15. River ferry
River ferry
The woods began to thin; the solid forest floor dissolved into a treacherous expanse of slick, waterlogged muck.
Sorcha slowed as the ground beneath her feet softened, her boots sinking into the mud.
Beyond this dark stretch of mud, a colossal river lay.
Its surface smooth and reflective, like blackened glass.
A soft mist curled along the riverbank, dancing around stones and reeds.
Shadows moved deep within the blanket of fog from all directions, dissolving the view of the river.
Sorcha, speaking in a hushed tone from the front, asked, “Are you seeing something in the mist?”
Both Kyron and Maelan nodded, their attention drawn by the approaching squelching of footsteps.
Suddenly, a voice called out from behind Maelan, “What are ye doing?”
Maelan and Kyron shrieked, Maelan gasping, “What are you?”
“Do ye hear this?” a creature responded, its voice clearly offended.
Another creature materialized beside Kyron, adding, “I do, brother. It sounds like they mean to offend.”
Sorcha, a few paces ahead, turned to see two fae circling Kyron and Maelan.
They had no necks; their heads sat directly on their round, pudgy bodies, like overgrown toads.
Pointed ears and gaping mouths filled with needle-like teeth were visible.
Their skin the color of chocolate-covered cherries.
More appeared from the mud, shooting up like reeds.
A creature, taller than the rest, leaped from elsewhere in the bog and landed directly in front of them.
“Where ye headin’?” the creature grunted.
A few more shifted into existence beside Maelan, and to his dismay and annoyance, he spat out, “Where do you all keep coming from? You just keep popping up like daisies!”
Kyron quickly cut in, “What he means to say is, we’re looking for passage across the river.”
The toad-like creature called out, “Ye hear that, lads? They wish to find the ferryman.”
A chorus of laughter erupted from the mist as Sorcha walked forward, her sword of fire and light appearing in her hand. The creature turned around and tilted its head, “Whatcha got there, missy?”
Multiple creatures sprouted from the mud surrounding her, throwing mud, and then, as if a sinkhole had opened beneath them, they disappeared. “It’s time we left, lads. No need to help when we’re not wanted.”
Sorcha’s sword extinguished as she wiped mud from her face and called out, “Wait.”
A short creature popped beside Kyron, who yelled in fright, “Would you stop doing that?”
“I’m Hob, and we are the bog guardians,” he announced, chuckling.
“We can show you the way,” another creature chimed in, introducing himself as Pluk.
“It’s nice to meet you, Pluk and Hob,” Sorcha replied, extending her hand. However, the creatures looked at each other and then back at her.
She awkwardly pulled her hand back and continued, “I’m Sorcha, this is Maelan and Kyron.”
“Husband,” Maelan added.
Pluk then looked at Kyron, “and you are...?”
“Chosen fool,” Maelan added with a smile.
Sorcha turned every shade of red imaginable, while Kyron seemed perfectly fine with it and turned to Maelan, “I was her lover first, you know.”
“Don’t be a sore now, because I proposed first,” Maelan retorted.
The bog creatures watched in amusement. Hob was about to ask more questions on the subject when Sorcha interrupted, “Which way is to the ferryman?”
Pluk pointed North, Hob pointed West, and another creature named Tank swore it was East. “You idiots couldn’t tell your hind end from your mouths. Follow my direction,” Tank declared.
“And you’re as old as the damn bog itself, obviously your mind’s not right; it’s this way,” Pluk shouted at him.
Maelan, Sorcha, and Kyron watched, trying to decide which direction was correct, as Hob waved his arms around.
“It was nice meeting you all, but I think we’ll head out on our own,” Sorcha interjected.
All heads turned toward her, a mix of grunts and nods as they vanished into the mud one by one.
Pluk approached Sorcha and smiled a big, toothy grin. “This was fun, let’s do it again sometime soon?”
“And how would I find you again?” Sorcha’s eyebrow raised in question.
“Get yourself in the mud and call us out by name. I’ll find ye,” Pluk nodded and leapt away.
Sorcha exhaled loudly, turning to Kyron and Maelan, “That was odd.”
“It’s their least menacing thing we could encounter in a bog, thank the gods that’s all that was here,” Kyron replied.
As they traversed the bog, the guardians’ heads would casually emerge, observing them and attempting to guide their path. They wandered in circles for at least an hour before Pluk surfaced.
“Want my advice?” he called out. “Go that way.”
Maelan glanced at Sorcha, exclaiming, “I’m going to start stepping on them!”
Pluk chuckled heartily and pointed at Maelan. “I like you.”
He vanished once more, and Sorcha followed his suggestion.
As they ventured through the mist, Pluk repeatedly appeared, advising them to disregard the others and press onward.
Upon breaking through the mist, the river reappeared once more, still and silent, and a figure began to materialize.
Pluk disappeared as the River Man stepped forth from the mist.
He was tall and unnaturally thin, his body draped in robes that looked centuries old, their edges unraveling into air.
Pale skin stretched tight over bones, his fingers long and webbed, the nails dark and ridged.
His eyes were deep and sunken things that fixed on them with a stillness that caused Sorcha to step back.
“You seek passage,” he said, deep and distant.
Maelan stepped forward, his shoulders squared, eyes unwavering. “We do.”
The River Man’s gaze swept across them like someone cataloging items in a ledger. When his attention landed on Sorcha, his expression didn’t change, only pausing as if noting her presence before returning to what mattered. His eyes fixed on Maelan again.
“One must pay a price.”
“What is the cost?” Maelan asked hesitantly.
The River Man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted one long, skeletal finger and made a slow, graceful motion through the air and then pointed.
“That.”
His finger landed squarely on Maelan’s chest. The moonstone. It glinted faintly beneath the collar of Maelan’s tunic, the edge of the chain visible in the low light. The pale stone rested against his skin, half hidden but unmistakably there.
Maelan’s jaw tightened, his hand rising instinctively to cover it. “No.”
The River Man just smiled. “It is not a request.”
Fingers still curled protectively around the chain, Maelan took a step back.
Sorcha stood almost in front of Maelan now. “We have gold, blades, magic; take anything else.”
“This isn’t for barter.” The River Man’s voice deepened.
Sorcha stepped toward him before she could stop herself. “Please,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Isn’t there something else you’ll accept?”
The River Man looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he turned away.
“Wait, ” she began, but Maelan’s hand caught her wrist.
She looked up at him, and in that brief glance, she understood what he had already decided.
His lips parted, but the words never came.
Instead, he unclasped the chain with a slow exhale, his shoulders stiffening as the weight of the decision settled across them both.
The moonstone dropped into his palm, its glow muted now, heavy in a way it had never been before.
He stared at it for a long time, his thumb brushing along the surface, tracing the lines.
It was his mother’s and one of her favorite pieces she wore daily.
Losing it was like losing her again, but he knew without this, they were stranded.
He stepped forward and extended his hand.
The moment it passed from Maelan’s fingers to his, the mist across the river stirred. The glassy surface shifted and rippled outward, breaking the stillness. A faint smile tugged at the corners of the River Man’s mouth.
“The toll is paid.”
Maelan’s hand curled into a fist, and without another word, the River Man stepped aside. The fog parted slowly behind him, and from within it, a boat began to emerge. It rose silently from the water. A small ship that looked just as old as he did.
Sorcha turned toward Maelan, searching his face, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, already moving toward the dock.
She hesitated, but then followed. Kyron lingered behind, his gaze shifting uneasily between the River Man and the water. After a moment, he stepped onto the boat with quiet reluctance, his hand hovering above the edge before he finally made contact.
The River Man didn’t speak, his robes whispering against the wind. As the mist started to swirl and thicken, his voice suddenly cut through the quiet, reaching them over the water. “Clutch those fragments that are left, child of the moon.”
The river swallowed the sound. And the boat slipped forward, vanishing into the fog, carrying them deeper into the unknown.