Ruwaida

‎“Once to cross; one gold coin. Come, mortal, waste not your few minutes with this ‎dawdle.” The words were rasped out in a low hiss, the ancient, claw-like hands flexed on the ‎polished wood of the oars. Carl opened his hand once more; a gold coin winked at him from ‎above the others. He shook his head; he had to be dreaming. Or Mr. Shafik was having a go at ‎driving him out of his mind; nothing else made sense. But Carl was up to that; with calmness ‎he didn’t feel he walked forth over the rough stones of the quay, right to where the boat’s ‎painter was looped over the stone bollard. He took the rope in his hand, stepping carefully ‎down into the boat where he sat facing the Old Ferryman.‎ His hand was steady as he passed the gold coin over. The old man took the coin in his ‎rough claw, grunted to himself then bent his back to the oars. No word escaped Carl as the old ‎boat made its way onto the heaving waters of the lake; for he knew the lore; pay the Ferryman ‎but speak not a word or the boat would sink into the River Styx and he would be lost, eternally ‎lost. ‎