The ferryman stared broodily into the water. His skiff lay beneath the overhanging branches of a willow; its leaves trailed in the water. The tide was rising and he smelt the salt tang of the ocean, just out of sight behind the bend in the river. The ferryman disliked the ocean with its wild waves and its crashing cliffs. It was full of things older than he was, things he feared.
Behind the thick banks of brown cloud of the southern bank, he knew the citadel still stood, despite the changing world. But for how long? In the mountains at his back, the green magic was working. Slowly, to be sure, but he saw signs of it even here, within sight of the Asphodel Fields. The blight was sinking into the earth, the wounds healing over. The willow that poured its branches like a cascade about his little boat was…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 