"Have you been here before?" Dylan asked as he pointed the way to the old woman's house, where a light shone brightly from the one window. It was much darker here, and the warm glow was welcoming.
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She lived in a wooden building that Dylan could only describe as a shack, surrounded by miles and miles of flat plains. It was an isolated and wild place, with yapping dogs and rolling thunderclouds overhead, though whatever rain lurked amongst the steel grey stayed in the sky. Eliza. The oldest soul that Jonas knew. If anyone was going to be able to give her answers, he told Dylan, it was Eliza
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Jonas had taken her there simply by walking through another of the doors on his street. One moment they had been surrounded by buildings, the next, sand and tumbleweed. Dylan watched him close a rickety gate, warped pieces of wood held together with rusting nails.
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He gave her a funny look and Dylan knew that he was hoping Eliza would try to talk her out of it rather than help her. She looked at the ramshackle house, a little nervous.
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"No." Jonas shook his head. "But I don't know of anyone else who might be able to help you."
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Dylan set her mouth into a dissatisfied line. That didn't really answer her question, but she sensed it was all Jonas knew.
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"She's been here a very long time," Jonas replied.
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Jonas stepped smartly onto a shaky-looking wooden porch and rapped on the door, but Dylan held back. Though she had confronted Jonas without any hesitation, she felt unsure, timid at the thought of speaking to another soul. Maybe it was because she was old, a proper adult. Maybe it was because she had never known Tristan. Whatever it was, it had Dylan backing away rather than stepping forward. If Jonas hadn't escorted her, she knew she wouldn't even have made it this far.
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"Who is she?" Dylan asked. "How does she know about these things?"
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Inside, the cabin was a little cosier, and that eased some of her nerves. A fire burned, and the walls were adorned with knitted fabrics. It was a one-room hut, with the bed against the wall at one end, and a small kitchen area underneath the window at the other. In the middle sat an ancient woman, swaddled in blankets and rocking gently in an old-fashioned wooden rocking chair. Dylan continued to look around rather than return her curious stare, and wondered idly if this was what the wasteland safe houses had looked like before they'd fallen into disrepair.
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She thought about changing her mind, telling Jonas not to bother. Tristan seemed even further away in this alien, unforgiving landscape. But then a voice from inside called "Come", and Jonas swung the door open, motioning with his hand for her to enter. There was nothing Dylan could do but comply.
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"Eliza, this is Dylan, and --" Jonas started.
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Dylan frowned. She didn't want to sit down. She was agitated, pent up. She wanted to pace, to move about and release some of the tension making her muscles twitch. She wanted to find out what the old woman knew and then get going, get started.
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"How did you…" Dylan tailed off under the shrewd look Eliza gave her.
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"People always come to me when they want to know that. I have seen a hundred others like you, my dear," she said, not unkindly.
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"You want to know how to go back," she finished for him, her voice feathery and weak, but when Dylan whipped her head round to gape at her -- surprised that she had been so quick to guess the reason for her visit -- her eyes were alert, piercing.
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"Can you tell me how to do it?" Dylan asked, the fingers of her left hand crossing behind her back.
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Eliza looked at her as if she knew exactly what Dylan was thinking. She gestured once again to the only other chair in the room. "Sit down."
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Eliza perused her for a long moment. "Sit down," she finally said.
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Eliza smiled at her, but the expression was tinged with wistful sadness. "Certainty."
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"And where is that?" The question was out of Dylan's lips before Eliza had even finished speaking.
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"How?" Dylan breathed.
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Eliza shifted in her seat, adjusting the swathes of shawls draped over her shoulders. "I have heard," she said, emphasising the final word, "that it is possible to cross back through the wasteland."
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That halted Dylan in her tracks, but only for a moment. "Tell me what you've heard, then. Please."
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"You know how this place works by now. All you have to do is find the door."
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Dylan sat, perching on the edge, fingers jammed between her knees to stop them tapping or fidgeting or shaking. She fixed her eyes on the old woman, not noticing Jonas settle himself discreetly on the edge of a table behind her.
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The old woman looked amused by her eagerness, the corners of her lips twitching. "Any door."
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"Tell me what you know," she demanded.
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"I don't know anything," the old woman answered. "But I've heard things."
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"What's the difference?"
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"That can't be right." Dylan shook her head dismissively. "If any door could take you there, everyone would try it."
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"Any door will take you there. It's not about the door; it's about you."
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"Of course they would!" Dylan exploded. She was getting angry, feeling like this was a waste of time.
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"No, they wouldn't," Eliza contradicted gently.
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"It's this place," Dylan whispered. "It's like a prison; it won't let you out. I know," she continued, seeing Eliza shake her head, "most people don't want to leave. But it should let them, if they want to."
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"What?" Dylan's voice was sharp, impatient. "What do you mean?"
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"You're wrong," Eliza said. "It's not this place. It's the souls; they stop themselves."
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"No," Eliza repeated. "Because when most people try to open that door -- and you're right, many do try -- every time they try to open the door, it locks itself."
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"How? Why?" Dylan shuffled even closer to the edge of the chair, suddenly interested.
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"They don't really want to leave. No, that's not quite right. They want to leave, but more than that they don't want to die. Somewhere deep down, they know crossing the wasteland again will likely be the death of them, and that thought stops them, keeps them here. Because they know if they're patient, if they wait, they'll likely see their loved ones again. They just can't take the risk of trying, and failing; knowing that will truly be the end."
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Dylan considered that. Did she? She thought so. And from the sound of it, it would be nothing to try the door and find out. But even if she got back to the wasteland, then what? How would she find Tristan? She doubted Eliza would be able to tell her that. Had there ever been a soul who wanted to be reunited with their ferryman? Dylan didn't care if she and Tristan came here, or if they went back to the real world. Even if they lived in the wasteland. She shuddered at the thought of the wraiths, of facing them again, but she would do it. She just wanted… she just wanted Tristan.
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"So how do you make the door open?"
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Eliza spread her hands out, as if the answer was obvious.
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Dylan heard the warning in her words: stay here. Wait. But what Eliza didn't realise was that no amount of waiting was going to make Tristan come to her.
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"You have to want to go back more than you want your soul to survive."
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Eliza sighed, pulling Dylan from her thoughts. "It's always the young ones who want to go back," she murmured. "Always."
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Eliza shook her head, her eyes darkening with grief. "No, girl. I was old, I knew I would not have long to wait before my husband joined me."
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"Weren't you tempted?" Dylan asked, momentarily distracted.
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"Where is he? Is he here?" Dylan asked the question before she realised how rude it was.
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"No." Eliza's light, whispering voice almost disappeared entirely. "No, he didn't make it across the wasteland."
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"I'm sorry," Dylan mumbled into her lap, abashed.
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Dylan shrugged. She hadn't thought that far ahead, was no more eager to return to her old life than she would be to come back here. It would look odd, though, if she didn't appear interested. She wasn't sure she wanted to confess her true intentions to Eliza. Telling her would be different to telling Jonas.
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"I suppose you want to know what happens when you get back across," she said.
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Eliza's face had closed in on itself, and tears threatened to leak from her eyes, but then she seemed to steel herself, straightening her back and sniffing deeply.
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"I've heard…" Once again Eliza sought to get through to Dylan the risk she was taking. "… that if you can make it back to your body, you can climb back inside."
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Dylan nodded, accepting this. Plans were forming in her mind. She could see herself rowing across the lake, picking a path through the valley. She thought about the blood-red ground, the scorched sky, but even these terrifying images couldn't sway her. Her determination was solidifying. She was going to try it, she knew. Somehow she was going to make the door open, and she was going to try it. She was going to find Tristan. She smiled a tiny smile to herself, pleased with her decision. Looking up, she saw Eliza watching her closely.
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"Will it still be there?" Dylan made a horrified face, forgetting, for a moment, that this wasn't part of her plan. "Surely they'll have taken it away. My mum will have buried me. Oh my God, I wouldn't come back in the coffin, would I? Or what if she had me cremated?" Panic and revulsion turned the final few words into a squeak.
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"Dylan, time has stopped. For you, anyway. Your body will be exactly where it was."
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"There's something more," the old woman said slowly. "Something you're not telling me." Her eyes searched Dylan's face. It was uncomfortable, like she was trying to see into her very core. Dylan grimaced, fighting the urge to turn away. "You don't want to go back," she mused. "Not all the way. What is it you are after, Dylan?"
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What was the point in lying? Dylan bit her lips together for a moment, then decided to confide in her. She had made her mind up anyway, regardless of what Eliza had to say. Perhaps the old woman would be able to help her.
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"I want to find my ferryman," she said quietly.
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"What do I have to do?"
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"You have to find him."
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Then she remembered. Remembered watching shadowy outlines ghosting across the red-tinged wasteland. Remembered the hoard of black wraiths dogging their every step. And the orbs. The glowing orbs lighting the path, giving the souls something to follow, keeping them safe. Would that be all Tristan was to her now, an orb? If so, how would she tell him apart from the thousand others? You'll know, a small voice said at the back of her head. But just once. Just quietly. Because the rest of her conscious brain turned the full force of its scorn onto the voice. This wasn't some drippy, romantic movie. This was real life. If Tristan was one of those things, if she couldn't see him, hear him, she'd never pick him out.
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Her confession out in the open, Dylan held her breath, waiting for Eliza's reaction. The old woman kept her face impassive, only a slight puckering of her lips revealing her emotions as she thought through Dylan's intentions.
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"That is harder," she said, after a painful minute.
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Dylan's heart broke into a sprint. "But not impossible?" she asked.
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"Perhaps not impossible."
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Dylan blinked two, three times, confused. That wasn't hard. He was ferrying another soul. She would just wait at a safe house and -- eventually -- he would come to her.
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"How do I find him?" she asked. "I've seen them, the other ferrymen in the wasteland. They're not people, they're just --"
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"Light," Eliza finished. Dylan nodded, it was as good a description as any. "But," she continued, "he is still your ferryman. Even if he has guided another soul since. Even if he has guided a thousand. If you see him, you should see him as you always did."
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"How do you know all this?" Dylan asked her, still smiling widely.
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Dylan's eyes lit up with unconcealed joy. So there was a chance… it was possible. She heard a low cough from Jonas behind her and turned to beam at him. Only a hunch had led her to him; how long would it have taken her to find these answers on her own? How many long years had it taken Eliza to fully understand how this place worked?
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The old woman didn't mirror the gesture, however. She sighed. "I told you -- and this is something you need to remember, Dylan -- I don't know. I really don't. You would be taking an enormous risk."
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Her doubts couldn't diminish Dylan's sudden enthusiasm, though she was determined to try. "How long do you think you can survive in the wasteland?" she asked her. "Even if you find him, your ferryman. How long do you think you can outsmart the demons?"
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"Where?"
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"He doesn't belong here."
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Eliza laughed scornfully, but her expression was pitying. "And where will you go?"
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"And he doesn't belong with you, either. He's not human, Dylan. He doesn't feel like we do, doesn't bleed."
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"He does bleed," Dylan said quietly. She wanted to tell Eliza that he could feel, too, that he loved her, but she knew the old woman wouldn't believe her and she didn't want to have to defend Tristan's words when she wasn't sure just how much she believed them herself.
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"Here. There. Anywhere. It doesn't matter."
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"Can he come with me?" It was whispered, timid. Dylan's heart, racing before, now stopped, thumping erratically, as nervous for the answer as she was.
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"Are you sure? You're changing the game, Dylan. How do you know the safe houses will still be there, will still work for you?"
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Dylan frowned, wrong-footed by Eliza's words. "Well, we won't stay in the wasteland then," she asserted, but some of the confidence had dropped from her voice.
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"We'll stay in the safe houses," Dylan said. "They can't come in."
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"Neither do I," Dylan shot back. She tried to ignore the sympathetic way Eliza smiled at her.
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"I have never heard of that," Eliza said slowly. She looked up at Jonas, hovering behind Dylan, and he also shook his head.
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"What?" Eliza asked, looking confused and uncertain for the first time.
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"I saw it," Dylan told her. She leaned forward, stared at Eliza. "Can he come with me? If not here, then back. Back across?"
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"I don't know," she said. "Maybe. That is the best I can give you. It is a risk." She looked at Dylan, hard. "Is it worth it?"
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"He does bleed," Dylan repeated. "When… when the demons got him, when they dragged him under, they hurt him. He came back to me, though. And he was covered in bruises and scratches."
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The ancient soul rocked back and forth as she thought about it. Eventually she shook her head. Ice dropped into Dylan's stomach.
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Tristan sat motionless on the rickety safe-house chair, watching the woman sleep. Though she was well into adulthood -- she had celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday just a month before -- she looked very young curled up on the narrow single bed. Her long brown hair snaked around her shoulders, the short tendrils of her fringe tickling her eyebrows. Beneath the pale lilac of her eyelids, he could see her eyes flickering from side to side, watching dreams. There wasn't space in his clouded brain to wonder what she saw; he was simply glad that her eyes were closed. When they were open, when they were looking at him, they were exactly the right and exactly the wrong shade of green, and he couldn't stand to look back.
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He sighed and stood up from the chair, stretched, then wandered over to the window. It was dark outside, but that was no problem for him. It was easy to pick out the swirling shapes, shadows upon shadows, that coiled around the tiny building, sniffing, savouring. Waiting. They were frustrated. They hadn't caught so much as a whiff of the soul he was guiding. Not today, or the day before that, or the day before that. In fact, this was the easiest crossing he'd made in a long, long time. He smiled grimly to himself as he thought how much Dylan would have preferred the flat streets of this desolate urban decay. She wouldn't have been perturbed by the abandoned high-rises that had the woman craning her neck every three seconds.
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He always thought of her that way, as 'the woman'. He didn't want to think her name. She was a job to him; not a person, although she was mild-mannered and cheerful. Her sunny disposition filled the air with warmth and kept the sky shining blue. She was meek, too, swallowing the lies he told her without question. Each night they had reached the safe house with plenty of time to spare. It was just as well, because Tristan's mind was not in the game.
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Blank. That's all he could manage. Blank and emotionless. Thoughtless. If he'd been concentrating, he might have felt sorry for the woman. She seemed nice; she was pleasant, polite, shy. What had happened to her was unfair -- slaughtered while she slept by a sticky-fingered thief. She deserved his pity, but he was too busy feeling sorry for himself and he had none to spare.
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A noise from behind made him whip his head round, but he relaxed almost before he'd completed the movement. It was just her, coughing quietly as she shifted on the mattress. Tristan watched her carefully for a moment, apprehensive, but she didn't wake up. Good. He didn't think he could face conversation.
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Gazing into the night wasn't enough of a distraction. After drumming his fingers silently on the windowsill for a long moment, Tristan turned back and resumed his vigil in the hard wooden chair. He reasoned there was an hour, maybe two, before the sun rose. Hopefully the woman would sleep till then.
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That gave Tristan a long time to kill. Six hours he'd been sitting here alone, and he'd managed not to think of her. He allowed himself a wry smile. That was a record. It was also as long as he was going to manage. Closing his eyes, he sifted through memories until he found the one he was looking for. Eyes the same shade of green as the soul sleeping soundly beside him, but a different face. Tristan's smile widened as he let himself get as close as he could to dreaming.
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