That night Dylan slept little, but lay awake thinking about souls, about Tristan and all the other ferrymen that must exist, about where she was going. She supposed her body was getting accustomed to not needing to sleep, but in truth there were so many thoughts running wild in her head that sleep would have evaded her anyway.
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"You're awake." Tristan's voice was low in the semi-dark, coming just from her left.
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"Yeah," Dylan murmured. "Too much stuff in my head."
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There was a long moment of silence.
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She sighed, shifting on the worn and lumpy armchair she was curled up in.
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Dylan swivelled round so that she could look at Tristan. He was sitting in a chair, staring out into the night, but when he felt her eyes on him he twisted round to face her.
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"Do you want to talk about it?"
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Dylan bit her lip, considering. She didn't want to lament her bad luck, not when he had it so much worse. But there were a million uncertainties buzzing round her head, and Tristan might be able to answer at least some of them. He smiled at her encouragingly.
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"It might help," he offered.
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"Ah." Understanding broke across Tristan's face. He grimaced at her. "I can't really help you with that."
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"I was thinking about what's beyond the wasteland," she began.
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"I know," she said softly.
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She tried not to show her frustration, but it was something she was getting increasingly anxious about. Where was she going? Having seen the demons that loitered in the darkness ready to pull her under, she doubted it was anywhere bad. It must be a good place; why else would they try to stop her getting there? And it must be somewhere too. If oblivion lingered at her destination, what would be the point of crossing the wasteland?
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Hardly. Dylan huffed a breathy laugh. It didn't last long, though. She looked down at where shadows from the fire were playing across the old, cracked stone floor. They flickered and danced in a way that was eerily familiar.
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"Is that all that's worrying you?"
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"Those demons," she began.
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He sounded completely confident and when Dylan looked up she saw that his eyes were wide and glowering, his jaw clenched. She believed him.
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"You don't have to worry about them," Tristan told her firmly. "I won't let them hurt you."
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The silence stretched between them again but now, having broken it, Dylan found the quiet uncomfortable. Besides, more thoughts were bubbling in her head.
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"Okay," she said.
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"I'm sorry." It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in Tristan's voice.
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"You know what I can't get my head around?" she asked.
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"What?"
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"That you don't actually look like you. I mean," she went on, realising that didn't make any sense, "I can see you. I can touch you." She held up a hand, fingers searching in his direction, but didn't have the courage to reach out and make contact. "But what I see, what I feel, it's not really you."
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Tristan stared at her, his expression fathomless. "Do you think I have a soul?" he asked quietly.
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Dylan chewed on her tongue, realising she'd been thoughtless. "It's strange," she mumbled. Then, wanting to make up for her tactlessness she added, "But what you look like doesn't matter. Not really. Who you are, it's in your head and your heart, you know? Your soul."
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"Of course you do." Dylan answered quickly, but honestly. Tristan saw that in her face and smiled. She smiled back, but it turned into an ear-splitting yawn. She threw her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.
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Dylan hugged her knees, curled up in the armchair, and stared beyond Tristan towards the fire. She wondered whether she ought to say something, but she couldn't think of anything that wouldn't sound stupid. Besides, she thought to herself, he might want to think. This might be as close to being alone as he ever gets.
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She didn't meet his gaze, but kept her eyes fixed on the fire, letting it lull her into a semi-trance. "At the beginning," she said, "when the souls sleep. I bet it's nice to get a bit of peace and quiet. You must get tired of always having to talk to them."
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"I guess it's easier at the start," she mused.
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"What do you mean?" Tristan asked, turning back to look at her.
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"I guess my body still thinks it needs sleep," she said sheepishly.
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She faltered right at the very end, because it occurred to her suddenly that that's what she was: one of them.
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Tristan nodded. "It's a bit disconcerting at first. You'll probably feel horrible tomorrow, really exhausted. It's all psychological, though…" He tailed off. The silence deepened and felt almost tangible.
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She was right, though. He did prefer the start of the journey when the souls drifted out of consciousness and he could be almost alone. Sleep was like a curtain, shielding him, even if only for a few hours, from their selfishness, their ignorance. He was staggered that this… this girl would have the compassion, the selflessness to think about his feelings, his needs. He glanced over at her, huddled in the chair, looking for all the world like she wanted to disappear into the ancient cushions. He felt moved to do something to take the awkward blush from her cheeks.
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"I'll stop talking," she promised.
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Tristan didn't respond for a moment and she cringed, reading the worst possible meaning into his silence. Of course she was just another soul to him. Chagrin washed through her and she squirmed in the chair.
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"You asked me before who was the worst soul I've ever ferried across," he began, "but I lied. It wasn't you." He paused for just long enough to shoot her a quick look.
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"Do you want to hear another story?" he asked.
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Tristan's lips twitched. "You don't have to do that," he assured her.
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"If you like," Dylan responded shyly.
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An idea occurred to him.
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Tristan nodded.
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"No?" Dylan rested her head on her knees, her eyes amused as she watched him.
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"No," he promised. Then the jokiness dropped out of his tone. "It was a little boy."
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"Cancer," Tristan murmured, unwilling to recount the tale any louder than a whisper. "You should have seen him, lying there. It was heartbreaking. He was tiny and frail, white-faced with a bald head from chemotherapy."
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"A boy?" Dylan asked.
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Tristan hated guiding children. Although they came the most willingly and were the most trusting, they were also the hardest. They did not complain, though he felt that they deserved to the most. What an injustice, to die before you had had the chance to grow, to live, to experience.
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"Who were you for him?" Dylan asked gently.
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"How did he die?"
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"A doctor. I told him…" Tristan choked off, not sure whether he dared to admit to this. "I told him I could make the pain go away, that I could make him feel good again. His little face just lit up, like I was offering him a Christmas present. He leaped out of the bed and told me that he felt better already."
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"Tristan." Dylan's voice jerked his head upright from where he'd dropped it to his chest. "You don't have to tell me this story if you don't want to."
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But he did want to. He didn't know why; it wasn't a pleasant tale, and there was no happy ending. He wanted to share something of himself with her, though. Something meaningful.
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"We walked out of the hospital together, and it had been so long since he'd seen the sun he couldn't take his eyes off it.
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"The first day was fine; we made the safe house easily and I kept him amused him by showing him magic tricks, conjuring a fire from nowhere, making things move without touching them. Anything to capture his attention. The next day he was tired. His mind still felt like it was ill, but he had wanted to walk. He hadn't been allowed to walk for months because he'd been so sick. I couldn't refuse him. I should have."
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Tristan hung his head in shame.
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"We were too slow. I was carrying him by the time the sun went down, but it wasn't enough. I ran. I ran as fast as I could, and the poor kid was getting jostled about. He was crying. He could feel my anxiety, and he heard the howling of the demons. But he trusted me. And I let him down."
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His voice died but the silence was still punctuated by his ragged breathing, hitching and breaking as if he was crying, though his cheeks were dry. Dylan gazed at him, her expression anguished. Of its own accord, her hand reached out and wrapped itself around his. The room was warm but his skin was cold to the touch. Dylan trailed her fingertips across the back of his hand. He looked at her for a heartbeat, his expression sombre, then he flipped his hand over and wound his fingers around hers. He held her there, one thumb tracing slow circles around the heart of her palm. It tickled, but Dylan would have rather lost her hand than pull away.
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Dylan was almost afraid to ask. But she couldn't leave the story here like this. "What happened?"
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"I tripped," Tristan croaked, eyes glistening in the muted light from the flames. "I tripped and I dropped him. I let him go to break my fall. Just for a second. A split second. But it was enough. They got him and they dragged him under."
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Tristan looked up at her, shadows dancing across his face from the fire.
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"Will we be safe?" she asked, her voice rising up into an embarrassing squeak.
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"I thought you said they couldn't come in?" Dylan's voice was half strangled with sudden panic. The fact that he was warning her surely must mean that he was worried. And if Tristan was worried, then the danger must be very real. Her stomach tightened.
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"We should be okay in the morning," he said, "but in the afternoon we'll have to go through a valley, and it's always dark down there. That's where they'll make their attack."
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"Tomorrow is a dangerous day," he murmured. "The demons are gathering outside."
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"I thought you said that the landscape was from me, that I projected it?"
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"They can't," he promised, a serious expression on his face, "but they will be waiting for us. They know we have to come out eventually."
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"You do, but there's an under-terrain that you create your landscape on top of. That's why the safe houses are always in the same place. And the valley will be there. It's always there."
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Dylan bit her lip, curious yet cautious, and decided to ask her question anyway. "Have… have you ever lost anyone in the valley?"
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Tristan saw straight through her denial. He got up from the chair and crouched in front of her, still gripping her hand. He looked her straight in the eye as he spoke. Dylan was desperate to look away, but she was hypnotised.
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"Don't be frightened," he added, feeling the change in atmosphere. His fingers squeezed her hand with gentle pressure and Dylan flushed.
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Dylan heard the unspoken reply to her question and pressed her lips together, trying not to show her anxiety.
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"I will not lose you," he repeated. "Trust me."
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"I do," Dylan responded, and this time there was truth in her words.
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"I'm fine," she replied, too quickly.
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He nodded, satisfied, and stood up, relinquishing both her eyes and her fingers.
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He looked up at her. "I won't lose you."
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Dylan stuffed her hand between her jean-clad knees, trying not to show that her heart was pounding, the skin on her palm tingling. She tried to quieten her breathing as she watched Tristan approach one of the windows, and stare off into the night. She wanted to call to him, to pull him away from the glass and the demons that lurked just beyond, but he knew much more about them than she did. He must know he was safe. Still, nothing could draw her that close to those things. She hunched a little deeper in the chair, shuddering slightly.
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"What's always the same?" Dylan asked, hoping to draw his attention -- and his hand -- away from the window. The wailing and screeching was scaring her.
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Dylan frowned. The way he said it, it was like there was something wrong with her.
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To her relief he did turn, dropping his hand.
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"What do you mean, a soul like me?"
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He considered her for a short moment. "The wraiths, they'll take any soul, and gladly. But pure souls are like a feast to them."
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"The demons," he told her. "They are always hungrier, more voracious, when it's a soul…" He paused. "A soul like you."
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"It's always the same," Tristan suddenly said. He didn't turn, though, and Dylan wondered if he was speaking to himself. He lifted one hand and pressed it to the glass. Immediately the noise from the circling wraiths doubled.
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"Yes, you are," he assured her.
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"I'm not pure," she said.
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Pure souls? Dylan rolled that around her head for a moment, waiting for it to make sense. Pure wasn't exactly a word she'd use to describe herself; her mother certainly wouldn't.
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"Virgins," he repeated. Dylan struggled not to roll her eyes to cover her embarrassment. She really hadn't needed him to repeat that word. "Any time a soul comes into the wasteland that is still untainted, in that way at least, the wraiths are more aggressive, more dangerous." He looked at her, making sure he had her full attention. "They want you -- you specifically. To them, your soul would be a feast. More desirable, more delectable, than the bitter taste of a soul who lived too long."
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"I don't mean that you are perfect," Tristan interrupted. "A pure soul… it's an innocent." Dylan shook her head, ready to deny his words again. But then he said it, that word that made the room totally erupt into flames. "A virgin."
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"What?" she finally managed to stutter.
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Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Tristan was watching her carefully, but she seemed to have no control over the muscles of her face, or her blood as it rushed into her cheeks, painting them crimson.
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"I'm not," she disagreed. "Ask my mum, she's forever telling me that I'm --"
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Mortified, she writhed in the chair, but that wasn't enough. She was still trapped under his gaze like an ant under a magnifying glass. She exploded out of her seat and her momentum carried her forward a few steps until she was facing the window Tristan had been looking through just a few moments before. She approached it, purposely avoiding catching his reflection, and pressed her forehead to the frigid glass, trying to cool the red-hot embarrassment that had painted her cheeks red.
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Dylan just gaped at him. The words he was speaking didn't make it past the haze in her brain. She was stuck on that one word. Virgin. How the hell did he know that about her? Was it written across her forehead? But then she remembered, how he'd told her he knew each soul. Inside and out. She cringed. How humiliating! And the way his lips kept twitching as he watched her squirm; he was laughing at her. Had that been what he was thinking, when he was hanging onto her hand: that she was pure and innocent? A virgin?!
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