Modernized and adapted by Brett Rutherford from a version by Thomas Carlyle.
A WHILE LATER THE ferryman came across the river, and told them new wonders. As it was growing dark, a stranger of large size had come to him, and had hired his boat till sunrise, but with this condition, that the boatman should remain quiet in his house — at least should not cross the threshold of his door. “I was frightened,” continued the old man, “and the strange bargain would not let me sleep. I slipped softly to the window, and looked toward the river. Great clouds were driving restlessly through the sky, and the distant woods were rustling fearfully. My whole cottage shook, and moans and lamentations glided around it. Then, suddenly, I saw a white streaming light that grew broader and broader, like many thousands of falling stars. Sparkling and waving, it proceeded forward from the dark fir-ground, moved over the fields, and spread itself along toward the river.
“Then I heard a trampling, a jingling, a bustling, and rushing, nearer and nearer. It went forward to my boat, and all stepped into it, men and women, as it seemed, and children, and the tall stranger ferried them over. In the river, by the boat, were swimming many thousands of glittering forms; in the air white clouds and lights were wavering; and all lamented and bewailed their journey. I heard voices calling in lament and phrases like “far away! — our home is lost! — the poor fir trees! — the guardians! — our beautiful home! — far away! — quickly! — quickly!” And with these scattered phrases came a music so sad that my heart nearly burst to listen to it.
“The next wave to cross the river were so horrible that I can scarce describe them. Tall figures, gaunt and faceless — they had mouths which groaned but otherwise no faces at all! — came by wearing long, dun cloaks, and over their shoulders were folded-up membranous wings. I had to avert my eyes lest I faint on the spot. They carried a number of their kind who were attached to tree branches, festooned like bats or tree-snakes. These, it seems, were crippled and could not walk, so they bore them like pigs trussed to a roasting on fir branches. No man should ever have to look on such beings.
“They all passed, and then the voices ceased. The noise of the rudder and the water creaked and gurgled for a while, and then suddenly there would be silence. Many a time the boat landed, and went back, and was again filled up. Many heavy casks, too, they took along with them, which multitudes of horrid-looking little fellows carried and rolled — whether they were devils or goblins, Heaven only knows.
“Then a stately train came, in waving brightness. It seemed to be led by an old man, mounted on a small white horse. All of the last of them were crowding around him. I saw nothing of the horse but its head; for the rest of it was covered with costly glittering cloths and trappings, splendid beyond anything our lords and barons could mount. On his brow the old man had a crown, so bright that, as he came across, I thought the sun was rising there and the redness of the dawn glimmered into my eyes. Thus it went on all night. Even though marvels piled upon marvels, I at last fell asleep in the tumult, half in joy, half in terror.
“In the morning all was still. But the river is, as it were, run out, and it is so shallow now that I do not know how I am to use my boat in it now. You can wade across, and there is not a fish to be seen.”
FROM THE FORTHCOMING YOGH AND THORN BOOK, Wake Not the Dead: Continental Tales of Terror. This is one episode of a longer story.
