Ferryman

Description

After a deadly train crash, the afterlife is waiting for Dylan. But that’s only if she and her intriguing Ferryman can make it across the demon-infested wasteland—and if she can bear to let him go. When Dylan wakes up after her train has crashed, she thinks she has survived unscathed. But she couldn’t be more mistaken: the bleak landscape around her isn’t Scotland, it’s a wasteland—a terrain somehow shaped by her own feelings and fears, a border to whatever awaits her in the afterlife. And the stranger sitting by the train track isn’t an ordinary teenage boy. Tristan is a Ferryman, tasked with guiding Dylan’s soul safely across the treacherous landscape, a journey he has made a thousand times before. Only this time, something’s different. The crossing, as ever, is perilous, with ravenous wraiths hounding the two at each day’s end, hungry for Dylan’s soul. But as Dylan focuses her strength on survival, with Tristan as protector, challenger, and confidant, she begins to wonder where she is truly meant to be—and what she must risk to get there. An international bestseller with a phenomenal following, the award-winning Ferryman (with its sequels Trespassers and Outcasts) is in development to be a major motion picture. Is it possible for the dead to love another? Is it possible for the ferryman to love someone? Is it possible for the dead to return to this world? McFall answers all of these questions in thoughtful, satisfying ways for the reader. . . . A highly recommend novel for teen readers.
—School Library Connection (starred review)
What happens after we die? This atmospheric, romantic Scottish fantasy offers an intriguing answer. . . . Adding touches of mystery and horror as she goes, McFall reimagines Charon of Greek mythology in this gentle, engrossing love story.
—Booklist
McFall’s depiction of the protagonists’ hunger to be loved, Dylan’s awkward self-consciousness about her body, and her burgeoning attraction to Tristan is meticulous, excruciating, and believable. . . . An escapist romance of limitless love across boundaries of life and death.
—School Library Journal
An otherworldly romance.
—Kirkus Reviews
’Ferryman’ gives readers ages 12-16 plenty to go on while they wait for the sequels.
—The Wall Street Journal Claire McFall is a former English teacher whose first book, Ferryman, won the Scottish Children’s Book Award and was long-listed for both the Branford Boase Award and the Carnegie Medal. She is also the author of Black Cairn Point (published in the US as The Last Witness), which won the inaugural Scottish Teenage Book Prize. Claire McFall is from Scotland and now lives in Colorado. PrologueHe sat on the hillside and waited.
   Another day, another job. Before him, rusting tracks disappeared into the depths of the tunnel mouth. In the gray gloom of the cloudy day, the light barely penetrated beyond the stone arch of the opening. His eyes never left the entrance. He was expectant but jaded.
   There was no thrill of excitement or flicker of interest.
   He had long since ceased to be curious. Now the only thing that mattered was completing the task. His cold, clinical eyes were lifeless.
   The wind stirred, blowing frigid air around him, but he didn’t feel the chill. He was focused, watchful.
   Any moment now.
 
One The first heavy drops of rain announced themselves, tapping out a disjointed rhythm on the tin roof over the train platform. Dylan sighed and plunged her face down deeper into her thick winter jacket, trying to warm her freezing nose. She could feel her feet going numb, and she stamped her boots on the cracked concrete to get her circulation going. She glared at the slick black train tracks littered with chip bags, crumpled beer cans, and bits of broken umbrella. The train was fifteen minutes late, and she had arrived ten minutes early in her eagerness. There was nothing to do but stand, stare, and feel her body heat slowly seeping away.
   As the rain began to fall more steadily, the stranger beside her tried in vain to read his newspaper, absorbed in a story about a gruesome murder spree in the West End. The roof provided feeble cover, and droplets fell thickly onto the paper, exploding and expanding the ink in a blotchy mess. Grumbling, he folded it up and stuffed it under his arm. The man glanced around, searching for a new distraction, and Dylan immediately looked away. She didn’t want to have to make polite conversation.
   It had not been a good day. For some reason, her alarm had failed to go off, and really it had all been downhill from there.
 
 
“Up! Get up! You’re going to be late. Were you on your phone again last night? If you can’t organize yourself, you’ll find me taking a much more active role in your social life, and you won’t
like it!”
   Her mother’s voice rang out, barging in on a dream involving a handsome stranger. Her mother’s screech had the ability to cut through glass, so Dylan’s subconscious offered little challenge. Her mother continued to complain as she marched back down the long corridor of their apartment, but Dylan had already tuned out. She was trying to remember the dream, to hold on to some of the details for later. Walking slowly . . . a hand, warm around hers . . . the scent of foliage and damp earthiness heady in the air. Dylan smiled, feeling warmth bubble in her chest, but the chill of the morning dissolved the image before she could lock his face into her mind. Sighing, she forced her eyes open and stretched, luxuriating in the cozy warmth of her thick duvet, then squinted left toward her alarm clock.
   Oh, God.
   She was going to be so late. Scrambling around her room, she tried to pull together enough clean clothes to create a full school uniform. A brush through her brown shoulder-length hair created the usual frizzy mess. Bad hair life. Dylan didn’t even glance at her reflection as she hid the frizz in a messy topknot. How other girls managed to create artfully styled, perfect hair was a mystery to her. Even when she made an effort to blow-dry and straighten it, two seconds outside was enough to return her unruly hair to its natural state.
   Not having a shower was out of the question, but today she had to make do with a quick twirl under water that was always scalding hot, irrespective of knobs turned or buttons pushed. She scraped a rough towel against her skin and yanked on the black skirt, white shirt, and green tie that made up her uniform. In her haste, she caught a jaggy nail on her last pair of tights and ripped a huge run in them. Grinding her teeth, she lobbed the tights in the garbage and clattered, bare-legged, down the hall to the kitchen.
   A glimpse in the fridge revealed nothing that could be eaten on the run. There was no time to dash into a café. She would just have to be hungry. At least she had enough money left on her school lunch card for a decent meal. It was Friday, which usually meant fish and chips—although of course there would be no salt, vinegar, or even ketchup. Not in our health-freak school, Dylan thought, rolling her eyes.
   “Have you packed?”
   Dylan turned to see her mother, Joan, standing in the kitchen doorway. She was already dressed in her uniform for a grueling twelve-hour shift at the hospital.
   “No. I’ll do it after school. The train isn’t till five thirty—there’s loads of time.” Interfering as usual, Dylan thought. Sometimes it seemed like her mum just couldn’t help herself.
Joan’s eyebrows rose in disapproval, deepening the wrinkles that ran across her forehead despite the expensive lotions and potions she applied each night.
   “You are so disorganized,” she began. “You should have had it done last night instead of messaging with your friends—”
   “All right!” Dylan snapped. “I’ll figure it out.”
   Joan looked as if she had many more things to say, but instead she simply shook her head and turned away. It was easy to guess the reason for her mother’s bad mood. She highly disapproved of Dylan’s weekend trip to see her father, the man she had once promised to have and to hold until death—or in this case, life—did them part.
   Anticipating that her mother had not given up on the matter, Dylan threw her shoes and jacket on, grabbed her bag, and stomped down the hall, trying to ignore the rumbling that was already coming from her stomach. She paused at the door to yell a compulsory goodbye—met with silence—before traipsing out into the rain. US

Additional information