Ferryman (17 page)

They were soft. That was his first thought. Soft, and sweet, and trembling. He felt her fingers twist into the fabric of his jumper, her hands shaking slightly against his sides. Her lips parted, moving against his. He heard her utter a tiny moan, and the sound sent a ripple into the pit of his stomach. He squeezed her tighter, his mouth pressing harder against hers. His heart was crashing against his ribs, his breathing ragged. The only thing he was aware of was the warmth of her, the softness. He felt her grow bolder, going up on her tiptoes to lean further into him, lifting her hands from his side and gripping his shoulders, his face. He copied the movement, his fingers trailing down her hairline, around her chin. Memorising.

Tight in Tristan’s embrace, Dylan was light-headed, dizzy. With her eyes closed, the world around her didn’t seem to exist. Only Tristan’s mouth, pressed against hers, and his hands, holding her close, stroking gently across her skin. Her blood was singing in her veins and when he finally pulled away she was gasping. He held her face in his hands and stared at her for a long moment, eyes glowing vivid blue. Then he dropped his head again and placed two soft, gentle kisses on her lips. He smiled at her, a slow languid smile that had the muscles in her abdomen contracting.

“You were right,” she said breathlessly. “Before is better.”

She turned away from him, and appraised the line. It held no fear for her now. Tristan loved her, and he would go with her wherever she was headed. Ten confident steps took her to the edge. She looked down, savouring the feeling. This was her last moment in the wasteland. She could say farewell to the demons, to the uphill marches and sleeping rough in dilapidated houses. She lifted her left foot and paused, just over the line. One more deep breath and then she hopped across.

She stood, evaluating. It felt the same. The air was still warm with a slight breeze, the dirt path beneath her feet still crunched slightly as she shifted her foot. The sun still shone in the sky and the hills still circled the landscape. She frowned slightly, curious but not overly concerned. She had expected something more dramatic.

She twirled back towards Tristan, a slightly nervous smile on her lips. It froze on her face. Cold hands grabbed her heart and she drew in air raggedly. Her mouth opened, mouthing a silent, “No.”

The path was empty.

She stepped forward, but the shimmering line was gone. She reached out, feeling with her hands for the spot where Tristan had stood just a moment before. Though there was nothing but air, her fingers came into contact with an invisible wall, solid and impenetrable.

She was alone again. She had crossed over and there was no way back. Tristan was gone.

Dylan began to tremble all over, a sickening mixture of adrenaline, shock and horror coursing through her veins. She swayed unsteadily, then fell to her knees, her hands over her mouth as if she could hold in the sobs. She couldn’t. They spilled over, beginning as quiet, gasping moans that deepened into agonised wails that screamed of the pain tearing at her heart. Tears streamed down her face and dropped onto the ground.

He had lied to her. His promises to accompany her had been nothing but deceit and treachery, and she had been his fool, believing it all. This must have been his plan all along. She saw again in her mind’s eye the way he would smile at her, his eyes glowing, but then suddenly the expression would die on his face, becoming a cold and uncaring mask. He had known. But what about his final words? Were they a lie?

No, she did not believe that. Every fibre in her being told her the truth: he loved her. She loved him and he loved her, but they would never be together.

Already she found she couldn’t get a clear picture of his face. Little details were trickling away. She couldn’t remember the exact shade of his hair, or the shape of his lips. Like grains of sand in the wind, she couldn’t hold them in her head. A heart-wrenching sound escaped her lips, agony that set every nerve on fire. Knowing she was alone, knowing that there was no one to witness her grief, she gave herself over to the despair that engulfed her.

She slammed her fist against the wall in frustration, then pressed her palm against it, wishing with all her might that it would dissolve and let her travel back through.

Tristan stood on the other side of the line, watching her fall apart. Like a policeman on the other side of a two-way mirror, he knew she could not see him. His deception had worked, and the pain he had caused was clear on her face. She knew he had lied to him, that he had planned this ending. She knew she would never see him again. Though it tore at his heart, he forced himself to watch every tear, listen to every sob and scream. He longed to rush forwards and comfort her, to embrace her and smooth the tears off her cheeks. To feel the heat of her in his arms again, the softness of her. He lifted one hand and placed in it the air, palm to palm with hers, cold agony – a wall of glass between them. Tristan willed his feet to move forward, to take him over the line, but nothing happened. He could not cross.

He had allowed himself to tell her that he loved her, allowed her to hope, and this was his punishment. He had caused this pain and he would endure every second of it. He only hoped that she realised that his final confession had been true and heartfelt. Under all the lies and pretence, his love for her had been honest and real.

He had always known that he would not be able to cross over with her. His promise had been a trick, a wicked sham to give her the courage to take the final step. It had taken everything he had to make her believe him, to watch her gratitude and relief, to let her trust him, and know that this moment was coming. To let himself kiss her and hold her, and know that he couldn’t keep her. To know that when she crossed the line and looked back, she would discover his treachery.

Through the veil between worlds he watched her cry. She called his name and tears coursed down his cheeks. Shame,
self-loathing
, despair and agony welled up in him. He was desperate to look away, to hide his eyes from the consequences of his actions, but he would not.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, knowing that she could not hear it, but hoping somehow that she would understand.

Although every second he watched felt like hours of torture, eventually she started to fade. The edges of her beautiful figure began to shimmer and blur, and she started to lose substance. As he stared, Dylan became transparent, diminishing until she was little more than smoke. He watched her leave him. It was what she deserved. As her shape became a haze, he feasted his eyes on her face, trying to memorise every detail, trying to lock the exact shade of her eyes into his heart.

“Goodbye,” he murmured, wishing with all he was that he could go with her. In the next blink of his eye, she had gone. He stared at the ground where she had been for a moment longer, then swallowed against the pain in his throat and took a deep breath. He turned back to the path, and began to walk away.

A
s Tristan walked, the landscape around him slowly faded away to white. He barely noticed. The hills disappeared, disintegrating into sand that floated upwards and evaporated into a thin mist. The path he was striding along was replaced by a featureless surface that reached out as far as the eye could see in every direction. A white light flashed, blinding him at its zenith.

As the light dimmed, particles of colour began to form. They swirled around Tristan’s head and settled on the ground, creating surroundings, creating the world that his next mission, the next soul, was soon to leave. As he walked, tarmac formed under his feet, black and shiny with rain. Buildings erupted from the ground on either side of Tristan. Lighted windows illuminated ill-kept front gardens, adorned with overgrown weeds and broken fences. The cars parked on the kerb and in the occasional paved garden were old and rusted. Heavy thudding music beats and raucous laughter spilled from open doorways. The whole place had an air of poverty and carelessness. It made a depressing picture.

Tristan felt no excitement or thrill at the prospect of collecting the next soul. He did not even feel the disdain and indifference that had become habitual in recent years. He felt only the torturous ache of loss.

He stopped at the second to last house from the end of the street. Amidst the shabby, ramshackle buildings along the road, this one was surprisingly well cared for. There was a neat lawn surrounded by flowers. Stepping stones carved with birds laid an inviting path to the recently painted red door. There was only one window lit, in a room on the second floor. Tristan knew that was where the next soul was located, about to part from its body. He did not enter the house, but waited outside.

Several passersby looked at the stranger loitering outside number twenty-four. They could tell that he did not belong here. However, this was not the sort of place where you challenged an unfamiliar face, and so they continued on their way without comment. Tristan, staring unseeingly into nothing, didn’t notice the quizzical looks; didn’t register that they could
see
him. He was blind to their curious eyes and deaf to the mutterings that broke out a step or two before they were out of earshot.

He already knew everything he needed to about the person who had lived here. She had lived here alone for ten years, going out little except to work and make weekly visits to her mother who lived across town. She did not mix with any of the local people and they regarded her as snobby and aloof, when really she was just afraid of them. She had just been stabbed to death in her bed by a burglar who had expected to find more valuables than she had possessed and had murdered her in anger. Soon she would wake and get up, continuing her morning routine as usual. She would not notice that her jewellery box was missing, or that the smart digital camera for which she had saved for a year was no longer nestled safely in the dresser drawer in the dining room. She would decide to skip breakfast, thinking that she was slightly late. When she went outside, she would be greeted by Tristan and, one way or another, she would follow him.

All of this information was now assimilated in Tristan’s mind. Facts and stories interweaving to make up the knowledge he needed to perform his job. He knew it, but he did not think about it. The journey of this soul would be completed because that was his role. He was here simply because he had to be. But he would feel no pity for this unfortunate creature. He would give her no sympathy or comfort. He would guide her, nothing more.

The moon was directly overhead, a stark white light that sought out and banished shadows. Tristan felt exposed in his raw and vulnerable state, as if every emotion and thought were laid bare, to be read by everyone. He knew that he would have hours to wait before the soul would emerge. He wondered how much longer he could go on. Every fibre of his being yearned to escape and hide, to give himself over to the pain and grief. His brain told his feet to move, to turn away and keep walking until he left his sorrow behind him.

Nothing happened.

For the second time, tears sprang into his piercing blue eyes. Of course he would not be allowed to abscond his post. There was a higher order, a grander scheme of things. And his pain, his despair, his desire to relinquish this responsibility meant nothing. He did not control his destiny. He could not even control his feet.

 

“Dylan.”

She was aware of somebody behind her calling her name, but she didn’t turn. Like the night she’d spent alone in the safe house, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene in front of her. If she looked away, Tristan was really gone.

Who was she fooling? He was already gone. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. She just wasn’t quite ready to accept it yet. Dylan stared at the path defiantly. Her teeth bit down on her lower lip, cutting down hard enough to split the skin and taste blood. She didn’t. Her senses were numb.

“Dylan.”

She flinched as the voice called to her again. She couldn’t guess if it was male or female, old or young. It didn’t sound impatient or urgent. It was welcoming.

She didn’t want to be welcomed.

“Dylan.”

Dylan huffed, growing irritated. The voice was going to continue until she answered it, she realised. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned round.

For a second she blinked, confused. There was nothing there. Her mouth opened, ready to call out, hoping the voice would speak again, but she closed it slowly. What the hell did it matter?

She was about to turn back, to resume her sentry duty, gazing back down the path in the vain hope that Tristan would miraculously reappear, but as she looked away, something odd and out of place caught her eye. A light, glowing. For a second her heart leaped, thinking of the orbs she’d seen floating in the blood-red wasteland, but it wasn’t the same. It grew and changed shape, elongating, forming. It smiled at her, and the expression, too, was welcoming. It sat in the middle of a pale, perfect face surrounded by a cloud of white-blond hair. The body looked human enough in shape, but not quite right. Like the glimpses of souls she’d seen, it was there but not there; half in, half out of focus.

“Welcome,” it chimed, spreading its arms out. Dylan scowled, annoyed that it was beaming at her in an indulgent way, like she should be happy to be there.

“Who are you?”

“I am Caeli. I am here to greet you. Welcome. Welcome home.”

Home? Home! This was not home. Home was the place she’d just left. Twice.

“You must have questions. Please, come with me.”

The smile was still in place, the arm outstretched. Two eyes, gold, pupil-less, but warm, not frightening, watched and waited.

Slowly, determinedly, Dylan shook her head. The being – it was unfair to call it a thing, yet it was definitely not a person – looked at her in polite confusion.

“I want to go back,” Dylan said calmly.

The confusion melted into understanding. “I am sorry. You cannot go back. Your body is gone. Don’t fear, you will see your loved ones again soon.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. The wasteland. I want to go back to the wasteland.” Dylan looked around at the flat expanse of heathland still surrounding her. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the horseshoe of hills remained. It seemed like she was still in the wasteland, strictly speaking, but since crossing the line, it wasn’t the same place. Not at all. “I want…” Dylan tailed off. The being, Caeli, was giving her an incredulous look

“You have made the crossing,” he said enigmatically.

Dylan’s frown deepened. He wasn’t getting what she was trying to say at all.

“Where is my ferryman? Where is Tristan?” She tripped a little over his name.

“You do not need him any more. He has fulfilled his role. Please, come with me.” This time the being turned, pointed behind him. A doorway of sorts had appeared a little way down the path: a five-barred gate, a wide cattlegrid at the base. It looked ridiculous hovering there without a purpose, without a fence stretching away from either side of it.

Dylan folded her arms across her chest, lifted her chin. “No,” she said, forcing the word out from between clenched teeth. “I want Tristan. I’m not leaving here until I see him.”

“I’m sorry, but that is not possible.”

“Why?” Dylan shot back.

Caeli looked as though he didn’t understand the question. “It is not possible,” he repeated. “Please, come with me.”

He took a step to the side and gestured once again to the gate behind him. He smiled patiently, waiting. Dylan had the feeling he would stand there, calmly and serenely, until she moved.

What would he do if she ignored him, tried to go back the way she had come, back to the lake?

Would he stop her? She rose to her feet, and took one half-step back, gauging his reaction carefully. Caeli continued smiling, tilting his head a little to the side, eyebrows coming together slightly in puzzlement. Another step. Still he didn’t move. Just watched. She was free to ignore him then.

Taking her eyes off him for a moment, she risked a second fleeting look behind her. The hills were still there. She thought she could just make out the outline of the final safe house, hazy through the line that divided the two worlds. There was no sign of the wraiths, no sign of danger. She could stay there.

But what would be the point?

Tristan wasn’t there. Tristan had lied to her. He was probably already with his next job, the next soul.

He’d probably already forgotten about her.

No, a small part in the back of her head screamed. He said he loved you. He meant it.

Maybe. Maybe not. There was no way to know the truth. And if Tristan wasn’t coming back, what was the point of lingering here?

Sighing, Dylan unfurled her arms, letting them fall loose to her sides. Her hands throbbed, the blood rushing back into her fingertips. She hadn’t realise how tightly she had them clenched around her, like she was holding herself together.

“Okay,” she whispered, taking first one step, then another, in Caeli’s direction. “Okay.”

The being smiled at her warmly, waiting until she’d drawn level before turning and walking beside her along the path.

They reached the gate, but when Caeli pulled it aside, it wasn’t just the rusting metal bars that shifted. It was as if Caeli was cutting a hole in the world. In the space where the gate had been, was now a window onto a whole other place.

“Please.” Caeli spoke quietly, indicating that Dylan should step through.

“Where are we?” she whispered, on the other side.

It was a gigantic room, almost without proportions. She couldn’t see the walls, but it felt inside somehow. The floor was clean, colourless.

“This is the records room. I thought it would be a good place for you to start, to find the souls who have come before you. Those who have died and found their way across the wasteland.”

“How?” Dylan murmured, intrigued despite herself.

As soon as the word left her lips, order started to assert itself. The edges of the room contracted, forming definable walls, walls that were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves heaving with heavy tomes. A carpet materialised beneath her feet, thick and dark, made for grandeur and muffling footsteps. She had a strange sense of déjà vu as she stared around her, the image stirring up echoes of a visit to a library with Joan; cavernous and quiet and mazelike to her ten-year-old eyes. She’d got lost and been found crying beneath a desk by a kindly janitor. Was this another one of those projections of her mind, like the wasteland?

Caeli spoke softly beside her. “I am sure you have family, friends that you would like to find?” He waited a beat. “Would you like me to help you locate anyone? Your Grandmother Moore? Your Aunt Yvonne?”

Dylan stared at him, shocked that he knew the names of her relatives. “You can find anyone?” she asked.

“Anyone who completed the journey, yes. We have records of every soul. Every ferryman has a book of those that they have guided over.”

What? Dylan stared across the room as she processed Caeli’s words. But she wasn’t thinking about finding her grandmother or her aunt, who had died of breast cancer just three years earlier. She had another idea.

Dylan turned to the being, a light suddenly shining in her eyes. “I want to see Tristan’s book,” she told him.

Caeli paused for a moment before responding. “That is not the purpose of this place…” he began.

“Tristan’s book,” Dylan repeated.

The being looked far from happy, his features a mixture of concern and disapproval, but he led her around looming shelving units and past countless books until he reached a dark corner. He reached for a shelf that was empty apart from one huge tome. It was a faded green colour, with pages gilded in gold. The corners appeared worn, soft, as if a thousand fingers had lifted the cover and leafed through.

“Here is your ferryman’s book,” Caeli told her, laying it down on an empty table. “May I ask what it is you are looking for?”

Dylan didn’t reply, not entirely sure of the answer herself. Instead she reached out and lifted the front cover to reveal a ledger. Entry upon entry filled the page. Row after row of souls penned in with a neat hand. There was a name, an age, and a date on every line. Not their birth date, Dylan realised with a shock. It was the day they had died.