John Smith ducks out of the store shed and into the night air, following the Ferryman through a strip of reeds toward a low, black moored barge. The river smells of mud and cold iron. Lantern light from the bank flickers behind them, thin as a warning.
The Ferryman
Below, quickly. If anyone follows, they find wood and ropes, not us.
He lifts a hatch in the barge deck, revealing a cramped hold stacked with oars, nets, and damp sailcloth. Healer Gaston lowers himself first, careful with his bandaged hands. The Boatman glances back toward the shore, jaw tight.
The Boatman
I like this less than the boat I am leaving, but I like pursuers even less.
John Smith
How many men are on our heels?
The Ferryman
Enough to make noise. Not enough to search every plank on this bank, if we keep still.
John Smith drops into the hold last. The hatch thuds shut above him, and the little chamber becomes all tar, wet hemp, and breath. Somewhere on the river, oars creak in the dark, then fade.
Stay hidden aboard the barge
Get past the pursuers