Ferryman

by Claire McFall

  He broke off at this point and seemed to be struggling internally. Dylan wasn’t sure if he was debating about whether to say something or simply trying to work out how to say it. She waited patiently. Tristan looked up at the sky – quite a feat as they were traversing a fairly steep hill and it was taking all of Dylan’s powers of concentration to keep her feet steady and listen at the same time. However the sky seemed to hold his answer as he nodded curtly and sighed.

  “There are some things that I can do in the wasteland… things that aren’t normal, things you might call magical.”

  Dylan held her breath; this was the sort of confession she had been waiting for, something that would make sense of the madness.

  “I conjured up a wind.” He paused as Dylan’s eyebrows furrowed together, confused. She hadn’t noticed that. “You wouldn’t have felt it; it was only for the demons.”

  “You conjured a wind?” she asked, astonished. “You can do that?”

  Tristan grimaced. “It’s difficult, but I can.”

  “What do you mean it’s difficult?”

  “It takes a lot of energy, drains me, but it was working. They couldn’t hold on to their flight path, and were being buffeted all over the place. They couldn’t get a grip on you.” He sighed. “But it didn’t take them long to figure out what was causing it. The majority of the swarm turned and began to attack me.”

  “You should have stopped,” Dylan blurted out. “You should have stopped the wind and… and fought them, or—”

  Tristan shook his head, stopping her words. “I had to make sure you were safe. You are my number one priority in the wasteland.” He smiled at the horrified expression on her face. “I can’t die, and I am duty-bound to protect the soul first, myself second.”

  Dylan nodded numbly at this. Of course he wasn’t just putting himself in danger specially for her. It was his job.

  “They tried attacking me, slashing at me with their claws and flying straight at me, kind of like a full body punch. They can’t go through me like they can you. There were still some around you, but you were so close to the cottage. I managed to keep it going until I saw you cross the threshold, but then the entire swarm focused on me and there were too many for me to fight. They managed to drag me under.”

  Dylan pictured it in her head as he spoke. The demons plummeting downwards, curling viciously around him, pulling and scratching at his face. She imagined him trying to fight them off, thrashing his arms at them and trying to run. The demons swarming all over him, grabbing tighter and pulling him down, down into the ground. Although, even in her imagination, he should have been too far away for her to see, every feature of his expression was crystal clear: his face a mask of terror and panic, eyes wide and mouth gaping open in horror. Blood trickled down his face, running into his left eye, where one of the demons had mauled him. In her mind’s eye, Tristan slowly disappeared. How much had they hurt him? How much pain had there been in each blow, each clawing talon? All of it for her.

  “The last thing I heard was you calling for me. I tried to fight them off to get to you, but there were too many of them. At least I knew you were safe.” He looked at her, blue eyes piercing straight to her core. Dylan could do nothing but gaze back, lost in awe, lost in the depth of his stare.

  So of course she fell. Her foot, without being guided by her eyes, caught on a clump of grass sticking out from the ground.

  “Oh!” she gasped, as she felt herself falling forward towards the ground. She closed her eyes and waited for the thump that would force the breath from her lungs and coat her clothes in moisture and muck. Her hands came out in front of her to protect her body from the worst of the impact, but it never came. Tristan’s hand darted out and grabbed the back of her jumper, bringing her to an abrupt stop just above the ground. She opened her eyes and peeked at the path. As she’d thought – wet and mucky. She hadn’t even sighed with relief before she was yanked backwards as Tristan pulled her upright. He tried very hard to keep a straight face, but a laugh escaped his clenched jaw.

  Dylan huffed, and marched away with the little dignity she had left. She heard the laughing intensify behind her.

  “You are so clumsy,” he joked, catching up with her easily. She put her nose up in the air and continued to walk, praying she wouldn’t trip again.

  “Well, no wonder. Look at this place. Couldn’t the wasteland be paved?” she hissed, trying to hold on to her anger. Tristan shrugged.

  “It’s your fault,” he reminded her, “You make it like this.”

  Dylan made a face.

  “I hate hiking,” she muttered. “And I hate hills.”

  “Aren’t Scottish people meant to be proud of their hills?” He looked at her quizzically. Now it was her turn to shrug.

  “Our PE teacher would put us into a minibus every year, drive us out to the countryside and force us up mountains in the freezing cold. It was torture. I am not a big fan of uphill.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said, grinning. “Well, you’ll be relieved to know we’re past halfway. You’ll be out of here soon.” He meant it to cheer her up, but Dylan’s face fell a little at this news. Then what? What was beyond this wasteland? And did that mean she would never see Tristan again after this? This news was more upsetting than her fear of the unknown. He had become the only person in her world, and she couldn’t bear to lose this final thing.

  Her musings took her to the top of the hill, over a few lumps and bumps and into a natural hollow. The perfect spot for a little rest. She looked hopefully at Tristan and he smiled, understanding. With the smile came a shake of his head, however.

  “Not today,” he told her.

  Dylan pouted, staring up at Tristan petulantly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t have time Dylan. I don’t want us to get caught again.”

  He held out a hand, an invitation. Dylan gazed at it morosely, but he was right. They had to try and stay ahead of the night, and the wraiths that came with it. She didn’t want Tristan to suffer any more because of her. Reaching out, she took the hand he offered. It was covered with scratches and bruises, mirroring the faded marks on Dylan’s own arms, but his grip was strong. He pulled her up out of the hollow and at once she was assaulted by the strength of the wind. It had definitely picked up, and the stinging in her ears deafened her slightly. It made conversation difficult as they descended. Dylan had hoped to get Tristan back to his story, of what had gone on beneath the earth, but it seemed she would have to wait for a more peaceful moment. It wasn’t the sort of tale that could be shouted over the wind.

  Besides, though she was desperate to hear what happened next, she was afraid of discovering what other tortures he had endured. For her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thankfully they made it to the next safe house well before the sun went down. It was another stone cottage, and Dylan began to wonder if that was her doing as well. Almost all of the safe houses were the same. Were they supposed to be her idea of sanctuary, of home? She tried to think about where she might have made that connection. The flat she lived in – had lived in, she corrected herself – with Joan was a red sandstone apartment surrounded by countless other identical buildings. Her gran had lived in the countryside in an isolated place before she died, but that had been a modern bungalow with over-fussy landscaped gardens dotted with ridiculous stone lions and gnomes. She couldn’t think of anywhere else that had been like home.

  Except, well, her dad had mentioned his place when they’d talked on the phone. A small stone house, he’d called it. Old-fashioned, with just enough room for him and Anna, the dog. Was this the image her mind had conjured up of that place? Perhaps her subconscious was trying to give her a little of the thing she’d hoped for but had never managed to attain. For a moment she imagined the door opening and a man walking out. In her imagination he was handsome, strong and kind-looking. She smiled at the thought, then realised that was all it was. She had never even seen a picture of her dad, couldn’t remember what h
e’d looked like before he left. Shaking her head to chase these hard thoughts away, she followed Tristan towards the front door.

  Although slightly tumble-down, there was something comforting about the place, it felt almost like coming home after a long, hard journey. The front door was solid oak, weather-beaten but strong. The windows were encrusted with the sort of grime that accumulates through long-term exposure to the fierce Scottish weather, but they were wooden sash and looked in good repair despite the paint peeling from them. There was no defined garden, but a little paved path had been laid, leading up to the front door. Weeds and grass were peeking up through the cracks, but had not yet reclaimed the ground.

  Tristan led the way inside and the cosy feel continued. This cottage did not have the same abandoned, disordered look the others had had, and Dylan wondered idly if it was because she was becoming more at home in the wasteland. There was a bed at one end with a table beside that which held a large but half-burned candle and an old chest of drawers. A table and chairs sat in the middle of the room, in front of the fireplace, and at the other end was a small kitchen with a chipped and grubby Belfast sink. Dylan approached it, eyeing the old-fashioned taps and wondering whether they worked. Her jeans were still encrusted with mud and the grey zippy top that she had chosen back in the flat before any of this craziness had started was now a patchwork of stains, mud splashes and little tears. She didn’t even want to think about what her face looked like.

  Although the taps were rusted and the sink was caked in mud, Dylan felt optimistic as she turned the cold tap. At first nothing happened and she frowned, disappointed, but then a groaning and gurgling came from under the sink. She stepped back warily, just as the tap spurted out a torrent of brown water. It bounced off the sides of the sink and just missed Dylan as she jumped further back. After a few seconds of spewing, the flow settled down into a trickle that looked fairly clean.

  “Oh yes,” said Dylan, looking forward to being able to have a wash for the first time in days. She splashed the water on her face, shivering at the icy temperature. Playfully she scooped up a handful of the water and turned to throw it at Tristan. She stopped short, the water falling through her slackened fingers to bounce off the flagstoned floor. The room was empty.

  “Tristan!” she screamed, panic-filled. The door was standing open and, though it was still light, night was fast approaching. Did she dare go outside? She could not be alone again. That thought was her deciding factor and she started purposefully forward, just as Tristan appeared in the doorway.

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  “Where the hell did you go?” Dylan demanded, relief quickly turning to anger.

  “I was just outside.” He looked at her stricken face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I just… I was worried,” she muttered, feeling stupid now. She turned and waved at the sink behind her. “The tap works in here.”

  Tristan gave her a half smile of understanding, then glanced back at the half-open door.

  “There’s still twenty minutes of light left. I’ll stay outside and give you some privacy. I’ll be just by the front door,” he promised. “You’ll be able to talk to me if you want to.” He smiled reassuringly and walked back outside. She wandered over to the doorway and peeked outside. He was seated on a rock. He glanced up and caught her looking at him.

  “You can shut the door if you want. I promise not to look if you want to leave it open, though.” He winked, embarrassing her.

  She huffed and went to shut the door, but then thought better of it and left it open. Fidgeting where she stood, she thought about the idea of washing – and she was desperate for a proper wash – with the door open and him just outside. Uncomfortable. But then she thought about shutting the door and being alone inside. The terror of being abandoned was still too raw. Even the thought made her heart flutter with alarm. She decided to leave it slightly ajar, and closed it on his smirking face, leaving a small gap. Just in case.

  Eyeing the door uncomfortably, she stripped off her clothes and, using a sliver of soap that she found by the sink, began to wash as quickly as possible. It was absolutely freezing and she considered getting Tristan to start the fire, but knew that by the time it got going, it would be so dark that they’d both have to be inside for safety. Gritting her teeth to stop them chattering, she tried to be as thorough and as speedy as possible. There was no option but to put her dirty clothes back on. Dylan wrinkled her nose as she yanked on her mud-caked jeans. She was just pulling her T-shirt over her head when Tristan knocked on the door. Although the T-shirt was fairly baggy and not at all see-through, she snatched up her grey jumper and yanked it quickly on, zipping it right up to her chin.

  “You done?” he asked, sneaking a quick look through the door. “It’s just that it’s getting dark.”

  “I’m done,” she mumbled.

  He walked in quickly, shutting the door firmly. “I’ll get the fire going.”

  Dylan nodded gratefully. She was still cold from washing in the freezing water. Again it took him a ridiculously short time and flames were roaring in the grate. He stood up and observed her.

  “How was the wash? Better?”

  She nodded. “Wish I had a change of clothes, though,” she sighed.

  Tristan smiled wryly and walked over to the chest of drawers. “There’s some stuff in here. Not sure how good the fit will be, but we could try and wash your clothes if you want. Here.” He tossed a T-shirt and some tracksuit bottoms at her. They were a little big, but the thought of being able to wash her own clothes was very appealing.

  “No underwear, though,” Tristan added.

  Dylan mulled it over and decided that going commando for one night was a fair price to pay for some clean clothes. She was going to have to change, though, and it was too dark to ask Tristan to go outside. She squirmed from foot to foot, holding the clothes against her chest. Tristan spotted her discomfort.

  “I’ll go and stand over here,” he said, crossing the room and taking up position in front of the sink. “You can change by the bed.” He looked away from her and stared out of the small kitchen window. Dylan scurried over to the bed and, after a quick glance at Tristan to confirm that he was indeed staring in the opposite direction, she whipped off her clothes as fast as possible.

  Tristan remained resolutely staring at the glass, but the dark outside and the firelight inside turned the window into a mirror. He could see Dylan pull first her jumper, then her T-shirt over her head. Her skin was smooth and pale, her outline travelling down from strong shoulders to a narrow, delicate waist. As she shrugged out of her jeans he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to some vestige of chivalry. He counted to thirty in his head – slowly, making each number match a breath – and when he opened his eyes again she stood there in the too big clothes staring at his back. He turned to face her and smiled.

  “Nice,” he commented.

  She flushed and tugged at the T-shirt. She felt very awkward being braless. She folded her arms across her chest as extra protection.

  “Want help with the washing?” he offered.

  Dylan widened her eyes, mortified at the thought of him getting a peek at her natty underwear. Why, oh why, hadn’t she died in some glorious Victoria’s Secrets ensemble?

  “No, s’okay,” she replied. She grabbed the dirty clothes from the bed and held them tightly against her body as she crossed the room, trying to keep her bra and knickers hidden in the centre of the ball. She plonked them down on the counter and spent five minutes scrubbing the sink with an old scouring pad to try and clean off the muck before uncoiling the rusty plug chain and stuffing in the plug. She turned both taps on full – although the stream from the hot tap remained icy cold – but couldn’t get more than a dribble. The sink was going to take an age to fill.

  Dylan stood at the counter for a moment, but the heat of the fire lured her over to the middle of the room. Tristan was already seated at one of the chairs, leaning back comfort
ably with his feet propped on a stool. Dylan sat on the second chair and drew her knees up to her chest, balancing her feet on the edge of the seat. She wrapped her arms around her legs and looked over at Tristan. Now was the time to get the rest of the story.

  “So,” she said softly.

  He looked over at her. “So?”

  “Tell me the rest, Tristan.” The way she said his name sent a little thrill through him. “What happened when they dragged you under?”

  He stared into the flames as he answered. Dylan felt that he wasn’t seeing the fire, but was back outside with the demons.

  “It was dark,” he began. His voice was low, hypnotic, and Dylan was instantly entranced by his words, seeing in her mind’s eye everything he described. “They pulled me down through the ground, and I couldn’t breathe. The dirt filled my mouth and nose. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I was dying. It seemed to last for ever, just going down and down deeper into the earth. Gravel and stones scraped at me, but the force of the demons kept me tunnelling down. Finally, they pulled me through something and then I was falling. The demons were slashing at me again, cackling in delight and diving close to me so that I was twisting and somersaulting through the air. Then I hit something, something hard. I crashed into it and felt like I’d broken every bone in my body. Of course I hadn’t, but the pain was excruciating. I couldn’t move. The agony… I’ve never felt anything like it. The demons were swarming all over me, but I couldn’t even defend myself.” Tristan broke off suddenly, looking over towards the kitchen. “The sink’s about to overflow.”

  He needed to take a break, to pause and gather his thoughts. It disconcerted him. Tristan had never been caught before, had never been overpowered by the demons. He’d told Dylan that protecting the soul came first, and that was true, but only to a point. Self-preservation always took over, and so sometimes souls were lost. Not this one, though, she was too special. He would sacrifice himself to keep her safe, and these pains were a small price to pay.