The River of the Lost Ones

The eagerness to be reunited with their loved ones hits them, and they worry that the reunion won't go as planned. Doubts and misgivings rose within them like black foam bubbling up from the river beneath their feet. The deck bustled as they searched left and right. The dense fog blurred their vision, making their other senses more acute. Marie could smell the frigid air mixed with wet earth. The splashing of water where the oars had been paddled was the only sound Marie could hear, on the endless journey there was nothing but infinite silence.

The river cut through the forest. Thick growths covered the patches of sky above, blocking the final rays of sunshine. Suddenly, Marie’s vision opened up as the boat made a sharp turn on the winding river. An expanse expanse of open water stretched out ahead of her. All kinds of statues of people's faces built into the water's sides, unusually large, with ancient moss climbing from the bottom. Marie was lost amongst strange faces that she couldn’t recognise: those etched in stone as well as the other passengers that shared her journey. And there Charon stood, a length of beard hung from his hairy chin, uncombed and unclean. The river is a small tributary of the Acheron River. As well as ruling the River of Acheron, one of the other lesser-known duties of the Charon is to reunite departed souls with their loved ones.

Marie leaned over the edge of the vessel, gazing intently upon the statuess. And the look of curiosity on her face shifted into astonishment. The fog enveloping this entire stretch of the river has suddenly lifted around Marie. She was now facing the likeness of a young man, wounded, with a crack in the stone where a long scar on his left chin would be. Moss and mushrooms grew inside the crack, dewy and glistening like tears.

“Speak to him.” chimed Charon. After all, he has served as the ferryman of the underworld for thousands of years. Trivial human affairs and emotions were of little interest to him.

“We long for you.” Marie’s voice was trembling, despite having rehearsed this line many times.

“I want for nothing more, but I can’t,” a male voice spoke. Though only in his mid-twenties, wrinkles on the statue shows the brutal damage he has endured

“But I heard —”

The mist crept in once more, shrouding the statue. “He can’t hear now, wait a little while. Wait until the mist clears, for that means he’s back.” Charon said.

These familiar features stirred memories and emotions that filled her heart with longing and sadness. She had never blamed him. From the day he left home to go to the front, drops from the tap turned into buckets of water, and wrinkles grew on Marie's skin like the rings of years on the tree he planted before the war. Marie had lost count of how many days passed by. There was never any news of him from the front, but the hope, though dim, had never faded. They grew up on small hillsides, where sweat dripped down to the ground and grew into wheat and sold to the rich. The villagers agreed that the war was only a few short months away, and that sweat and wheat would still be blown gently by the wind. Although the news said that all was quiet at the front, fathers and brothers did not return. Some began to doubt and others faithfully waited in hope. Marie was one of them. It was at this time that she heard this folklore. The story tells of a boat ruled by the same Charon who rules the River Acheron, but unlike the River of Woe, this boat ferries on the River of the Lost Ones. Marie invested every last penny she had on this folklore, even though no one has ever proven its existence as she heard that the tickets will charge them their life savings.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long,” said the all-too-familiar voice, pulling her back from her reminiscence. The fog was now lifting, revealing once more the statue of the young man.

“Don’t be sorry for your pain,” Marie said, a sisterly smile on her face.

“Is everything alright back home?” he asked.

“Mum is waiting for you. She kept the wooden rocking horse that was your favorite when you were little.”

“I miss mum.”

“When the trip is finished, I want to take you home.”

“I miss the warm bath and big house.”

“We all want so badly for you to — ”

In a heartbeat, the cracking sound of the statue interrupted their chat. Marie stared at the cracking statue , speechless. She sensed that the statue had vanished. The power of the supernatural and the rule of Charon amused her. The breaks grew deeper and deeper until they converged. It shattered into thousands of pieces. Some of them plummeted into the river and vanished without a trace and some carried away by the breeze.

Charon explained, “The statue is broken, the one is dead in the real world, no more words to say, no more voices to hear. The payment you’ve made is now for his journey to the afterlife.” Mar gazed motionlessly, before bursting into a cry that ripped through the silence, as sharp as an oar through the water. The wind swept up tiny fragments of the statue and swept away his last faint breaths.

The riverbank was covered with statues of human faces. They all had different names, lived different lives, and bore unique appearances, from the youthful to the elderly. The passengers eagerly and desperately put their hands out of the boat in an attempt to get closer to the statues. Marie did not know them, but felt their desire and longing for the statues. Perhaps strange and horrible statues that she didn't know were what some others were craving for.

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