Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

He drew his sword and peered through the gloom.

Shadows parted and a very old woman in tattered, threadbare clothes shuffled past, dragging a large cardboard box behind her. It bounced awkwardly as she tugged at it. She didn't even glance at Roland.

He lowered the sword.

"I thought there'd be monsters," he said as the old woman disappeared into the gloom.

"Aye," said Rob Anybody grimly. "There are. Think o' somethin' solid, will ye?"

"Something solid?!"

"I'm nae jokin'! Think o' a nice big mountain, or a hammer! Whatever ye do, dinna wish or regret or hope!"

Roland closed his eyes and then reached up to touch them.

"I can still see! But my eyes are shut!"

"Aye! And ye'll see more wi' yer een shut. Look aroond ye, if ye dare!"

Roland, his eyes shut, took a few steps forward and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Perhaps things were slightly more gloomy. And then he saw it—a flash of bright orange, a line in the dark that came and went.

"What was that?" he asked.

"We dinna ken whut they call themselves. We call 'em bogles," said Rob.

"They are flashes of light?"

"Ach, that one was a long way away," said Rob. "If ye want tae see one close up, it's standin' right beside ye…."

Roland spun around.

"Ah, ye see, ye made a classic mistake right there," said Rob, conversationally. "Ye opened yer eyes!"

Roland shut his eyes. The bogle was standing six inches away from him.

He didn't flinch. He didn't scream. Hundreds of Feegles were watching him, he knew.

At first he thought: It's a skeleton. When it flashed again, it looked like a bird, a tall bird like a heron. Then it was a stick figure, like a kid would draw. Over and over again it scribbled itself against the darkness in thin, burning lines.

It scribbled itself a mouth and leaned forward for a moment, showing hundreds of needle teeth. Then it vanished.

There was a murmur from the Feegles.

"Aye, ye done weel," said Rob Anybody. "Ye stared it in the mouth and ye didna take so much as a step back."

"Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run," Roland muttered.

Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy's ear.

"Aye," he whispered, "I ken that well enough! There be a lot o' men who became heroes 'cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an' that's good. There'll be more o' them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep 'em oot!"

"Why, what do they—? No, don't tell me!" said Roland.

He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn't miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.

There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.

"All right," said Roland grimly. "Now tell me what they do."

"They eat yer memories," said Rob Anybody. "Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an' hope are like food! They're vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no' looked after."

"And how can I kill them?"

"Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won't attack ye yet, and we've got a job tae do."

"I hate this place!"

"Aye, hells is a lot more lively," said Rob Anybody. "Slow doon now—we're at the river."

A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.

"Ah, I think I've heard of this," said Roland. "There's a ferryman, right?"

YES.

He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.

"Hi, pal," said Rob Anybody cheerfully. "How're ye doin'?"

OH NO, NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED.

"Just a wee misunderstandin', ye ken," said Rob, sliding down Roland's armor. "Ye have tae let us in, 'cuz we's deid already."

The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.

BUT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.

"Not until I'm on the other side," Roland said firmly.

"Oh, c'mon!" said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. "Ye can see he's a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?"

The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.

OH, VERY WELL THEN.

The Feegles swarmed aboard the rotting boat with their usual enthusiasm and cries of "Crivens!" "Where's the booze on this cruise?" and "We're right oot in the Styx noo!" and Roland climbed in with care, watching the ferryman suspiciously.

The figure pulled on the big oar, and they set off with a creak and then, regrettably, and to the ferryman's disgust, to the sound of singing. More or less singing, that is, at every possible speed and tempo and with no regard at all for the tune:

"Row row yer row boat boat boaty boat down boat stream boat merrily stream like a bird on the boa—"

WILL YOU SHUT UP?

"—bonny boat row stream stream boat boat row yer boat down the merrily stream row merrily merrily boat—"

THIS IS HARDLY APPROPRIATE!

"Down the boat boat down the merrily stream stream stream merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily boat!"

"Mr. Anybody?" said Roland as they glided jerkily along.

"Aye?"

"Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?"

"Ah, that'd be Horace," said Rob Anybody. "He's Daft Wullie's pal. He's no' bein' a nuisance, is he?"

"No. But he's trying to sing!"

"Aye, all blue cheeses hum a bit."

"Mnamnam mnam mnamnam," sang Horace.

The boat bumped against the far bank, and the ferryman stepped ashore quickly.

Rob Anybody scrambled up Roland's ragged chain-mail sleeve and whispered: "When I gi'e ye the word, run for it!"

"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."