Laws and Rules

"You're late," he said.

Verne drifted a little higher than usual.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The lake requested a sorcerer days ago," the ferryman replied. "What took you so long? I expected you to be a little taller, but marshes like these are full of disappointments."

Verne's glove hands clenched.

He did not like this man.

He did not like this lake.

And he especially did not like these rumors.

All three of those things were adding up to something nasty, and he knew it.

Before he could retaliate, the ferryman pointed across the dark water.

Through the fog, Verne heard it.

BONG.

A bell.

Deep.

Slow.

Muffled by water.

Somehow...

not fully muffled.

Then again.

BONG.

This was deeply creepy.

But also kind of cool.

It would have to be a remarkably powerful bell if the water could not completely swallow the sound.

"The sound does not travel like ordinary sound," the ferryman said.

Well.

That was one way to ruin the fun quickly.

Fine.

Not a very big bell.

A magical bell.

Still kind of cool.

Verne could feel each note deep in his ribs.

From his toes to his—

Well.

He would have said hair.

Had he possessed any.

Which, if he did, would have been majestic.

Far out on the lake, where the water somehow became darker than the surrounding marsh, three pale lights bloomed beneath the surface.

Wonderful.

This just kept becoming more frightening.

Verne liked adventures.

Verne liked bees.

Verne did not like spooks.

The ferryman interrupted his thoughts.

"The drowned chapel is awake."

He spoke as though commenting on the weather.

"If no one goes tonight..."

"...something from down there may come up instead."

Verne glanced down at his spellbook.

It had already fallen open to a sketch of a bee wearing waders.

Strong start.

Verne did not trust this ferryman.

Reasonably so.

Verne did not trust this lake.

Reasonably so.

Verne especially did not trust any situation in which a mysterious old man insulted him and then immediately offered him boat access to a haunted lake.

So naturally...

it was time to consult the highest available authority.

His profoundly unhelpful spellbook.

He pulled it from his robes and let it drift open before him.

Rain tapped softly against the pages as they turned.

The book, naturally, remained perfectly dry.

Extremely useful in a marsh.

Page after page fluttered past.

Bee in boots.

Bee wearing a tiny priest collar.

Bee ringing a bell.

Bee drowning...

artistically.

Three bees in a boat.

One of them looked deeply untrustworthy.

Verne stopped.

A small pit formed in his stomach.

Underneath the sketch, written in his own messy handwriting—apparently at some point he no longer remembered—were three words.

DO NOT ACCEPT CROSSING.

He stared.

The ferryman stared.

...

Wait.

When had he gotten next to him?

Also...

Why was he reading his personal notebook?

He did realize this was a breach of privacy, didn't he?

Verne snapped the spellbook shut and tucked it into the impossible folds of his robes.

The ferryman sighed.

"That is... inconvenient."

"You think so?" Verne shot back.

"So you are suspicious."

"I am a ferryman on a haunted lake."

"At night."

"Suspicious is less a personality trait than a job requirement."

BONG.

The bell rang again.

The pale lights beneath the lake brightened.

Verne floated higher.

Much higher.

He looked down at the ferryman with narrowed eyes.

"Start explaining."

The intimidation tactic accomplished absolutely nothing.

The ferryman leaned comfortably against one of the poles resting in his skiff.

He picked something from his teeth.

Spat into the lake.

Then finally looked back up.

His face was all sharp angles and marsh-shadow.

His eyes reflected the lake strangely...

like moonlight on fish scales.

"What would you like to know?" he asked with an infuriating grin.

Verne pulled his spellbook back out, now that the ferryman was no longer invading his sketches.

"Let us begin," Verne said coolly, "with why my deeply arcane and unquestionably reliable spellbook says I should not accept your crossing."

The ferryman leaned over his shoulder.

Again.

Seriously.

How did he keep doing that?

Did nobody teach him basic sketch etiquette?

Everybody knew you were never supposed to look over someone's shoulder while they were drawing.

The ferryman's expression changed.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Then...

something suspiciously close to irritation.

"...I was hoping you wouldn't have that."

Verne spread his glove hands dramatically.

"A devastating disappointment, I'm sure."

The ferryman planted the butt of his pole in the mud and leaned on it.

BONG.

The lake answered again beneath the fog.

Verne found himself wondering why the man owned so many different things to lean on.

Was there really that much demand for leaning?

The ferryman glanced toward the sound.

Then back at Verne.

"Look, kid."

"If you accept my crossing..."

"...you accept passage under the Old Law."

"It is the only passage I can offer."

Verne blinked.

"That sounds bad."

The ferryman spread his arms in mock sympathy.

"A devastating disappointment, I'm sure."

First "kid."

Now mocking him.

Verne had dealt with disrespect before.

Marra practically specialized in it.

This, however...

This was professional.

Rain dripped from the ferryman's reed hat.

The pale lights beneath the lake slowly circled one another.

"The drowned chapel is older than the villages around it," he said.

"Older than the basin roads."

"Older than most of the names people use for this lake."

He tapped the skiff with his pole.

"These waters were once considered a boundary."

"Not merely between shores."

"This boat was built for crossings that are not entirely physical."

Verne tilted his head.

"Are you not entirely physical?"

The ferryman slapped him across the face.

It felt entirely physical.

Verne slowly rubbed his cheek.

"...All right."

"Define it."

"If you accept my offer," the ferryman said, "and I ferry you beneath the sounding bells..."

"...the lake may recognize you as one who has willingly agreed to be carried between states."

Verne stared at him in complete silence for three solid seconds.

"So..."

"...will I become not entirely physical?"

The ferryman slapped his other cheek.

"This is serious."

Verne rubbed both cheeks.

"So is this an alive-and-dead sort of thing?"

"Possibly."

"A here-and-elsewhere sort of thing?"

"Possibly."

"A mine-and-not-mine sort of thing?"

"Possibly."

"Could you please answer a single question directly?"

"You are exhausting."

The ferryman frowned.

"Possibly."

"...No, wait."

"That one doesn't work."

"Listen, kid."

"I don't make the rules."

"I just enforce them."

"You are single-handedly the least helpful and most annoying person I have ever met."

"Possibly."

This rage bait had officially surpassed Marra.

Verne looked back at his spellbook.

Three bees in a boat.

One of them looked deeply untrustworthy.

He tucked the book away before the ferryman could peer over his shoulder again.

A nasty habit of his.

A remarkably accurate document.

"So," Verne said, "you were going to trick me?"

The ferryman considered that for a moment.

"I was going to follow the rules."

"First of all," Verne said, "I hate rules."

"Second..."

"...that is just tricking with extra moss on it."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the ferryman's mouth.

"Fair."

BONG.

Another bell rolled across the basin.

This one was noticeably louder.

The puddles scattered around the square trembled.

Out on the black lake, one of the pale lights drifted close enough to the surface that Verne finally saw what it really was.

Not a lantern.

Not a fish.

A glowing ring.

It moved beneath the water...

like an eye opening.

The ferryman's expression lost what little humor it had.

"The chapel is closer to waking than I'd like."