If we have unearned luck
Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
“Hey!” said Peter. “You didn’t make that up — William Shakespeare did!”
Puck smiled. “Yes, but those few words first did come from my lips.”
The Ferryman bowed. “I accept your verse. Who goes next?”
“I guess I will,” said Peter. He took a deep breath.
There once was a bright boy from Clarksbury
w-who was confronted with much sound and fury ...
He did his best ...
To keep up with the ... rest?
Cause he wanted to go home in a hurry.
The Ferryman considered for a moment, then said, “I accept your verse. And now you, girl.”
Rosemary stood, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, but no words came.
“Rosemary?” said Peter.
She shot him a look of desperation.
Peter stepped towards the Ferryman. “I can do another one.”
“No!” The Ferryman pushed Peter back. “It has to come from her.”
Rosemary swallowed hard. “One proton, two proton, three proton, four ... hydrogen, helium, lithium ... more?”
The Ferryman looked at her with thundering silence.
Rosemary drooped. Then she looked up. “You said there was another fare?”
“Failing the first fare, instead of three tasks between you, you now have six.”
Rosemary went white. “Six poems?”
“No. You must show me that you believe in six impossible things before you may cross.”
“Like Alice in Wonderland,” Peter muttered.
“The White Queen, actually,” said Puck. “I’ll start. I live within a house the size of a thimble, and I believe that all that I say is a lie.”
“Hey!” said Peter. “If everything you say is a lie, then how —”
“Shh,” said Puck. “Your turn.”
Before Peter could say anything, Rosemary jumped in. “Well, I’m standing right here, and that’s impossible.”
“Go ahead, take the easy one!” Peter looked as if smoke was going to rise from his head. He turned away and gnawed a knuckle before snapping his fingers.
“Bumblebees!”
“What?” said Rosemary.
“They say it’s impossible for bumblebees to fly, but they do!”
“That’s because they flap their wings,” huffed Rosemary. “If they didn’t, they’d drop like stones.”
The Ferryman’s voice cut between them. “Two more.”
They stood in silence, looking around for inspiration. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets, digging a toe in the paper-coloured sand. The waves slapped the shore. Suddenly he blurted out, “I ... I believe my parents are alive. I wake up and I think that they’re downstairs making breakfast and then I ... is that okay?”
“And you?” The Ferryman turned towards Rosemary.
Rosemary had been staring at Peter; she jerked up at the Ferryman’s voice. Everyone stood still and silent. Finally a small smile dawned on her face. She took a deep breath. “I believe I can save Theo.”
The Ferryman put forth a long hand to the boat. “Board.”
They clambered aboard. Peter and Rosemary jammed themselves into a narrow bench while Puck lounged on the remaining seat. The Ferryman stood at the prow. Without oars or sails, the boat glided forward into the sea. As Rosemary glanced at the grey-on-black horizon, Peter nudged her. “Um, the fare ... isn’t saving Theo the reason we’re here?”
She looked at him. “So?”
“So? Well, if you believe it and it’s impossible ... aren’t we in trouble? Or isn’t it impossible?”
“Do you want off this boat?” asked Rosemary.
“Just asking!”
Rosemary turned away. She dipped her hand in the water and wrinkled her nose at the faint chemical smell, like permanent markers. “Why is this water so dark?”
“Water it is not, Rosemary,” said Puck. “This is the Sea of Ink.”
She pulled her arm out. It was black to her elbow. “This is ink?”
“Indelible ink, I fear.”
She tried to wipe her arm clean on her jeans, but only smeared them. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”
“The Sea of Ink surrounds the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “It would be wise to keep your hands within the boat. You too, Peter.”
He pointed to a wave on the sea. Then Rosemary saw that it wasn’t a wave, but the silhouette of a girl, a few years younger than she was, rising out of the water. Her black mouth was open, taking in a great gulp of air before she sank back beneath the waves.
“A character is born,” said Puck.
Rosemary shuddered.
Something bumped the boat. Peter and Rosemary looked over the side and saw the dorsal fin of a great black shark sink below the surface. Peter pulled his arm away from the edge. “Can they capsize the boat?”
“No, I think not,” said Puck. “The Ferryman has crossed this sea since I was put to paper. Few of his fares have been lost.”
“Few?” squeaked Peter.
“The sea is getting thick with characters,” said Rosemary.
Other shapes bobbed on the waves. The silhouette of a man in a bowler hat and a suit, carrying a long, black umbrella, walked upright on a swell. He tipped his hat to a teenage girl who cartwheeled past, half submerged. Nearby, a warrior held his black sword high as he sank beneath the surface.
“All the characters in fiction come from here?” asked Rosemary.
“Most,” said Puck. “Legendary characters are uncertain of birth, but King Arthur rises every fortnight.”
Peter pointed ahead. “I see the other jetty.”
The boat coasted up to the jetty and stopped with a crunch against the shore. The beach of white sand stretched ahead for several feet before becoming darker and stonier. Trees rose up further inland, and a forest stretched into the distance.
Puck leapt lightly out and helped Rosemary and Peter step onto the jetty. Then he crossed his arms and bowed low to the Ferryman. He gave Peter and Rosemary a glance, and they mimicked the gesture. The Ferryman bowed in return.
Rosemary started up the beach, with Peter close behind, but Puck stopped them and turned them back to the sea.
“Look,” he said. “New characters begin their stories.”
Black shapes surfaced from the ink and crawled onto the shore. There, the ink dried on them, changing colour, and they got to their feet as princes and princesses, dwarfs and elves, orphans and detectives, monsters and villains. From the shore, they walked in straight lines to their destinies.
Peter