The Boatman

My grip tightened suddenly on the oar shaft, the bamboo handle carving faint grooves into my palm. The river breeze, heavy with moisture, smote my face; the oil canvas shirt I had just wiped now clung damply again. Tonight's moonlight was eerie, like a blood-stained rag barely hanging on the pitch-black mountain peak. The copper bell at the stern of the boat swung without wind, its ding-ling-ling reverberating across the empty river surface, startling a few egrets hiding in the water grass. The phone vibrated in my pocket; the old screen glowed faintly green as it lit up. It was an unfamiliar number, its origin displayed as a town on the opposite bank of the river. I swiped to answer the call, my fingertip brushing against a crack at the edge of the screen—an injury from last month's rocks in the rapids. "Hello, is this the ferry service?" The voice on the other end was faint, as if submerged underwater, carrying an unyielding chill. "Yes," I rested the oar shaft against the side of the boat, "What time is the ferry?" "Nine forty-five PM, the usual place." The caller hung up immediately after speaking, without a trace of unnecessary pleasantries. I stared at the darkening screen, frowning. Nine forty-five PM—the very last moment before midnight. At this hour of crossing the river, nine times out of ten, the passenger is not a living person. I rummaged through the boat cabin and found a faded cloth bundle. Untying the knot, inside were three sticks of mugwort wrapped in pine resin, and a half-burned white candle. This is the rule of the trade: when ferrying ghosts, one must use solar fire to guide them, lest they get lost in the river and cling to boats with living souls. Just as I arranged the items at the bow of the boat, a roar of car engines came from the shore. Two piercing beams of light tore through the night, striking the canopy of my boat, dazzling and painfully bright. Squinting, I looked toward the shore. A black Mercedes was parked at the pier, its wheels crunching over the gravel in the tidal mudflats with a creaking sound. The car door opened, and two burly men in black suits stepped out first, their waists bulging with something—clearly no good men. Then, a corpulent middle-aged man climbed out from the back seat. His gleaming leather shoes stepped into the mud, splashing water and dirt onto his trouser legs. He frowned, muttering something under his breath in a low voice tinged with impatient arrogance. It's Kevin Sinclair, a newly rich man in J City, rumored to have made his fortune by demolishing half of an old street. Over the years, he has purchased several plots along the river, now contemplating what kind of riverside mansions to build. A chill struck my heart; I couldn't take a boat for a man like that. "Hey, you boatman!" A man in a black suit shouted at me, twirling a retractable baton in his hand, the metal shaft gleaming coldly under the moonlight. "Come on, ferry our Mr. Sinclair across the river!" I laid the oar shaft across the bow and shook my head. "The boat is already booked; I can't take you." "Has someone booked?" Another man in a black suit stepped forward two paces, his shoe sole sinking into the mud. "Do you know who this is? Mr. Sinclair is having you deliver this; it's a favor to you!" Kevin Sinclair said nothing, merely pulling out a cigar case. The subordinate beside him hurriedly brought up a flame. The orange-red flicker of the flame danced across his face, clearly illuminating the knife scar that ran from his browbone down to his chin. I heard that scar came from an early turf war. The other party was found drowned at the riverbottom the very next day. "I told you, the boat is booked." I grasped the oar shaft again, dipping it into the water; the splash steadied the boat's hull. "You'd better find another ferry."