The Ferryman

Informationen zum Autor Justin Cronin Klappentext NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Next to impossible to put down . . . exciting, mysterious, and totally satisfying.STEPHEN KING From the author of The Passage comes a riveting standalone novel about a group of survivors on a hidden island utopiawhere the truth isn't what it seems. A POLYGON BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR The islands of Prospera lie in a vast ocean, in splendid isolation from the rest of humanityor whatever remains of it. Citizens of the main island enjoy privileged lives. They are attended to by support staff who live on a cramped neighboring island, where whispers of revolt are brewingbut for the Prosperans, life is perfection. And when the end of life approaches, they're sent to a mysterious third island, where their bodies are refreshed, their memories are wiped away, and they return to start life anew. Proctor Bennett is a ferryman, whose job it is to enforce the retirement process when necessary. He never questions his work, until the day he receives a cryptic message: The world is not the world. These simple words unlock something he has secretly suspected. They seep into strange dreams of the stars and the sea. They give him the unshakable feeling that someone is trying to tell him something important. Something no one could possibly imagine, something that could change the fate of humanity itself. Leseprobe 1­ The dream was always the same. I am swimming in the sea. Below the surface, breath held, I push my way forward through a liquid, blue-­green world. My limbs feel clean and strong, my strokes effortlessly powerful; sunlight shimmers on the surface, far above. On a trail of exhaled bubbles, I ascend. The sun is setting, making ribbons of color against a purpling dome of sky. Drawn by an unknown influence­my actions are neither voluntary nor involuntary, they simply are­I swim away from shore. Night falls slowly, then all at once, whereupon I experience a terrible sense of error. This is all a grand mistake. I pivot toward shore to find no lights anywhere; the land has disappeared. Panicked, I spin wildly in the water, all sense of direction obliterated. I am alone in an infinite sea. You don't have to be afraid, Proctor. A woman is swimming next to me with a smooth breaststroke, her head held erect above the surface, like a seal's. I cannot make out her face; her voice isn't one I know. Yet there is something about her presence that fills me with a great calm. It is as if I have been waiting for her; at last she is here. It won't be long now, she says gently. I'll show you the way. Where are we going? But she doesn't answer. As she glides away, I follow. There is no wind, no current. The surface of the sea is as motionless as stone, the only sound the gentle swish of water passing through our cupped hands. She gestures skyward. Can you see it? A single brilliant star has appeared. It's different from the others­brighter, more distinct, with a bluish tint. Do you remember the star, Proctor? Do I? My thoughts are diffuse, drifting like chips of straw in a current. They skip from point to point. The ocean, its impersonal, inky vastness. The star, piercing the sky like a beacon. All is known and unknown; all familiar, all strange. You're cold, she says. I am. My limbs tremble, my teeth are chattering. She moves beside me. Take my hand. I have, it appears, already done so. Her skin is warm; it seems to pulsate with life. It is a rich sensation, powerful as a tide. It flows through my body in a wave of softness. A feeling of homecoming, of home. Are you ready? She pivots toward me. For a moment her face is revealed, but the image is too quick, unable to be retained, and then ...

Autorentext

Justin Cronin

Klappentext

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “Next to impossible to put down . . . exciting, mysterious, and totally satisfying.”—STEPHEN KING
 
From the author of The Passage comes a riveting standalone novel about a group of survivors on a hidden island utopia—where the truth isn’t what it seems.

A POLYGON BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

Founded by the mysterious genius known as the Designer, the archipelago of Prospera lies hidden from the horrors of a deteriorating outside world. In this island paradise, Prospera’s lucky citizens enjoy long, fulfilling lives until the monitors embedded in their forearms, meant to measure their physical health and psychological well-being, fall below 10 percent. Then they retire themselves, embarking on a ferry ride to the island known as the Nursery, where their failing bodies are renewed, their memories are wiped clean, and they are readied to restart life afresh. 

Proctor Bennett, of the Department of Social Contracts, has a satisfying career as a ferryman, gently shepherding people through the retirement process—and, when necessary, enforcing it. But all is not well with Proctor. For one thing, he’s been dreaming—which is supposed to be impossible in Prospera. For another, his monitor percentage has begun to drop alarmingly fast. And then comes the day he is summoned to retire his own father, who gives him a disturbing and cryptic message before being wrestled onto the ferry.

Meanwhile, something is stirring. The Support Staff, ordinary men and women who provide the labor to keep Prospera running, have begun to question their place in the social order. Unrest is building, and there are rumors spreading of a resistance group—known as “Arrivalists”—who may be fomenting revolution. 

Soon Proctor finds himself questioning everything he once believed, entangled with a much bigger cause than he realized—and on a desperate mission to uncover the truth.

Leseprobe
1­

The dream was always the same.

I am swimming in the sea. Below the surface, breath held, I push my way forward through a liquid, blue-­green world. My limbs feel clean and strong, my strokes effortlessly powerful; sunlight shimmers on the surface, far above.

On a trail of exhaled bubbles, I ascend. The sun is setting, making ribbons of color against a purpling dome of sky. Drawn by an unknown influence—­my actions are neither voluntary nor involuntary, they simply are—­I swim away from shore. Night falls slowly, then all at once, whereupon I experience a terrible sense of error. This is all a grand mistake. I pivot toward shore to find no lights anywhere; the land has disappeared. Panicked, I spin wildly in the water, all sense of direction obliterated. I am alone in an infinite sea.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Proctor.”

A woman is swimming next to me with a smooth breaststroke, her head held erect above the surface, like a seal’s. I cannot make out her face; her voice isn’t one I know. Yet there is something about her presence that fills me with a great calm. It is as if I have been waiting for her; at last she is here.

“It won’t be long now,” she says gently. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Where are we going?”

But she doesn’t answer. As she glides away, I follow. There is no wind, no current. The surface of the sea is as motionless as stone, the only sound the gentle swish of water passing through our cupped hands.

She gestures skyward. “Can you see it?”

A single brilliant star has appeared. It’s different from the others—­brighter, more distinct, with a bluish tint.

“Do you remember the star, Proctor?”

Do I? My thoughts are diffuse, drifting like chips of straw in a current. They skip from point to point. The ocean, its impersonal, inky vastness. The star, piercing the sky like a beacon. All is known and unknown; all familiar, all strange.

“You’re cold,” she says.

I am. My li…