Ferryman

by Claire McFall

  Caeli nodded. Dylan waited for him to open it for her – not that she was used to gentlemanly manners, but he seemed to be in charge here – but he didn’t move. Was this another one of those things she had to do herself, like crossing the line in the wasteland? Looking at the being for reassurance, she tentatively stretched out a hand and grasped the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand, and Caeli stepped back so that she could swing it wide open. She did so, giving the being one more nervous glance before she stepped through and took in her surroundings.

  A street. Dylan was instantly more comfortable. The buildings were like nothing she had ever seen, though: a world apart from the high, uniform red-sandstone tenement blocks of Glasgow. Row upon row of neat, single-storey homes, with well-manicured front lawns and pretty flowerbeds stretched out before her. Vehicles, almost all a glossy black with long, curved bonnets and shining silver platforms running along their flanks, were parked on driveways or at the kerb, like something out of the old movies Joan sometimes made her watch when they had one of their many elderly neighbours over for dinner. The sun was splitting the sky and there was a quiet, companionable hum about the place.

  Dylan stepped forward onto a neatly paved path that wound through a tidy lawn. There was a soft click behind her and she turned to see the door close. She seemed to have exited from one of the buildings; a detached house with dormer windows and exterior walls clad in a dark wood. Caeli was nowhere to be seen, but Dylan had a feeling that all she had to do was remember the door to find her way back through to the records room again.

  She took a quick second to memorise the pot of yellow and orange flowers to the right of the single step, the brass number nine nailed dead centre in the door, above a narrow letterbox. Certain she’d be able to find the house again, she went back to staring at the street in front of her. There was a tinny sound ringing in her ears that she strained to recognise. It hissed a little, but beneath this she could hear the beats and chimes of a melody. It was like listening to a radio that wasn’t quite tuned in. She followed the sound, weaving through the cars until she came to a pair of legs sticking out from underneath a gleaming black vehicle. The noise was louder here and she realised she had been right: an ancient-looking radio – what her granny would have called a wireless – was propped on the top of the car. One foot bobbed in time with the music, an oldies tune Dylan didn’t recognise.

  She wondered if she’d found Jonas.

  “Hello?” she called, bending down slightly to squint under the car. She couldn’t see much, just more legs.

  The foot stopped jiggling. After a second, there was a scrabbling sound and the legs extended, merging into a body and then, finally, an oil-smeared face. Dylan waited as he drew himself up to stand before her.

  He was baby-faced, that was the first thing to register with Dylan. Smooth, rounded cheeks sat below twinkling blue eyes; his blond hair was neatly combed, split in a side parting, but several locks had twisted out of place, sticking up at odd angles and making him look even more childlike. It was an odd face to sit atop a man’s body that was tall with broad shoulders.

  Dylan was sure this was the soul she was looking for. He wasn’t how she had imagined him, but this was definitely him, Jonas. She remembered suddenly that he was German and wondered if she’d be able to speak to him. She’d studied French in school, but her German was limited to counting to five.

  “Can you understand me?” she asked.

  He smiled at her, revealing teeth that were not quite straight.

  “You haven’t been here very long, have you?” His English seemed perfect, with just a hint of an accent.

  “Oh.” Dylan blushed, realising she’d somehow made a faux pas. “Sorry, no. I just arrived.”

  He smiled a little wider in sympathy. “I can understand you,” he assured her.

  “You’re Jonas,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. “I’m Dylan.”

  “Hello, Dylan.”

  There was a moment’s pause then. Jonas watched her patiently, his face politely surprised and not a little intrigued. Dylan grimaced and fidgeted on the spot. Why had she asked to see him? What did she want to ask? She was so muddled, off-balance, she couldn’t get it quite straight in her head.

  “I asked to see you,” she began, sensing some explanation was required. “I… wanted to talk to you. To ask you a few questions. If, if that’s okay?”

  Jonas waited patiently and she took that as a cue to continue.

  “I wanted to ask you about your ferryman.”

  Whatever Jonas had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He blinked, frowned, but gestured with a jerk of his chin that she should continue. Dylan played with her tongue between her teeth, biting down until it was almost painful. What did she want to know?

  “He was called Tristan?” she asked. Best to start simply.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly, looking as if he was recalling things from long ago. “No, his name was Henrik.”

  “Oh,” Dylan managed to mumble, trying unsuccessfully to swallow back her disappointment. Maybe it wasn’t him, then. Maybe Caeli had been wrong.

  “What did he look like?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, normal, I suppose.” Jonas shrugged, as if the question was hard to answer. “He looked like any other soldier. Tall, brown hair, the uniform.”

  Brown hair? That was wrong, too.

  “I remember…” He huffed a breath and grinned suddenly. “I remember he had bluer eyes than anyone I had ever seen. I teased him about it, how he looked the quintessential Nazi soldier with eyes like that. They were the strangest colour.”

  “Cobalt blue,” Dylan whispered, seeing the blaze of colour in her head as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. The face surrounding the eyes was a little fuzzy, fading into the distance already, but the cold heat of his stare still burned into her. That was him; that was Tristan. She smiled a tiny smile to herself. At least that one thing was real.

  Perhaps he changed his name for each soul he encountered, picking a name he thought they would like. She remembered what he’d said, about how he had to make them follow, reddening as his words echoed in her mind, telling her she should fancy him. She’d liked the name Tristan; it had seemed oldy-worldy, mysterious. Very different to the David and Darren and Jordan clones at Kaithshall. Was that just another part of his job, another piece of the deception? She felt her chest tighten as she realised with a sudden rush of sadness that she might not even have known his real name. If he had one.

  “Right,” Jonas agreed, smiling at her. “Cobalt blue. That is a good description of them.”

  “What… what was he like?” Unconsciously, Dylan raised a hand to her face and started to chew on one of her fingernails. Now that she was coming to the important questions, she was suddenly edgy, not sure she wanted the answers, frightened to hear something she wouldn’t like.

  “What do you mean?” Jonas frowned, puzzled.

  Dylan exhaled deeply through her nose, twisting her lips to the side. She wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

  “Was he… was he nice? Did he look after you?”

  Rather than answer her, Jonas tilted his head to the side, blue eyes – duller than Tristan’s but sharp nonetheless – studying her keenly.

  “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “What?” Dylan mumbled, stalling. She retreated a half-step, till her back collided gently with another parked car.

  “What is it you really want to know, Dylan?”

  It was weird to hear her name rolled around in a strange accent. It sounded odd, off. Not like her. Unsettled and mixed-up as she was feeling, it matched her mood in a bizarre way.

  “Dylan?” Jonas jolted her back from her distraction.

  “I miss him,” she admitted to the ground, bewildered into telling the truth. After a few seconds she looked up to see Jonas eyeing her, his expression both sympathetic and a little confused. “We went through a lot together and I… I miss hi
m.”

  “When did you get here?” Jonas asked.

  “Now. I mean, just before I came to see you. An hour maybe?” Were there hours any more?

  The little line in between Jonas’ eyes deepened and he frowned harder.

  “And you came straight here, to see me? Don’t you have family you want to see? People from your life you thought you’d never see again?”

  Dylan looked away before she responded, a little ashamed of the truthful answer. “I don’t want them. I want Tristan.”

  “What happened on your journey?”

  “What?” Sidetracked by his question, Dylan turned back to the German. He was leaning against the car he’d been working on, his arms folded across his chest, face drawn as he tried to understand.

  “I can’t follow you. When I met Henrik – sorry, your Tristan,” he amended, seeing Dylan’s face screw up, “I knew I was dead. I knew almost at once who he was, what had happened. I was glad to have his company over the journey, but then, when it was over, we parted. And that was it. I went on; he went on to the next soul. If I think of him, it is fondly. But I could not say that I missed him.”

  Dylan stared at him, disappointed. He was right; he didn’t understand. Couldn’t. In fact, she could probably go through every name in Tristan’s book and still not find a soul who had felt what she felt, who knew what it was like to have this gnawing pain that churned in her stomach, like a vital part of her was missing.

  That was both a comforting thought and a depressing one.

  Dylan turned to the side, edging away from Jonas. He was still watching her with pitying eyes and it was painful to see the reflection of her despondent face in them. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him now, to find a quiet space to hide and deal with the jumble of thoughts paralysing her brain.

  “Look, thanks for listening to me. I’ll… I’ll let you get back to your car. You’re fixing it up?”

  “Yeah.” Jonas grinned a little impishly, his chubby cheeks made his eyes all but disappear. “I always wanted a car when I was alive.” His choice of words jarred with Dylan, but she kept her expression impassive. “Now I can play all I want. Though I think it would run whatever I did to it. Still, I like to pretend I’m making a difference. I was so excited when I crossed over and saw it, I almost didn’t notice at first that I was back in Stuttgart!” He gave Dylan a slightly sad smile. “At least that is one thing about this place… going home.”

  Home. There it was again. Dylan’s eyes clouded over, her lips pursing in annoyance.

  “I’m not going home,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Jonas squinted at her like he didn’t understand.

  “The records room, it can take you anywhere, right?” Dylan asked.

  “Well, yes.” Jonas still looked nonplussed. “But when you crossed the line in the wasteland, when you crossed over…” He paused, tilted his head to the side as he stared at her. “Did you not go home?”

  It was Dylan’s turn to look bewildered. “I was still in what looked like the wasteland,” she said.

  “You are sure?” he pressed.

  Dylan raised her eyebrows at him. She was pretty damned sure. “I’m positive,” she said. “I was standing in the exact same spot. Only, only Tris— my ferryman had disappeared.”

  “That is not right,” Jonas told her, his forehead creased with concern. “Everyone else I have ever spoken to – my family, my friends – their first moment beyond, it has been in the place they think of as home.”

  Dylan didn’t know what to say to that. She should feel bad, she supposed, that she hadn’t been taken to her old home, or her granny’s house.

  But she didn’t feel bad. She felt reassured. She was supposed to be with Tristan, that’s what her brain was telling her. As much as she hated the wasteland – the cold, the wind, the up! – that was where she was supposed to be.

  She didn’t belong here. She didn’t fit in, like always.

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” she murmured, more to herself than Jonas. She shifted away from him. She wanted to be alone. Alone to think; alone to cry. She forced false brightness into her voice. “Well, have fun with your car. Thanks again.” Dylan was off before the final word was out of her mouth, quick steps taking her away, eyes searching out the flower pots, the brass number nine.

  “Hey! Hey wait!”

  Letting an aggravated hiss escape between her clenched teeth, Dylan halted in her tracks. She paused for a second, then turned round warily.

  Jonas pushed off from the car, closed half the distance between them. Worry aged his face, made him almost adult.

  “You’re not going to try it?” he asked, his voice so low Dylan almost didn’t catch it.

  “Try what?”

  He looked right and left before he answered. Dylan’s eyebrows slid up her face, intrigued. “To go back.” He mouthed the words.

  “What?” Dylan barked, subconsciously moving so that they were face to face. “What do you mean go back?” Go back where? To the wasteland? Was he saying there was a way?

  Jonas shushed her, his hands gesturing a warning as he glanced around. Dylan ignored his panic, but she lowered her voice as she asked the question again.

  “What did you mean, try to go back? I thought there was no going back?”

  “There isn’t,” Jonas replied at once, but his expression was shifty.

  “But…” Dylan prompted.

  “But nothing.” Jonas tried to back away but Dylan wouldn’t let him, shadowing each step.

  “People have tried,” she guessed. Then inspiration hit her like lightning. “The crossed-out names,” she breathed. Had she been wrong before? Were they not souls who had been lost on the way here, but on the way back? It was possible.

  “You can’t go back.” Jonas repeated Caeli’s words almost as if the answer was ingrained, but he couldn’t hold the innocent expression faced with Dylan’s flagrant disbelief.

  “How did they do it?” she demanded, advancing again. Blanket silence from the German. “How did they do it, Jonas?”

  He pressed his lips together, considering her. “I don’t know.”

  Dylan stared back, too caught by sudden hope to be shy. “You’re lying,” she said, eyeing him shrewdly.

  “I’m not, Dylan. I don’t know how it’s done. But I know that it’s suicide.”

  Dylan laughed sourly. “I’m already dead.”

  He gave her a long look. “You know what I mean.”

  She took a second to think about it. Dead. Really dead. Gone. It was frightening; her heart started pounding painfully in her chest at just the thought. But then… what was the point of being here? Yes, eventually Joan, her dad, Katie – they’d all make their way across. She could have her old life back, or some strange version of it. And she could be just as lonely, just as out of step as she’d been before; before the wasteland.

  That was not worth waiting a lifetime for. If she knew Tristan was coming, then maybe she could bear to linger here. But that wasn’t going to happen. He was never, ever coming. That thought sent a jolt of agony right into her core and she shut her eyes against the pain of it. Tristan. She could still recall with crystal clarity the burning feeling of his lips pressing against hers, his arms tight around her. How ironic that that moment was the most alive she’d ever felt.

  Was it worth risking oblivion to feel it again?

  Yes.

  “How can you be so sure when you don’t even know how to do it?” Dylan challenged. She refused to be put off by his negativity, not when he’d given her a hope to grasp at.

  “No, Dylan. You don’t understand.” Jonas shook his head at her, hands aloft in alarm. “There are souls here who have watched centuries pass. They’ve known hundreds, maybe thousands of souls try to crawl their way back, to return to their wife or their children. Not a single one has ever made their way back here again to tell the tale. You’ve seen the wraiths, you know what they do.”

  Dylan bit her lip, th
inking. “How do you know about them? The ones who’ve tried?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Rumours.”

  Rumours. She stepped forward, eyes piercing. Jonas tried to take a step back, but there was nowhere to go. Dylan glared at him, eyes determined. “Rumours from who?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She lived in a wooden building that Dylan could only describe as a shack, surrounded by miles and miles of flat plains. It was an isolated and wild place, with yapping dogs and rolling thunderclouds overhead, though whatever rain lurked amongst the steel grey stayed in the sky. Eliza. The oldest soul that Jonas knew. If anyone was going to be able to give her answers, he told Dylan, it was Eliza

  Jonas had taken her there simply by walking through another of the doors on his street. One moment they had been surrounded by buildings, the next, sand and tumbleweed. Dylan watched him close a rickety gate, warped pieces of wood held together with rusting nails.

  “Have you been here before?” Dylan asked as he pointed the way to the old woman’s house, where a light shone brightly from the one window. It was much darker here, and the warm glow was welcoming.

  “No.” Jonas shook his head. “But I don’t know of anyone else who might be able to help you.”

  He gave her a funny look and Dylan knew that he was hoping Eliza would try to talk her out of it rather than help her. She looked at the ramshackle house, a little nervous.

  “Who is she?” Dylan asked. “How does she know about these things?”

  “She’s been here a very long time,” Jonas replied.

  Dylan set her mouth into a dissatisfied line. That didn’t really answer her question, but she sensed it was all Jonas knew.

  Jonas stepped smartly onto a shaky-looking wooden porch and rapped on the door, but Dylan held back. Though she had confronted Jonas without any hesitation, she felt unsure, timid at the thought of speaking to another soul. Maybe it was because she was old, a proper adult. Maybe it was because she had never known Tristan. Whatever it was, it had Dylan backing away rather than stepping forward. If Jonas hadn’t escorted her, she knew she wouldn’t even have made it this far.