Wintersmith

gloom.
    “Aye,” said Rob Anybody grimly. “There are. Think o’ somethin’ solid, will ye?”
    “Something solid?!”
    “I’m nae jokin’! Think o’ a nice big mountain, or a hammer! Whatever ye do, dinna wish or regret or hope!”
    Roland closed his eyes and then reached up to touch them.
    “I can still see! But my eyes are shut!”
    “Aye! And ye’ll see more wi’ yer een shut. Look aroond ye, if ye dare!”
    Roland, his eyes shut, took a few steps forward and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Perhaps things were slightly more gloomy. And then he saw it—a flash of bright orange, a line in the dark that came and went.
    “What was that?” he asked.
    “We dinna ken whut they call themselves. We call ’em bogles,” said Rob.
    “They are flashes of light?”
    “Ach, that one was a long way away,” said Rob. “If ye want tae see one close up, it’s standin’ right beside ye….”
    Roland spun around.
    “Ah, ye see, ye made a classic mistake right there,” said Rob, conversationally. “Ye opened yer eyes!”
    Roland shut his eyes. The bogle was standing six inches away from him.
    He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. Hundreds of Feegles were watching him, he knew.
    At first he thought: It’s a skeleton. When it flashed again, it looked like a bird, a tall bird like a heron. Then it was a stick figure, like a kid would draw. Over and over again it scribbled itself against the darkness in thin, burning lines.
    It scribbled itself a mouth and leaned forward for a moment, showing hundreds of needle teeth. Then it vanished.
    There was a murmur from the Feegles.
    “Aye, ye done weel,” said Rob Anybody. “Ye stared it in the mouth and ye didna take so much as a step back.”
    “Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run,” Roland muttered.
    Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy’s ear.
    “Aye,” he whispered, “I ken that well enough! There be a lot o’ men who became heroes ’cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an’ that’s good. There’ll be more o’ them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep ’em oot!”
    “Why, what do they—? No, don’t tell me!” said Roland.
    He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn’t miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.
    There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.
    “All right,” said Roland grimly. “Now tell me what they do.”
    “They eat yer memories,” said Rob Anybody. “Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an’ hope are like food! They’re vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no’ looked after.”
    “And how can I kill them?”
    “Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won’t attack ye yet, and we’ve got a job tae do.”
    “I hate this place!”
    “Aye, hells is a lot more lively,” said Rob Anybody. “Slow doon now—we’re at the river.”
    A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.
    “Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”
    Y ES .
    He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.
    “Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”
    O H NO , NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN , said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED .
    “Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ’cuz we’s deid already.”
    The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.
    B UT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN , he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.
    “Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.
    “Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can