The dead woman in my boat won’t stop talking.
“Turn back,” she whispers, her voice like wind through broken reeds. “Turn back before you lose everything that matters.”
I keep rowing. The Crossing demands movement, always movement, and the dead don’t get to choose their destination. That’s the first rule of ferryman work, you transport what needs transporting, when it needs transporting, no questions asked.
But this passenger is different. She smells like lavender and river mud, and when I glanced at her face, I saw eyes the color of storm water. The same eyes that haunted my dreams for three years running.
“Sedge.” Her voice carries my name like a prayer and a curse combined. “Please. Listen to me.”
I nearly drop the oars.
The dead don’t know the names of the living. That’s the second rule of ferryman work, the one that keeps you sane when you’re spending half your life in conversation with corpses. They see you as part of the Crossing itself, a tool, not a person.
But Vera knows my name.
Vera, who drowned in the Weeping Divide while I was three villages away, binding myself to this cursed work. Vera, who died because I chose duty over love, because I honored a promise to a stranger instead of protecting what mattered most.
“You have to take me back,” she says, and her dead fingers brush my wrist. They’re cold as winter river stones, but the touch sends heat racing up my arm. “There’s still time to undo what you’ve done.”
The boat rocks as something massive moves beneath us. The waters between life and death don’t appreciate hesitation, and I’ve been sitting here like a fool, staring at a ghost who shouldn’t exist.
“I can’t.” The words taste like ash. “The Crossing doesn’t work that way.”
“It does for you.” Her smile is sad and knowing. “You’re not just a ferryman, Sedge. You’re the Ferryman. The one who chooses which debts get paid.”
That’s when I see them. Standing on the distant shore where the dead belong, a line of spirits stretching back beyond the mist. All of them waiting. All of them staring at the woman in my boat who should be joining their ranks.
All of them angry.
I have a choice to make. Honor the oath that binds me to transport the dead without question, or listen to the woman I loved enough to die for, the woman who died because I wasn’t there to save her.
The boat shudders. Something with too many teeth breaches the surface nearby, reminding me that the waters between worlds don’t tolerate indecision.
I grip the oars tighter and make my choice.
I start rowing toward the shore of the living.
The water fights me with every stroke.
What should be a smooth passage back becomes a battle against currents that want to drag us toward the deep places where even ferrymen don’t go. My shoulders burn as I force the boat through waves that rise like grasping hands.
“The Crossing is angry,” Vera says, and her voice carries new weight, less ghostly whisper, more solid woman. “You’re breaking laws older than the Bone Choir.”
“Let it be angry.” I pull harder on the oars, watching the shore of the living grow slowly closer. “I’ve been following its rules for three years. Maybe it’s time it followed mine.”
But the water has other plans. The boat lurches as something strikes the hull from below, and I catch a glimpse of bone-white tentacles sliding past. The guardians of the deep Crossing are waking, and they don’t appreciate rule-breakers.
“Sedge.” Vera’s hand covers mine on the oar. Her touch is warmer now, more real. “You need to understand. I’m not just any dead. I’m a debt you owe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The night you swore your oath to become ferryman. Do you remember what price the Crossing demanded?”
I remember. The old ferryman lying broken on the riverbank, his boat adrift and a dozen souls trapped between worlds. I remember the choice he offered, let them fade into nothing, or take his place and guide them home.
I remember the words he made me speak before he died.
I bind myself to the Crossing. I will transport what needs transporting, when it needs transporting, for as long as debt remains unpaid.
“The debt was supposed to be those souls,” Vera continues. “Twelve passengers, twelve trips, and then freedom. But you never counted, did you? Never realized you were transporting thirteen that first night.”
My blood goes cold. “That’s impossible. I counted—”
“You counted the visible dead. Not the one who followed you home.”
The boat spins as another guardian rises from the depths, this one large enough to swallow us whole. Its eye, milky white and large as a dinner plate, fixes on Vera with unmistakable hunger.
“I died while you were bound to the Crossing,” she says, her voice urgent now. “That makes me part of your debt. A soul you failed to collect, a passenger you failed to transport. As long as I exist between worlds, your service can never end.”
The guardian lunges. I throw myself sideways, pulling Vera with me as teeth like broken tombstones snap shut where we’d been sitting. The boat rocks violently, taking on water from the displaced wave.
“What are you saying?” I shout over the creature’s roar. “That saving you condemns me to this forever?”
“I’m saying,” Vera replies, her eyes bright with something between love and regret, “that you have to choose between us. Your freedom or my second chance.”
The guardian circles back for another pass. Behind us, the shore of the dead erupts with angry voices as the spirits realize what’s happening. And ahead, the shore of the living feels farther away than ever.
I row harder, even though I know it’s hopeless.
Even though I know she’s right.
The shore of the living is only fifty yards away when the trap springs.
The water around us goes glass-still. The guardians sink back into the depths. Even the angry voices of the dead fade to whispers.
And standing on the living shore, solid as stone and twice as cold, is the old ferryman who died in my arms three years ago.
“Did you really think,” he says, his voice carrying impossible distance across the water, “that it would be that easy?”
Vera goes rigid beside me. “That’s not possible. You’re dead. I felt you die.”
“Death is negotiable when you’re bound to the Crossing.” His smile is all sharp edges. “Especially when some fool is willing to take your place.”
The truth curls around my ribs like cold fingers, patient and cruel. The old ferryman didn’t die. He transferred. Made me think I was taking on a temporary debt when really I was taking on his eternal servitude.
“You planned this,” I say, the words heavy as stones in my mouth. “The souls, the binding, all of it.”
“I planned to be free.” He steps into a boat that wasn’t there a moment before, one that gleams with authority I’ll never possess. “I found someone noble enough to trade places with, and I took my chance. The fact that your woman drowned while you were bound, well, that was just convenient.”
Vera’s hand finds mine. “Sedge, the binding—”
“Was a lie.” I feel the weight of it settling on me like chains. “There was never any debt to pay off. Never any end to the service. Just an old man who wanted out and a young fool willing to take his place.”
The old ferryman laughs. “Oh, there’s a debt all right. Your woman there represents the one soul you failed to collect during your bound service. As long as she exists between worlds, you owe the Crossing. But here’s the beautiful part, if you take her back to the living, you break your oath. And oath-breakers don’t get to retire. They get to serve forever.”
The water begins to move again, carrying our boat steadily away from both shores, toward the deep places where neither living nor dead can reach.
“Of course,” he continues, “you could always complete your original transport. Take her to the shore of the dead where she belongs. That would clear your debt and free you both.”
I look at Vera. She’s solid now, warm, real. Close enough to the living world that she might actually survive the transition back.
Close enough that I could save her.
“She’d be alive or I’d go free,” I say slowly.
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “Choose, boy. Love or freedom. You can’t have both.”
The boat rocks as we drift farther from any hope of rescue. And I realize that the old ferryman is wrong about one thing.
I’ve already made my choice.
“You forgot something,” I tell the old ferryman, and my voice carries new authority across the water.
He frowns. “What?”
“The exact words of the binding.” I stand in the boat, feeling the Crossing respond to my will for the first time since I took the oath. “I bind myself to the Crossing. I will transport what needs transporting, when it needs transporting, for as long as debt remains unpaid.”
“Yes, and your debt—”
“Is to transport what needs transporting.” I take Vera’s hand, feeling warmth flow between us. “Not what you think should be transported. Not what serves your freedom. What needs transporting.”
Understanding dawns in his ancient eyes, followed quickly by rage. “You can’t—”
“Vera doesn’t need to go to the shore of the dead,” I continue, feeling power building around us. “She needs to return to the living world. That’s what the Crossing demands. That’s what my oath requires.”
“That’s not how it works!”
But it is how it works. I can feel it in the way the water responds to my words, in the way the boat turns toward the living shore without my guidance. The Crossing itself is choosing, and it’s choosing what serves life over what serves the schemes of the dead.
“The debt was never about numbers,” I realize, speaking as much to myself as to him. “It was about understanding. You never understood what the Crossing really wanted.”
“Which is what?” he snarls.
“Balance.” I look at Vera, seeing her growing more solid with each word. “The Crossing doesn’t want to keep souls trapped between worlds. It wants to get them where they belong, whether that’s the shore of the dead or back to life. You were so focused on escaping your service that you forgot the service itself.”
The old ferryman lunges toward our boat, but the water between us turns to ice, holding him back.
“You’re still bound!” he shouts. “Even if you transport her, you’re still bound to serve!”
“Yes,” I say, and the word tastes like freedom. “I am.”
Because I finally understand what that means.
I row toward the shore of the living, feeling the Crossing’s approval in every stroke. Vera’s hand is warm in mine, her breath real against my cheek when she leans close.
“Will I remember?” she asks. “Remember this, remember you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’ll remember. And I’ll find you.”
The boat reaches the shallows. Vera steps onto the shore, and the moment her feet touch solid ground, she gasps. Color floods her cheeks. Her eyes clear from storm-gray to the bright blue I remember.
She looks back at me, confusion and recognition warring in her expression.
“Sedge? What—where am I?”
“Home,” I tell her, and push the boat back into deeper water. “You’re home.”
The old ferryman’s rage follows me as I row back toward the Crossing proper, but I don’t look back. I have work to do. Real work.
There are souls who need transport, and for the first time since I took the oath, I understand what that truly means.
Not everyone who dies needs to stay dead.
Not everyone who lives deserves to lose what they love.
And some debts are worth paying forever, if they mean the people you love get to keep breathing.
I am Sedge the Ferryman.
I transport what needs transporting.
And I choose what that means.