Coyote
The Ferryman
Chapter I: The Lady in the Manor
Our lord has left us and, in his absence, the sun was eaten. Plucked from the sky by a dark thumb eager to snuff the light from our world. The despair one feels when they wake every morn to a lifeless sky and a ring of fire swinging from one horizon to the other is nigh on unbearable. For many, it was enough to push them past the brink and their corpses hang from trees waiting to be swallowed by the fell shadows of our curse. The Black Curse.
Ninevah was a prosperous land once. I should like to believe so but those days have long since passed in the memory of our people. The blessed Goldhearts are dead and all that remains is the broken filth we call humanity. Each time the Ring passes from one horizon to the next, a Crossing has come to an end and no matter how many I witness, nothing changes. The night persists, the flowers wilt, and the colors of our very world lie dead and still. The silken curtains hang limp on my window, collecting dust day after day and the gentle breeze that drifts past the broken glass stirs me from my sunken slumber.
The house I reside in was empty. I alone was not enough to fulfill its wish of becoming the beacon of life it once was and each night, the halls are filled with ghosts that laugh, dance, and play. How old these spirits were, I did not know, but as I sat up on my bed, I stared at the small frighten skeleton that rested in the corner with a knife by its side.
“Will you bury me today, Angelica?” the child’s voice echoed in my mind with a great longing.
I considered his proposal but only for a moment. “No,” I replied. “Lest you return as one of they who crawl.”
“It is cold here,” the child said.
I stood up and walked to the cracked mirror that hung slanted beside him. “Worry not, child. For though my blood no longer runs warm, I may still keep you company.”
My face might be considered conventionally beautiful. I had dark eyes with tired bags that hung from them but they didn’t belong to a corpse which was more than most could ask for in these times. My lips were thin and never smiled. What was there to smile about? My cheeks were sallow and starved, pulling into my face as if hoping to find a meal in my mouth some time this week. Still the skin was pale and fair, a product of my talents as a... hunter? Collector? Witch? Monster? I went by many name. My hair ran down my back in dark strands and my figure, though thin, was still drawing breath to the relief of some and the dismay of many, many others.
“Have you any plans today, Angelica?” a womanly voice echoed behind me.
I turned to find only a wooden door creaking under its own weight. Despite the terrors that stalk the night, I never close that door. Otherwise, no one would come to help me prepare for the day.
“Today, I will take the Blackheart to the Prospector and collect my bounty,” I replied. My hands, as if moving without thought, undressed me. I counted my ribs. Fortunately, none were stolen tonight by death for it is said that once you’ve lost your ribs, death will reach within you with his chilling hand and pluck your soul from your body. He lives in this manor but only to keep the others company. I imagine one day he will lie with me as well.
I donned a dark tailcoat with deep rest vest underneath accompanied by similarly dark pants and boots. A single white plume rested upon my hat and my hair was now tied into a careless ponytail. It was the least I could do to appear presentable. There is one more thing I should tell you. I am not human. Not anymore.
The Black Curse claimed more than just the sun and the Goldhearts. It also claimed our souls and within each and every human, lies a deep, sleeping sickness waiting to wake up. A madness that drives people to the brink of terror and it changes them as it changed me. I took one more glimpse at my left eye and stared into the dark pool that sat nestled within my socket. Three long, sickly scars ran down my cheek and served as a mark to all that I was not who I was. People like me are known as Wildhearts, sitting somewhere on the border between sanity and madness, always just one step away from falling fast into the Great Abyss. There would be no going back if I let go. Succumbing meant losing myself to the curse and turning, once and for all, into a Blackheart. I could think of no worse fate. These still skeletons and the ghosts in my halls were enviable. Their souls were in the Beyond, away from the reach of the Black Curse.
So, why do I live? Why do I exist at all? Perhaps it is because I fear oblivion. Perhaps I have fallen in love with being. Perhaps it saddens me to think that I would depart from the company of spirits that reside in my home. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Or… perhaps I am just a little mad.
I grabbed my rapier and hand crossbow. I am certain of one thing, however. I am obsessed with bringing about the ruin of Blackhearts. My heart quickened as I stepped down the hall one gentle foot at a time. My mouth watered at the idea of torturing the creature I kept in my dungeon. My fixation was evident in the décor I kept. Bloody skins, faces, and limbs hung from my walls and though my lips remained still, my heart raced at the scent of their decay. This is what makes Wildhearts such efficient killers of our cursed enemies. If I die, I am merely added as one among the endless hordes of monstrosities roaming the forests and caverns beyond the village walls. But if I remain, then the Blackhearts are kept at bay for just one more crossing. And I can manage to scrape enough coin to last me another crossing as well.
The old wood creaked beneath my feet as I descended the stairs, bringing with it the mournful wishes of ages past. It was an ugly thing to watch dreams decay into regrets. It lent an air to the monstrous corpses that hung around me that smelled fouler than the rot: Sorrow. It was an amusing feeling to have. In the village below the shadowed hills and weeping trees that surround my manor, sorrow is not something they believe I could feel. They are mostly right. Emotions are a memory for me. I remember having them but not how they felt. It was all the same to the villagers. The Prospector of the town was tasked with overseeing the safety of his people, however, and as disgusted as he was by the sight of me, I proved useful enough to avoid being stoned to death.
The Lady in the Manor, they call me. Lady Angelica Fane, neither Angelic, nor a Lady. I was a living wives' tale, spun about to terrify children. Not that I blame them. I stared at the steps that led deeper still into my manor. The shadows grew longer and the silence more threatening. Indeed, this was where I took Blackhearts to die: the dungeons. Thick wooden doors with bent metal hinges, hammered back into place and riddled with claw marks stood before me. Behind those doors was something darker than the pitch. Something that made the blood of vultures curl and the rats scatter. Something that tempted me, if for just a moment, to smile. For I have brought into my possession a Blackheart quite exquisite. One called It That Watches.
