The Tale of Benji the Bard

The Tale of Benji the Bard was written as part of Writing Battle’s Autumn Short Story Challenge (2000 words or less). The prompts were unique to me, and were as follows:
- GENRE: Heist
- CHARACTER: Musician
- SETTING: Hostel
My story placed top in its House (winning 10 out of 10 duels), then made its way to the Top 16 before being won out by the Tournament Winner :)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Death and Suicide (Abstract, not depicted)

Benji the Bard knew he had died. He hadn’t felt the exact moment of his death, like pain or a flash of white light, but he knew it all the same. Watching the inferno coalesce in the depths of the dragon’s throat, close enough to smell its putrid breath — well, there are only so many ways that can end. 

He wondered idly if his party members would make it out of the beast’s den. Perhaps not. Perhaps he would see them momentarily.

Benji surveyed his surroundings. He had spent plenty of time thinking about the afterlife; he’d even penned a few catchy tavern songs about it. Yet none of his musings quite aligned with the sight before him. 

A two-story building stood nestled within a dark, foggy landscape. It looked old, but well-made, with a sturdy wooden exterior. He could just make out the sign hanging above the front door: Hellsgate Hostel. It swayed in an absent breeze. 

“Well then,” Benji muttered to himself, feeling the ground solidly beneath his feet. “Best be on with it.” 

Benji wasn’t old. At least, he didn’t consider himself old. His blonde hair hid the evidence of ever-growing greys, and he could still drink ale like the most bright-eyed adventurers. So, when Benji followed the dirt path to the hostel’s door, he did not quiver as he once did — back when every chest could be a mimic, and every dungeon could be the den of a lich king. He merely took a deep breath and readied himself to face whatever lay within. It couldn’t be worse than an ancient red dragon, he mused as he opened the door.

The lobby of Hellsgate Hostel looked much like any traveller’s accommodation. Comfortable couches filled the space, a few of which surrounded a crackling fireplace. There were a dozen or so people — or were they spirits? — seated throughout. Some sat in silence, while others chatted quietly with their neighbors. He noted all manner of ancestries, ages, and creeds; and something in his heart eased with that knowledge. Simply looking at them, he felt like he knew a little of their stories. That one there was clearly a cleric to the Sun God, and the other there died of old age. He had always been a good reader of people, but he felt a heightened sense of connectedness here — perhaps an effect of the hostel and the shared liminal space. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a child. He quickly averted his eyes.

Benji looked around for a reception desk, but found only a sign upon the wall: 

Welcome to Hellsgate.
See The Ferryman when you are ready.

“Ready for what?” Benji asked no one in particular.

“To die,” a gravelly voice behind him responded.  Benji turned to find a brawny dwarf sitting on a large ottoman, fiery red beard braided into intricate knots. “The Ferryman takes ya there.” 

“The Ferryman?” Benji repeated. 

“Charon to the Greeks, Manannán mac Lir to the Irish; he goes by many names,” explained the gentleman next to the dwarf. He looked younger, with slender features and pointed ears that betrayed his elven lineage. His feet were propped up on a nearby coffee table. “You’re dead, mate.” 

“I know that,” Benji replied, eyebrows furrowed. “As are you, I assume.” 

“Least for now,” the dwarf noted, fiddling with one of his braids. “Say, you a bard?”

He followed the dwarf’s gaze, which had settled on the lyre strapped to Benji’s back. It took a moment for the dwarf’s words to properly register. “I am, ye—wait, come again?” 

The two men smiled. The elf gestured to an empty seat next to him. “I’m Azaril, and this here is Dalin. Take a seat, Music Man, and allow us to elucidate you on your path to life anew.” 

***

Benji sat with Dalin and Azaril for some time. He listened patiently, only interrupting with a few clarification questions as they explained their plan.

“Let me make sure I understand you properly,” Benji began, hands steepled in front of him. “You intend to steal The Ferryman’s boat, and to navigate it back towards the realm of the living.” 

“That’s right.” Dalin gave a curt nod. “We’ve been watchin’ him for some time. He always takes it downriver. Down, you see? And we’ll paddle it upriver.” 

“Mhmm,” Benji muttered thoughtfully. “And you require me to…disable him?” 

“Precisely,” Azaril interrupted. “He can’t be killed. Dalin has tried. But we have no reason to believe he can’t be affected by mind magic — specifically the kind you charismatic sort can do.” Azaril gave a little flourish with his fingers, mimicking a pianist. “You know, modifying memories, putting guards to sleep…” 

“Which is why we need ya,” Dalin cut in. “Az is real sneaky-like, and I can row for days. But The Ferryman never leaves his boat. If we can just get him away from the thing, at least long enough to lose him in the fog…” 

“We’re back among the living!” Azaril concluded, clapping his hands together. “So, what do you say?” 

Benji pursed his lips in thought. He was, remarkably, quite content to die. Sure, he’d lived a storied life, filled with more loot and lust than most adventurers see in a lifetime; but all that diddling around left him with little more than stories to impress the local barflies. There wasn’t much to come back to. Yet these two were so earnest in their plea, it was hard to deny them. Moreover, based on their testimony, prior attempts to thwart The Ferryman hadn’t left them any worse for wear. What could be the harm in trying?

And if I do make it back, Benji thought, this could very well inspire my magnum opus. He could already hear the accompanying fiddles. 

“Alright. When do we start?”

***

When Benji awoke in the middle of the night, he found himself once again in a foggy landscape. This time, however, there was no hostel. For a moment, he wondered if he’d died again, before he realized that would be silly. (One cannot die twice.) Things became a little clearer when his eyes adjusted, and he saw the immense hooded figure standing before him. 

Benji the Bard, a whispering voice spoke. It sounded like a gasp, like someone’s last breath of air before their heart stopped beating. He determined the figure spoke directly into his mind, for no lips could articulate such a sound. I am The Ferryman. 

“Have you come for me?” Benji asked. “I thought I was to meet you at the ferry.” 

You will come when you are ready, The Ferryman clarified. Benji remembered the sign upon the wall of the lobby. I am here to beseech you. 

Benji waited. He wasn’t sure how to respond to such a thing. 

You have been tasked with thwarting me — to use your magic to influence my mind. It was not a question. I ask that you turn the tables. The elf and dwarf have remained in the hostel for far too long. They fear death and refuse to move on. It is in your power to compel them to do so. 

Benji’s mouth went dry. He was capable of such a thing, of course. This sort of enchantment was elementary for a practiced bard. Compelling, commanding, and coaxing were practically second-nature for him. But he had never compelled someone to die. That seemed to cross some ethical boundary he hadn’t considered before.

It is for their own good, The Ferryman added. Souls are not meant to dawdle at Hellsgate. 

Before Benji had a chance to reply, his mind went black, and The Ferryman was gone. 

***

“Benji! You alright, mate?” Azaril waved a hand in front of his face. “Gotta get your head on straight, it’s almost showtime.” 

Indeed, the trio were gathered in the hostel lobby, readying themselves to face the Ferryman. (Benji hadn’t disclosed that he had, in fact, already done so.) He had been feeling uneasy since he awoke, prone to staring off and slow to respond — and his two companions had most certainly noticed.

“Remember, you’ll stand at a distance and play a tune to lure him away from the river.” Azaril over-annunciated every word, as if Benji were thick in the head. “Meanwhile, I’ll unmoor the boat. Dalin will join a few meters upriver—” 

“And once The Ferryman is nice n’ charmed, you’ll run to meet us,” Dalin added.

They both stared at Benji, waiting for his confirmation.

“I…I’m not so sure about this.” 

Benji’s voice sounded small. The words came out like a question. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he presented himself so meekly. It was strange. Then again, these were strange circumstances. 

Azaril and Dalin both furrowed their brows. Dalin looked confused. Azaril looked furious. 

But there was more there…something beneath. Benji watched their faces, reaching out with that sixth sense he’d always had — the one that helped him to see past people’s masks and into their hearts. 

The Ferryman was right. Beneath the veneer of enthusiasm and willfulness, Dalin and Azaril were positively terrified. It wasn’t that they wanted to live; they simply didn’t want to die. The realization made Benji want to cry. 

Azaril began to speak, his face growing red with exasperation, but Benji did not hear him. His thoughts were tangled up in knots. The Ferryman’s words echoed in his mind: Compel them. It is for their own good. 

It felt wrong. Their lives were stolen from them. What sort of monster would steal away the one choice they could still make?

His heart was moved. And so, Benji did what any bard would do: he began to sing. It was a simple tune, one he had learned when he was a boy; the sort of lullaby all mothers sang to their restless children.

The night is dark and everlong,
But listen to my voice and song.
There’s naught to fear of sleep and dreams,
For not all dark is as it seems.

There was no magic to his words — at least not the kind that commanded people against their will. Azaril opened his mouth to interrupt, but Dalin set a heavy hand on his arm. Benji continued to sing, his song filling the air. His companions listened. Then, when the verses ended, and there were no more lyrics to draw from, Benji improvised his own. Only after he himself began to cry did he find the song’s end.

The three stood in silence for several moments. Benji watched their tears fall, refusing to wipe away his own. Then, with a hearty pat on his arm, Dalin turned to his friend. “C’mon, Az. I think it’s about time we get some rest.” 

***

Benji watched as the dwarf and elf boarded The Ferryman’s boat. It was just the two of them; the others in the lobby must not have been ready just yet. 

They will be, eventually, a familiar voice rasped in his mind. 

Have there been others? Benji asked. He sensed The Ferryman knew his meaning. 

Yes. But they always come around, one way or another, The Ferryman replied. 

And what happens before they do? In truth, Benji already knew the answer.

They suffer. 

It was stated as a fact, without empathy or sadness. Benji did not blame him, for it was not in Death’s nature to mourn.

But not anymore, Benji concluded. 

Not anymore, The Ferryman agreed. Then he, his boat, and two weary souls disappeared into the fog. 

With that, Benji returned to the lobby of Hellsgate Hostel, humming the tune of his newest creation. 

***

This is the tale of Benji the Bard 

Who awaits us all in death.

His songs will soothe your hearts gone hard 

And release each long held breath.

For death is not a thing to fear, 

Or a destiny to upend.

So long as Benji's voice is near, 

You'll find peace at journey’s end.

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