by Derek Smith
Remarkably, considering his exertions, he felt no hunger. Erdy had told him of this. One blessing, as the rocks were completely barren. Nothing grew in the pale light. Nothing crept forth from the rocks. The ravens had gone to wherever they went. He was alone on the sharp rocks, scrambling, falling, rising and going on. He would have liked to have rested but in all the sharpness there was not a place to sit. He must continue, through weariness and pain, until he reached the river. The boundary between the living and the dead.
Chapter 34
As Toby approached the river, he wondered how he was going to cross it. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. A long swim but he thought he could manage it. He was still on the glassy rock which was a little above the river, and would be there in a few minutes. Although its distance was deceptive. For a long time it seemed he wasn’t getting closer. But now he could see clearly the dark placid water.
Any thoughts of swimming were swept from his head when a monstrous head and body broke though the water. The head was horned, with large teeth and bulging eyes, held up by a long narrow neck which disappeared into the water like a sunken tree on the swollen island of its body. The monster was staring at him, neck and head swaying. It took a great gulp of air and let out a roar, which echoed round the cavern, coming back in lesser and lesser echoes.
Toby turned and turned about, watching the places of echo in the sides of the cavern as it reverberated round and round. When he looked back to the river, the monster had gone. How deep was that water to hide such a creature? What else swam in its depths?
And how would he cross?
Toby had come to the edge of the rocks. About six feet down was black sand, in a long strip of beach about fifty feet wide by the side of the river. But just ahead was a short wooden jetty protruding a little way into the water. And alongside a rowing boat. Within the boat was a person. Man or woman, he could not tell, as it had its back to him and its head was covered in a hood.
Toby climbed over the rocks and let himself down to the beach. The sand was black as coal, but it too glowed when he held a handful within the dark of his tunic. The water was once again completely still. No monster or wind disturbed it. Toby walked up the jetty, and although his footsteps could be heard on the wooden planking, the person in the boat did not turn or stir.
Toby was at the end of the jetty. The man in the cowl, for it was a man, was leaning forward, back bowed, on the plank of the boat, hands held together. His face was bony with deep hollow eyes, and lifeless grey hair like cotton threads upon his head.
‘Will you row me across, sir?’ said Toby.
The boatman did not move.
Toby repeated his question and still received no response.
‘Sir,’ he began again, ‘I am a stranger here. I would be grateful if you would row me across the river.’
The boatman did not move.
Toby considered. And then stepped warily into the boat.
The boatman took up the oars which were still in the rowlocks. He turned the boat skilfully with one oar, until it faced the far bank, and began to slowly row across the river.
Toby was seated facing the boatman. They were looking at each other, but for all the interest the man had in him – he might not have been there at all. The man’s lips were pressed together, his deep eyes staring but Toby wondered at what.
‘Have you a name?’ said Toby to break the silence.
The man bit his lower lip and said hoarsely, ‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
The boatman closed his eyes for a second as pulled the oars out of the water.
‘I don’t remember.’
Toby was unsure about the next question but had to ask it.
‘Are you dead?’
The boatman gave a weary sigh.
‘I don’t know.’
This irritated Toby. It was stupid. He held back his anger.
‘You must know whether you are alive or dead?’
The man shook his head.
‘Too many questions.’
In exasperation Toby turned away from the boatman, who rowed in a slow, effortless rhythm that made the only ripples on the flat, black water. He looked to his right hand side, along the river to the far horizon. He could just make out movement. He screwed his eyes, held his hand at his brow. Could it be…? Yes, there was another boatman. He looked to the left and peered again. And once more, just on the horizon was a tiny boat. Of course, he thought, there can’t just be one boatman to carry all the dead. He could imagine a chain of them, each with another to the right and left on the horizon, going all the way round the world.
But how did the dead get here? They couldn’t come the way he came. They died, and then something took them over. And they began their journey. He turned, and looked behind the boat, its gentle wake sliding back over the water. There at the end of the jetty was a figure. Man or woman, he couldn’t tell, but it seemed to be watching them. Presumably, the next passenger, waiting his or her turn. Old, young – he couldn’t see. Just a figure, and most likely dead. He thought of all the boats along the river, all in transit, and all with someone waiting.
‘How do they get here?’ he said out loud.
The man shrugged.
‘Why do you row them?’ said Toby.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you do something bad?’
The man nodded.
‘What?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘How long must you stay?’
The man sighed, a long weary sigh.
‘Too many questions.’
His hands were thin, the knuckles white where he gripped the oars. His movement was like the swing of a pendulum, slow, seemingly without effort, as if his arms were part of the oars. Almost it seemed as if he were a toy, and the movement of the oars pulled him backwards and forwards.
‘Is this the only land of the dead?’
The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How long will you have to do this job?’
The man sighed. ‘Why do you ask so many questions?’
‘I need to know,’ said Toby.
‘Why?’
Toby didn’t answer. He realised the boatman didn’t care what he replied. He had been doing the job so long, every question, every answer was the same to him. All without meaning.
They were almost across now. Without having to turn to see where he was going, the boatman was heading towards a small jetty, the mirror image of the one on the other side. Except no one waited there.
The man slipped the oars and the boat pulled in. He tied up to a ring on the side of the jetty.
Toby rose to get out. The man held him by the leg.
‘Pay me.’
He looked down into the boatman’s hollow eyes. ‘I have no money.’
The boatman grasped his wrist. ‘Give me that bracelet then.’
Toby pulled it away. ‘No.’
‘Pay me.’
The man was still holding his leg.
‘I have nothing to give you,’ said Toby.
‘Give me your tunic.’
Toby hesitated. Then slipped it off over his head. He held out the bundle to the boatman.
The boatman went to grasp it – and Toby pulled it away and jumped on to the jetty.
‘Pay me,’ yelled the boatman, his bony hand outstretched.
Toby raced along the jetty. The man remained in his boat, and shouted after him in a voice filled with anger and pain.
‘Pay me.’
Toby ran up the beach and clambered up the rocks, his tunic under his arm.
‘Pay me.’
On he scrambled across the rocks, as if he were being chased, but the boatman remained standing in his boat with his arm outstretched. Toby pressed his fingers in his ears.
‘Pay me!’
Chapter 35
Far was seated at the table on a high stool with a mortar and pestle. To one side were herbs and twigs, and little mounds of rock granules. It
was Far’s task to grind them and put them altogether into the large bowl in front of him. He had no idea what was to be made. He was simply obeying Erdy’s instructions. Erdy had put out the ingredients and the vessels, showed Far how to use a mortar and pestle, and then left him to go down the mountainside to gather more herbs.
Far was grateful to be useful. His feet were still bandaged but less so. He used the crutch but hardly needed it. It took some pressure off his feet, though Erdy had said that from tomorrow he should go without.
Orly approached cautiously, her hands in the deep pockets of the tunic and leggings she wore, the same as Far. She had resisted giving up her black dress. It was the remnant of her ladyhood. And while she was still ill, Erdy had let her be. But once he felt her recovered enough, he had burnt it, just the day before. How she had raged at this. But by the time she knew, half of it had gone.
Erdy had told her that he could not have a lady in his cavern for all their sakes. She had taken this wrongly, believing he was somehow demoting her. And she sulked and harangued, while Erdy tried explaining that he was, in fact, protecting them all, as a lady on the mountainside could bring about their slaughter.
Reluctantly attired, she sat down at the stool, watching Far grind red lumps of rock in the mortar. Far knew of her presence, but concentrated on the rock, pressing it hard into the side of the bowl to break it down to powder, relentlessly pursuing the smaller pieces.
‘You may talk to me,’ said Orly.
Her elbows were on the table. Her hair had been cut short. Erdy had asked her permission to do this, which she at first refused, but he was able to persuade her that peasant girls did not wear their hair long. It had to go. But she shivered now like a shorn lamb.
‘Are you going to talk to me?’ said Orly.
Far did not look up, holding the bowl firm as he ground with the pestle.
‘It is difficult to talk when you are given permission,’ he said.
She watched him in the silence, sighing with boredom.
‘I don’t know who I am,’ she said. ‘My dress gone, my hair gone, my family gone.’
‘My family is gone too,’ said Far.
‘Yes,’ said Orly, ‘I know that. And I am sorry. But peasants die all the time.’
‘Everyone dies,’ said Far.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Orly. ‘Peasants are more used to death, what with wars and disease and bad food. You don’t feel as much. Do you?’
Far stopped grinding and stared at her.
‘How do you know how much I feel?’ he said.
‘My mother said…’ she began.
Far interrupted her. ‘Your mother knew no more than you.’
Orly’s eyes filled with tears.
Trying hard to control them, she said, ‘Please don’t speak that way about my mother.’
‘Was she a peasant?’ said Far.
‘Of course not.’
‘Then what did she know about us?’
‘What everybody knows…’ she began and stopped, unsure of what everybody knows. The world had gone mad. Who on earth was she? Before her was a peasant boy, not simply speaking to her – well, she had given him permission for that, but chastising her.
With no one to whip him.
‘Everyone’s gone,’ said Far bitterly, putting some herbs and twigs into the bowl. ‘Mum, Dad, my big brother Tom, little Ellie. I didn’t get on with my dad. Sometimes I wished him dead. He used to beat me with a birch pole. Last time, he said I gave the chickens too much feed. And I knew I hadn’t. There just wasn’t enough. Mum didn’t try to stop him. She’d get it too. He beat her enough. I’d get out the way when that was happening, run off into the fields. But Tom would stop him. My big brother. He was as big as Dad – and if Dad tried to beat him then he’d know what he’d get. When Tom was about then Dad wouldn’t hit any of us. Not me, not Mum. I miss him alright. And little Ellie. She was a funny little thing.’ He sniffed and wiped an eye with the back of his hand. ‘She used to run after me when I left in the morning. And when I came back from the fields, she was always so pleased to see me, with a smile as big as the moon. I’d pick her up and throw her over my shoulder…’ He stopped, eyes closed, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘They’re rats, the men that killed her. Lower than rats. Rats wouldn’t do that. I get a pain in my chest just thinking about it.’ He faced Orly, the pestle in one hand, eyes blazing. ‘Who got ‘em to do that killing? Your lot!’
‘Not my lot,’ said Orly. ‘My lot were killed.’
Far sucked his lip. ‘Yeh, sorry. Not your lot. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just sometimes hard to tell one from the other.’
Neither spoke for a while.
At last she said, ‘I didn’t know you were so unhappy, Far.’
He’d gone back to grinding the sticks and herbs.
‘Well now you know.’
‘So am I,’ she said.
‘I know you are.’
She said, ‘But I didn’t know about you.’
They didn’t speak for a while. Far continued grinding the herbs and rocks in the mortar and pestle while she watched, her fingers feeling her unfamiliar hair.
‘Can I help?’ she said.
Far looked up at her, unsure she meant it, but then what did it matter if she didn’t?
‘There’s a mortar and pestle on that shelf.’
When Erdy returned about an hour later, both were working at the table with their mortar and pestles. They were talking intermittently, no longer about their families, but about the task in front of them.
Chapter 36
A desert of white sand. Or was it pale green? There was no way of telling. The river was some way behind. Toby had at last lost the sound of the boatman. He shuddered. What on earth would the man do with payment anyway? What was the standard fare?
He was not the only one on the sand. There were many others, all coming in, as if walking along the spokes of a wheel, to the hub. And that was a gate between high rocks. Men, women, children were coming. All the walking ages of humanity. What happened to babies, he thought? Or toddlers. There was no one crawling. Some little children, but old enough to walk on their own. And none carried or pushed. Toby was the only one curious, turning about to see who was here. Everyone else walked face front. All by themselves, about twenty feet behind the one in front. None making any attempt to catch up. Toby adjusted his pace. There was an old woman in front of him. Her back was bowed, and she wore a headscarf. Behind him was a young boy. Toby waved to him, but the boy either did not see or ignored the gesture.
Toby knew these were the dead. He had crossed the river. Recently dead, he assumed, though how they got here and how long it took them he could not guess. They might have been travelling for years for all he knew. Or it could be they were yesterday’s dead.
He decided to slow up so that the boy behind would catch up, and then he could ask him his questions. And likely get more out of him than the taciturn boatman who either had forgotten everything or had no wish to speak.
But it didn’t work. The boy slowed up as he did. And behind him, all those in his line also slowed. Toby stopped. The boy stopped. Everyone in the line stopped. And no one said a word. He thought, I could stand here forever – and so would they.
He sped up, trying to catch the woman in front. Those behind began again. Toby got to the point where he was twenty feet behind the old woman. And then found that no matter how fast he went he could get no closer. He was running, she was plodding – and the distance between them stayed the same, as if the ground was being stretched out the faster he went.
No matter how fast he went, his speed stayed the same. Why run, then? Out of breath, he slowed to an easy walk. And, like all the others, strolled towards the gate. The gate had two high stone pillars against the rocks on either side. Attached to the pillars were gates of iron, opened outwards against the rocks. The gates had no design on them, simply consisting of upright bars held top and bottom. At one side stood a sentry and at his si
de a three-headed dog.
The dead walked straight through. The guard did not acknowledge them in any way. The dog similarly ignored them. Toby could not understand why there was a guard at all. Did the dead need ceremony? The guard was a stocky man, bulging with muscles, threatening to burst out of the short leather tunic he wore. His arms were bare and tattooed from wrist to shoulder. In his hand he held a chain, attached to the huge three-headed dog that sat docile by his side.
For no apparent reason the dog began to bark. All three heads growled and threatened. The dog was off his haunches straining at the chain. The guard struggled to hold him back. He pulled, the dog pulled, the chain stretched to its limit.
Still the dead walked through unhindered. The dog was not interested in them. And as Toby approached, it was obvious that the dog wanted him. The three heads snarled, jaws slobbering, full of foaming, white teeth. The dog was wrenching with all its fury, its solid muscle fighting to be off its leash. The guard strained with every fibre to hold it, slowly slipping forward in the sand.
Toby stopped in terror, perhaps six paces from the guard and his dog. He had no doubt what would happen if the guard lost his battle. In a second, he’d be ripped to pieces in the sand, the three heads tearing him limb from limb.
The guard had both hands on the chain handle, his muscles bulging with effort, breath hissing through his pressed teeth, while his feet ploughed forward.
‘No live meat this way,’ he managed to say. ‘Clear off.’
‘I must come in,’ said Toby, unable to take his eyes off the snarling horror.
‘I can’t hold them much longer,’ gasped the man. ‘Scram!’
‘Is there another way?’
The guard was bursting with strain, his body at an impossible angle. Should he fall, the dog would lunge. The three heads were wild with fury, snapping and snarling, and intent on pulling away from their tiring keeper. There stood live meat – and they would not be held back from it.
‘Through the Hall of Dead Babies,’ screamed the guard. ‘To your right. Run!’
