Ferryman

by Claire McFall

  “Look,” she started, “about before…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted abruptly.

  “But…” Dylan opened her mouth to continue, but nothing came and so she lapsed into silence.

  Tristan saw the regret, guilt and – worst of all – pity in her eyes and felt a confusing mixture of emotions. On the one hand, there was a kind of perverse pleasure that she cared enough about his pain to feel sorry for him, but also a niggling frustration that she was making him think about things that he’d long since accepted and come to terms with. For the first time in a long while he felt aggrieved at his lot in life. At the never-ending circular prison his existence amounted to. All of those selfish souls who had lied, cheated, wasted the life they had been given; a gift he could never have and longed for.

  “What’s it like?” Dylan suddenly asked him.

  “What’s what like?”

  He watched her purse her lips, searching for words to phrase her question.

  “Ferrying all these people; taking them all the way across, then watching them disappear, or go over, or whatever. It must be hard. I bet some of them don’t even deserve it.”

  Tristan stared at her, astonished by the question. Nobody, not one soul of all the thousands he’d guided over, had ever asked him that. And what answer to give? The truth was hard, but he didn’t want to lie to her.

  “At first, I didn’t really think about it. I had a job, and I did it. It seemed the most important thing in the world to protect each soul, to keep it safe. It took a long time before I started to see some of the people for what they really were. Who they really were. I stopped pitying them; stopped being kind. They didn’t deserve it.” Tristan’s voice twisted as bitterness coated his tongue. He breathed in deeply, pushing the resentment back down, glossing over it with the facade of indifference that he’d perfected over time. “They cross over, and I have to watch them walk away. That’s how it is.”

  It had been like that for a long time now. Then this one had come along, and she was so different that it was knocking him out of the role that he usually played. He’d been fairly horrible to her – sneering, patronising, making fun of her – but he couldn’t help it. She had him off-balance, off-kilter somehow. She was no angel, he knew that, saw it in the million different memories of hers that played in his head, but there was something unusual – no, special – about her. He felt guilt stir in the pit of his stomach as she squirmed uncomfortably in the chair, compassion and borrowed sorrow etched across her face.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he offered, to spare her feelings.

  “Okay,” Dylan agreed quickly, glad of the chance to turn the conversation. “Tell me some more about you.”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Hmm,” she said, going through a list of the questions that had been swimming around her head all afternoon. “Tell me about the weirdest form you’ve ever taken.”

  He grinned at once and she knew this had been the right question to lighten the mood.

  “Santa Claus,” he answered.

  “Santa?!” she exclaimed. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “It was a little kid. He died on Christmas Eve in a car crash. He was only about five, and Santa was the person he trusted more than anyone. He’d sat on his knee in a store a couple of days before, and it was one of his favourite memories.” A humorous light sparkled in his eyes. “I had to keep jiggling my belly and shouting, ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ to keep him happy. He was very disappointed when he found out Santa couldn’t sing ‘Jingle Bells’ in tune.”

  Dylan laughed at the idea of the boy sitting in front of her dressed up as Santa. Then she realised that he wouldn’t have been just dressed up as Santa, he would have been Santa.

  “You know what the weirdest thing is for me?” she asked. He shook his head. “It’s looking at you, and thinking that you’re my age, but knowing in the back of my mind that you’re really an adult. No, older than an adult. Older than anybody I know.”

  Tristan smiled sympathetically.

  “I don’t relate well to adults; they like to order me about. Kind of like you do, actually,” she said, laughing.

  He laughed too, enjoying the sound. “Well, if it helps, I don’t feel like an adult. And you don’t seem like a child. You just seem like you.”

  Dylan smiled at that.

  “Any more questions?”

  “Tell me… tell me about your first ever soul.”

  Tristan twitched his lips to the side in a wry smile. He couldn’t refuse her anything.

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” he began. “His name was Gregor. Do you want to hear the story?”

  Dylan nodded eagerly.

  It was a very long time ago, but in his mind’s eye Tristan could still see every detail. His first memory of existing was walking, walking in a landscape of brilliant white. There had been no floors, no walls, no sky. The fact that he was walking was the only evidence that any surface existed at all. Then out of nowhere details had begun to appear. The ground beneath his feet was suddenly a dirt track. Hedges sprang up on either side of him, high and unruly and rustling with the sounds of living creatures. It was night, the sky above him was inky black interspersed with twinkling stars. He recognised and could name all of these things. He also knew where he was going, and why he was there.

  “There was a fire,” he said. “A thick plume of smoke was winding its way up into the sky, and that was where I was headed. I was walking up a lane, then from out of nowhere two men came flying past me. They ran so close to me that I could feel the air stirring, but they couldn’t see me. When I got to the source of the flames, I saw that the two men were trying to draw water from a well, but their efforts were in vain. They could not defeat a fire like that. It was a vicious inferno. A man could not hope to survive such a thing. That was why I was there, of course.”

  He smiled thinly at Dylan, who was staring at him with rapt attention.

  “I remember feeling… not nervous, but uncertain. Was I supposed to go in and get him, or stand there and wait? Would he know who I was, or would I have to convince him to accompany me? What would I do if the he got upset or angry?

  “But in the end it was easy. He walked straight through the wall of the burning building and came to a stop in front of me, totally unscathed by the fire.”

  “We should have left then. Got away from the place. But Gregor didn’t seem to want to leave. He was waiting for something. No… someone.”

  Dylan blinked, confused. “He could see them?” Tristan nodded. “I couldn’t,” she mumbled, looking down thoughtfully. “I didn’t see anyone. I was… I was alone.” Her voice died on the final word.

  “Souls see the life they’ve left for a little while. It depends on their moment of death,” he explained. “You were unconscious when you died, and by the time your soul woke up, it was too late. They were gone.”

  Dylan gazed at him, eyes wide pools of sadness. Then she swallowed audibly. “Keep going,” she said.

  “People started to arrive at the house, and though Gregor gazed at them mournfully, he didn’t move from my side. Then a woman came sprinting up the drive, her skirts hitched up to leave her legs free to run, a horror-struck expression on her face.

  “‘Gregor!’ she screamed. It was a heart-wrenching, tortured sound. She dashed past the watching crowd and made as if to run into the house, but a man grabbed her round the waist, and, after struggling for a few seconds, she slumped into his arms, sobbing hysterically.”

  “Who was she?” Dylan breathed, captivated by the story.

  Tristan shrugged. “His wife, I guess, or a lover.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The hardest part. I waited as Gregor watched her outburst with an agonised look burned across his features. One arm was stretched out towards her, but he seemed to realise that he could not offer comfort, and he had remained next to me. After a few seconds, he turned and spoke.

  “‘I
’m dead, aren’t I?’ he said. I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “‘Do I have to go with you?’ he asked, looking wistfully towards the crying woman.

  “‘Yes,’ I replied.

  “‘Where are we going?’ he enquired, still gazing at the woman who simply stared, mesmerised and horrified, at the burning building.

  “I panicked when he asked me that,” Tristan confessed. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said ‘I am just the ferryman. I do not determine that.’

  “Thankfully the man accepted this answer and I turned and begun walking away into the dark night. With one last look at the woman, Gregor followed.”

  “Poor woman,” Dylan muttered, thinking of the wife, left behind and left alone. “That man, Gregor, he knew he was dead. Right away he knew.” She looked incredulous.

  “Well,” replied Tristan, “he had just walked through the wall of a burning building. Besides, back then, people where you’re from were much more religious. They didn’t question their church and they believed what it taught them. They saw me as a messenger from above – an angel, I guess you’d call it. They didn’t dare question me. People nowadays are much more troublesome. They all seem to think they have rights.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Huh.” Dylan looked up, unsure whether to ask her next question.

  “What?” Tristan asked, seeing the hesitation in her eyes.

  “Who were you for him?” she blurted out.

  “Just a man. I remember being tall and muscular, with a beard.” He paused at the look on her face. Her lips were twisted together to stop herself from giggling. “Lots of men had beards, big bushy ones. I had a moustache, too. I quite liked it; it was nice and warm.”

  This time she couldn’t contain the laughter, but it died away quickly.

  “Who’s been the worst soul?” she asked quietly.

  “You.” He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night Dylan slept little, but lay awake thinking about souls, about Tristan and all the other ferrymen that must exist, about where she was going. She supposed her body was getting accustomed to not needing to sleep, but in truth there were so many thoughts running wild in her head that sleep would have evaded her anyway.

  She sighed, shifting on the worn and lumpy armchair she was curled up in.

  “You’re awake.” Tristan’s voice was low in the semi-dark, coming just from her left.

  “Yeah,” Dylan murmured. “Too much stuff in my head.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Dylan swivelled round so that she could look at Tristan. He was sitting in a chair, staring out into the night, but when he felt her eyes on him he twisted round to face her.

  “It might help,” he offered.

  Dylan bit her lip, considering. She didn’t want to lament her bad luck, not when he had it so much worse. But there were a million uncertainties buzzing round her head, and Tristan might be able to answer at least some of them. He smiled at her encouragingly.

  “I was thinking about what’s beyond the wasteland,” she began.

  “Ah.” Understanding broke across Tristan’s face. He grimaced at her. “I can’t really help you with that.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  She tried not to show her frustration, but it was something she was getting increasingly anxious about. Where was she going? Having seen the demons that loitered in the darkness ready to pull her under, she doubted it was anywhere bad. It must be a good place; why else would they try to stop her getting there? And it must be somewhere too. If oblivion lingered at her destination, what would be the point of crossing the wasteland?

  “Is that all that’s worrying you?”

  Hardly. Dylan huffed a breathy laugh. It didn’t last long, though. She looked down at where shadows from the fire were playing across the old, cracked stone floor. They flickered and danced in a way that was eerily familiar.

  “Those demons,” she began.

  “You don’t have to worry about them,” Tristan told her firmly. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

  He sounded completely confident and when Dylan looked up she saw that his eyes were wide and glowering, his jaw clenched. She believed him.

  “Okay,” she said.

  The silence stretched between them again but now, having broken it, Dylan found the quiet uncomfortable. Besides, more thoughts were bubbling in her head.

  “You know what I can’t get my head around?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “That you don’t actually look like you. I mean,” she went on, realising that didn’t make any sense, “I can see you. I can touch you.” She held up a hand, fingers searching in his direction, but didn’t have the courage to reach out and make contact. “But what I see, what I feel, it’s not really you.”

  “I’m sorry.” It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in Tristan’s voice.

  Dylan chewed on her tongue, realising she’d been thoughtless. “It’s strange,” she mumbled. Then, wanting to make up for her tactlessness she added, “But what you look like doesn’t matter. Not really. Who you are, it’s in your head and your heart, you know? Your soul.”

  Tristan stared at her, his expression fathomless. “Do you think I have a soul?” he asked quietly.

  “Of course you do.” Dylan answered quickly, but honestly. Tristan saw that in her face and smiled. She smiled back, but it turned into an ear-splitting yawn. She threw her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

  “I guess my body still thinks it needs sleep,” she said sheepishly.

  Tristan nodded. “It’s a bit disconcerting at first. You’ll probably feel horrible tomorrow, really exhausted. It’s all psychological, though…” He tailed off. The silence deepened and felt almost tangible.

  Dylan hugged her knees, curled up in the armchair, and stared beyond Tristan towards the fire. She wondered whether she ought to say something, but she couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound stupid. Besides, she thought to herself, he might want to think. This might be as close to being alone as he ever gets.

  “I guess it’s easier at the start,” she mused.

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked, turning back to look at her.

  She didn’t meet his gaze, but kept her eyes fixed on the fire, letting it lull her into a semi-trance. “At the beginning,” she said, “when the souls sleep. I bet it’s nice to get a bit of peace and quiet. You must get tired of always having to talk to them.”

  She faltered right at the very end, because it occurred to her suddenly that that’s what she was: one of them.

  Tristan didn’t respond for a moment and she cringed, reading the worst possible meaning into his silence. Of course she was just another soul to him. Chagrin washed through her and she squirmed in the chair.

  “I’ll stop talking,” she promised.

  Tristan’s lips twitched. “You don’t have to do that,” he assured her.

  She was right, though. He did prefer the start of the journey when the souls drifted out of consciousness and he could be almost alone. Sleep was like a curtain, shielding him, even if only for a few hours, from their selfishness, their ignorance. He was staggered that this… this girl would have the compassion, the selflessness to think about his feelings, his needs. He glanced over at her, huddled in the chair, looking for all the world like she wanted to disappear into the ancient cushions. He felt moved to do something to take the awkward blush from her cheeks.

  “Do you want to hear another story?” he asked.

  “If you like,” Dylan responded shyly.

  An idea occurred to him.

  “You asked me before who was the worst soul I’ve ever ferried across,” he began, “but I lied. It wasn’t you.” He paused for just long enough to shoot her a quick look.

  “No?” Dylan rested her head on her kn
ees, her eyes amused as she watched him.

  “No,” he promised. Then the jokiness dropped out of his tone. “It was a little boy.”

  “A boy?” Dylan asked.

  Tristan nodded.

  “How did he die?”

  “Cancer,” Tristan murmured, unwilling to recount the tale any louder than a whisper. “You should have seen him, lying there. It was heartbreaking. He was tiny and frail, white-faced with a bald head from chemotherapy.”

  “Who were you for him?” Dylan asked gently.

  “A doctor. I told him…” Tristan choked off, not sure whether he dared to admit to this. “I told him I could make the pain go away, that I could make him feel good again. His little face just lit up, like I was offering him a Christmas present. He leaped out of the bed and told me that he felt better already.”

  Tristan hated guiding children. Although they came the most willingly and were the most trusting, they were also the hardest. They did not complain, though he felt that they deserved to the most. What an injustice, to die before you had had the chance to grow, to live, to experience.

  “Tristan.” Dylan’s voice jerked his head upright from where he’d dropped it to his chest. “You don’t have to tell me this story if you don’t want to.”

  But he did want to. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t a pleasant tale, and there was no happy ending. He wanted to share something of himself with her, though. Something meaningful.

  “We walked out of the hospital together, and it had been so long since he’d seen the sun he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  “The first day was fine; we made the safe house easily and I kept him amused him by showing him magic tricks, conjuring a fire from nowhere, making things move without touching them. Anything to capture his attention. The next day he was tired. His mind still felt like it was ill, but he had wanted to walk. He hadn’t been allowed to walk for months because he’d been so sick. I couldn’t refuse him. I should have.”