Thirst No. 4 (35 page)

I hike for another hour, with my herd of zombie companions, before the tunnel finally opens into a massive cavern. The walls, the ceiling—I can’t even glimpse them, although I assume I’m still underground. Yet the sight of the cavern causes me to increase my pace because a mile away from the end of the tunnel is a black river with several thousand people gathered on its shore.

Even though the majority of these men and women wander aimlessly about, the river still feels like a viable goal to me. For it’s lined with giant torches, held high by arms carved out of stone, and I see small boats moving back and forth over the water, ferrying people to God knows where.

I assumed my traveling companions were semi-brain-dead, but that might not have been entirely true. Most of the people who exit the tunnel with me suddenly pick up their pace, as if they now have a purpose. They head straight for the boats that wait at the edge of the black river.

Yet the other class, those who wander the shore, look like they have been there a long time. As I approach, I see they’re not just dressed in foreign clothes, a lot of them are clad in historical garments. There are plenty of people from the forties and fifties, and the early part of the twentieth century. Others have on buckskins, kilts, and even togas.

I realize I’m seeing people who have been dead for decades, if not centuries. For some reason, I feel the sudden urge to try to shake them out of their lethargic state. Climbing onto a nearby boulder, I shout at the top of my lungs.

“Does anyone know what’s going on here?” I yell.

My shout draws the attention of a few, but only one guy seems alert enough to understand what I asked. Wearing a World War II uniform and chewing on a dead cigar, he walks over and offers his hand.

“Lieutenant Gregory Holden, Fifth Army,” he says. Taller than me by six inches, the man has a face so dirtied and bloodied from battle, his features are hard to distinguish. Yet his voice sounds clear and the blue in his eyes is visible even in the dim light. I shake his hand.

“Alisa Perne. Pleased to meet you, Gregory.”

He acts delighted. “Lord, ain’t you a looker. Where you from?”

“Los Angeles. And you’re from Virginia, I can tell by your accent.”

“You have sharp ears. What were you doing out in LA?”

“Trying to break into Hollywood.”

His eyes widen. “I knew I seen you before! You were in that film with Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck. That one she convinced him to kill her husband. You played her daughter.”

“That’s right. Turned out in the end I was the only decent person in the whole film.” The movie came out the year before the war ended. It was probably the last film he saw.

He slaps his leg. “Imagine that! Me meeting a famous movie star.”

“Tell me about this place, Gregory,” I say, pointing to the black river, the wandering mass of humanity, and the torch-lit ferryboats. “What goes on here?”

“You must be a new arrival,” he says.

“I just walked out of the cave.”

“Lucky you. You get a fresh start.”

“What do you mean?”

Gregory points to one of the ferryboats, which all seem to be manned by old guys in black robes. “You want to walk over there and see if you can get a ride across the river,” he says.

“What’s on the other side of the river?”

“No idea. But you don’t want to stay here. This is no place
for a pretty girl like you.” He adds, “Trust me, I’ve been here a long time.”

“Why don’t you take a boat across?”

“Lord knows, I’ve been trying. Before they let you in one of those boats, you’ve got to answer a riddle.”

“What kind of riddle?”

“It’s different for everyone. But the answer’s supposed to be something you learned when you were alive.”

“Wait a second, Gregory. So you know you’re dead.”

“Sure. I’m afraid you are, too. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Best you accept that fact and move on. But I know how you feel. I felt the same way when I first got here.” He adds, “I never even saw that bullet coming.”

“What was the riddle you didn’t know the answer to? Or have they asked you lots of riddles?”

Gregory frowns. “It could be the same riddle. Only, right after they ask it, if you don’t know the answer, you forget it right away.”

“Why do you forget?”

“Beats me, I can’t remember.”

“But they might ask more than one riddle?”

“Sure. Who knows? You just got to answer it right once and they take you over to the other side.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Trust me, it’s hard. I keep trying and I keep getting it wrong.”

“Gregory, do you know how long ago World War Two ended?”

“No, and I don’t want to know.” He turns away, frustrated, but has the decency to call over his shoulder. “Good luck, Alisa.”

“Take care, Gregory,” I say.

I’m not 100 percent sold on his advice. The more I stare at the dark river and the old bony dudes in their black hooded robes guiding their ferryboats, the more I feel like I’ve fallen into a Greek myth. I still can’t get over how every book I ever read on near-death experiences talked about traveling down a blissful tunnel filled with bright light and loving relatives. And this is what I get. Of course, the people who wrote those books, none of them had really been dead.

“To hell with it,” I swear, and walk over to a ferryman that isn’t busy. I might have made a bad choice. The guy’s hood is hung so low I can’t see his face, beyond a pit of wrinkles and a row of yellow teeth. As I draw near, the ferryman doesn’t look at me, he just goes very still.

“Hey. Can I hitch a ride to the other side?” I ask.

The guy nods and I swear I hear his neck creaking, even though he is hardly moving. He speaks in the kind of dry rasp a mummy might make if you gave him CPR and he suddenly came back to life.

“What’s the most useless human emotion?” he asks.

“That’s an interesting question. It’s sort of broad. Can you give me a hint?”

To my surprise, the ferryman helps me out. “Several words describe the emotion. They are all correct. Pick one.”

“Does this useless emotion apply to women as well as men?”

“Yes.”

“Who suffers from it more?”

“It depends on who raised you. Now answer the question.”

I recall Krishna speaking of the three qualities in the heart: love, hate, fear. He said hate could overcome fear. A warrior could do anything if he really believed in his cause. He could sneak into an enemy camp with just a sword and start killing people and not worry about what happened to himself. A more modern example would be a suicide bomber getting on a bus and blowing himself up, along with a bunch of innocent women and children. The point being that if someone was pissed off enough, fear wasn’t going to stop them.

But love could also conquer fear. Every day soldiers laid down their lives to protect their loved ones. And love was also capable of overcoming hate. Love allowed for forgiveness, which negated anger. Therefore, of the three, love was the strongest emotion and fear was the weakest because love could defeat the other two, while fear could be removed by the others.

I feel pretty confident with my chances with the ferryman.

“Fear is the most useless emotion,” I say.

“Wrong,” the ferryman says and raises a hand. His robe briefly slips up his arm and I see his fingers are made of bone. “Forget,” he whispers as his palm passes over my eyes.

I stagger back, dizzy. Up until then, I hadn’t noticed that the grim underworld had a particular temperature, yet suddenly I’m aware of just how stuffy the cavern is. Sweat drenches my brow. The heat and humidity remind me of a dragon’s lair. I struggle to hold on to the riddle in my mind but I feel distracted and it slips from my grasp. Bowing my head, I walk away from the ferryman and try to collect my wits.

I can’t remember when or where I set down my torch, but wish I had it with me. The water in the river is so dark, it gives me the creeps. I try keeping a distance from it. At the same time, the wandering horde is poor company and I avoid them as well. A few talk to themselves, muttering a series of questions, and possible answers. At least they have some life to them. But the others—it’s like most of them have given up.

I don’t know how long I walk around. But eventually I run into a young woman dressed in contemporary clothes. On the thin side, she has blond hair and blue eyes and a winning smile. I could swear she looks familiar but I can’t place her. Whatever the ferryman did to me is still messing with my mind.

“How did you do?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I think I got the wrong answer.”

“That’s okay. I answered wrong the first time. You just got to try again. Let me give you a hint. Think before you respond, don’t rush yourself. They give you plenty of time.”

“You act like you already got it right.”

The woman nods. “I did. The last time I spoke to the ferryman.”

“What did he ask you?”

“That doesn’t matter. My question might confuse you. Just focus on what he asks you the next time.”

“But if you gave the right answer, how come the ferryman didn’t take you to the other side?”

“I’m with the same ferryman as you. So is a friend of mine. We’re not going to cross until you’re ready to come with us.”

“Why are you waiting for me?”

She smiles. “The ferryman usually takes three at a time.”

“I didn’t know that. Where’s your friend?”

“She’s around. You’ll meet her soon.”

“Has she already given the right answer?”

“Yeah, she got it the first time. But she’s wise, you can’t compare yourself to her, none of us can.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“You will.”

“I’d like to talk to her before I go back to the ferryman. If she’s so wise, maybe she could give me some hints.”

“The most important thing to know is that you already know the answer to the question he asks you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t ask it.”

“Does he ever ask trick questions?”

“Well, they’re riddles so they’re all kind of tricky.”

“You look like you just got here,” I say.

“I did. I got here not long after you did.”

“How long after?”

“A week or so.”

“Hey, hold on. I haven’t been here a week.”

“Time is hard to keep track of in this place. That’s why you see people from hundreds of years ago. A lot of them feel like they just got here. But some of them have been asked hundreds of questions.”

“The ferryman gives you that many chances?”

“I was told you can’t go on until you get one of them right.”

“God. I hope I don’t end up like one of those losers.”

“Relax, you’ll do fine. You’re pretty wise yourself.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” She leans over and hugs me but before I can ask another question she slips away and vanishes in the crowd. Her kind words have given me renewed confidence. I head back to the ferryman I spoke to before. I think it’s the same guy, although they all look alike.

He stands in his boat with his hood covering his head, a long black pole in one hand, a torch in the other. Like before, he seems to freeze as I draw near. I don’t understand how I can remember that little detail when I can’t remember what he asked me the last time.

“I want to go to the other side,” I say.

“What’s the greatest quality a human being can have? That can also turn out to be the most dangerous quality?”

“That’s a hard one.”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Perhaps.”

He doesn’t offer one so I assume I have to take the initiative.

“There are many human qualities that can be both good and bad.”

“Yes.”

“Being a hard worker can be good. But if you work all the time, you never get to spend time with your family. You can get fat and out of shape and die of a heart attack in your fifties and you end up here.”

“Is that your answer?”

“What?”

“Being a hard worker.”

“No. I just used that as an example. You said you’d give me a hint.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, can you tell me what’s wrong with my answer?”

“Being a hard worker is not the greatest quality a human can have. Nor is it the most dangerous.”

“I see what you’re saying. You’re speaking in absolutes here so I need to raise the bar and go for the one thing that can either totally make your life or totally screw it up. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me where you get these questions?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you get these questions?”

“From you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You bring them with you.”

“Do I bring the answer as well?”

“Yes.”

“Why did I bring such hard questions?”

“Because you’re going to need the answers.”

“Need them for what?”

He gestures with his pole, although he does not take it out of the water. “You will need the answers when you reach the other side.”

“What’s over there?”

“You’ll see. Now answer the question.”

“Wait. You have to give me time to think.”

“Think. Then answer.”

The greatest human quality versus the worst human quality. To me, the ferryman is clearly implying they’re one and the same thing. I struggle to remember anything Krishna might have said on the subject. I didn’t get to hear him talk much, but I read the Gita and I read Yaksha’s book and Yaksha wrote down several lectures Krishna gave.

I suddenly remember one Krishna gave on love.

He said how love was the sweet expression of life. The one thing that made life worth living. Love made difficult tasks
easy. Raising a family could be a great burden, but if there was love, the sacrifice was a pleasure. And when love matured into devotion then everything you did for your lover was a joy. You would give up your life to save those you loved.

On the other hand, if love did not mature it could lead to bondage, to jealousy. If you loved someone, but felt possessive of them, you could end up treating them like an object that belonged to you. Just as bad, with your children, if you showered them with too much love, and never disciplined them, they would grow up weak and spoiled. At times, love had to be tough, or it could end up wrecking those dearest to you.