Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [108]
“But I can pay the ferryman. I have the money,” said Roland, patting his pocket.
“You whut?” said the Feegle, as if this were some strange and dangerous idea.
“I have the money,” Roland repeated. “Two pennies is the rate to cross the River of the Dead. It’s an old tradition. Two pennies to put on the eyes of the dead, to pay the ferryman.”
“Whut a clever man ye are, to be sure,” said Rob as Roland dropped two copper coins into the ferryman’s bony hand. “An’ did ye no’ think tae bring four pennies?”
“The book just said the dead take two,” said Roland.
“Aye, mebbe they do,” Rob agreed, “but that’s ’cuz the deid dinna expect tae be comin’ back!”
Roland looked back across the dark river. Flashes of orange light were thick on the bank they’d left.
“Mr. Anybody, I was once a prisoner of the Queen of Fairyland.”
“Aye, I ken that.”
“It was for a year in this world, but it only seemed like a few days there…except that the weeks passed like centuries. It was so…dull, I could hardly remember anything after a while. Not my name, not the feel of sunshine, not the taste of real food.”
“Aye, we ken that—we helped tae rescue ye. Ye niver say thanks, but ye wuz oot o’ yer skull the whole time, so we didna take offense.”
“Then allow me to thank you now, Mr. Anybody.”
“Dinna mention it. Anytime. Happy tae oblige.”
“She had pets that fed you dreams until you died of hunger. I hate things that try to take away what you are. I want to kill those things, Mr. Anybody. I want to kill all of them. When you take away memories, you take away the person. Everything they are.”
“’Tis a fine ambition ye’ve got there,” said Rob. “But we ha’ got a wee job tae do, ye ken. Aw crivens, this is whut happens when things get sloppy an’ bogles take over.”
There was a big pile of bones on the path. They were certainly animal bones, and the rotting collars and lengths of rusted chain were another clue.
“Three big dogs?” said Roland.
“One verra big dog wi’ three heads,” said Rob Anybody. “Verra popular in underworlds, that breed. Can bite right through a man’s throat. Three times!” he added with relish. “But put three doggy biscuits in a row on the groond, an’ the puir wee thing sits there strainin’ an’ whinin’ all day. It’s a wee laff, I’m tellin’ ye!” He kicked at the bones. “Aye, time wuz when places like this had some pers’nality. Look, see what they’ve done here, too.”
Farther along the path was what was probably a demon. It had a horrible face, with so many fangs that some of them must have been just for show. There were wings, too, but they couldn’t possibly have lifted it. It had found a piece of mirror, and every few seconds it took a peep into it and shuddered.
“Mr. Anybody,” said Roland, “is there anything down here that this sword I’m carrying could kill?”
“Ah, no. No’ kill,” said Rob Anybody. “No’ bogles. No’ as such. It’s no’ a magic sword, see?”
“Then why am I dragging it along?”
“’Cuz ye are a Hero. Who ever heard o’a Hero wi’oot a sword?”
Roland tugged the sword out of its scabbard. It was heavy and not at all like the flying, darting silver thing that he’d imagined in front of the mirror. It was more like a metal club with an edge.
He gripped it in both hands and managed to hurl it out into the middle of the slow, dark river.
Just before it hit the water, a white arm rose and caught it. The hand waved the sword a couple of times and then disappeared with it under the water.
“Was that supposed to happen?” he asked.
“A man throwin’ his sword awa’?” yelled Rob. “No! Ye’re no’ supposed tae bung a guid sword intae the drinkie!”
“No, I mean the hand,” said Roland. “It just—”
“Ach, they turn up sometimes.” Rob Anybody waved a hand as if midstream underwater sword jugglers were an everyday occurrence. “But ye’ve got no weapon noo!”
“You said swords can’t hurt bogles!”
“Aye, but it’s the look o’ the thing, okay?” said Rob, hurrying on.
“But not having a sword should make me more heroic, right?” said Roland, as the rest of the Feegles trotted after them.