2401 words (9 minute read)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My earliest memory is from when I was five. My mother held me in her arms singing softly as we floated down stream, my father punting us further along the river. The water gently lapped at the side of the boat, rocking me to sleep. Three grisly old men sat huddled at the front, the dappled moonlight shining through the trees, highlighting the silver streaks in their beards. They muttered amongst themselves occasionally, but mostly stayed quite, cocooning themselves in their thick winter coats as the chill wind whipped around us.

Hush my dear the wind is cold,

Hush my dear let fear have no hold,

For I am here and my love is true

For I am here and my true love is you.

The trip downriver was two days and the return seven. I didn’t mind, sometimes my Ma would take over the punting and my Da would walk me alongside till my legs got sore.

“Only way they’ll ever get strong,” he used to say. If the terrain was too treacherous and I wasn’t allowed to walk I would pull out my own little punting stick and mimic him as he fought against the current. That was fun, but I preferred walking. You see, as a family we were ferriers. We would ferry any who needed it, and had the coin to pay, down the Greorg River and through the mountain range. A swift business it was too. I would ask my Da why people paid us instead of walking. He would laugh and say, “Because people are superstitious and foolish. They think the mountain is hungry for them and that the river will save them.” This only confused me further.

“That seems reasonable to me,” I would state in my most reasonable of voices. Crossing my arms as if having given it a great deal of thought. Looking back, I must credit my Da for not laughing.

“Oh really? and why is that?”

“If the mountain is hungry, then it makes sense to try and avoid being eaten.”

“Yes, it does,” he would say, “If the mountain is hungry.”

“Why do they think the mountain is hungry?” I asked.

“Because they are superstitious and foolish,” said my Da grinning a wicked smile.

“Stop it George,” my Ma would call from the front of the boat, “you’ll only confuse him and then he’ll become irritable.” Now this annoyed me. It is one thing to be confused, but it is quite another to have someone tell you that you’re confused. It ignites a sense of defiance. At the time I did as any decent self-respecting five year old would and outwardly sulked. It was a favourite conversation of mine, much like a favoured toy. I would ask again in a few days and my parents would respond exactly the same. Rinse and repeat.

Whilst my Da’s nonsense word play would infuriate me, I grew to love it. Little did I realise at the time that my Da’s actions were fostering inside me a fondness for words that simultaneously meant nothing and everything at the same time.

After a hushed goodbye the men departed into the dark, out of sight. We waited two days, snuggled in our hut at the bottom of the river. Waiting for a reason to return.

As I said, we waited two days until that reason came knocking. My Da paused a second from stoking the fire and looked up before going to answer the door. Outside, exposed to the torrential rain was the most miserable looking man you could ever imagine. Standing behind him where two burley guards, a masses of steel and muscle. They only looked slightly less depressed. My Da opened the door wide to let them in to the room, towards the fire, where they could dry themselves. After a brief moment of shedding their sodden clothes the sour faced man stuck out his hand to my Da,

“George Whister, ferryman” his words were absent of the usual questioning tone adopted as a necessary politeness. My Da took his hand and shook it,

“Yer, that’s me, what can I do for you?” the man sighed as if his greatest fear had been confirmed.

“You’re the ferryman correct? And you ask what you can do for me?” It is a tragic sight [a]to see a man so gloomy become utterly miserable. But it is also fascinating, if you ever get the opportunity, watch. It’s almost as if their life substance becomes wafer thin and brittle. “Now I want you to take a little moment and have a think about that. What could a ferryman possibly do for me?” he snapped his fingers as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Well,” he paused dramatically “how about you ferry me up the river?” My Da stood there for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Well that seems about right,” he said eventually.

“Great!” the sour-faced man exclaimed, “the oaf has caught up. Now, where can I sleep tonight?”

Without waiting for an answer he strode off into the attached room, small as it was. Throughout this ordeal the guards had said nothing, remaining stony-faced and impassive, even if a touch depressed.

“I’ll take this one, you and your little grub son and grub wife can sleep by the fire,” he called from the other room. “Rippen and Travis can sleep in there to,” he continued before drawing the curtain that divided the room. My Ma had never taken kindly to arrogance or fools, and true to her nature she looked fit to explode. But my Da put a hand on her shoulder placatingly. He was good like that.

“Hold it Phi,” he muttered into her ear, then even more quietly to me as he passed, “if the worst comes to the worst we can always leave him in the middle of the mountain. You know, to see if it’s hungry.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink, and to this day I couldn’t say whether he was serious or not.

With their master out of sight the guards’ stone-faced demur melted. One hefted his broad shoulders in an apologetic shrug before lying down on the earthen floor and rolling over. The other gave a low humourless chuckle before tossing a pouch to my Da.

“For your troubles,” he said. Now I do not consider myself an expert on the matter, but the pouch did seem distinctly heavier than what we were used to as it travelled through the air. My Da caught it with a swipe of his hand, all the pretence of a slow witted ferryman gone. He raised the pouch in salute,

“To your trouble.” To that the guard gave another humourless chuckle before he too took a place by the fire and settled down to sleep.

I lay awake that night, scared and angry. Scared because I had never been so close to a guardsman, and angry because my Da let that man treat him so badly. It’s a strange feeling, to be so full of rage, but to be so scared that you just lie down and go to sleep. It’s like coiling a spring really tightly and holding it close to your chest, ready to go off at any point.

Morning came eventually, as it always seems to, no matter how desperately you don’t want it to. My parents made quick work of the morning chores; we had packed the raft and were ready to leave before Sourface, as I thought of him, was out of bed. I was helping my Da pack the boat with enough rations to last us seven days, whilst biting my tongue and holding back the resentment and anger that still remained, coiled and smouldering from last night[b]. No one can hate quite as ruthlessly as a child. I heard the door to the hut swing open and Sourface strolled out. We both looked up to see him stretching and wiping the grog from his eyes, before turning back to our packing.

“You, Ferryman,” we heard him call, “What’s for breakfast?”

My Da gave the smallest of sighs, so small it was barely more than a whispered breath. I have a hunch he did it for my benefit only, for despite my anger, I smiled. Getting up slowly he turned away from the boat to face the man.

“Err… break fast?” he asked, splitting the word up.

“Yes breakfast,” snarled Sourface, “You have that here in the middle of nowhere don’t you?”

It appeared Sourface was not at his best in the morning.

“Nowhere, where’s nowhere?” my Da asked. “Actually, I think I might have a cousin there.”

“Here you fool!” stormed Sourface.

“Wuh? I thought we was talking ‘bout Nowhere,” continued my father. “I definitely have a cousin there now that you mention it.”

Sourface ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“Forget Nowhere. What about breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“They do have breakfast in Nowhere. My cousin eats it twice a day, mornin’ and night, without fail”

“By the Gods just give me something to eat!” barked Sourface. His skin was slowly turning the primly shade of purple as the veins in his forehead bulged, creating a mildly manic appearance. He wore it well; it fit snugly around his features like a familiar slipper.

Fortunately my Ma scurried out the house carrying half a stale loaf that had been left before our last trip upriver. Putting on the most absent-minded expression I had ever seen her use, she called, “Here ya go my Lord, you’ll have to forgive my husband, he wasn’t born with the biggest of brains.” She mimed pulling a cloth between her ears as if to emphasis the point.

“I am not a Lord,” he snapped, snatching the bread. My mother widened her eyes in mock horror.

“I am so sorry ma’ lady,” she grovelled, “and you being such a beautiful thing as well, shame on me.”

It appeared this was the final straw for Sourface, who stormed back inside. One of the guards, who was leaning against the doorframe that Sourface stormed past, raised his hands in silent applause, to which my father obliged with a bow. My mother smiled charmingly, nothing like the absent minded grin she had adopted earlier, but a true smile that showed her sparkling, intelligent eyes. She swept over to me and enveloped me in her warm arms laughing at my confused face,

“Oh my dear, dear Falric, you’ll understand someday.” As ever, she was right, it was a habit of hers.

###

We left early that morning, my Da punting us up river. Despite the size of the mountains the river was old and had cut deep. This meant the journey up river, whilst difficult, was possible. Occasionally my Ma would take over and I was allowed to sit at the front with Da guiding the boat away from the rocks with a smaller pole. My Da liked to sing as we went, when he wasn’t punting busy of course. A deep baritone he had, and whilst my mother teased him for driving her deaf, I loved it; even if he occasionally made the words up.

Someday I’ll meet a maiden fair,

Such a pretty thing she will be,

No more shall I be lonely now,

For they’ll be the maiden and me,

But woe is me have you seen it now,

The trollop that’s married me yet,

Begged and pleaded I tried my best,

But her father won the bet

He turned down to face my Ma who was punting at the time, looked her directly in the eye and sang;

She’s like a dragon, it’s such a pain,

I thought I’d seen the worst,

But then she heard this song one day,

And now she looks fit to burst.

Sourface paid no mind to the song, but the guards laughed and clapped; even my Ma couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing as well. It was rich and warm and from the belly, the place where all true laughter resides. I look back on moments like that as some of the happiest in my life. Even now, I smile. It is a sad smile, one full of regret and an emptiness that can never be filled again, but it is a smile none the less, and for that, I thank them.

[a]Breaks train of thought.

[b]Too wordy and strange. Try to keep pace and rhythm.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2