The Ferryman


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Ferryman is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 Copyright © 2023 by Justin Cronin
 All rights reserved.
 Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
 Ballantine is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Cronin, Justin, author.
 Title: The ferryman: a novel / Justin Cronin.
 Description: First edition. | New York, NY: Ballantine Books, [2023]
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022020852 (print) | LCCN 2022020853 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525619475 (hardback; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780525619482 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3553.R542 F47 2023 (print) | LCC PS3553.R542 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23/eng/20220502
 LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2022020852
 LC ebook record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2022020853
 International ISBN 9780593722640
 Ebook ISBN 9780525619482
 randomhousebooks.com
 Book design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno, adapted for ebook
 Cover design: Scott Biel
 Cover image: David Baileys/Getty Images
 ep_prh_6.1_143319816_c0_r0
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 He pass’d the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
 Where angels tremble, while they gaze,
 He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
 Clos’d his eyes in endless night.
 —Thomas Gray, “The Progress of Poesy”
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 Epigraph
 
 
 Prologue
 
 
 Part I: The Last Beautiful Day
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 
 Part II: The Storm
 
 Chapter 7
 
 
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Chapter 9
 
 
 Chapter 10
 
 
 Chapter 11
 
 
 
 Part III: The Lost Girl
 
 Chapter 12
 
 
 Chapter 13
 
 
 Chapter 14
 
 
 Chapter 15
 
 
 Chapter 16
 
 
 Chapter 17
 
 
 Chapter 18
 
 
 Chapter 19
 
 
 Chapter 20
 
 
 Chapter 21
 
 
 Chapter 22
 
 
 
 Part IV: The Nursery
 
 Chapter 23
 
 
 Chapter 24
 
 
 Chapter 25
 
 
 
 Part V: The Annex
 
 Chapter 26
 
 
 Chapter 27
 
 
 Chapter 28
 
 
 
 Part VI: The Antechamber
 
 Chapter 29
 
 
 Chapter 30
 
 
 Chapter 31
 
 
 
 Part VII: The Man Who Broke the Sky
 
 Chapter 32
 
 
 Chapter 33
 
 
 Chapter 34
 
 
 Chapter 35
 
 
 Chapter 36
 
 
 Chapter 37
 
 
 Chapter 38
 
 
 Chapter 39
 
 
 
 Part VIII: The Departed
 
 Chapter 40
 
 
 Chapter 41
 
 
 
 Epilogue: The Faces in the Stars
 
 
 Dedication
 Acknowledgments
 By Justin Cronin
 About the Author
 
 
 _143319816_
 
 
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 
 Dawn is breaking when she creeps from the house. The air is cool and fresh; birds are singing in the trees. Everywhere, the sound of the sea, the world’s great metronome, beating beneath a velvety sky of diminishing stars. In her pale nightdress, she moves through the garden. Her pace is not hesitant, merely unhurried, almost fond. How like a ghost she must look, this solitary figure floating among the flower beds, the burbling fountains, the hedges trimmed with creases sharp enough to draw blood. Behind her, the house is dark as a monolith, though soon its seaward-facing windows will swell with light.
 It is not an easy thing, to leave a life, a home. The details dig trenches within one—scents, sounds, associations, rhythms. The creaking floorboard in the upstairs hall. The smell that greets one in the entryway at the end of a day. The light switch that meets the hand without thought in a darkened room. She could have stepped safely among the furniture wearing a blindfold. Twenty years. She would have twenty more if she could.
 It was after dinner that she’d told Malcolm the news. A fine meal, one he loved: broiled lamb chops, risotto with cheese, asparagus grilled in a film of oil; good wine. Coffee and small crème pastries for dessert. They had decided to eat outside; it was such a beautiful night. A riot of flowers on the table, the tick-tock of the sea, candlelight glazing their faces. You will not know when it happens, she told him. I will simply be gone. Powerless, she watched him as he absorbed the blow, his face in his hands. So soon? Does it have to be now? Come to bed with me, she commanded—her body would say to him the things that words could not—and after, she held him as he wept. The dark hours passed. At last the lassitude of grief engulfed him. Wrapped in her arms, he slept.
 Farewell, gardens, she thinks, farewell, house. Farewell, birds and trees and long, unhurried days, and while I’m at it, farewell to all the lies I’ve had to tell.
 She is growing older. All the things a woman can do, she has done. The creams and extracts. The hours of exercise and meticulously observed diet. The small, discreet surgeries that even Malcolm does not know about. She has applied every resource to the slowing of the years, but that is at its end. She had decided to wait until someone remarked on it, and then, out of the blue, it happened.
 “Are you taking care of yourself, Cynthia?”
 They had just played tennis, the usual Tuesday group, a dozen women, all good; afterward, glasses of iced tea and salads everybody just picked at, no matter how hungry they were. She hadn’t played well. She had played, in fact, quite badly. Her knees were sore and slow; the sun felt too strong, sapping her strength. It was time she felt