Boatman

This short fiction piece was a finalist in the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild spring contest several years ago. It appeared in their anthology is part of a short fiction collection I am preparing to send to a publisher.

Boatman

“Three crowns apiece to cross the river, five each for your horses,” he said. “I hear two sets of hooves, so I can ferry you both across at once.” The boatman sat on a rock. The sunrise, which he could not see, warmed his wrinkled back.

“How can we trust you to find your way, old blind man?” I asked.

“I know the river and the route across. I even know the rocks and pools below. In my mind, I still see the waves glimmer in the sun. We must make haste. I hear the hooves of those who pursue you,” he replied.

“Those are the king’s men. The pursuers mean to kill us all. You would do well to have nothing to do with us.”

“I am made holy by my affliction. The king himself dares not lay a hand on me. Now make haste.”

We covered the horse’s eyes, and yet they jostled the boat. It waltzed from side to side. Then we saw the rope leading from the ancient oak to the far shore. The boatman cast off and pulled us along with the rope. “Tell me, for what crime do the soldiers pursue you?”

“From the king’s own garden I took an herb, a rare relative of snakeroot reputed for its healing properties. I hoped to cure an ailing sister.”

The boatman nodded in assent to my convenient lie. “I know that herb said to heal every ill. It grows in the valleys beyond this river, but only a few have been found.”

“Had I known this, I would not be a fugitive today.” As I spoke, the company of horsemen arrived on the near shore.

“Boatman, return! You transport fugitives from justice,” the captain called.

“It cannot be so,” the boatman replied. “Once the boat is launched it must cross or sink.”

“Then let the river take you. I won’t lay hand on you, but the river will.” He raised his sword and severed the rope.

The boatman felt the slack and took his steering oar from the deck. As he slipped it into the oarlock, he said, “I know the feel of the river and its current, though I have not traveled down it in years. Just hope the water has not rearranged its course.”

The king’s men waited at a landing on the near side, their arrows notched. Their captain was not so hesitant to harm the boatman after all. “We cannot land on the near side,” I said, as the current picked up speed and the river’s roaring filled our ears.

The boatman said not a word, but bent to his task, steering us toward the far shore. Then the current took the boat, a rock appearing directly in our course. The boatman felt the eddy and steered a safe passage.

As we neared the waterfall, a six-foot drop, the king’s men let their arrows fly. An arrow pierced my friend, a deadly wound. I held a cloth to his chest to stop the blood as the boatman levered the boat with his oar to control our course. The raft hit the falls and then the pool below. The boatman, my friend, and I clung to the horses’ manes as they took us to shore. Holding a horse’s mane proved to be my friend’s last effort.

With no time to bury my friend, we placed his body in a cave the boatman knew from his younger days. He said. “Make haste to be gone, for the king’s men will soon find a crossing.

“They will not follow us,” I said. “The one they seek lies here, inside the cave. The crime of theft was his, not mine. The boatman nodded as though he knew.

I go to the city beyond this valley.” As I spoke, I hung the gold chain with the Queen’s signet ring on his marker. The soldiers would find the ring and body there and pursue us no further.

The boatman mounted my friend’s horse and rode along, trusting the intelligent beast to be his eyes. As we rode along, he spoke with a prophetic voice, “Your friend has brought trouble to you and your house. You will live the life of an outlaw forevermore.”