Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #12 March 2015 | Page 30
that he ought to let the Storyteller ply his trade, after
all it is his payment. But, he is curious.
“To the castle of course. But why I travel there is a
story in itself. Would you like to hear it?”
The Ferryman nods but sees the boy’s expression.
“Perhaps after you’ve told the boy about his fairies?”
“Indeed, indeed,” the Storyteller turns to the boy,
“you’d like another tale from the Four and One?”
“Yes, please,” the boy says. “The Seventh Magpie
one, please.” He squirms a little on the bench, getting comfortable. The Ferryman switches to the long
oar, putting the long pole away into the special set of
catches on the side of the boat, made for just this purpose. The creak of the oar and the soft splashing as it
thrusts the boat forward serves as a counterpoint to the
Storyteller’s voice.
The Storyteller closes his eyes and becomes still. His
rat teeth flash in a smile as he starts.
“The lands of the Four and One are a special place,
nowhere else in all the countries of the world does
man live in such harmony with the Fey realm. This
harmony comes at a price though. The Compact. The
tale of the Compact is a long and twisted one that perhaps I can tell another time? But the Compact is important to this tale only that the Fey had signed it, the
Humans had signed it, and other Powers too. One of
these Powers was The Dan. The Dan is lord of all the
dead and he resides in a house the dead call the Feast
of Lanterns, what the Fey call Ceathru Balla and what
the Humans call the Inn at the End of the World…”
***
The Seventh Magpie is late, he scampers over the
dales heading towards his appointment. The Ambassador has sent him especially, showing great trust,
trust he doesn’t wish to misplace. His thin legs hop
him forwards and, not for the first time, he wishes his
wings were wings and not wing shaped arms. If only
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he were a magpie instead of being a Fey in the shape
of a magpie. He pats the small leather satchel for the
hundredth time. It is, as it had been the last ninety-nine
times, still there, still full of the important correspondence. His beak creaks into what he thinks of as his
secret smile. Imagine. The Ambassador. Trusting him.
The pleasure of this is tinged with a little fear as he
realises again that, by the angle of the sun, he is going
to be late. He tries to hurry even more.
***
Padraig had led them this far.
Padraig had led them this far. Phelan’s Select they now
called themselves. On a mission to repair the Four and
One they were. Although they barely comprehended
what was wrong with it. Padraig was Phelan’s son, and
therefore, leader. The others were from the Four and
One. Padraig wasn’t the only bard amongst them, but
he had won the Bard’s contest, which is another story.
He squared his shoulders, flipped his white cloak over
his homespun tunic and sighed a mighty sigh.
“This is the bridge to the land of the dead.” His arm
swept out and indicated the bridge, arching away into
the mists, its sword-metal grey stone looking like it
had been there since the start of the world. “We have
to cross it.” He said with finality. The others shuffled,
the Ovate Connor coughed. Aiman muttered a prophecy
that they had heard many times before. The one about
the dragons.
“We must cross it,” he said and then turned to them.
“The bridge is guarded by the souls of those who need
to cross over, but are reluctant to because of their ties
to this land. They have refused the Wheel of Life,
Death and Rebirth. They must sustain themselves
and eat unwary travellers. We must pass in darkness
and silence. If you see one of their torches, stop as
still as you can and hold your breath.” He looked into
each of their faces. “If one of us is taken, we must not
try to help. Better one taken than all taken.” Having