The boatman grunted.
He persisted: “You are never lonely?”
“Never.”
“Is this all you do? Plying the river, taking souls to and fro?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You never grow weary?”
“Never.”
“You are never bored?”
The boatman was silent, his cold gaze deflecting.
“What say you to that?”
The boatman looked up. “The task does at times grow tedious.”
“Ah. Then I can help.”
The boatman looked dubious. “How so?”
“I can entertain you.”
The boatman again gave a skeptical grunt.
“I can tell you stories.”
“Stories?”
“Yes. I know many.”
“Stories of what, and of what interest would they be to me?”
“You won’t know until I tell you. Stories of other realms, other regions. Other worlds than this. You, who know only those dark, despairing waters, would naturally be interested.”[8]
“This I doubt,” the boatman said.
“I guarantee that you would find it diverting.”
The boatman considered the matter. Then he said, “Tell me of these things.”
“Take me across.”
“First tell me some of these stories of other worlds.”
“I will not. I will begin only if you let me onto the boat.”
The boatman thought long on it. At last he said, “Get in.”
He ambled down from the rocks and boarded. Choosing a seat amidships, he sat and watched as the boatman pushed the craft out into the slow, shadowy waters of the river.
When the riverbank had receded into the darkness, the boatman said, “Now. I crave a bit of diversion. Tell me a story.”
He drew a breath and began.
“A guy walks into a bar with a duck under his arm …”
Eleven
Crypt
Something split the darkness. A vertical line of light, widening.
The door of the dark chamber creaked open and a figure stood in the door frame, outlined against the light in the corridor outside. It was a man in a plumed hat, who then entered, stopping midway between the door and a half-illuminated table.
A flame appeared, limning a face, an upraised arm sleeved in green silk, and a hand holding a butane cigarette lighter.
The man in green approached the table, on which stood a candelabra holding five half-burnt tapers. He lit one taper, then another. A third. The room brightened.
He clicked the butane light off and slipped it into a pocket, then turned about to take in the surroundings. Shelves of books abounded in the chamber. Other shelving held a gallimaufry of knickknacks and oddments, games and gadgets, curios and other quaint conversation pieces. Maps, charts, drawings, and paintings, interspersed with a few photographs of scantily clad women, covered the stone walls.
It was a pleasantly cluttered room, but there was about it a feeling of disuse. The air was still, musty and cryptlike.
He crossed and closed the door. Taking off his cape, he hung it on a clothes tree to the right of the door. The hat he parked on a large mirrored hat rack tacked to the wall, where it found several colleagues to keep it company.
Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the room, as if trying to sense something invisible. He angled his head slightly, listening not so much to outside sounds as to his own inner voices.
“No,” he said finally. “Not even Inky.”
Satisfied, he crossed the room slowly, noting familiar objects not seen in quite a while. Lingering to look at a framed photograph of an attractive young woman, he smiled faintly, fondly.
“Long ago and far away.”
He paused in the middle of the room and made a sweeping motion with his right hand.
“Rise and shine, everyone.”
Oddly enough, the room suddenly took on a more comfortable aspect. Perhaps it had brightened a bit. Perhaps not.
He touched a framed astronomical chart on the far wall and swung it open like a door. Recessed in the wall behind it was a conventional-looking circular safe door, complete with handle and combination lock.
He rubbed his fingers against his lapels, blew on them. Gingerly, he reached to lay sensitized fingertips on the combination spinner. But stopped just short.
“Open up in there.”
The door popped open. He reached in, withdrew some papers wrapped in string. He went to a nearby writing desk and examined these documents briefly. Leaving them on the desk, he returned to the safe.
“Anyone been fooling around in here?”
“Not a soul, boss,” a small, comical voice came from the darkness inside the hole.
“Any supernatural intrusions?”
“Nope.”
“Sure?”
“Sure, boss. Hey … boss?”
He halted a motion to shut the door. “What?”
“When can I get sprung from this place?”
“Getting restless?”
“Kind of.”
“Trouble is, I still need this safe safeguarded, so to speak. How long’s it been?”
“Oh, going on a hundred fifty years, boss.”
“That all? You’re immortal, I’m not. When I shuffle off, you’re free.”
“Don’t want to bring up an indelicate issue, boss, but how much longer you figure to be around?”
“You selling insurance?”
“Ballpark figure.”
“Five hundred seems to be the upper limit in my family. Short-lived.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.”
“By your reckoning, you’ll be out in no time. Keep a stiff … well, whatever.”
“Whatever.”
He closed the safe door and gave the tumblers a spin.
“Man, I need a drink.”
The liquor cabinet in a near corner took the cue immediately. Hands — disembodied hands, it was to be hoped (the alternative being an altogether disconcerting possibility) — extruded from several cavities, busying
