Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 56

Tales for the Ferryman
Pete Sutton
Part Ten
The Ferryman is an automaton at the stern of
the boat, his, or her, arms moving in an endless circle,
pushing us towards the shore. Towards the castle. I
shrug. I will carry on with the tale, as much for taking
my mind off what approaches than to entertain the
enigmatic figure at the stern.

I pause in the storytelling to look around. The
lake is massive, more like an inner sea than lakes in
other countries. Each hill and grove, inlet and bay is
familiar to me from my childhood crossing and recrossing the lake in my father’s boat.

The castle has always dominated the land,
in fact I read somewhere that it is over five hundred
years old. You, of course, will have heard all the
stories about it and its owner. And his lost love. I
won’t repeat them to you, but I, as a child, spent the
last hour or so of the boat journey telling the man in
red all about it. With his short, insightful questions
and gentle prompts during that, my first storytelling
experience to anyone other than my father, he had
already started my education.
***
“But why do men say he’s a beast?” the man in
red asked.

“Not a beast, but The Beast,” the boy replied.

There was a pause filled only with the soft
splashing of the wavelets against the hull of the boat
and the creak-creak-creak of the oar circling.

“I see,” the man in red said eventually. He
passed his hand across his face. Then reached out
and closed the boy’s eyes. “I want you to see the

story unfold in your mind’s eye. Go through it again,
to yourself, visualise the elements of the story, the
shipwreck, the garden, the people, the places, The
Beast. I want you to lavish them with detail—what
do they look like? A story is a picture painted with
words.”

The boy nodded solemnly. The small sounds of
the boat slicing through the water were all to be heard.
After a few minutes, the boy nodded again.

“I’d like you to tell me that story again tonight.
When we are cosy by a fire. Then I’d like you to tell
it to me tomorrow when we break our fast and again
when we find a few moments to pause, and again, and
again. Until that tale is polished like a diamond, its
many facets shining, ready to pierce the hearts of your
listeners. A facet of love, one of heartache, another of
sorrow, one of joy, another of fear, another of grief,
another, and another.”

The boy stared at the man in red, his features a
study in concentration.

“Right so. Your father is not going to hear the
end of the tale of the Four and One. But you will. But
let us return there once again. Just for a while. Until
we dock.”
***
Padraig found it difficult keeping up with
Andarta. She seemed to be making allowances for
him, but he was still blown when they finally made it
back to the Holding. Her breathing was hardly deeper,
and she still looked alert and ready for anything,
whilst he was gasping for breath, his face aglow, and
streaming with sweat.

The Holding was in uproar. It resembled an
ant’s nest that had been disturbed by a shovel. Men,
women, and children swirled around the buildings.
Some were carrying bundles precious to them; others
stood with expressions of disbelief, or fear, upon their
faces. Often the children were wailing, although a
band, some eight to ten strong, weaved through the
throng, playing a game, their high, clear laughter

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