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JOURNEY TO MIRANGA ISLAND
Part IX: Returning Home

         The ferryman’s pole rocked back and forth in his hand, its other end already in the water, when Declan and Balric bounded onto the dock.  His back was to them, and he was poised to launch.  
“Hold!” Declan shouted.
The pilot turned to face them.  “Well now, just in the nick’o time.  I was leavin this place…an the two of ya woulda been stranded.”
“We’re back,” Balric gasped out.  It was all he could muster between heavy breaths.  
“And how did ya enjoy Saltana?” the ferryman asked with a tone that belied an impish mirth.
“We got what we came for,” Declan replied.  “We’re both still alive.  That’s all that matters.”
“Indeed ya are, boyo.  Very impressive.  I haven’t seen one livin soul survive this land in three hundred years.  I’ve never seen two make it out,” the pilot said.
“Well, we’re made of a different stock than the fellows you’re used to dealing with.  Heartier.  Meatier.  More seasoned in the face of death,” Declan panted proudly before turning to his manservant.  “Come on Balric, it’s time to go home.”
Declan climbed in and sat down.  He was silent for a moment, looking off toward the horizon; and the land of the living that awaited them.  He suddenly came to, having forgotten how long he was sitting in the skiff and looked back to the dock.  Both Balric and the ferryman were standing there.  Neither one of them had moved.
“Is something wrong?  We need to get back to the Windy Biscuit immediately,” Declan said.
“The young lord has forgotten the rules,” the ferryman sneered at Balric.
“What rules?” Declan asked impatiently.
“Somethin…from the land of the dead, master,” Balric replied quietly.
“Yer fat friend is right.  When I brought ya over from the land o’the livin, I required a boon from there,” the ferryman explained as he moved his cloak to reveal Declan’s old dagger which had been given as payment for the trip across the threshold.  “To take ya back from the land o’the dead, I’ll need a token from here.”
“But we don’t have a token from here,” Declan was getting frustrated.
“Don’t ya, boyo?” the pilot said smoothly.  
“You can’t mean my map?” Declan said as frustration turned to anger in the pit of his stomach.
“That’s what he means sir,” Balric said.
“Of course that’s what he means Balric!  Because wouldn’t that be the perfect kick in the teeth at the end of this hellacious quest!” Declan shouted.  He stopped himself then and breathed in.
“Let me go back master!” Balric blurted out.  “Let me barter for somethin from this place.  At least you can keep the map and continue the search.”
Declan turned to his manservant.  “No Balric.  We go back together, or not at all.  Give me the map.”
Balric already had the map in his hands.  On the run back to the dock, in an effort to distract himself from the intense pain of it all, he was reading over it.  He rolled it back up gently and handed it to Declan.  
Declan sat in the skiff holding it.  Looking at it.  This thing was the key; the promise of the hideout that had eluded him for so long.  The promise of being reunited with his sister.  The promise of justice on the man who took her.  But the promise was broken now.  With a sigh, he handed the map over to the ferryman.
“Thank ya boyo.  The token is paid,” the pilot said with a triumphant lilt.  
“Just, please…be silent,” Declan said.
“Master?” Balric asked as he climbed into the skiff.
“Yes Balric?”
“I know it wasn’t easy sir.  But I thought it was very brave to give him the map.”
“Thank you my friend.  I suppose bravery still counts for something.”
All was silent on the trip back to Declan’s grand ship, the Windy Biscuit.  There was nothing to see either.  The miracles that had baffled and dazzled the pair of heroes when they first crossed the threshold were absent on the journey back; as though they had responded to Declan’s mood and decided to honor his defeat.

Declan and Balric said nothing.  They simply sat, looking oppositely out at the sea.  It was calm, and the dawn was breaking.  But even the light of the sun could not warm their spirits.  

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