The night watch guard's Arc

Chapter 8 of 10

The guard walked the shore with the lake on his left. The water gave back no reflection. He needed a boat. He had no boat. Every minute he spent hunting for one was a minute the missing man's trail went colder on the far bank. He kept walking. His lantern picked out reeds, then rocks, then a shape ahead that did not belong to the shore. It was a signpost in a glass bowl of moon water, its letters picked out in yellow on dark purple. The Enchanted Ferry. A narrow path led from the sign to a small dock tucked behind a bend. At the end of the dock sat a cottage, and outside the cottage stood a sphynx cat in a starred robe, holding a lantern high. She watched him come without moving. "You want across," she said. It was not a question. He told her yes. He told her a man was missing. She nodded once. "I've seen your kind. Get in." Her boat was a dark purple skiff with a moon-shaped lantern hung above the mast. She stepped down first and set her lantern on the bow. Before she cast off, she knelt and dipped a small jar into the lake. She held it up, tilted it, watched the water inside. "Clear tonight," she said. "We can cross." She capped the jar and slipped it into a pocket of her robe. He stepped aboard. The skiff did not tip when he moved to the bench. She rowed without speaking. The lantern above them threw a soft ring on the water. Once she lifted her chin toward a patch of lake off the bow that stayed flat and black under the moon, and steered wide of it. The far bank came up faster than he expected. She brought the skiff into a hollow in the treeline and held it steady against a root while he climbed out. "I wait one hour," she said. "Then I go." He nodded and turned toward the trees. A web blocked the hollow. It stretched from trunk to trunk, thick as rope, and pale butterflies hung caught in it, wings still twitching. A faint purple glow ran along the strands. He would not touch it with his hands. He crouched, found a long stick at the roots, and lifted it. He wound the web onto the stick the way a spindle takes thread, turning slow so the strands did not snap into his face. The butterflies came away with the web. He set the loaded stick against a rock and stepped through the cleared gap. The forest closed over him. He walked ten paces before his lantern caught what was pressed into the mud at his feet. A paw print. Wider than his own boot. Water had not yet filled it. He crouched and put his hand near the edge without touching. The print was fresh. Whatever made it was still ahead of him, and close.