Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #21 December 2015 | Page 35

Tales for the Ferryman
Pete Sutton
Part Eleven
The boat starts to roll a little as we approach
the green-stained pillars of the quay. I watch the dark
figures who, in turn, watch our approach. There is a
gentle bump, and the Ferryman throws a line to one of
his colleagues who makes us fast.

I am a little unsteady on my feet, my stomach
roils, and I gulp down a metallic taste. No-one seeks
to aid my exit from the boat, and I struggle out as
best I can, limbs stiff from the cold journey. A wall of
white and black blocks my sight of the quayside. A
tiding of magpies; my mind leaps to the old song. Ten
for the Devil’s Own Self.

They part at some hidden signal, and I feel an
iron grip on my elbow. I glance to the Ferryman. His
hand, enveloped in an ink-black glove, gives nothing
away. He nods, and we march forward. I realise that
I’m not hearing the usual market sounds and stumble
when I see the silent, staring ranks of the populace.

A boy, little older than I was when the man
in red took me as apprentice, breaks away from his
mother and throws an over-ripe piece of fruit. As if
this was a flag, snapping in the wind to signal the start
of a race, the rest of the crowd follow suit. I am pelted
with offal and garbage. My pride is hurt, even if the
stinging slaps will leave no bruises. There is a wall
of noise. I try to hear it all as an incoherent shout, but
can’t help but hear the calls of ‘Monster’ that many
raise.

I hang my head. I am not ashamed of what I
wrote. I stand by every word. Every word. That the
people, many of whom would agree with me I feel,
have been turned against me is not their fault. Those
that live in fear, are motivated by fear, are manipulated
with fear. They cannot help themselves. I catch a
glimpse of red. A bright colour, on a dour day, and
turn to look.

A small girl, dressed in a pretty red hooded
cloak, no more than a toddler, gazes with wonder at
me. I know not what stories her mother has told her,
that The Beast has spread, but her eyes widen when
she sees me look at her, and buries her face in her
mother’s skirts. I am surprised when a tear runs down
my face. Who am I crying for? It is not for me. I am
resigned to my fate now, or so I tell myself.

The Ferryman urges me onwards with pressure
on my elbow. I sigh and walk on. I am surprised by a
tug on my other hand. The little girl. I pull against the
Ferryman for a second, but my strength is no match
for his. She silently hands me a doll, little more than
a wooden peg with a scrap of cloth, meant to be a
dress, in the same red. As I take it she pops a thumb
in her mouth and is snatched up by her mother whose
beetroot face throws curses lost in the hubbub.

I grip the doll hard and grimly follow the
Ferryman onto the long sandy path that leads from the
quayside to the castle. It is a dead straight avenue of
yews. I remember the first time I walked down this
path. The trees are the same, but I have changed.

“I said I would continue my story,” I say to
the Ferryman who has slowed down now that we are
through the crowd, and they are falling behind us,
prevented from following by the other figures in black.
***

The boy ran ahead. The soft pale yellow of the
path stark against the deep reddish brown of the yews’
trunks. He looked back and saw his father and the man
in red in deep conversation, not paying attention to
him. He decided to hide and jump out at them and left
the path to dive into the underbrush. He was therefore
shocked when he came face to face with a woman,
crouched at the side of the path, who put a finger on
her lips. She was dressed in hardwearing leathers and
had a number of daggers and a sword. The boy’s eyes
widened, and he opened his mouth wide to shout. The
woman’s mouth twitched, and she stood and swept out
onto the path. He felt compelled to follow.

“Is this yours?” she said to the two
approaching men. It was impossible to see the

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