Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #12 March 2015 | Page 32

The troll huffs then flings the club at the Seventh
Magpie, who only just gets out of the way, the club
grazing his wing, a few feathers flutter to the ground.
“Eek!” he says, but spotting the troll is now unarmed,
he rushes past. The troll lunges for him and grabs a
bunch of his tail feathers that poke from under his
coat, and plucks them clean out, but still the Seventh
Magpie runs. He doesn’t stop running until he reaches
the top of the hill, the roars of the troll far below him
sounding enraged.
As he tries to get his breath back the Seventh Magpie
also tries to see his tail which swishes out of sight if
he spins his head to the right or to the left. Maybe it’s
not that bad, he thinks. He pats the leather satchel,
which he luckily still has, still full of correspondence.
He looks up at the sky, from what he can see between
the trees, he’s saved some time but he must still hurry.
As he skips down the hill, and out of the forest, he
sees the mists of the valley of the dead below him and
the end of the bridge that crosses from the lands of the
four. And stumbling out of the mists that obscure the
middle of the bridge come a rag-tag band of humans.
Hello. What’s this? Live men and women in the lands
of the Dead? The Dan is not going to like that.
***
The man in red pauses, after making the squeaky,
squawky noise of the Seventh Magpie’s voice. He
cups his hands and draws some water from the lake,
taking a deep draught and returning for more. The soft
splash of the oar pushes them on. The boy can contain

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himself no longer.
“Then what happened? Who is Padraig? And what’s
Phelan’s Select. Why are they in the land of Death?
Why—“
“Woah! Woah!” the Storyteller cries, holding his
hands up. “Shall I continue the story father?” he says
looking to the Ferryman who nods, the great bird-like
mask now looking to the boy like a magpie’s head.
“OK then, I’ll tell you about Phelan’s Select and why
they were going to see the Dan.” The Storyteller takes
another handful of water, draws his red coat about him
to stave off the chill coming from the wind above the
lake, and then closes his eyes ready to continue the
tale.
***
I open my eyes and look at the Ferryman as he drives
us effortlessly over the deepest, most secret parts of
the lake. I cough and wish I had a coat to pull closer. I
am freezing. The Ferryman’s eyes look over my head.
I glance behind me but see the usual lake view, other
Ferrymen in the distance, carrying paying customers,
ones who wish to go to the castle, ones who have a
choice. I rub my shoulders and arms vigorously, wincing at the bruises my fingers encounter and awake. I
close my eyes and, hugging myself, begin again.
“My father had to wait to find out why the Storyteller
was going to the castle…”
To be continued