The boatman
"None of my business, young sir, but given the chance and all since I don’t get many passengers through here this ferry, being so far away from the Basilica Road and all, might I ask where do you come from? Beg your pardon, too,” the boatman ventured in a fast talkative manner, affording his passenger a casual gaze, beating the boat’s rows in and out of the water with a calm, slow rhythm.
“Nicodemea. Far to the west, if you haven’t heard of it. Is this safe? The fog, I mean.”
The young passenger answered in an absent-minded fashion, his question trailing off with a hint of worry and nervousness, his eyes averted from the surrounding fog and water, focused instead on the boat itself as if an invisible wall had made such an effort vain.
“Why shouldn’t it be? The water’s dead still and there be no rocks on the other side, just green grass, young sir. You carry nothing more than your person, so missing the platform shouldn’t be a bother. A simple matter, sir. We’ll be there before you know it too. Looking for a mule or a horse, by any chance? You seem to have a long way to go ahead of you, ain’t I right?”
“But the fog. Isn’t it..”
The young man hesitated to add his thought fully, and a sour expression appeared on his face.
“Thick? Damn thick fog this time of the year, lifts at around noon, sets in before dusk. Pretty normal, sir. Come to think about it, I didn’t catch your name. Care to share it in a friendly discussion? Reilo’s mine,” the ferry man interjected with a smile part glossy silver, part cavernous lack of teeth.
“Ahem, I’m Molo. Thessurdijad Molo,” the young man said after a small pause and some fidgeting about with his cloak and belt before he revealed a gloved hand, proffering it to the boat handler.
“Can’t right now lad, kinda caught up in rowing, remember? But very much obliged to meet you nevertheless, young sir. I’m Reilo, Reilo the boatman. Don’t get many nice people like you around here. ’Specially not from the western parts,” the ferry man nodded in acknowledgement, underlining the fact he was rowing by enthusiastically flapping the rows ineffectually above the water’s surface, before adding with a note of apprehension:
“Not to sound too promiscuous sir, but what’s a nice gent like you doing crossing these no-good-parts for?”
“Well you are quite talkative a fellow aren’t you, Reilo? I’m a curator, on an errand, that’s all,” the young man rearranged his cloak, and peered past the boat man, through the fog, without success of glimpsing anything else than a gray oozing atmosphere and a thin shiny sliver of murky water.
“Must be quite an errand to travel that far, eh?”
“That, it is indeed,” said the young man sounding suddenly grave. The fog started to lift about then and a light breeze rushed around them, the feeling of chilled clean air a welcome change on their cheeks.
“There you are sir Molo, fog’s lifting. Clockwork, eh?”, the gaping mouth of the man lending little of the associated perfection to the word.
“If you say so, Reilo.”
“And once you’re on the other side, how ’bout resting your aching feet for a while, eh? I got a cousin, fine lad. He’s got comfy beds, real straw and all. Sensible prices too, mind you,” the boat man tried to press on his advantage while rowing the last few yards towards the shore.
“I’m looking to keep on moving, thank you,” Molo answered politely.
“Then a horse might come in handy? Got a nephew, has a couple o’ fine workhorses he could sell you cheap if I put a word too. It’d almost be a steal.”
Reilo blinked one eye in a way that could have offered an onlooker too many wrong connotations.
“I won’t be needing any of that, thank you Reilo,” said Molo, stressing his expressed gratitude as well as his gentle patience by accenting his thanks.
“Alright sir, hope there are no regrets later on,” said the boatman, somewhat disappointed his far too obvious sales pitch didn’t hit off as he had hoped.
“Believe me, no regrets,” answered Molo, and stepped off the boat and onto the river’s shore, one hand on his knapsack, a walking rod in the other one. Soon, he picked up a brisk pace and after a few dozen feet met the road going east. He checked his few belongings one last time as a late afterthought and set off once again.
Forge of Stones Page 5