01.24.08
The Ferryman
His body was scarred red with severe burns. A tangle of short black hairs carpeted his brow. His scarred scalp was bald, except for the occasional stray hair. Between his small but piercing eyes protruded a hard, hooked beak. His eyes were not blue, green, or brown, but an orange-red, like his skin, but brighter—luminescent, as though flames might be harbored within. He had no lips. His long neck was wrapped in a furry, black scarf. Most of his scarred body was wrapped in a cloak of black feathers, with two rows of white feathers on the inside. The cloak looked as though it might have once been white, but charred black in a fire.
He opened his cloak, and it spread nine feet wide against the sky as he soared above her. He hovered overhead, watching Cynthia, as if waiting for her. She could not speak or even cry out. She lay paralyzed, trembling. “Cindy?,” she heard a familiar voice, then something began to shake her. “Cindy! You’re dreaming,” said her brother as she opened her eyes to see a less frightening countenance over her. “You’re sweating,” Armen whispered. “Breakfast is ready.”
Cynthia turned to see the wall of whiteness outside her bedroom window. Her black, curly hair sprang into place as she sat up. She bent down, lifted her robe off the floor, and slid it over her shoulders. She wiped the cold sweat off her face with the collar.
Four bowls of cornmeal sat evenly spaced around the small round table like compass points. Facing the bowls were her brother and parents. She seated herself and her father began a prayer of thanks. She watched his eyebrow and hard, reddened, balding forehead as he thanked the Father for all His blessings. His eyeless lids were collapsed into his sockets. He had not yet put his glass eyes in for the day. The redness of the empty caverns crept out between his eyelashes. She had seen him countless times before, but this morning she saw her father a little differently, and she sat semiconsciously puzzled, not quite aware that the prayer had ended.
After a momentary pause, spoons began to clank on bowls. Cindy snapped out of the trance and stirred the molasses and half-molten butter into the steaming meal.
© 2008 Dan J. Jensen
