He pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know if I can,” he shouted back. “It goes against everything, every rule.”
“Try,” Dylan coaxed.
Tristan sighed, aggravated. He had promised her he would try. Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated on his feet. Move, he thought. He expected nothing to happen; expected to remain glued to the ground, an unyielding pressure holding him in place.
Instead he stepped easily onto the path.
Instantly Tristan halted. He hardly dared breath, waiting for a bolt of lightning, a slash of pain. Something to punish him for daring to disobey his unspoken orders. Nothing happened. Incredulous and suspicious, he continued down towards Dylan.
“This feels weird,” he confessed in a low voice once he’d all but reached her side. “I keep waiting for something to stop me.”
“But nothing yet?”
“Nothing yet,” he agreed.
“Good.” Feeling daring, Dylan wound her fingers around his. She started walking, and after a gentle tug, Tristan followed.
The valley gave them no difficulties. In fact, it was nice. They could have been any young couple, striding hand in hand through the countryside. There was no sight or sound of the wraiths. It unsettled Dylan to know they were there, hovering at her shoulder, hoping she’d lose focus, look away from her orb. She wanted to ask Tristan what he saw; whether it was the lush grass and heather-covered hills that she could see, or the wasteland as it truly was. But something held her tongue. She was nervous that, if she talked about it, if she drew attention to it, the mirage would disintegrate and they’d be back under the burning red sun. That landscape, she knew, would be much harder to traverse. No – ignorance was bliss.
Beyond the valley lay the wide expanse of marsh. The clement weather had done nothing to soak up the stagnant pools of water or dry out the squelching mud. Dylan eyed it distastefully. It smelled, and she remembered the way it had grasped at her ankles, imprisoning her. After the tranquillity of the valley, it was a stark reminder that she was in the wasteland, that danger still hung around her neck.
Beside her Tristan sighed dramatically. She looked at him, confused at the sound, and saw his eyes were amused. He flashed her an indulgent smirk.
“Piggyback?” he suggested.
“You’re wonderful,” she told him.
He rolled his eyes, but turned so that she could scramble up onto his back.
“Thanks,” she murmured into his ear when he had her in position.
“Uh-huh,” he replied sourly, but she could see his cheeks lift in a smile.
She felt heavy on his back, her arms soon tiring of holding her in position, but Tristan didn’t complain, picking his way through the worst of the mud. Even with her extra weight, he didn’t seem to sink into the sludgy mire. Soon the marsh was no more than a distant memory and Dylan’s gaze was filled with the sheer slant of a giant hill, waiting patiently for her. She wrinkled her nose and huffed, disgruntled; she doubted she was going to able to convince Tristan to carry her up that.
“What are you thinking?” Tristan asked.
Dylan didn’t want to admit to her schemes. Instead she asked something that had been quietly preying on her mind.
“I was wondering… where did you go? After you left me.”
She’d told every piece of her story last night, but she’d purposely avoided asking this. She hadn’t wanted to bring up what he’d done; how he’d tricked her. Betrayed her.
Tristan heard the real question.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I had to do that.”
Dylan sniffed quietly, determined not to get upset. She didn’t want him to feel guilty, didn’t want him to know how much that had hurt. At least he hadn’t been there to see her break down, she thought.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulders.
“It’s not,” he disagreed. “I lied to you, and I’m sorry. But I thought… I thought that was the right thing for you.” The final few words were stilted and despite herself, Dylan felt her throat tightening. “When I saw you crying, when I heard you screaming for me…” His voice faltered. “It hurt more than anything the wraiths could ever have done to me.”
Dylan’s voice was very small. “You could see me?” she asked.
He nodded. “Just for a minute or so.” He gave a short, sour laugh. “Usually that’s my favourite part. A whole minute where I am responsible for no one but me. And I get to see a quick glimpse of beyond. Just a flash. Wherever it is that the soul called home.”
Dylan stiffened on his back. She remembered Jonas saying the same thing. That he’d instantly been transported back home, back to Stuttgart.
“That didn’t happen for me,” she said slowly. “I didn’t leave the wasteland.”
“I know,” he sighed.
“Why not?” she wondered. “Why didn’t I go anywhere?”
She counted three of Tristan’s long, confident strides before he answered her.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, but his words lacked the ring of truth.
Tristan let her down as soon as the ground began to firm up beneath his feet. At first Dylan pouted, missing the warmth of being nestled up close to him – and the luxury of being carried – but he took her hand again and smiled down at her. She returned the gesture, but the smile fell from her face as she eyed the steep incline before them.
“You know, I really hate going uphill,” she said flatly.
Tristan squeezed her fingers comfortingly, but the look he gave her was wistful. “We could always go back,” he said, indicating back across the bog.
“We’d never make it,” Dylan replied. The sun, shining brightly in the cloudless sky, had already rolled over the height of its arc.
“No,” Tristan agreed softly. “We wouldn’t.”
“And there is nothing for me that way,” she finished. “I’m not going back if I can’t go with you.”
Tristan made a face, but he didn’t attempt to argue. “Come on, then,” he said, starting forward and tugging at her hand.
Trudge, trudge, trudge. Up, up, up. Dylan’s calves were soon burning, her breathing was laboured. The higher they climbed, the more the wind crept up and as the afternoon waned, thick tufts of grey began to form above their heads. Despite the chill of the changing weather, Dylan was sweating and she had to yank her hand from Tristan’s grasp, embarrassed at her moist palms. Even though the morning had been warm and bright, dew still loitered beneath the thick grasses and heathers that blanketed the floor, and she felt the familiar creeping discomfort as cold water seeped up the legs of her jeans.
“Can we slow down?” she panted. “Maybe rest for a bit?”
“No.” Tristan’s reply was curt, terse, but when Dylan looked round at him, surprised, she saw he was eyeing the sky, not her. His face was screwed up with unease, his lips turned down unhappily. “It’ll be evening soon. I don’t want you stuck out here.”
“Just for a minute,” Dylan begged. “We can’t even hear them yet.”
But even as the words left her mouth, the rustling noise of the wind changed. A second melody was added, this one shriller, keener. Wailing and shrieking. The wraiths.
Tristan heard it too. “Come on, Dylan,” he ordered, and, ignoring her when she tried to pull away, he took a firm grasp on her hand and started to stride up the hill.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Tristan knew Dylan was tired. He could hear it in her heavy tread, her laboured breathing; he could feel it in her lagging arm, tugging back on him with every stride. He knew it, and he felt bad, but if they were caught on this hill when the shadows descended, the wraiths would offer no quarter. Dylan almost seemed to have lost her fear of them – or perhaps it was just that she thought he could protect her from their hunger – but she was a fool to flirt with danger. She couldn’t sense it, he realised, but the wraiths were furious. Not only had they failed to take her on the way across the wasteland, but she’d come
back. She’d come back and she’d beaten them. Alone. Without a ferryman to stand between her and their grappling claws.
They were determined to make her pay for her arrogance.
Tristan thought of the assurances he’d once given her – that he would never lose her, that he would never let the wraiths get her. He’d been absolutely confident; now he wasn’t so sure. Thanks to Dylan, the game had changed, he’d changed, and he didn’t know all the rules of this new engagement. He was beginning to have an inkling, though, and that did nothing to allay his doubts.
Cresting the top of the hill, he paused for the briefest moment, letting Dylan catch up, catch a breath. This wasn’t the highest peak they’d scale if Dylan got her way and they ventured all the way back to the train, but it was tall enough for Tristan to take in the sweeping landscape, undulating for miles and miles in every direction.
Rolling towards him, down sloping gradients and up winding vales, were the pulsing hearts of other ferrymen, urging their souls on to safety, just as he was. It was odd; he didn’t usually notice them. But now he felt like a pebble in the ocean, pushing against the tide. His every instinct told him to turn, to join their pilgrimage back towards the wasteland line, but he fought against it.
With night approaching, that way was death for Dylan.
“Come on,” he exhorted, starting forward again. “Almost there, Dylan. The safe house is at the bottom of this hill.”
“I know,” she said quietly, her breathing back under control.
Of course she did, she’d been here before. Tristan smiled grimly to himself, then pushed on, his feet finding a safe route down the gravelled hillside.
Despite Tristan’s misgivings, they made good time slithering down the final peak and he was able to close the door on the frustrated howls of the wraiths before the day grew late enough for them to appear to Dylan. He sighed with relief, leaning his head against the warped wooden entryway for a moment, before moving to light a fire. Dylan stood by the window, staring out. She didn’t move, not even when he came up behind her, fire started, and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“What are you looking at?” he murmured into her ear.
“Nothing,” she said softly, frowning. “But that’s not right, is it? They must be there. Can you see them?”
“The wraiths?”
“No.” Dylan shook her head. “The other souls; the other ferrymen.”
Tristan was quiet for a long moment. “I can see them,” he finally said.
Dylan nodded sombrely, digesting this. His head resting on her shoulder, he could just see the downturn of her mouth in the corner of his eye.
“It’s late,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed. He squeezed her to him. “But we’re safe in here.”
His words didn’t take the worried look from Dylan’s face.
“They can’t come in, Dylan. The wraiths. You know that. We’re absolutely safe, I promise you.”
“I know,” she murmured.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“How many souls are still out there?” she asked, turning to face him, her eyes flickering, reflecting the light from the fire.
Tristan stared at her for a moment, then looked to the window, eyes scanning the countryside beyond.
“Not many,” he said. “Most of them are already in their safe house.”
Her gaze went back to the window. One hand reached up and slowly pressed against the pane. Hissing erupted from outside, and Tristan was tempted to pull her arm away. He didn’t want the wraiths to think she was taunting them.
“Can you help me to see them, too?” she asked suddenly. “The way I saw them before, when I was on my own?”
“Why do you want to?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’d just like to see.”
It seemed a harmless enough request, but Tristan was alarmed by the strange look that still creased her brow and set her lips. He sighed, then pulled her closer, resting his temple against hers. Concentrating on the window, he forced his mind to strip back the grassy veneer, revealing the hell below. Dylan gasped quietly and he knew it had worked.
“I can see them!” she squeaked. “It’s just like before!” There was a pause. “What are they doing?”
Tristan’s voice was grim. “Running.”
They had only been in the safe house a few minutes, not even long enough for the fire to properly catch, but in that time afternoon had melted into evening and light had leached into darkness. There were only three souls still visible, and they were bobbing and weaving furiously as their ferrymen tried to exhort them along the final stretch. Tristan’s mouth tightened into a grimace; they weren’t all going to make it.
Abruptly he pulled away from Dylan, pulling the red wasteland with him.
“Hey, no!” she whirled to face him. “Bring it back!”
“No.”
“Tristan, bring it back!”
“You don’t want to see, Dylan. I promise you.”
She paled. He watched her swallow as she processed his words. “Who’s out there?” she croaked.
He pressed his lips together, reluctant.
She took a step forward, towards him, and repeated her question. “Who’s out there, Tristan?”
He sighed, his eyes going back outside – where he could still clearly see the three stragglers – rather than witness her reaction.
“An old man, a woman, and…” He tailed off.
“And?” she pressed.
“A toddler. A little girl.”
Dylan threw her hand over her mouth and she darted back to the window, pressing her face against the glass.
“Where is she?” she demanded. “Is she still out there? I want to see it, Tristan! Bring it back!”
He shook his head, and she caught the expression in the reflection of the window.
“Tristan!”
“No, Dylan.” He folded his arms across his chest, resolute. It was bad enough that he could see it. He wouldn’t make Dylan witness the horror. The woman had disappeared, safely where she should be. The old man, though, he had already sunk beneath, just two or three lingering wraiths marking the spot where they’d claimed him.
Only the toddler remained, somehow still there, but surely not for much longer.
“What’s happening?” she demanded, making him jump when she slammed her hand against the window. The glass rippled against the force of the blow, but held firm. “Let me see, Tristan! I want to know what’s happening.”
What was happening? The tot was so surrounded by wraiths Tristan could barely see her. He could just make out her outline, tucked up tight in her ferryman’s arms. And though she was far too far away, he could see her frightened expression, mouth wide and screaming, eyes screwed up with tears. Her terrified face burned itself into his brain, another memory he knew he’d never lose.
“Tristan!” Dylan’s shrill yelp dragged his attention back to her. “What’s going on?”
“They’re surrounded,” he murmured softly.
She chewed down on her lip, her face a mask of despair, and pressed harder against the glass as if she could reach out to them. Suddenly she spun round, stared at him. Tristan held up both hands, took two paces back. He knew what she was going to say.
“You have to help them!” she said.
He shook his head at her. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. Each ferryman is responsible for the soul they are ferrying. No others.”
Dylan glowered at him incredulously. “But that’s ridiculous!”
“It’s how it is,” he said heatedly.
She turned her back on him and he felt a stab of hurt at her scathing judgement. It wasn’t his fault; he didn’t make the rules.
“Have they got far to go?” she asked quietly.
Tristan looked out of the window again. They were still there.
“No,” he told her. “But they won’t make it. There are too many wraiths.”
Too many. Dylan shut her eyes, feeling the cold glass numbing her forehead. She remembered the feel of them: pulling, scratching, biting. Punching through her and leaving ice and dread behind. She thought of the poor child going through that and her eyes welled up. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right!
How could Tristan let this happen?
Suddenly she was seized by a mad idea. Not far, Tristan had said. So they wouldn’t need long. Just a minute or so. Maybe even a few seconds. All they needed was something to distract the wraiths…
She wheeled back and launched herself at the door, her body flooded with adrenaline, determination overriding fear. A few seconds’ distraction; that was all they needed. She could give them that.
“Dylan!” Tristan screamed her name and she heard him moving, felt his fingers scrape down her back as he reached for her, but he was too slow. She was already out of the door.
She didn’t know where she was going, where the struggling soul was, so she settled for plummeting straight out in a direct path away from the safe house. Heavy footsteps thumped behind her as Tristan gave chase. She could still hear him calling her name, his voice a mixture of panic and anger. A millisecond later, though, every sound was blocked out as her ears were filled with growling and hissing. The air around her was thick with movement and Dylan felt as if she’d been submerged in icy water. Goosebumps erupted down her arms. She kept running, though. If the wraiths were on her, it meant it was working.
Out of the blue, something grabbed her, held her in a pincer, but this grip was much more substantial than anything she’d ever felt from the wraiths. It was warm, too. Dylan realised what it was a second before she heard Tristan yelling furiously in her ear.
“What the hell are you doing, Dylan?”
She ignored him, fighting against him when he tried to wrestle her backwards. Instead her eyes scanned the dark uselessly.
“Are they still here? Can you see them?”
“Dylan!” Tristan hauled at her and he was much too strong. He forced her back a step at a time as she continued to struggle against him. “Dylan, stop it!”
Ferryman Page 24
