The Complete Ferryman

VII | Dravidian Before

VII | Dravidian Before

Although they hadn’t yet gained the top of the stairs, Dravidian could already see the feeding frenzy taking place outside the narrow door: the chaotic vortex of color as the little elfemales—who had come, as always, in response to the recorded mating call—flocked to avoid the hungry black shapes that darted in and out amongst them.

“Hurry, Dravidian, or we’ll miss the feeding of the ravens entirely,” said Pepperlung.

They burst out onto the foredeck of the dragger and took the scene in as it swirled around them, Pepperlung laughing and spinning in time while Dravidian stood calmly and observed the maelstrom. These ignudi were slightly smaller than those he’d seen baited elsewhere in the world, the spread of their delicate wings measuring no more than two hand lengths, if that. But what they lacked in size they just as surely made up for in the diversity of their coloring, for never before had he seen such lovely combinations of oyster and indigo, of apricot and rouge, of lampblack and lilac and lapis lazuli—all spun entwined between soft wings and nude bodies like swirling dyes in a textile maker’s kettle.

Yet even among all that fluttering, exquisitely paired color, there was one flitting sprite that stood out from the rest for her very simplicity, for she was solid green from tapered head to cusped toe, as well as from wingtip to wingtip. And she seemed as drawn to Dravidian as he was to her, because she fluttered close and brushed herself against his mask, trilling and purring softly—before being snatched away by the beak of a raven, the violence of which caused the lenses of his facade to be dotted with blood.

After that, he saw only the beating black wings of the ravens, for they outnumbered the elfemales greatly now, and as he titled his head to watch them spiral, a fierce red blur entered his vision and he refocused to see Prefect Asmodeus standing at the rail of the superstructure in his scarlet cloak and mask, and with him the Bride Observer everyone had been talking about, who’s yellow eyes looked down upon him through her black veil with serpentine indifference.

“Look at her, Dravidian,” said Pepperlung, stepping close enough to rub shoulders. “She was chosen at a young age, you can tell ... and she wears it like a queen. I’ve never seen the likes of her.”

Dravidian pressed the pads at his temple, loosening his mask with a little hiss of air, then took it in his hands and began cleaning its lenses, using a cloth from his hip, studying her as he did so.

She was dressed in semi-translucent clothes which seemed to suggest many shades of black all at once. The diverse garments were moved to whisper about her body by a gentle breeze, yet were cut and tailored in such areas as to conform tightly and highlight the finer aspects of her femininity. There were slits, for example, cut into the fabric at her thighs, which ran from her waistline to her knees and revealed blue-gray skin like polished river rock. How oddly statuesque she was!—especially compared to Asmodeus, who stood fully a head shorter and was bent slightly from age—as well as voluptuous. Her presence was like a column of black smoke which rose curling and twisting from the superstructure platform to what would have been Dravidian’s height had he stood directly beside her. And yet her eyes seemed dead, and not just because of injection-induced ritalimortis. They were animal eyes, a doll’s eyes, serpentine not because they were cold—which would have at least implied sentience—but because they were inhuman. Because they could see, but not gaze.

She said something casually to Asmodeus and he c****d an ear toward her before looking at them and saying something back.

Dravidian placed an arm on Pepperlung’s shoulder and turned them to face the gondola davits. “I wouldn’t stare too long, my friend. Besides, we have boats to prepare ...”

Pepperlung shoved against him good-naturedly, causing him to lose his balance and nearly fall. “Oh, I see. Now that you’re about to be elevated to Master you’re too good for mess hall talk.” He laughed. “I shall have to tell the demidaines that you will no longer be accompanying us!”

Dravidian chuckled and looked at his boat—which, thanks to the skill of its builder, seemed to have more of a personality than the bride above. Indeed, it appeared almost to brood as it lay in its harness, the ferro on its prow stabbing at the ceiling of the world like a knife, its six bars for the six regions of Ursathrax lying under that like the teeth of a comb, its oily-black hull catching the light of the local Orb (now in Moonphase) and spreading it thin along its length, causing its gold trim to gleam.

“I’ll miss them,” he said, expanding his gaze to the other ships. “You get to know them like people over the years. Each with their own quirks and eccentricities.” He turned to Pepperlung. “And I’ll miss you, old friend. We’ll still see each other at the Taberna, of course. And, yes, occasionally at the demidaines. But I’ll have a reputation to maintain, as I’m sure you’ll understand ...” He winked and grinned.

Pepperlung reached up and pressed the release pads of his own mask, then swung it around to his back. He forced himself to smile and said, “But it won’t be the same.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I never thought this day would come. Take care of yourself, my friend.” He glanced over his shoulder at the prefect and his tone became grave: “Beware, Dravidian. The bride is just sightseeing but Asmodeus is here for you. You are the only ferryman up for elevation this year. Watch yourself. There will be a test, surely.” He put on a show for the prefect and the Lucitor’s bride by shouting louder than necessary, “Your last run as a journeyman! Next time I see you, I shall have to call you Master Dravidian!” He clasped Dravidian’s shoulder. “It’s been an honor serving with you.”

Dravidian returned the gesture. “And you as well, my brother. Black hole, white fountain. What dies only continues as something different.” He turned his attention to the brownies running helter-skelter up and down the deck and singled two of them out. “You there, plug the drain and man the frapping lines.”

“Something from one of your books?” said Pepperlung.

Dravidian paused with one boot on the gunwale and turned to face him. “You knew?”

Pepperlung grinned. “Everyone knew. You’re not a very good liar, Dravidian. I’ll be sure to keep them safe until you are able to fetch them.”

Dravidian smiled with his eyes and saluted him, then placed the mask to his face and pressed the pads with his thumbs, sealing it, before raising his hood. “Release the monkey lines,” he said, his voice transformed, and gripped the nearest one as it fell.

“Lines untied and grunts released!” called down a brownie.

“Proceed,” said Dravidian—which was followed by the final hooks being disengaged and the gondola beginning to lower.

He continued to stare up at Pepperlung as the boat see-sawed toward the water, although it was difficult to tell if he was looking back or not because of the climbing-net between them and the bright spotlights which rendered him a silhouette. He looked every bit a man in a cage standing there, and yet his boat awaited in which, for a brief time, he could be free, and Dravidian wondered, as the shadows of the climbing-net crept over his own mask and cloak, what it was going to be like to be a ferryman but no longer a gondolier; what effect would living in a tunnel of administrative work have upon a person? A final glimpse of bent-backed Asmodeus just before he disappeared behind the gunwale spoke of everything he feared.

He had little time to dwell on it, however, as Skylla and Sthenios were already there—greeting him eagerly by poking their slick, shiny muzzles over the gondola’s gunwales the instant he touched down on the water and playfully demanding to be fed. He shoveled some chum at them from the little bucket hanging from his control panel and activated the shield, which didn’t affect them because they were already within its radius and it didn’t reflect slow-moving or low-impact objects, regardless. In truth, although he’d ordered the brownies to ensure there was chum onboard just in case, he hadn’t really expected to see his adopted friends this time of the year, for it was known the hydrippoi migrated downriver during the autumn months only to mysteriously reemerge at the Great Falls and thus the beginning of Ursathrax in the spring.

He watched them jerk their heads back to swallow the salmon then excitedly ask for more, but instead took up the polished oar from its rack on the starboard gunwale and examined its blade. Then, finding it sanded and re-glazed to perfection, he looked up at the dragger and saw Zaluther watching him eagerly from a climbing-net. He saluted the brownie sharply and made a note to recommend him for advancement at first opportunity; then, as the youth beamed and waved, he released the final hooks from his control pad, shoved off with the blunt end of the oar, and placed its shaft into the oiled forcola at his dais.

And then he was floating free in a wide gap between river clouds, a gust of wind causing his cloak to crackle, rowing with powerful strokes toward the shore as the great foghorn sounded for the first time, frightening the hydrippoi away but only for a brief time, he knew. And all he could think about was how good it felt to be back on the River Dire instead of cooped up in a clammy barracks, to have the wind at his back (or his side, as it were), and to see the river birds reel and the clouds race above and the Orb seem to fade in and out as the brumes passed. He noticed several ignudi traps floating nearby and a wry smile touched his lips as he thought of how even now some lovelorn Jaskirians were using the dust harvested from the creatures’ wings to enhance their passion and s****l prowess.

That’s when one of the hydrippoi suddenly breached off the port bow, splashing him with water, followed immediately by the other doing the same thing off the starboard. He laughed and increased his pace, liking the power he felt in his own limbs, swishing the blade of the oar in a broad circle and rotating it ever so slightly on the return stroke so that its tip never fully left the water, watching the hydrippoi cruise and cross each other’s paths just beneath the surface before taking turns once again to breach the froth, but this time angling their jumps so that they crested against the shields and bounced off with a sizzling pop, again and again until one of them crested all the way to the top of the field and just hovered there, seeming to fly in tandem with the boat until it slid moistly back into the swirling water. Until at last the foghorn sounded again, louder this time, as those on shore still had not ignited the guiding torches, and the horse eels peeled away as he entered a great river cloud, which he navigated blindly until the blue-red torches lit up in the gloom, and when he emerged from the miasma he saw the sacrificial peer glowing in the night, and he saw, too, a lonely figure standing at the bottom of the wide steps at river’s edge, a figure so lithe it might have been a child, dressed all in green rags and a shawl, with a makeshift veil over her face, and a countenance which, after he pressed a pad near his temple and caused the lenses in his mask to zoom, he saw to be the most profoundly human mixture of dignity and fear he had ever seen.