Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #17 August 2015 | Page 45
Tales for the Ferryman
Pete Sutton
Part Seven
else…”
“I appreciate the chance to tell someone
The Ferryman is an automaton in the stern of
the boat, pushing us along with a circular motion on
the oar. What he thinks of the story, the one that set
my feet on a long path that would stretch from the
castle and eventually end at the castle, I do not know.
But I will tell it to the end, if I can.
***
The man in red, now that he was facing the
castle, opened his eyes every few minutes, to check
his progress. He glanced at the boy, attentive to his
story.
***
Padraig walked to the stage. The audience
shuffled, coughed, made themselves comfortable
again, after listening to Donnal’s stirring war poems.
Padraig decided to sing the song he’d learned at Keary’s side
about the death of Rufus. On the way to the stage, he
performed his breathing exercises. He looked around
the crowd as he was being introduced, and Cerridwen, near the front, mouthed “good luck” to him. He
cleared his throat, then began to sing in a clear, high
voice.
He’d never considered the words of the song
before, but noticing Donnal’s face—a thunderous
expression turned upon him—he wondered. Perhaps
the words hopping dog were insulting to the former
Righ of the Black Boar. Perhaps a song that painted a
man who was nicknamed ‘Dragon’ by his countrymen
as being duplicitous and less than brave was insulting.
He decided to cut it short, before the battle at the Red
Ford, before Rufus Draga’s death. It was clear though
that Donnal had heard the song before, or had heard
enough, because he was being held back by another
from the Black Boar. Padraig worried that he would
leap upon the stage and challenge him to combat. He
started a second song, a more traditional one.
***
Teilo limped through the woods. He’d heard
someone heading towards the camp where Elise was
holding her competition, where he had been heading
before his encounter with Ceowulf’s squire. You leave
Cahal’s side for a short while and the whole thing
goes to shit, he thought as he hurried as best he could
back to Cahal’s holding.
***
Phelan made his way through the forest as
only a druid could. A lesser man would have been
swamped, torn by thorns, mazed by impassable hedges, taken much longer. But the trees, shrubs, and
animals seemed to part before him. Ahead the large
canvas structure Elise had commissioned stood waiting. As Phelan slowed to a fast walk he could hear his
son’s voice in high song. He smiled, until he realised
what Padraig was singing. Expression darkening, he
strode towards the door. He heard running footsteps on
the path behind him.
***
Andarta had been turned around. She was now
behind the scouts that she’d thought were hunting her.
But they appeared to have not noticed. Either they had
poor woodcraft—possible, but unlikely—or she was
not their target.
A cold presentiment settled in her belly. What
if they were after Phelan? She put on a burst of speed,
abandoning stealth. Ahead the scouts slowed, hearing
her.
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