In an old tale, two travellers came at the very same hour to the great river that the wise say souls cross between one life and the next. The ferryman, who had carried countless travellers, watched them closely, for he could read the weather of a heart.

The first was a merchant-king named Vrisha. Even here, at the river's edge, he could not sit still. He paced. He counted on his fingers. "I had three more ships to send," he muttered, "two more palaces to build, a hundred more deals to close. So much left undone! I must get back to it, I must, I must —" His whole body leaned forward, hungry, restless, reaching for work that was no longer there.

The second was a man named Tundi, who had spent his days in a heavy fog, sleeping past noon, forgetting his promises, never quite awake to his own life. Even now his eyes were half-shut. "Where... am I?" he murmured. "Is it morning? Let me sleep a little more..." and he sank down dull and confused, not even noticing the great shining river before him.

The ferryman sighed kindly. "I do not judge you," he said. "I only carry you to the shore your heart is already pointing toward."

He turned to Vrisha. "You leave reaching for busyness — so to a busy, grasping life you will go, among people who never stop doing and wanting."

He turned to Tundi. "And you leave wrapped in fog — so to a dull, confused life you will go, among the heavy and half-asleep."

Then a third traveller arrived — calm, clear-eyed, unhurried — and simply sat watching the bright water with a peaceful smile. The ferryman bowed to that one. "Ah," he said. "You I will carry to the shining shore."

"It is not a punishment," the ferryman told them all as the boat slid out. "It is only this: the weather you carry inside becomes the country you wake up in. So tend your weather while you can."