The Ferryman - Book 1

Odd Jacobson

The Ferryman

Book 1

Arc 1 - Hiren

A Fog from the Earth

Chapter 1:

Under the Chair

It had been sixty years since the Ferryman was last seen, and the rye was turning to stone.

A fog lay dormant in hidden cracks underground. When it burst up – either on its own, or because of tilling and harvesting – the fog would spread out slowly over the crops and fields, turning all it touched white and hardened.

It had been increasing over the last five years in the southern farmlands, especially in a region called Hiren, and it sat heavy on the minds of the farmers, who had to steady their hands when the went out to plow. It was all anyone spoke of around the hearths in the evenings.

A dozen farmers gathered in a particular kitchen in Hiren, their darned and re-darned socks stretched to the fire, and looked over the hardened produce of the day while they discussed the fog.

Mere Hevwed – called Moth – watched them from under her grandpa’s chair, where she lay playing with the wooden dolls he’d made her. Every now and then, his wide wrinkled hand would reach under and hand her a slice of apple.

This was her grandfather Clement’s kitchen, and Moth knew it better than she did her kitchen at home. Normally by now she would be boiling a kettle over the fire for lunch, but she did not know most of the farmers who were shoeless by her hearth, so she hid behind his legs.

“I hit a pocket of the fog when I was tilling,” a young farmer was saying, pointing to a basket of gourds. They were porous and white like a bone. “I had no choice, I just ran. A quarter acre was ruined, I’ve marked off the whole area.”

“You’re okay?” Grandpa Clement’s voice rumbled out.

“Yes. I’ve field enough to pull from when it’s time to sell.” The young farmer stared into the fire, his jaw muscles clenched, when he threw himself back into his chair and said, “What are we supposed to do, Mr. Hevwed? It’s only getting worse.”

The eyes of the farmers looked up towards Moth’s grandfather. He sucked on his teeth, cutting a ribbon of skin off an apple, and said, “Keep farming. Keep blocking off areas we know the fog has bedded. Keep storing up food through canning and drying, keep giving offerings to the Ferryman, and hope he answers us.”

The farmers nodded in resignation, but the younger ones puffed their breath and rubbed their mouths.

“I know,” said Clem. “I’ve seen this type of thing play out before. I know what you want to do; you want to ban together with other worried farmers, go north to the cities and ask officials for help or advice. You believe – out of your own honest nature – that they can’t refuse your request if you appear in a large group.”

They glanced at one another.

Grandpa Clem’s knife clattered as he scraped it on the edge of his bowl. “But they can ignore you, and they will, and they have. They did forty years ago when the drought nearly killed us. The thing is – they don’t notice unless it affects them, and it won’t affect them until it gets a lot worse.”

*

As the sixth child – her older sisters and brothers assigned to the farm and trade – Mere’s job at eight years old was to help her Grandpa.

He was getting old, and his hands shook with small things, like threading needles, and his knees failed going up or down stairs. When it got too dark, it was hard for him to see, and so Moth spent her entire life holding his hand; the feel of it she knew by memory, from the broken and healed thumb that bent up and never curled, to the hundreds of tiny scars on his left hand from whittling.

Moth often walked her grandfather to and from her parent’s house, which was a mile away. Now she spent most of her days and nights at her grandpa’s house, as sometimes he had cold spells, where he could do little more than sit by a fire and wait for it to pass.

That day they were walking to Moth’s house, on the little groove they had worn back and forth through a grass field. They walked slow, but neither minded, as it was a warm autumn day and the magpies were screaming in the wheatfields and chasing each other.

Magpies, Moth knew, were servants of the Ferryman. Their black and white colors, the flashes of green and blue in the dark of their feathers, were often woven into shawls and rugs for protection.

“Japh says he’s never seen the Ferryman and he doesn’t exist,” said Moth.

Clem smiled, as her loud declaration startled a few magpies. “This been on your mind, Moth, to burst out of the air like this?”

“Yes. Is the Ferryman dead?”

“We would very much notice if he had.”

Moth kicked a stone out of the way of the path. “No one’s seen him for a long time.”

“Even when he was…around more, he wasn’t seen very often. It was quite a rare thing to ever lay eyes on him.”

“We send him fruit and clothes, he could at least come and see who’s sending him things,” said Moth. “I would, if someone gave me gifts every time there was a harvest.”

“We’re not the only ones who gives offerings – well, maybe we are, I can’t say, honoring the Ferryman is thought of a little old-fashioned now.” Grandpa Clem looked out over the field with a half frown.

“You believe in the Ferryman, though,” continued Moth, tugging on his hand so he’d focus back on her.

“I do.”

“Then I do too!”

Clem tried to look serious but grinned. “Moth, baby, it doesn’t work quite like that.”

Moth opened her mouth, but the sound of barking stopped her. Opo and Hilly – two dogs that guarded the family chickens – leaped through the garden and over the fence to swirl around Clem, who pulled deer jerky out of his pocket.

The dogs herded them down the path and into the back of the house, into the kitchen, with huffs of breath and wagging tails. This was their routine, and they sat proudly by the door at their daily accomplishment.

“Good morning baby,” said Moth’s mother, Vade. She sat at the table, as Moth had often seen her, organizing and adding up the produce sales in her book. At her elbow was a newspaper with projected sales prices for grain, vegetables, and fruit. Behind her, a dozen cardigans and shawls she had yet to finish crocheting.

The entire house was preparing within a week to head up to the largest city in the county to sell their produce, along with the other farmers of their region.

Vade stretched, sighed and pushed away her pencil, but gave Moth a smile – tired but bright – and pulled her in for a kiss. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Where’s Ama?”

“Oh that’s what I get?”

“Thank you for breakfast Mama.” Moth kissed her. “Where’s Ama.”

“I just got her to sleep. Don’t you wake her with your fawning.”

Moth hurried into the parlor, where her baby sister was sleeping on a couch, draped in a blanket and surrounded by a mess of toys and books.

Her head of coiled hair was barely visible under the blanket, and her hand – the delicate tawny color of wheat – stuck out.

Moth was used to older siblings, and most of them annoyed her, especially Japh – but Ama was her only baby sibling, and she took on the role of older sister very seriously.

She touched the little hand and whispered, “Ama,” in the hopes she would wake up. She knew in another few hours, Grandpa would need to go back home to talk with a friend, and it was possible Ama would sleep through her whole visit.

“Ama,” Moth tried again, a touch louder but not so loud her mother would hear. There was no luck – Ama’s whistling snore didn’t change.

“Mere!” hissed a voice.

Moth jutted out her lip when she saw Priscilla standing in the doorframe, hands on hip. Priscilla tiptoed over and heaved Moth out of the room.

“Leave Ama alone, it took Mama forever to get her to go to sleep. I’m sure she’s told you a thousand time already to not wake her up. And what has happened to your apron?” Priscilla demanded, taking her broad flat hand and roughly smacked the dust off of it. Moth twisted to escape, but it was useless to do much until Priscilla had decided something was good enough. “You need to eat, you’re looking skinny again. You can’t live off apples, you know, you need some eggs.”

“Stop fussing!”

Priscilla released her, and Moth hurried up the stairs to her sister’s room. It was both Priscilla and Ursula’s room, but she knew neither would be there; Priscilla

would be out soon to tally the day’s harvest with their mother, and Ursula would be talking with the hired hand who had caught her attention with his snow-white smile.

Really, it was Moth’s room too, but she spent only one night a week there; in the past month, she’d moved most of her toys and clothes to the room she had all to herself at Grandpa Clem’s house.

Her mother had talked of eventually turning it into a room for Ama, but Moth had a secret hope that one day, not soon but not too far off, Ama would share a room with her at Grandpa’s house.

Moth laid on her belly and crawled under Ursula’s bed, looking for a box she’d hadn’t brought back with her, yet. It was full of pretty things she had gathered over the last few years – leaves and rocks and a few seedpods. She liked the look of almost everything, and her box was stuffed full to the point she had to use an old belt to keep the lid on.

“I’ll have to move it all to a bigger box,” she said to herself.

She took a hatbox from Ursula, who would be too unorganized to notice its absence, and relocated her collection of twigs and such to the new box.

She looked through every twig to decided whether to keep it or not, and found them all too beautiful to get rid of. She knew each tree the twig or leaf had come from – “An apple, I see, you still smell of it.” “You’re a spruce with that color.” – but she also remembered where each of the trees were that she had borrowed from.

She continued to chatter to her snippets, when she heard Japh. She hid her hatbox and crept to the door to listen to him stomp downstairs. She hurried after him into the kitchen, where he was getting himself a a second helping of biscuits and eggs.

Japh was the closest sibling in age to her, at twelve, and he was already almost twice her height. He worked with the oxen.

Moth often had her friends beg her to give Japh their secret letters or gifts, and when she didn’t they wouldn’t speak to her for weeks – so she hated Japh most days.

“You smell like an ox,” Moth said, as she got herself some breakfast.

“That’s because I was working,” he said while chewing. “You wouldn’t understand what that’s like.”

Already mad, Moth said, “I work at Grandpa’s house!”

“It’s not real work, like Pris and I do,” said Japh, smiling at her angry face.

“It’s real work!”

“Sure, sure. You sit inside a nice warm cottage and make tea. That must be tiring.” Japh untied his work boots and let them clatter on the ground, stretching out his legs. “If I had been born just a little later than you, I’d be helping Grandpa.”

“Grandpa would never want you to help him,” Moth said. “You know what he told me this morning? He believes in the ferryman!”

Japh froze. “Wh…” He glared at her, shoving aside his food. “He does not, stop lying.”

Thrilled she finally got him mad, Moth stood up and got another biscuit. “You can ask him if you want.”

“He wouldn’t say something so stupid!” Japh jumped up. “You are such a baby.”

“I believe in the ferryman too, actually,” she continued.

Japh flung a spoon at her and she threw her biscuit at him, and then smacking each other and yelling until Ursula hurried in and pulled Moth up into her arms, saying, “Japh! Mere is four years younger than you!”

Still in a rage, Japh reached to yank Moth’s hair. Ursula tried to keep them apart as she yelled at them, when their father – Norwin - came in.

He was too large to fit comfortably in any room. He was always quiet, and he brought it with him everywhere – Moth, Japh, and Ursula all stopped and watched

his face, which was gentle as he said, “There was another fog burst just now, at the end of the field. It was small, but it got an ox.”

Moth felt her stomach lurch.

Japh set his face and stared at the floor. “What does that mean?”

“It’s throat and front legs got hardened. He’s struggling right now, your brother is going to go put him down.”

“Which one is he?”

“It’s Tar.”

“Oh.” Japh tapped his foot. “Well he was old,” he said, as he began to cry.

Their father grabbed him into a hug and sat with him in the kitchen, and Ursula carried Moth out to the parlor, where Ama was still sound asleep. Moth held onto Ursula and said nothing, but her heart pounded and she didn’t let go, so Ursula sat with her on a chair by the window and pet her head.

Moth thought about the rind of the gourds, and how it was hard, yet crumbled with enough forced under the hand. What would that do to flesh? She buried her head in Ursula’s chest and said, “I want to stay here tonight.”

“You can sleep in my bed.”

*

Grandpa Clem stayed the night as well.

Moth brought him his tea that evening, as he sat by the fire with a big coat on and a blanket on his lap. One of the barn cats had snuck in and was curled up on his knees, and he stroked it as he stared deep in the fire.

He thanked her, though his voice was so low it was barely audible. He took the tea from her and sipped at it, but raised his eyebrows at Moth’s serious face that stared at him with a frown.

“I can hear you thinking at me, Moth.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath and sat next to his chair, resting her head on his arm. “Did you see Tar?”

Setting down his teacup, Clem answered, “I did, but I don’t think it’s something you should hear about.”

“I need to-“ she said, feeling her eyes sting, and stopped. Taking another breath she said, “I want to know.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, and far off they could hear the guard dogs barking at weasels, and Grandpa clicked his finger against the saucer, until he said at last, “His fur turned white where it touched, and his legs couldn’t bend, and his throat move much. He couldn’t breathe. But it’s not like the vegetables; he didn’t crumble.”

Moth wasn’t sure if it was worse than she imagined, but at least it was real and not a thousand possible horrors.

“What do we do?”

“We already put the ox down. We’re going to burn him – I don’t think anyone should eat something touched by the fog.”

“No I mean–”

Grandpa Clem nodded. “I know what you meant. I don’t know, Moth, it’s not good. We’re just going to have to keep up our offerings and hope.”

Moth felt a nagging question in her head, and she tried to ignore it, but it slipped past her and she said, “But how can you hope in the Ferryman if you’ve never seen him?”

“I have seen him.”

Moth stopped breathing. Perhaps her ears were clogged. She was afraid to ask, she was afraid she had misheard him, but she couldn’t help it as she asked, “You’ve seen the ferryman?”

Her Grandpa had never mentioned it, she had never heard her parents mention it either. Even now as he continued to look out into the fire, his face growing sadder, she was worried he misspoke – but he opened his mouth, hesitated, and began.

“I was nine, and we were having small celebration in his honor. It was so small, just half a dozen or so families. I was excited to stay up late, and I knew your grandma would be there so I was happy about that – you look so much like her, you know. I’ve told you that I few times, haven’t I?” Clem smiled into his tea and shook his head. “She climbed into a tree and dumped a bucket of water on her brother that night, and she told me I looked like the type who ironed their underwear. But anyways. It was well past midnight after the party. Most everyone else had gone home, but I stayed the night with the family who had thrown the party – the Rothkid’s. Their youngest son was my best friend.”

Moth remembered his funeral, though it had been years ago.

“We were still up late, no one could sleep, when it got quiet in the house. We went to the window to see out, and saw Mr. Rothkid talking to the Ferryman, who had come to thank him for the celebration.”

Dizzy, Moth whispered, “Did you talk with him?”

“Oh no! I was too afraid. I had a good view of him through the window, though, and it was frightening enough.”

“Did he look like a monster?”

“No, he looked a man. He seemed to stretch up into the sky, and he had a mess of wild black hair, I should think it hadn’t been combed in a century. Such a severe curved nose, like a crescent moon hung on his face. And…” Grandpa stopped. He felt cold beneath Moth’s hand. “Well, he was something else altogether. I wondered, growing up, whether I would be able to tell if he was a Ferryman; if no one told me, could I feel in in his air that he was something else?”

“Were you?”

“Oh yes. At once you felt he’d been born before the sun was lit, before humans walked along the highways and farmed the earth; you knew at once. He felt like eternity, Moth, and in that moment I felt so temporary, and so old.” Grandpa trailed off and looked at his knotted hands, and then at Moth’s little smooth hand resting on his arm. “So, I believe in the Ferryman. But just because I caught a glimpse of a strange man through a window late one night – well, that’s not enough for someone else to build their house on, but it’s enough for me.”

Author ramblings: