The Ferryman of the Mist

On the Grey Lake, the ferryman’s boat only casts off when the bell on the jetty rings three times, and the fare isn’t paid in coins: each traveller must say, out loud and while still on the shore, a truth they have never told.

Nerea, an apprentice bookbinder, was carrying a book under her arm that she had to deliver to the Archive on the island. She confessed that she was afraid of mirrors. After her paid Mistress Ilda, a mapmaker with a cloak as black as raven feathers, and Brin, a lad who sold wax candles.

The bell rang three times and the boat pulled away from the jetty.

“It’s my first trip to the island,” Brin announced as he sorted his wares. “I’ve never set foot in the Archive.”

The ferryman, tall and silent, pushed his pole into the water. A single lantern hung at the bow, and its pale light barely opened a gap in the mist.

“I drew the map of this lake twenty winters ago,” said Ilda. “Not a single shore has changed since then.”

The ferryman gave her a sidelong glance. “The north shore collapsed last spring. But don’t worry: this boat doesn’t punish mistakes. Only lies, things said in the knowledge that they’re false. And it doesn’t sink straight away: it waits until it reaches the middle of the lake.”

Ilda frowned, surprised. Brin, on the other hand, leaned towards Nerea: “When we get there, tread carefully on the seventh step of the quay. It’s loose and slippery.”

Nerea was about to thank him when she felt cold water round her ankles. They were right in the middle of the lake, and the boat was beginning to sink.

“Someone has lied since we cast off,” said the ferryman, without raising his voice. “If they tell the truth, the boat will float again.”