Ferryman (13 page)

“I’ll help you hang them.” Tristan wandered up behind her and his voice in her ear made her jump, dropping her bra on the stone floor. He bent to pick it up for her, but she snatched it out of his reaching hand.

“Thanks, but I can manage,” she mumbled, pushing past him.

There was no clothes horse, so Dylan turned the chairs so their backs faced the flames and she hung her clothes over the backs and arms to dry. She tried to find a discreet place to hang her knickers, but in the end gave up and settled for a spot that at least ensured they would be dry. With the chairs taken up, there was nowhere to sit except the bed. Tristan was already there, lounging lazily and watching her with a strange expression on his face.

In fact, he was fighting with his conscience. Dylan was only a child, compared to him little more than a baby, really. The feelings he had for her were inappropriate, wrong. As her protector, he would be taking advantage of her vulnerability if he acted on them. But was he so much older when he lived in a world where he never experienced, never grew? And what was age to a soul that would think and feel for eternity?

He was sure she had feelings for him, he thought he read it in her eyes. But he could be wrong. The care she showed for him could be nothing more than fear of being alone. The trust she put in him could be merely borne out of necessity – for what other choice did she have? Her need to be close to him, the way she wanted to touch him, could be nothing more than the comfort a child yearns for from an adult when they are afraid. But he could not be sure.

There was one final consideration, and it was a clincher. He could not follow where she was going. He would have to leave her at the border, or, more correctly, she would have to leave him. If she did feel for him, then to give now what he would soon have to take away was cruel. He would not put her through that. He must not act on what he felt. He looked at her, saw her watching him with those green eyes, dark as the forest, and felt his throat constrict. He was her guide and protector. Nothing more. Still, he could comfort her. That much he could allow himself. He smiled at her and held out his arms.

Dylan crossed over to him shyly and climbed onto the bed, curling up into his side. Absent-mindedly, he stroked her arm, sending a tingle jolting into her core. She dropped her head onto his shoulder and smiled to herself. How could it be that here, in the midst of all this chaos and fear, having lost absolutely
everything
, she suddenly felt… whole?

“
T
ell me something.” Dylan’s voice was slightly croaky from sitting so long in companionable silence.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, breaking out of his reverie.

“I don’t know,” she paused, considering. “Tell me about the most interesting soul you’ve ever guided.”

He laughed. “You.”

Dylan poked him in the ribs. “Be serious.”

I am, he thought, but cast his mind about for an amusing story to distract her with. He knew too well how long the nights could be without sleep.

“Okay, I’ve got one. I had to guide a German soldier from World War Two once. He was shot by his commanding officer for disobeying an order.”

“What did he do in the war?” Dylan asked. Her knowledge of history wasn’t great, she’d taken geography instead at school, but everyone was well versed about what happened in the Second World War. She couldn’t imagine how guiding a German soldier could be interesting. She might have been tempted to let the demons have him.

“He worked in a concentration camp in Poland. He wasn’t very important or anything, just an ordinary soldier. He was only eighteen. It was such a waste.”

Dylan couldn’t believe her ears, he had actually felt sorry for him!

“How could you stand to guide him, knowing what he’d done?”

“You’re judging. When you’re a ferryman you cannot stereotype like that. Each soul is individual and has its own merits and faults.” Dylan looked sceptical so he continued. “He’d joined because his father had wanted him to, had said he’d dishonour the family if he didn’t fight for the glory of the nation. He found himself guarding Jews in a concentration camp, watching as other guards beat them, raped them. He couldn’t get out and he didn’t dare disobey orders. Then one day his superior ordered him to shoot this old man. He hadn’t done anything, just tripped and accidentally touched the superior officer. The soldier didn’t want to, and he argued with his superior, told him he wouldn’t. So the superior shot the old man, and then had the soldier shot that same day.”

Dylan stared at him, riveted now. Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows furrowed. Her disdain had melted into pity and admiration.

“I met him outside the gates of the concentration camp. He was actually relieved to escape, to be out of there. All he could think about were the things he hadn’t been able to stop. He was destroyed with guilt. He wished he’d been stronger. He wished he’d stood up to his father and refused to join, he wished he’d protected more innocent people. At times, he wished he’d never been born. I’d never seen a soul in so much despair for such selfless reasons. German soldier or not, he was the most admirable and noble soul I have come across.”

The end of his story was met with silence. Dylan was captivated, her head a whirlwind of images, thoughts and emotions.

“Tell me another,” she begged, and so the night passed that way. Tristan regaled her with tales handpicked from the thousands of souls he’d guided, resolutely sticking to the ones designed to make her laugh, or smile, or pause in wonder, and keeping to himself the ones that still cut into his heart. The light sneaked up on both of them, but the blazing sunshine was glorious and caught Tristan’s eye, making him smile wryly.

“More marching,” Dylan grumbled when he slithered off the bed and pulled her with him.

“Yes.” He smiled. “But today there’s no uphill.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We’ve got one, small, barely-an-incline hill to scale then it’s flat all the way. Wet, though.” He wrinkled his nose.

“More marshes?” Dylan complained, unable to keep the whine out of her voice. She hated the mud that coated everything and dragged her feet.

“Nope, no mud – water.”

“I hope we’re not swimming,” she muttered, wandering over to the fireplace to check her clothes. Although not particularly clean, they were dry and still fairly warm, for the logs were still smoking in the grate. She turned to Tristan. “Out!” she ordered, pointing imperiously at the door.

He rolled his eyes but bowed obediently and wandered outside. This time Dylan marched behind him and shut the door firmly before whipping off her borrowed clothes and pulling on her old outfit. The wash had at least removed the worst of the mud. They had stiffened in the heat of the fire, but it was nice to have freshly washed clothes to put on. It made her feel almost human again. Or freshly dead at least, she laughed to herself.

As soon as she was dressed, she walked over to the sink. Turning on the tap, she waited for the brown water to run clear, and then cupped large handfuls, splashing it over her face and neck. She wished she could have washed her hair, but she hadn’t thought about it last night, and the soap might have made it even greasier. Taking another scoop of water, she held it in her hands and stared at it thoughtfully. What would happen if she drank it? She glanced at the door but it was still shut. She could ask Tristan but he’d probably laugh at her. She looked back at the water. Although she wasn’t thirsty, it was cool and inviting. She remembered the feeling of drinking, of the refreshing taste, the icy sensation of water dropping down her gullet into an empty stomach, making her shiver. Leaning forward, she opened her lips, ready to take a drink.

“I wouldn’t.”

Tristan’s voice made her jump, and the water sloshed down her front, soaking her jumper.

“Bloody hell! You almost gave me a heart attack!” She paused, catching her breath. “Why shouldn’t I drink it?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’ll make you puke. It’s toxic. It comes from a well that goes deep into the ground, and the ground is where the wraiths live. They poison it.”

“Oh.” Dylan dropped the rest of the water out of her hands and turned off the tap. “Well, then, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His smile was warm and genuine, and stopped her heart momentarily. Just as quickly, though, it seemed to freeze on his face and he turned away. Confused, Dylan followed silently after him out of the cottage.

Although the sun stayed strong, a breeze crept up behind her and gently ruffled her hair. She frowned at the sky to chastise it for the cool wind, but was rewarded only by a light fog of fast-moving clouds that quickly covered the sun. She stuck her tongue out at them childishly and concentrated on keeping up with Tristan who was setting a brisk pace. They walked around the cottage and set off across a meadow of grass that reached Dylan’s knees. She eyed it warily, hunting for thistles and nettles and other nasty things.

“Are we in a rush?” she asked, trotting to keep pace.

“Yes,” he replied, but then softened, “but we can slow a little. Well, here it is. Your last hill.” He gestured in front of him and Dylan, following his pointed finger with her eyes, wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“
Barely an incline?
” she imitated. “You liar! It’s huge!”

The hill looked more like a mountain from Dylan’s perspective. There was no gentle ridge to climb, but a
sheer-looking
face with large rock formations. It reminded her of Joan’s one disastrous attempt to get her to enjoy the outdoors with a trip to the Cobbler. She’d told Dylan it would be much more fun to climb the front face, a wall of granite interspersed with slippery gravel patches, than to wander up the ambling path around the rear of the hill. Dylan had got about a third of the way up before she had skidded on the small stones and smacked her shin on a large, pointy rock. She had thrown a major tantrum and insisted that they return home there and then. This looked no more appealing.

“Couldn’t we go round it?” she asked, peeking up at him optimistically.

“Nope,” he answered, grinning at her.

“How about a piggyback?” she suggested, but he was already striding away and her request fell on deaf ears. Despite his injuries, he walked without a hint of a limp as he crossed the meadow, and Dylan had noticed earlier that his face was healing quickly. In fact, the swelling around his eye was almost completely gone leaving only a slight telltale purple blush along his cheekbone. His jaw was no longer multicoloured, but had just the faint shadow of yellow as the bruising faded.

Dylan trotted after him and they reached the base of the hill ten minutes later. The incline was so uninviting even the grass hadn’t penetrated it; it gave up just a few metres above the initial slopes. From then on up, it was dirt, gravel and rock. The occasional hardy plant wound its way out from under boulders, but otherwise it was inhospitable and desolate.

Dylan’s calves were soon burning as she trudged up the near vertical gradient. Though they were well worn-in and comfortable, her shoes rubbed a blister onto the ball of her foot in protest at the odd angle her feet were forced to keep to retain her balance. About halfway up, the angle became even more acute and she was compelled to climb. Tristan insisted on letting her go first. He claimed it was to catch her in case she fell, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he was merely enjoying watching her struggle.

“Almost there,” he called from a metre below her. “Trust me, when you reach the top, the view’ll be worth it.”

“My arse,” she muttered under her breath. Her arms and legs were both aching and her fingers were raw and ingrained with dirt. She hauled herself up another few metres onto a small ledge and paused to catch her breath. Foolishly, she looked down and gasped at the sight below her. The ground fell away steeply and the high grass was a long, long way down. She swayed dizzily with vertigo and groaned as her stomach twisted with nausea.

“Don’t look down,” Tristan called sharply from underneath, watching her turn slightly green. He was directly in her line of fire should the vertigo cause her to be sick. But that wasn’t all. If she fell here, if she plummeted down the ruthlessly steep incline… that would it be it. She’d die. And this time she’d be gone. Like a snail without its shell, her soul was as vulnerable in the wasteland as her body had been in the real world. “Come on, keep going,” he called encouragingly. “I promise you’re almost there.”

Dylan looked unconvinced, but turned back to the rock face and continued to heave herself up. A short time later she found herself at the top. She flopped over and lay panting on a small patch of resilient heather that was miraculously surviving the hostile environment. Tristan followed moments later and stood over her, not even breathing hard. Dylan eyed him with disgust. He ignored her look and nodded towards the horizon.

“See, I told you it was worth the climb.”

Dylan dragged herself up onto her elbows and peered off into the distance. She had to admit it was a stunning view. The landscape was shimmering, like a million diamonds sparkling in the sun. She squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It looked as though the glistening surface was undulating. Her scrambled brain tried to enforce logic onto what her eyes saw. Ah, water. It was a lake, a giant lake that stretched south of the hill as far as the eye could see. The pooling water was wide, extending miles to the east and west. There was no way they could circle it, it would take forever.

“How are we supposed to cross that?” she spluttered, recovering the use of her voice.

“Don’t worry, we’re not swimming.” A knowing smile played its way across his lips. Dylan frowned. He always had to be so secretive. “Come on, time to go.”

“Urgh,” Dylan groaned, pulling herself up to a sitting position against the will of her tired muscles. She scrambled to her feet and glared at the descent. It looked more inviting than the climb up, but not by much. On this more sheltered side, grass and small bushes grew in clumps all the way down the hill, intersected by rivers of gravel. The short rest had obviously not been part of Tristan’s plans as he seemed in a hurry to get down to the lakeside.

Dylan slipped and slid her way down behind him as he walked confidently and securely, not even glancing at the ground beneath his feet. A sudden two-metre skid made her yelp and throw her arms out to the side. Tristan didn’t even look round, but shook his head at her clumsiness. Dylan stuck her tongue out at him. She was sure he could have carried her if he really wanted to.

At the base of the hill, the water spread out before them. It was majestic, with small waves created by the breeze rippling gently across its surface. Its undulating form spread as far as the horizon, and seemed to Dylan almost to be breathing. Like a living thing, it moved and whispered, the water lapping quietly against a narrow beach of shiny black pebbles. Beyond the hushed sound of the waves tickling the shore, the water was silent. It was eerily noiseless. There was no wind rushing in her ears, and without it Dylan was abruptly aware of the absence of wildlife. There were no gulls diving across the surface of the water, screeching as they searched for food, or ducks paddling in the shallows. It seemed empty and, although magnificent, the lake frightened Dylan a little.

Tristan turned left just at the boundary of the stones and headed towards a small building off in the distance. Dylan didn’t even bother to ask, but followed dutifully after him. As they drew closer, she realised it was a windowless shed with an apex roof covered in tarpaulin that looked ripped in several places. Tristan reached the wooden building several steps before her, and she saw him round one corner and appraise two huge doors that took up most of the wall. They didn’t seem to be padlocked, but Dylan couldn’t see any kind of handle or knob to open it. Unsurprisingly, within a second of reaching the doors, Tristan had both open wide, revealing what was hidden within.

“You are kidding,” Dylan blurted, looking with horror.

It was a small dinghy, if you could call it that, made of roughly hewn wood. It had once been painted in white with red and blue trim, but that had long since faded; only a few resilient flakes hung on to commemorate the jaunty glory of its youth. It stood on a small wheeled trolley which had a coil of frayed rope attached to the front. Tristan grabbed hold of the rope with both hands and heaved. The boat scraped forward a little with a loud groan from the trailer’s rusty wheels. He turned and lifted the rope over his shoulder, pulling forward. Slowly the boat rolled out of the shed. In the light of day it looked even less water-worthy than in the gloom of the boatshed. The wood was rotten in places, and some of the planks were split down their entire length.