The Ferryman bent closer and sniffed. “Nay. These are not noble metaclass="underline" gold, silver, platinum only.”
“Oh,” Brendan mumbled, sticking the braces back in his pocket. “I have nothing else.”
“A promise.” The voice of the Ferryman was like the rattle of dry sails. “A promise in exchange for passage.”
BLT flitted up to Brendan’s shoulder. Her eyes were wary. “Be careful, my friend. A promise is a solemn Pledge.”
“What do you mean?” Brendan demanded.
“Ferrymen accept only noble metal as payment. Or sometimes gemstones. If you don’t have noble metal, they take a Pledge. I warn you, if you make a promise or a Pledge to one such as this, it must be paid in full at some point in the future.”
Brendan thought back to the Undertown. He had made a bargain with Skreet and he’d managed to escape any drastic consequences. How bad could it be? This was just a guy in a rowboat. “Well, I have no ‘noble metal’ and I haven’t got any other way off the Island. Unless you can fly me, BLT?”
She shook her tiny head.
“Fine then.” He turned to the Ferryman and said, “I promise to pay you later. I need to get to the city.”
“The promise is made.” There was a wheezing chuckle from the Ferryman. The sound was chilling and mirthless. “Board.”
Brendan stepped into the boat with BLT on his shoulder. He sat down on the nearest empty bench. The others around him shimmied away as though they didn’t want to catch something from him.
“Why do I feel like I’ve made a horrible mistake?” Brendan moaned.
“Probably because you have,” BLT offered helpfully. She groaned. “Boats don’t agree with me.”
The boat suddenly jerked, and they were forging through the waves toward the distant skyline of Toronto.
The Ferryman stood in the stern, solid as a rock despite the pitch of the waves. His pale hand lay on the tiller. Brendan could see no engine, but despite that fact, the vessel powered forward, cutting a direct path toward the piers at the harbour front. No one spoke. At least the rain didn’t seem to touch them while they were aboard the ferry. It parted on either side of the craft, some unseen force shielding the passengers from the weather. Only the Ferryman streamed with rain, and he didn’t seem to mind.
He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the boat bumped against the dock. He shook himself awake to find the towering condominiums looming in the rain all around him. He was at the ferry dock. He was so tired. When was the last time he’d slept? The night before last. He looked blearily about. All of the other passengers were gone. There was only the Ferryman looming over him.
“Out,” the Ferryman said, jerking a pale thumb at the dock. Brendan forced himself to stand and step over the gunnels. The Ferryman’s hand stopped him.
“Remember.” The Ferryman’s raspy voice was chilling. “You made a Pledge to a Brother of the Ways. The Pledge will be called in.”
Brendan looked into the dark face and saw a flash of icy blue eyes beneath the brim of the yellow hat. He nodded once. The hand was lifted from his chest, and he stepped out onto the solid wood of the pier. He watched the boat pull away and disappear into the misty drizzle.
Shivering, he stood on the pier and thought for a moment. Where can I go? Greenleaf said I have friends, but who are they? I can’t go to my parents. It’s too dangerous for them. Who then?
Then it struck him. He did have friends. Do I want to involve them in this? It’s too dangerous. But… there’s no one else.
He made a decision. He started off down the pier toward the city. BLT flitted ahead of him, hovering in front of his face.
“Where to then?”
Brendan smiled grimly. “I’m going to get some help.”
75 The Faerie is obviously joking. Everyone pays taxes. The old adage is true: nothing is sure except death and taxes. Being practically immortal, the Fair Folk can escape the first but not the latter of these two evils.
76 A painter, as it is referred to above, is a short rope used on a boat to attach objects to it. If you thought that the Ferryman had thrown a painter like perhaps Picasso or Van Gogh and tied him around the mooring post, you are a little weird.
77 Ferrymen, Keepers of the Crossroads, and Bridge Guardians are a special category of magical beings. They have their own special guild called “The Brotherhood of the Ways” that accepts only their own kind as members. To be honest, no one else would want to be a member anyway: these guys are really creepy.
BABKA
Dmitri finally opened his bedroom window. Brendan had been tossing pebbles for ten minutes and was about to resort to larger rocks when the blond head poked out.
“Brendan! What are you doing? Everyone’s looking for you! Your parents are worried sick!”
“I know,” Brendan whispered in a raspy voice. “I’ll explain everything. Just let me in. I need your help.”
“You should just go home.”
“I want to but I can’t! Please! I have nowhere else to go. You’ve got to let me in.”
Dmitri’s head disappeared and the window closed. Brendan waited for what seemed like an hour. He was about to leave when the back door to Dmitri’s townhouse opened with a low squeak. Dmitri held a flashlight in his hand.
“Hurry,” the small boy said, motioning Brendan toward the house.
Brendan gratefully padded across the dead brown grass of the backyard and into the kitchen. Dmitri was careful to close the door so that it didn’t make a sound.
The kitchen was small but cozy, redolent of the smell of Dmitri’s mother’s cooking: garlic, cabbage, and fresh bread. A small table occupied the centre of the room, surrounded by wooden chairs. A lamp burned in the corner of the counter, casting a warm glow. Dmitri indicated that Brendan should have a seat, then went to the counter beside the ancient gas stove and opened a steel bread box. He retrieved a pan of chocolate cake and a dull knife and brought them to the table. He sat down and cut a square piece of cake and lifted it onto a napkin for Brendan.
“Eat this,” Dmitri said quietly. “You look completely worn in.”
“Out,” Brendan said wearily, “worn out, not in.”
Dmitri watched in silence as Brendan devoured the cake. When Brendan was licking the icing off his fingers, Dmitri asked at last, “Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story,” Brendan replied. “And I’m afraid you won’t believe a word of it.”
“Let me decide what I will believe,” Dmitri said, crossing his arms. He was dressed in flannel pants and a threadbare dressing gown. He wore a faded T-shirt that read POLAND IS FOR LOVERS. His small face was pale and serious.
“Okay.” Brendan took a deep breath. “This is gonna sound totally weird but? the thing is… I’m a Faerie.”
“Faerie? I don’t know this word.” Dmitri frowned. “What is ‘Faerie’?”
“A Faerie! As in Faerie tales? Like Tinkerbell, only not like that either. Aagh. It’s complicated.”
Dmitri shook his head. “I don’t know what this ‘Tinkerbell’ is. You should just tell me where you have been and-yuck! What is that?” Dmitri’s face twisted in disgust as he pointed at Brendan’s blazer pocket.
Brendan looked down to see BLT’s head and shoulders sticking out over the edge of his pocket. The tiny woman was sniffing the air. “Is that chocolate?” she asked excitedly.
“Chocolate cake,” Brendan told her. He looked at Dmitri, who was staring in disgust at BLT. “See, this is what I mean. This kind of Faerie!”
“That is the biggest fly I have ever seen. Why are you carrying such a horrible insect in your pocket? And why are you talking to it?”
Brendan was confused. A fly? Why can’t he see her?
Before Brendan could stop her, BLT flitted out of his pocket and zoomed up onto the table. Dmitri recoiled in horror as she plunged face first into the chocolate icing on top of the cake.
“Gross!” Dmitri jumped up from his seat and reached for a newspaper. Rolling it up, he prepared to swat BLT. Brendan leapt up and grabbed his hand.