Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

Chapter Six-2

The Ferryman paused, eyes upon Isabel, expression considering. She coloured, and looked away. His close scrutiny made her uncomfortable, and she could not account for it. None of his thoughts were ever visible to her.

‘I do understand the difficulty of travel,’ Isabel offered. ‘Sophy departed for Grenlowe a year ago, or more, and I have been able to visit her but rarely in that time.’ Her parents’ disapprobation for the idea had also been an obstacle, but there could be no cause to mention that. ‘I do not ever remember hearing of a ferry.’

‘There’s sense enough in that, on account o’ there not bein’ one.’

Isabel blinked. ‘I cannot understand you.’

‘Many long years ‘ave passed since that time, an’ travel ‘as only become more difficult. Well, in Aylfenhame, those things which nobody wants or needs can… fade. An’ that’s what ‘appened to the ferry.’

He said this with an air of finality, as though it concluded the tale. Isabel frowned, questions awhirl in her mind. ‘The ferry was gone?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Fer many years.’

‘Why has it returned?’

The Ferryman shrugged. ‘Somethin’… called me back. An’ before ye ask, I ‘ave no notion as t’ what that was. I found meself awake, I resumed my duty, an’ that is that. Though near as I can tell, of the lot of us remainin’ ‘tis jest me that’s awoken. Mayhap that will change.’

‘Us?’

He nodded once. ‘The ferries all ‘ad a guide. More than a navigator — their souls an’ will were bound up with the boats. ‘Tis powerful magic t’ bring such a thing from one world t’another, on any day o’ the year, an’ at any time. ‘Tis a voluntary post.’ His mouth twisted and he added, ‘Most of the time.’

‘You are the last Ferry-guide, then?’

‘I believe I am, but I cannot be certain.’

‘But where were you, when the ferry was lost?’

‘Don’t ask me where I was, for I know naught of it. I only know I woke as from a long slumber, an’ there I was, ferry an’ all, an’ with passengers t’ convey. An’ off we went again.’ He ran a hand gently over the boat’s silvery, misty wood and smiled. ‘She is called Mirisane, if ye were wonderin’.’

‘She is beautiful,’ said Isabel sincerely.

He nodded, but said nothing.

A thought flashed through Isabel’s mind, and she sat up straighter. ‘Passengers! Was this many days ago?’

The Ferryman raised one black brow. ‘Not so very many as all that, I reckon, no. Why do ye ask?’

‘Was there a piper?’

‘There was.’

‘And a fiddler, and other musicians besides? And ladies dressed very fine.’

‘All those, an’ more,’ said the Ferryman with a nod. ‘Mirisane ‘as scarcely ever carried such a deal o’ people in one go. ‘Twas into England I took ‘em.’ He c****d his head at Isabel. ‘Happen ye saw ‘em there?’

‘I did. They attended an assembly in Alford, and…’ she hesitated. ‘It was very strange. They played music and danced, and — and it was like nothing we had ever seen or heard before. Did they say why they came?’

‘Nay,’ said the Ferryman. ‘But ‘tis not the custom o’ most folk t’ talk to me. I am but a lowly Ferryman, an’ the circumstances of my bein’ here are such as to discourage most folk from makin’ the attempt.’ He grinned at her. ‘Tis why I am enjoyin’ yer presence. Ye’re a different sort.’

Isabel frowned. ‘But what circumstances could produce such an unpleasant, and unkind, result? How is it that you came to be a Ferryman? And the last of them, too!’

His eyes flicked back to hers, and narrowed. ‘That is a tale fer some other day,’ he said, after a short pause. ‘I ‘ave told ye enough. Besides, we shall soon be settin’ ye down in Grenlowe.’

‘It is a long journey,’ Isabel commented. ‘I have been through twice before, on the solstice, and it was but a short distance. I thought that Tilby and Grenlowe were not so very far apart.’

The Ferryman grinned. ‘Truth be told, they are not. I ‘ave been indulgin’ in a little mischief, an’ have kept ye aboard longer than I should ‘ave. We ‘ave been goin’ in circles a while.’

Isabel’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘But why should you do that?’

‘Because the pleasure o’ talkin’ t’ anyone at all is more’n I expected ever t’ have again,’ he said, his grin fading. ‘An’ when my passenger is a pretty maid o’ England, with wit an’ brains an’ more besides, I am loathe t’ let her leave.’ His eyes twinkled at Isabel, and he laughed at her blush. ‘Fear not, for leave ye shall, an’ I will not keep ye very much longer. But I will be lookin’ forward to takin’ ye home once again, when ye should be ready t’ return.’ He held out his hand: Isabel saw a tiny silver whistle nestled in the palm. ‘Take it,’ he urged her. ‘When ye wish t’ go home, ye must simply blow a tiny toot upon this shiny thing, an’ I’ll be able t’ find ye.’

Isabel took the whistle carefully, and tucked it into her reticule. ‘Thank you,’ she said cautiously.

He nodded. ‘I cannot promise not t’ keep ye longer’n I should on that day, but I will see ye safely home. That I do promise.’

Isabel murmured her thanks. She said no more, for she was struggling with a variety of feelings, none of which she could express. The startling realisation that he had, via magics beyond her comprehension or control, kept her trapped in his boat for above an hour was no welcome news, for it reminded her how powerless she was. Could she trust him to keep to his word, and release her?

And there was the matter of his compliments. A pretty maid o’ England, with wit an’ brains an’ more besides. She ought to be offended at such freely-expressed admiration; these were not the words of a gentleman, and nor was his manner such. But she was not offended. On the contrary, the knowledge that her journey was almost at an end left her feeling curiously dismayed. If he did not choose to release her just yet, would she be sorry?

Her mother’s long-ago admonition drifted through her mind. If you are ever in doubt as to what to say to a gentleman, my love, say something gracious, and remember your manners. ‘I thank you for your kind care,’ she said.

‘Aye,’ he said, his frank gaze running over her from her hair to her boots. ‘Ye are all in one piece, to be sure. I ‘ave not permitted ye t’ fall over the side.’

Isabel glanced up at his hat, still soaring some way above their heads. ‘That does not appear to have been a danger, if I may judge by the behaviour of your hat.’

‘Ye may, in point o’ fact. Would ye like t’ try it?’

Isabel looked at him, startled. ‘Your hat?’

‘No! Would ye like t’ fly like my hat, up there?’

Isabel stared up at the silky sail rippling gently in the breeze. The hat hovered just before it, bobbing in the air like a feather. For a moment, she was tempted to accept his offer. To fly like that! Such felicity! Her lips parted on the word yes, but she left it unspoken. She was no feather. There would be no protecting her modesty under such circumstances — the winds would play havoc with her light muslin gown — and it would end with her hair and attire in such a state of disorder as could not be put to rights without significant attention. Such a flight was incompatible with the decorum expected of her; her mother would be shocked that she could even consider such an offer.

‘I thank you, but I cannot,’ she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap.

‘No? An’ why not, if I may ask?’

Isabel attempted to explain her reasons, in as few words as possible. She felt an unsettling degree of embarrassment on recounting them, perhaps from the realisation that such scruples could only seem absurd to him.

The Ferryman looked at her with disbelief, and shook his head. ‘Strange notions ye ‘ave, in England,’ he said.

She coloured, and looked away. ‘They are of importance to us.’

He bowed gravely, reclaimed his hat, and returned it to his head. ‘Then I’ll not speak further against them. Mind yerself, now, for we are goin’ t’ land.’

The mist streamed away as he spoke, leaving a clear vista spread before Isabel. Aylfenhame looked as wondrous and strange from above as from below: meadows of bronzed-golden grass covered the ground almost as far as she could see, melding into a thick, vast forest to the north. Trees with silvery bark were dotted here and thereabout, their leaves shining in shades of cerulean, indigo, sage and moss-green. Colourful birds and enormous butterflies flitted lazily from tree to tree, wings glinting in the sunlight. In the midst of all this stood the town of Grenlowe, a haphazard knot of grey stone-and-wood buildings, riotously thatched and cheerfully painted. The ferry came down a little way to the south of the town. As soon as it had ceased to move, the Ferryman vaulted easily out and offered his hand to Isabel.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, taking the proffered hand with, she feared, heightened colour in her cheeks. She managed the descent gracefully, and curtseyed to her guide. ‘You have been very kind.’

He surveyed her frankly, and with scepticism. ‘I ‘ave not been kind,’ he corrected her. ‘I ‘ave merely performed my assigned duty, an’ I found a way t’ be selfish about it, at that.’

Isabel bowed her head, feeling chastened. ‘My thanks, nonetheless.’ She hesitated, and added, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ And it had been, in spite of his directness and his odd manners. She had met no one even half so interesting in Tilby.

He stared at her, and blinked. ‘Was it indeed?’

He seemed surprised, and Isabel felt uncomfortable. Nonetheless, she smiled. ‘Very much so.’

The Ferryman smiled back. An ironic tilt to his lips suggested that he found something amusing, but she thought that he smiled with real pleasure. ‘I did not find it entirely displeasin’, my own self,’ he said with a twinkle, and Isabel’s smile grew. She hesitated. His tale had afflicted her, for a lonelier life she could scarcely imagine. She wished to offer more than thanks, but she was uncertain as to the nature or degree of her acquaintance with him. Could she properly term him an acquaintance at all?

‘The house of my friend is not far,’ she said, with some diffidence. ‘It would please them to meet you, I have no doubt. May I invite you to call upon us there?’

The Ferryman merely blinked and stared, his whole expression one of such surprise that Isabel felt deeply uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It was presumptuous of me.’

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then shook his head. ‘It was… kind o’ ye,’ he said softly. ‘An’ it’s been many a year since I was offered kindness.’ He tipped his hat to her and smiled with a deep warmth. ‘I’d be delighted t’ accept yer offer, only fer the fact that I can’t.’

‘You cannot?’ Isabel said with a frown. ‘It is true that we are barely acquainted, but I assure you—’

He cut her off with a wave of his hand, his eyes glinting with amusement. ‘Tis not that. Such niceties are of no matter in Aylfenhame. I cannot, because of somethin’ in the nature of a curse. I may not leave the boat.’

It was Isabel’s turn to stare, aghast. ‘Never?’ she said in a choked voice. ‘But whyever not?’

The Ferryman’s amusement faded and his face turned grim. ‘That, as I ‘ave said, is more than I wish t’ share.’

Recalling his earlier words, Isabel surmised that the circumstances of his becoming a Ferry Keeper and the curse that kept him from relinquishing the post were the same tale, and she nodded. ‘Forgive me, it was not my intention to pry. But then… shall you be bound forever?’

‘Mayhap,’ he said. ‘Most like.’

Isabel thought back to her first excursion into Aylfenhame, and the peculiar enchantment that had entrapped the princess Lihyaen. She had been cursed to remain as hostess of the Teapot Society, a party which never ended, and which no one was ever permitted to leave — unless someone consented to take her place.

‘Can you not be released?’ she ventured. ‘What if someone were to take your place here?’

He laughed. ‘I could hardly expect anyone t’ agree t’ that, now could I?’ he said. ‘For who would be so foolish? An’ there’s the fact that I ‘ave been gone so long, there’s none as remembers me now.’ He paused, and added, ‘Though there is a way.’

‘What is it?’ Isabel said eagerly. ‘For truly, if there is some way I can help you, I will.’

He looked at her oddly. ‘Ye ‘ave but just met me, an’ ye freely make such promises?’

Isabel hesitated, taken aback. ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘How can I but feel for such a plight as yours? I am free, and I will help you.’

His brows lifted. ‘Ye cannot, I think. ‘Tis my name. It is held hostage, lost entirely t’ time, an’ I must remain until it is found.’ Isabel felt a flicker of excitement, for this seemed no impossible task! But he smiled ruefully and shook his head at her. ‘Tis not so easy as I see ye fancy,’ he cautioned. ‘My name is long-lost, and well hid. An’ many o’ my memories are gone along with it. I can remember little that’d be of use t’ ye in yer search.’