Outer Dark(43)

Ho, he called.

He could see them move. He called again.

Who’s there? a voice came back.

He already had a rope up from the bow and in his hand. Now as the barge slid past a last clump of trees there were three men standing on the bank of the river in the gentle rain with the fire behind them projecting their shapes outward into soaring darkness and with no dimension to them at all.

Catch a line, he called to them.

How many of ye is they?

Just me. Here. He couldn’t see their faces. He was moving before them and before the light like someone in a stageprop being towed from wing to wing.

You want me to shoot him? a voice said.

Shut up. Thow the line, mister.

He held the line. He was trying to see them but they were only silhouettes. Then the boat began to turn and he could hear the sound of the river again and he threw the line. It uncoiled across the water with a hiss and he could see one of the men move and squat and rise again.

You got it? he called.

Hitch it, one said.

He had swung past them now and no longer could see them at all. He heard the rope saw along the gunwale and tauten and there was a creaking sound as the ferry hove about and he took two little steps to recover his balance. Some tree branches scratched along the hull and broke and came aboard. Then he was ashore, staving off brush with his arms and making his way through the woods toward the light.

When he entered the little clearing there were only two of them standing there. One was holding a rifle loosely in one hand and picking his teeth. The other stood with long arms dangling at his sides, slightly stooped, his jaw hanging and mouth agape in a slavering smile. The one with the rifle dropped his hand for a moment as if he might be going to speak, but he didn’t.

I was on the ferry and it busted loose, Holme said. That’s it yander. He pointed vaguely to the darkness. Neither of them looked. They were watching Holme.

You wouldn’t care for me to dry a little in front of your fire would ye? I’d be proud to tote wood.

Neither of them spoke. Holme looked about him. The third one was standing just in the rim of light to his left, watching him. He was dressed in a dark and shapeless suit that could not have buttoned across his chest and he wore a shirt with some kerchief or rag knotted at the neck. His face scowled redly out of a great black beard. He jerked his head at Holme. Come up to the fire, he said.

Thank ye, Holme said. I’m wet plumb thew and might near froze to boot.

The other two turned slightly to follow him with their eyes, a predacious curiosity. Holme nodded to them as he passed but they gave no sign of having noticed this.

Set down, the bearded one said, motioning with his hand.

Thank ye, Holme said. He squatted before the fire and extended his palms over it like some stormy and ruinous prophet. The small rain fell upon them silently and wet wood sang in the flames. The bearded one watched him.

That river sure is up, Holme said.

It is.

Ferryman went overboard.

What ferryman?

Holme looked at him across the fire. The ferryman, he said. The one that was runnin that there ferry.

You ain’t the ferryman.

No. I was just crossin the river. We never made it. They was another feller on a horse and I reckon it got him too.

The bearded one was leaning forward with interest. Ah, he said. You ain’t the ferryman.

No, Holme said. It knocked him plumb out of his boots. That cable did when it busted. Sounded like a cannonload of cats goin by.

Well now, the bearded one said. I allowed you was the ferryman.

No, Holme said. It was like I told ye.

The bearded one was watching him very intently. He looked down at the fire. On a rock was a pan of black and mummified meat. He watched the fire and rubbed his hands together. The other two men had come up and were squatting half in darkness watching him. The bearded one looked toward them and Holme looked at the pan of meat again.

Help yourself to some meat there if you’re hungry, the man said.

Holme swallowed and glanced at him again. In the up-slant of light his beard shone and his mouth was red, and his eyes were shadowed lunettes with nothing there at all.

What kind is it?

The man didn’t answer.

Holme looked to the fire. I really ain’t a bit hungry, he said, but I’d admire to dry this here shirt if you don’t care.

The man nodded.

He started to pull the wet shirt off and as he jerked his arms forward he felt the cloth part soundlessly down the back. He stopped and reached behind him gingerly.

Looks like you about out of a shirt, the man said.

Yes, he said. He peeled the shirt from him and looked at it, holding it up before the fire.

You ain’t et, the man said.

Holme’s stomach turned coldly.

Ain’t no need to be backards about it. Get all ye want. We’ve done et.

He laid the shirt across his knees, reached gingerly and took a piece of the blackened meat from the pan and bit into it. It had the consistency of whang, was dusted with ash, tasted of sulphur. He tore off a bite and began chewing, his jaws working in a hopeless circular motion.