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The Ferryman
by Tom Brennan
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The following is an excerpt from The Ferryman.
. . . Gianni saw a single figure waiting beneath the red and green warning lights on the quay. Hooded and cloaked, with bare feet jutting from the hem of her dark dress. Small—little more than a child. She gripped the lamps’ iron standard as if the weighted sky pressed down on her. Something sharp and cold opened inside Gianni; he hoped the girl was waiting for one of her family to return. A father or brother. Mother or grandparent. Anyone. Even as he brought the gondola close to the stone steps, he knew. “You are the ferryman,” said the girl from the top of the steps, her voice small but clear. Gianni looked back into the darkness settling over the lagoon’s waters. “It is too late.” “It is not too late,” she said. “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.” “You are the ferryman and I pay the toll.” Gianni took a deep, cold breath and held it a moment. “I guide the way.” He watched the girl descend the steps. Her feet made no sound. She did not seem ill or infirm. One pale hand darted from the cloak like a small bird to drop a coin in Gianni’s upturned palm. When she sat at his feet and threw back her hood, she revealed jet black hair cut severely short, and white skin as pale as morning mist. Gianni shook his head but pushed the gondola out onto the waves. His tired body settled into the familiar rhythm. He imagined the slender bottle of grappa sitting next to the coffee pot. He could almost taste it. Then, glancing down, he recognized the girl’s black dress edged with white, a dress that penitents wore in fulfillment of a vow to one of the church’s saints. Almost the same dress that Donna had worn. At the sound of the misplaced oar, the girl turned and said, “What is it?” “Nothing.” Gianni reset the oar in the fòrcola and tried to find the rhythm again. “It’s just . . . the dress . . .” The girl smoothed the front of the high-necked dress and nodded. “I made a vow to Saint Coroneo. I have worn this for five months.” He hesitated. “Did the Saint answer your plea?” “No, but I swore that I would wear it.” She smiled up at him, her face luminous against the failing light. “I keep my word.” Gianni fell silent for a few minutes. The oar splashed in the darkness. Lights glowed green, red and white on the horizon as ships made for the islands or for open water. Above all else, the mammoth trunk of the Sthenon ship pulsed with soft illumination. Two decades dissolved like mist as Gianni again saw Donna sitting in the center of the boat, just like the girl, her head raised to the ship, smiling. Gianni’s eyes burned. If only he had known the right words to say, how to reach out and hold her. If only. “Have many turned back?” asked the girl. “A few,” said Gianni, an unexpected optimism opening in him; maybe she would change her mind? “Did they say why?” “I did not ask.” A pause before the girl said, “People in the quarter where we . . . where I lived tell stories of the ship and the ferry that carries people there. And of the ferryman. They say you were once a teacher, many years ago.” “Perhaps.” “And a musician.” “Sometimes.” “They say, ‘pity the ferryman’.” “I do not need their pity.” Another slight hesitation, a breath, then, “They say your wife took the journey.” Gianni gripped the oar tighter but said nothing. “Did you carry her there?” the girl said, her voice barely louder than the waves. Gianni closed his eyes. “I carried her there.” “Did you not want to go with her?” Excerpt from
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