guess at – and my question probably sounds distracted, because Rosie asks – sternly, as though she is reprimanding me for something – “What’s your name, first?”13

“I’m sorry?” No-one has ever asked me this before. No-one, evidently, has thought it worth asking. 14

“I told you mine,” Rosie reminds me, “So it’s only fair.” She sounds like a teacher, and her hairstyle – her straight brown locks pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head – only adds to the effect. 15

My name requires some persuasion to surface in my mind. I haven’t used it for such a long time. Finally I manage to tug the rope with sufficient force to retrieve it from the well of my memories. 16

“What a weird name,” Rosie remarks, when I reveal it. “I suppose it suits you, though. That man back there wouldn’t tell me his name – it was very rude of him. I said please, and everything!” 17

I wonder how old Rosie must be, to be so certain of herself; so confident and assured. She must be younger than ten, I reason. Not old enough to really know what the world is like. And now she’ll never get the chance. A blessing, in a way. She will never lose this self-assurance, I think – she will never grow out of her conviction, her belief that she will always get what she wants, if she pushes and wheedles enough. I remember being Rosie’s age, thinking I was ready for life. You’re never ready for it. And it sweeps you up, regardless.18

“Why are you wearing that?” This girl is full of questions! I’m not sure how I should answer this latest one – it’s not as though I have much choice over my attire. This unflattering grey dress is just what I wear, and always has been. I tell Rosie this, and she wrinkles her nose.19

“I bet you looked really nice once, though,” she says, “Did you have an accident?”20

“What do you mean?” Her queries are coming so thick and fast that I am having trouble keeping up. 21

“Your face,” Rosie says, gesturing impatiently at it as if she thinks I need to have it pinpointed for me, “Were you in a fire?”22

I pounce on this – maybe Rosie died in a fire herself! She doesn’t smell singed, but the gate can do odd things sometimes, to those who pass through it. Erase all hints of how they died, like wiping a blackboard clean. 23

“No, no fire,” I reply, “Why do you think I was in a fire, Rosie?”24

“I burnt my finger once,” she says. She sounds proud of it. “Mummy had to take me to the doctor’s, and I got to spin round on his chair, it was loads of fun, and it didn’t even hurt that much, not after a while. And my finger looked like your face does, so I thought… Does it hurt? Can I touch it?”25

No clues there, then. I suppose she will tell me how she died in her own time. It doesn’t seem to have affected her very much, if at all – it can’t have been particularly exciting.26

“I didn’t burn my face,” I tell her, “It’s just… old.” I decide this is the best thing to say, since she apparently hasn’t yet realised that she isn’t alive anymore. I don’t want to frighten her. My face is probably quite disconcerting enough – the years of sailing down the river of blood haven’t been kind to it. In places the skin has caved in, exposing the raw muscle beneath, and one cheek has collapsed entirely, unearthing my yellowing bones. 27

“My granddad’s old too,” Rosie says, “But his face doesn’t look like yours! He’s just wrinkly… he looks like a slug!” 28

She laughs, pleased with herself for coming up with the comparison. 29

“I hope you didn’t tell him that,” I say.30

“Tell him what?”31

“That he looks like a slug! I don’t think he’d be very happy about it, do you?”32

“Actually, he thought it was funny too!” Rosie sounds surprised that I’d think otherwise. The truth is that it’s been a long time since I saw my own grandfather, let alone anyone else’s. My grandfather would not have been amused if I’d informed him of his resemblance to a slug, although now I come to think of it he did look like one. He may well have smacked me for being so impertinent. Now it seems grandfathers are amused by the cheekiness of their descendants. Another sign that times have changed, and moved on. And I haven’t. I keep on following the same path, my path down the river – and then I turn around and retrace my steps. I keep expecting to see someone I knew, waiting for me on the Gatekeeper’s platform, waiting to sail in my boat down the river of blood. It never happens. They must all be dead by now, but none of them come through the gate. Perhaps this is because there is more than one gate – a theory that makes sense, since far more people die every day than I take down the river. They must have got to the Doorman’s side by some other route – my friends, my family. Passengers on a different boat.33

“You don’t look old,” Rosie says, “You look like my mummy, but she’s a lot prettier than you, of course.”34

“Tell me about your mummy,” I urge. I know from experience that we still have a way to go before we reach the Doorman, and this will keep her occupied. And perhaps it will lead onto an account of how she died. I refuse to admit to myself the real reason for my inquiry – when my passengers tell me about their families, the things they used to do… I can feel, just for a while, like I am still a part of their world. I can feel like I am one of the living. 35

I listen to Rosie’s bubbly chatter about her mother, as the boat swayed gently beneath our feet, carrying us over the blood river. How she liked to turn all the photos in the house upside down once a month, to give her a different view of the people and places in them. How she used to brush her teeth at the same time as Rosie every night, even though she went to bed much later, because Rosie didn’t like the bathroom mirror – she was convinced she’d once seen a scary monster lurking there, waiting in the glass to jump out and get her. How she had a favourite dress that she only wore on special occasions, like birthdays and Christmas – “It’s much better than your grey dress,” Rosie informs me, “It’s all blue and shiny!” It is so simple, all those small things that make up a person – that make up a life. I don’t think Rosie notices when I start to cry. My tears slide down over my cheeks, over my dry cracked lips, and over the side of the boat. They fall like rain into the slow-moving tide of blood, sending little ripples spreading outwards. 36

“And she likes playing tennis!” Rosie exclaims, finishing her story on what she clearly feels is a satisfactory note. She glances across to gauge my response.37

“Oh!” she cries, “Why are you sad?”38

This is not an easy question to answer. I tell her I don’t know why. 39

“Mummy says when you’re sad, you should sing,” Rosie says, “To make you feel better.” 40

“What should I sing?”41

Rosie looks around for inspiration. She doesn’t seem to have noticed that the river we are sailing along is made of blood – perhaps she asked the Gatekeeper about it, before I arrived. I hope he didn’t tell her anything disturbing – he can be rather blunt, especially with the children. He doesn’t understand how frightening it must be for them, to suddenly find themselves in the land of the dead. Most of them didn’t see death coming – children don’t realise how dangerous the world can be. 42

The song, when she starts it, is wavering, uncertain.43

“Row, row, row your boat…” she begins, then trails off. She looks at me, as if seeking permission to continue.44

“Gently down the stream…” I prompt, and she smiles.45

“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!” 46

So they still sing that song. How strange – most things have changed beyond all recognition since I was alive, yet that little song has survived, unaltered and untarnished. Untouched by the shifting sands of time.47

“This boat doesn’t have any oars, though,” Rosie points out. But she is pleased to have made me smile.48

“It doesn’t need them,” I remind her, “It’s a nice song, though. You have a lovely voice, Rosie.”49

“Do you really think so? Mr Harris – he’s my teacher – says I can’t sing in tune. He likes my recorder playing, though.”50

“I don’t agree with Mr Harris,” I tell her. “I don’t suppose it matters now, though.”51

The words come out before I can stop them. And I certainly can’t push them back into my mouth now. 52

“What do you mean?”53

“Nothing, Rosie, I was just being… it’s nothing.”54

“Why did you say that?” 55

I’m not going to be able to prevent her finding out – if I don’t tell her, the Doorman will. I’d rather she heard it from me. But I don’t know what to say.56

“Well, you won’t… you won’t see Mr Harris anymore.” It’s the best I can manage.57

“Am I moving schools?” Rosie asks – obviously an exciting prospect. 58

“No, Rosie.”59

“Why can’t he be my teacher anymore, then? Am I changing class? I don’t want to change, I like my class – I get to sit next to Kirsty!”60

“You’re not going to school, Rosie. Not anymore.”61

“Why not? Mummy says I have to go to school, every day! Except at the weekend – I get to stay at home at the weekend.”62

“I don’t really know how to say this, Rosie…” I wish we’d never got started on this topic of conversation. She’s better off not knowing. Let her believe whatever she wants to believe, about this strange new place with a boat that moves on its own, and a river of blood. As long as she doesn’t know. Why should I have to tell her the truth?63

“Rosie, do you remember what you were doing just before you came here?”64

“Of course I do! I’m not stupid!” She crosses her arms, sounding hurt. 65

“Tell me what you were doing.” I try to make my voice gentle, soothing, but my eagerness to know how she died seeps through, like a stain, colouring my words.66

“I don’t want to.” Suddenly she turns away from me, looking down at the blood as it flows past the boat. “Daddy would be angry.” Fear has crept into her voice. She’s shaking, her hands gripping the side of the boat.67

“Why would he be angry?”68

“Because he told me not to!” The words burst out of her. “He said I wasn’t allowed to, but I did, and now he’ll be angry, and he’ll…” She stops. She turns towards me, her lower lip wobbling. “How did I get here?” 69

There isn’t any other way to answer. The words are there, waiting inside me, preparing to come out. They are the truth, stern and unforgiving. Stony, hard, final – like a message carved into rock. Like a tombstone. 70

“You died, Rosie.”71

“I…” Her words are lost. She stares at my face, looking for a different answer, hoping she’ll find it there. She knows what death is, what it means. She knows it means that she’ll never see her mummy, or her daddy, or Mr Harris, or Kirsty – never again. They’re still alive, still living, on the other side of the gate. And here she is, in the land of the dead. 72

“I don’t want to,” she says, so quietly I can barely hear it. She has slumped. Her body is loose beside me, a dishcloth with the water wrung out of it. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be…”73

I can feel the tears returning, pushing against each other in the corners of my eyes, jostling for position. Because it isn’t fair. Because Rosie had a life, and a mother and father who loved her, who protected her from the monster in the bathroom mirror, who protected her from all the bad things that lurk in the shadows of the world, as best they could. And Rosie had made one mistake, had not listened to her father’s advice – just once – and she’d paid the price. It isn’t fair. Death doesn’t play fair. Doesn’t follow rules. Doesn’t care.74

Rosie has taken hold of my dress, crumpling it up in her fists. Her tears, when they come, are silent. Like mine. Through them, I can hear her voice – getting fainter, repeating the same words over and over again – “I don’t want to be dead. I want to go home.” 75

It isn’t fair. Why can’t I let this one go free? I could turn the boat around. I could take her back. I could pull her with me, past the Gatekeeper, back through the gate. Why not? Just this once? This girl – this curious, bubbly, smiling girl? Why can’t she get another chance? She’s so alive! So full of life. Why should she have it taken away from her? She just wants to go home.76

Don’t we all?77

The cold, hard, stony voice inside me. The voice of reason. This is how it works. We don’t get a second chance. We’re lucky to even get a first. After death, there is me. Me, and the Gatekeeper, and the Doorman. The river of blood. Links in the chain. The chain is unbreakable. And we can want all we like. We all want to go home. None of us can. 78

And now we’ve reached the other shore. The Doorman is there, like he always is – waiting for the dead. Rosie is dead, and she can’t go home. The Doorman takes her hand, lifts her like a doll – out of the boat, up onto dry land. He doesn’t speak to her. He doesn’t speak to me. We are both crying, but he looks away, looks towards the door. Rosie could tug and scream and hit out at him all she likes, but he wouldn’t pay any attention. As it is, she doesn’t do anything. She keeps her eyes fixed on me as the Doorman leads her to the door, and my boat pulls away from the platform. The chain is attached to the bow of my boat, and it tugs me along. I sail down the river of blood. I am alone.79

I keep expecting Rosie to make a noise, a sudden outburst, as the Doorman takes her away. If she does, I will look back. Maybe I will do something – seize control of the boat, somehow. Go back. Take her back to the world of the living. I won’t allow her to die like this, like everyone else. I will free myself from the chain.80

But Rosie is dead. And the dead are silent. The dead can never go home.81

I don’t turn around. I keep my eyes on the river of blood, the river that never stops flowing. My tears fall into the river. I sing.82

“Row, row, row your boat,83

Gently down the stream.”84

Life is but a dream. I dream of life. I dream of the living. But they have forgotten me. 85