Free Ferryman by Claire McFall Page A

replied quietly. She grimaced, dissatisfied, but sensed he was being honest. “But when they’re finished with you, you become one of them. Dark, hungry, crazed. Monsters of smoke.”
    Dylan stared into nothingness. She was horrified by the thought of becoming one of those things. Screaming, desperate, violent; they were hateful creatures.
    “Are we safe here?”
    “Yes,” Tristan answered quickly, wanting to reassure her as much as he could. “These buildings are safe houses. They can’t come inside.”
    She accepted this quietly, but Tristan knew there would be further questions, more truths that she needed to know. And he would give them to her, where he could. She deserved that much at least.
    “And you?”
    That was all she said, but it implied a thousand questions. Who was he? What was the life that he led? What was his place in this world? Tristan was forbidden to reveal most of these answers, and in truth he didn’t know all of them, but there were some things that he could tell her, some things that she had a right to know.
    “I’m a ferryman,” he began. He had been staring at his hands, but he sneaked a quick look at her face. It was simply curious. He took a deep breath and continued. “I guide souls across the wasteland and protect them from the demons. I break the truth to them, then deliver them to wherever they’re going.”
    “And where is that?”
    A key question. “I don’t know.” He smiled ruefully. “I’ve never been.”
    Dylan looked incredulous at this. “But how can you know that it’s the right place? You just drop people off and walk away? For all you know, it’s the gates of hell!”
    He nodded indulgently, but there was a finality about his answer. “I just know.”
    She pursed her lips and looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue the point further. Tristan exhaled a relieved breath. He didn’t want to lie to her, but there were some things that he just wasn’t allowed to share.
    “How many people have you…” Dylan paused, unsure how to phrase her question. “… guided over?”
    He looked up, and this time there was a definite sadness in his eyes. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, probably. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
    “How old are you?” Dylan asked.
    This was a question that he could answer, but didn’t want to. He sensed if she knew the truth, if she knew how long he had lingered here – not learning, growing and experiencing the way a human did, but simply being – then the delicate connection between them would break. She would see him as old, someone strange and other, and he found that he didn’t want that. He attempted to make a joke out of it.
    “How old do I look?” He held out his arms and offered himself up for inspection.
    “Sixteen,” she said, “but you can’t be. Is that when you died? Can you not age?”
    “In technical terms, I’ve never really lived,” he replied, a wistfulness in his eyes. Quickly that gave way to a more guarded expression. He had already let slip more than he should. Mercifully, she seemed to read that in his expression, and asked no more questions.
    Looking around, Dylan took notice of her surroundings properly for the first time. The cabin was just one long room, with mismatched furniture suffering the wear and tear of long abandon. Still, it was in better repair than last night’s cottage. The doors and windows were still intact and the fire burning strongly in the grate had warmed the room. Besides the bench that Dylan sat on with Tristan, there was an old bed, devoid of blankets but with a mattress. Although it looked like it had seen better days, and was coated with numerous stains, it was inviting at that moment. There was also a kitchen table and sink at the other end.
    Stiffly she stood up – she must have been sitting on the hard bench for longer than she’d realised – and crossed the room to the little kitchen area. She felt grimy, uncomfortable. She