Ferryman (21 page)

“
I
’m dead.”

It wasn’t a question, so Tristan didn’t bother to answer it. He just stared straight ahead, letting the flickering light of the flames lull him into a semi-trance. He hated this bit. Hated the crying and the moaning and the pleading. In truth, they’d come quite far, almost reached the valley without the woman realising what was happening. They might have made it all the way to the line – a feat Tristan had never achieved in all the thousands of souls he’d had to ferry – had it not been for the wraiths. This soul, this woman, was so timid, so docile and compliant that she hadn’t once questioned Tristan’s word. It had become almost annoying, as if she were blank paper, completely vacant. But it had been convenient.

The wraiths, though, would never let one so innocent and naive pass through the wasteland without a fight. They had dared to risk the sun, using the flimsy shadows of trees and bushes to attack. They had been easy to evade, but they’d been loud. And there had been nothing he could do to stop her looking towards the noise.

“What happened to me?” The woman’s voice was a frightened whisper.

Tristan blinked once, dragging himself back to the room, and looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up, her eyes huge, her arms wrapped around her chest, as if she were trying to hug herself. He looked at her, at her pathetic expression, and he made himself feel absolutely nothing. Still, he was her ferryman; he had to answer.

“Your house was robbed. The burglar stabbed you while you slept.”

“And those… things outside, what are they?”

“Demons, wraiths.” He said no more than that. He did not want to have to make any long explanations.

“What will they do to me?”

“If they catch you, they’ll devour your soul and you’ll become one of them.” Tristan looked away so he wouldn’t see the terror on her face. Despite himself, he was beginning to feel sorry for her; and he couldn’t afford that. Not again.

There was a silence that lasted for so long Tristan almost turned to read the woman’s expression. He could hear the slight hitch of her breathing, though. She was crying. That was something he didn’t want to see.

“I thought that you were going to rob me at first, you know,” she said quietly, her voice steadier than he would have expected. She huffed a humourless laugh. “When I saw you outside my house, I thought you were one of the neighbourhood thugs, come to steal from me. I was going to call the police.”

Tristan nodded without looking at her. He’d seen that in her face as she’d peeped through the window at him and he’d been concerned for a brief moment. It was the way he was dressed; his age, face. It was all wrong for this woman. He should be older, someone gentlemanly. The type of man she would trust. He should not be the same boy who had been sent to collect Dylan from the train.

Why hadn’t he changed? It didn’t make sense. He’d never held on to a form before. And then, as they’d been leaving her street, he’d sworn he’d seen someone
looking
at him. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t like it. It made it harder to try to forget about Dylan this way; to leave the pain behind.

“What would have happened,” she said at last, “if I had tried to run away from you?”

He spoke into the flames. “I would have stopped you.”

There was silence whilst the woman considered this. Tristan tried to lull himself into a trance, but he couldn’t shut his mind off. He found himself wishing for the woman to speak, just to break the silence. She obliged a moment later.

“Where are we going?”

Of course she would ask that question. Tristan had compiled a stock answer to this one many years ago.

“I am guiding you across the wasteland. When you finish the journey, you’ll be safe.”

“And where will I be?” she prompted.

“On.”

On. They always went on. And he went back. He had long since reconciled himself with this great injustice and it had ceased to bother him. Not until…

He opened his mouth, his thoughts half forming a message. The woman had an eternity ahead of her, surely she could spare a few moments of that to seek out a soul for him? But before he’d even decided what he wanted to say, he closed it again.

Dylan had gone where he could not reach her. Not his hands; not his words. And what point was there in sending a message when there was no way she could ever send one back?

He sighed.

“Tomorrow we have a dangerous journey to make,” he began.

The valley would be treacherous. He needed to focus. He needed to be the ferryman.

The wasteland was no cooler in the early light of dawn. Dylan stood on the threshold of the cottage. She’d been there for a while, fighting with herself. There were wraiths outside already, swooping across the surface of the lake like birds. Again, though, they hadn’t come near her. The safe house seemed to be holding. She could stay here. Stay here, be safe, and wait for Tristan. But what if he didn’t make it this far? What if the soul he was ferrying was too old, too slow? Besides, she was aching for him. The idea of waiting, for however long, was excruciating. She had to go and find him.

But the lake. She had almost drowned here. Tipped into the water, she’d floundered. Creatures in the deep had toyed with her, tugging, pulling, ripping. If it hadn’t been for Tristan snagging the hem of her jeans and hauling her to safety, she’d never have left the water. She remembered the taste of it. Foul, stagnant, polluted. It had been thick, like oil on her tongue. And that had been in her own heather-covered wasteland.

In this new burning wilderness, it was worse. It churned, poisonous and smoking. The surface was a haze; it didn’t look substantial enough to take the weight of the dilapidated dinghy, but the boat was there, bobbing gently on the surface. That was a relief. It had capsized so she’d been worried that it might have sunk, or washed up dashed to pieces. But there it was, though, right where she’d left it.

In the middle of the lake.

She sighed as she considered it. There were only two options: wade in there and get it, or walk round the lake. Walking was much more appealing than going into the oily, black water, with the hidden things lurking in its murky depths. But it was a long way. She’d be racing against the sun, and she wasn’t at all sure that she would win.

So really it was a choice of what was worse: the water or the night?

Tristan had thought the best way was to use the little dinghy, despite the dangers beneath the surface. That had to mean it was just too far – and, in this version of the wasteland, just too hot – to make it round before dark. And she’d survived the lake’s icy waters before. She’d never been out in the black of night.

The lake, then. The crunch of her feet on the tiny stones that made up the beach was the only sound as she trotted down the slight incline towards the shore. There were no souls to see this early in the day. They would all be emerging from safe houses, just as she was, ready to cross the lake. She’d thought about them in the long hours as she waited for dawn, as she’d tried unsuccessfully to block out the screaming. She couldn’t see their safe houses, but they must be close by, taking refuge from the dark, the demons. Dylan had been glad to be alone in a strange way. The other souls made her uncomfortable. They were eerie… strange. And, though she knew it was ridiculous, she was jealous that they still had their ferrymen, while she had yet to find hers.

And no idea how to do it. But she refused to think about that yet. One step at a time; that was the way to survive here. And the next step was to cross the lake.

She almost baulked at the water’s edge. The lapping waves painted the toes of her trainers. Going any further in meant letting the foul liquid touch her skin, and giving any creatures lurking in the water a chance to snatch at her. Dylan hesitated, chewing on her lip, but there was really no choice. It was go forward or go back. Taking a deep breath, she forced her feet to move.

Icy cold. Burning. The two sensations hit Dylan at once and she gasped. Thicker than water, the liquid fought against each step. It swirled around her knees, then her thighs. Though she couldn’t see the lakebed, her feet felt their way along, shuffling over the shifting mixture of sand and stones. So far, so good. It was beyond unpleasant, but she was still on her feet, and she’d yet to feel the grabbing claws of any creatures hiding down there. A few steps further in and she had to lift her hands clear of the surface. The tar-like water lapped at her middle and she felt nauseous. She hoped she’d reach the little boat before she had to resort to swimming.

She fixed her eyes on it now. She’d been exaggerating before; it wasn’t in the middle, but it was still at least the length of a swimming pool away from her. Her hopes of wading all the way were dashed when another step took her up to her chest, and then her throat. She jerked her chin upright, trying to keep her mouth clear, but the noxious fumes seeped up into her nose, making her gag and retch. She was shuddering with the cold, shaking so hard she almost didn’t feel something sliding slowly round her left leg, then her right ankle. Her middle.

Almost.

“Shit! What’s that?” she shrieked. Her arms, still aloft, slapped down to chase away whatever had a hold of her jumper. She felt the prickle of sharp scales against her palm before it slunk away. It circled back, though, snapping at her from behind, grabbing onto her hood so that the collar of her jumper choked at her throat.

Dylan whirled in the water, kicking and slapping and flailing. Droplets of oily black splashed up, landing in her hair, on her cheeks. Spray found its way into her eyes and her mouth. Spitting and blind, she wrenched her jumper out of the creature’s maw, and launched herself towards the dinghy, trying to swim and fight at the same time. It was ungainly and exhausting, but she managed to stop the creatures from getting a firm grip, and the boat was getting closer and closer. Nearly there. She reached out, fingers searching for the edge of the boat. She had it. Her fingers tightened painfully, but then suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Three of the things had sunk their teeth into her jumper and their combined strength was too much for her to shake free.

They dived, plunging down into the frozen lake, pulling her with them. Dylan opened her mouth to scream just as the water pooled over her face. It flooded into her mouth, thick and toxic. She panicked, blowing out all the air in her lungs, too desperate to clear her mouth to think. As soon as her lungs contracted, they fought to inflate, squeezing and cramping. Dylan clamped her lips shut, fighting the desire to breathe. All the time she was going deeper and deeper. Flashes from before sprang into her mind, but there was no Tristan to save her this time.

Tristan. She saw his face in her mind with total clarity. It gave her the strength to fight. Yanking down the zipper, she twisted and writhed her way out of her jumper, then kicked desperately up. Up and up and up. Surely this was too far? Was she going the wrong way – right to the bottom? She couldn’t fight the urge to breathe much longer.

Just when she thought she was going to pass out from the lack of air, her head broke the surface and she hauled in great lungfuls. She reached blindly for the boat, tears streaming down her face, making tracks through the black glue that coated her skin. Grabbing hold with both hands, she hauled herself up and into the little dinghy.

Dylan lay panting, face down for a moment, trying to feel if there was anything attached to her ankles before she had to turn and face the horrors, but there was no sensation other than the cold. Awkwardly, she clambered round and arranged herself on the hard wooden seat. Her whole body shook, from fright as much as the cold, and her head was spinning. She was soaked, too, her clothes coated in the viscous lake water. But she was alive.

Now she had to row. There were no oars, but she remembered there hadn’t been the last time… at first. Dylan closed her eyes, reached down between her knees and felt around with her fingers.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, scratching along the wooden planks. “You did it for Tristan. How the hell else am I supposed to get across?”

Nothing. Dylan opened her eyes, stared across the lake. It was at least half a mile to the other shore, and the air was completely calm, no phantom wind to push her gently across, not that she had a sail. And there was no way she was going to try to swim. Nothing was getting her out of this boat.

“Bugger off!” she shouted, her voice shockingly loud in the quiet. “I hate this place! Give me some bloody oars!”

She pounded the side of the dinghy, then turned and threw herself back onto the seat, utterly at a loss.

The oars were nestled neatly in the rowlocks, waiting for her.

Dylan stared at them, gobsmacked.

“Oh,” she said. Then she looked up at the sky uncertainly. “Thank you?”

Not sure who, if anyone, she was talking to, and feeling foolish for her outburst, despite the fact there had been no one there to see her, she grabbed up the oars, dipped them into the inky smoke, and started to row.

Rowing was
hard
. Dylan vaguely recalled Tristan laughing at her when she’d asked if he wanted her to take a turn, saying something sarky about not wanting to be on the water for ever. It hadn’t looked very difficult when he’d done it, but Dylan was finding it almost impossible. The dinghy wouldn’t go in the direction she wanted it to, and trying to pull through the water, strangely misty as it was, was like tugging at the weight of the world. Worse, her hands kept slipping on the oar handles, and she rubbed the skin from the inside of her thumb in the first ten minutes, so that the whole area throbbed. That pain barely registered against the aching in her legs and her back, though. It was very, very slow progress.

About halfway, she came across something to momentarily distract her from her lack of progress, however. A boat passed her going in the opposite direction. It glided along slowly, its inhabitants rippling in the light. Then, once the first boat had passed, there was another, and another. Soon the surface of the lake was awash with tiny crafts, a hazy flotilla creating a fog on the surface of the lake.