Homecoming

The wharf hangs like a broken jaw, green-brown tendrils of oar weed hanging from the rotting wood, and the slump-shouldered roof and blind windows of the quay-master’s cabin peer through the mist.

A squall of river gulls fight for a perch on a crooked pile - its top slick with green river slime - and their black predatory eyes watch askew at the muffled shapes on the launch as it cuts through the tendrils of fog that drift over the oily water.

Splint, the boatman huffs into the wide warmth of his scarf as he sculls the narrow boat through the dark, still waters of Heron Flood. The gulls fall silent as the bark passes, and the only sound is the dull plunge-and-wash rhythm of the oars and the breathing of the oarsman and his passenger.

The silence becomes more profound as they pass beneath the carved arches of Everild Bridge, the bridge of drowned men. Splint inhales as the shadow of the arch approaches, holding his breath as he glides beneath the gaze of ancient sailors lost to the Great Verdant. His passenger chuffs a barking laugh at the old man as the faces drift above and beside them.

“Still believe that old nonsense, Splint?” His voice is heavy and behind the thick scarf his accent unreadable.

“Best be safe,” the old man growls as the light returned, “Drowned men have a habit of coming home in these parts.” In the shadow of his leather-peaked cap his eyes glitter with amusement.

The bark approaches the wharf and Splint grabs a coil of rope and stands; his balance sure from hard years of river work. He leans back, throws the loop over the slime-crusted pile and begins the laborious task of pulling the small vessel into the sagging steps, hand over gnarled hand. The joints of his fingers are swollen and red from cold, but still deft, as he ties the knots and secures his craft.

“Everild,” he mutters, “get up those steps and then cross to the Dented Flagon, take a right, then a…”

“I know the way,” his passenger mumbles, “I was born here.”