Chapter 5: Finn Feenbart and the ferry made of glow dust

More about Chapter 5: Finn Feenbart and the ferry made of glow dust

The morning lay like a drinkable mist over the hills, and the grass held onto the dew so vigilantly, as if the drops were glass beads that the day must not lose. Finn trudged quietly down the bank to where the stream suddenly widened and expanded into a river, its surface twitching like the sleepless hide of an animal. He stopped, adjusted the collar of his linen shirt to let in the cool air, and touched the edge of his woven satchel, as if his thoughts resided within it. On the other side of the water, a landing stage glowed, one that hadn't been there before. Above it, a warm swarm of lights hovered. Only when the lights took shape did Finn recognize a boat, its planks not made of wood, but of fireflies joined together, humming like distant strings. A ferryman stood within: a long shadow in a cloak of moth wings, his face made of twilight. "Do you want to cross?" he asked, and although his voice was barely a breath, Finn heard every word as if it were floating on the water. "Yes," said Finn. "But I don't have any coins." "I'll take other currencies," replied the ferryman. "Something light that is heavy. Something you only notice when it's gone." Finn thought of his little treasures: a chestnut shell, rubbed smooth in the morning sun; a thread that the shadow from the Dance of the Night (back then, in chapter two) had secretly placed in his hair; the memory of the market woman's laughter from the mushroom market in Knirpsengrund, when the beetle hat had trilled a melody on the top of his head. He held the satchel tighter, and the golden pollen cloudiness in his hair glowed a little, as if it knew that a decision had to be made now. “I could give you a laugh,” Finn offered. “One that comes when someone thinks they’re lost and suddenly sees a way.” “Laughter is precious,” said the ferryman. “But be careful: if you give the wrong one, you’ll see the path the Ferryman of and no longer feel it.” Finn put a hand to his heart. “Perhaps there’s something else. A trace.” He took his foot out of his boot, placed it on the damp sand, and lifted it again. A perfect imprint remained: the grooves, the toes, the lightness of his steps, which nevertheless carried a story. “Take this footprint. It belongs to a path I haven’t yet traveled. And yet it already bears courage.” The ferryman inclined his face in the twilight. The boat hummed lower. “A trace that is yet to come. That’s good pay.” A current rippled through the firefly-covered planks, and the imprint rose into the air as a fine, sandy relief, dissolved, became sparkling dust, and sank into the boat, where it seemed to lie as a new plank. "Get in." The river took them in like a long, cool tongue. word.