Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [107]
“Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run,” Roland muttered.
Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy’s ear.
“Aye,” he whispered, “I ken that well enough! There be a lot o’ men who became heroes ’cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an’ that’s good. There’ll be more o’ them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep ’em oot!”
“Why, what do they—? No, don’t tell me!” said Roland.
He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn’t miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.
There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.
“All right,” said Roland grimly. “Now tell me what they do.”
“They eat yer memories,” said Rob Anybody. “Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an’ hope are like food! They’re vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no’ looked after.”
“And how can I kill them?”
“Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won’t attack ye yet, and we’ve got a job tae do.”
“I hate this place!”
“Aye, hells is a lot more lively,” said Rob Anybody. “Slow doon now—we’re at the river.”
A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.
“Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”
YES.
He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.
“Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”
OH NO, NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED.
“Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ’cuz we’s deid already.”
The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.
BUT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.
“Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.
“Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?”
The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.
OH, VERY WELL THEN.
The Feegles swarmed aboard the rotting boat with their usual enthusiasm and cries of “Crivens!” “Where’s the booze on this cruise?” and “We’re right oot in the Styx noo!” and Roland climbed in with care, watching the ferryman suspiciously.
The figure pulled on the big oar, and they set off with a creak and then, regrettably, and to the ferryman’s disgust, to the sound of singing. More or less singing, that is, at every possible speed and tempo and with no regard at all for the tune:
“Row row yer row boat boat boaty boat down boat stream boat merrily stream like a bird on the boa—”
WILL YOU SHUT UP?
“—bonny boat row stream stream boat boat row yer boat down the merrily stream row merrily merrily boat—”
THIS IS HARDLY APPROPRIATE!
“Down the boat boat down the merrily stream stream stream merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily boat!”
“Mr. Anybody?” said Roland as they glided jerkily along.
“Aye?”
“Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?”
“Ah, that’d be Horace,” said Rob Anybody. “He’s Daft Wullie’s pal. He’s no’ bein’ a nuisance, is he?”
“No. But he’s trying to sing!”
“Aye, all blue cheeses hum a bit.”
“Mnamnam mnam mnamnam,” sang Horace.
The boat bumped against the far bank, and the ferryman stepped ashore quickly.
Rob Anybody scrambled up Roland’s ragged