The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 2:

An Almost Offering

A handful of years passed, and the farmers each autumn went up to Magden to the officials of the city, to petition the councilors and the judges, the count who resided there, his son and daughter. No one listened.

Promises were made to send inspectors, or a professor of agriculture, or even one of the King’s courtiers, but no one ever felt inspired to make the long voyage by train and cart to their corner of farmland.

“Soon, soon,” they said. “You can’t rush these things, there is paperwork that needs to be filed.”

While this was in the corner of her mind, Moth – now 13 – had a much smaller world she thought about, and most of it was occupied by Ama and Grandpa Clem.

When she was done with housework, Ama would run the mile between the house and play with Moth while Clem slept. He slept more, now.

The first month of spring saw the end of the snow, except where it clung in the shadows of hills and fences, and Moth walked the warm stone path barefoot to the cistern while Ama clodded after her with her bow.

“Ma is teaching me, she says I’m very good,” said Ama. Her curls had been firmly braided in place by Priscilla’s vicious hand, but some tufts of it had escaped their prison at the top. “She said its tradition for her, I guess her mom did it too, but

Pris and Ursula didn’t take to it and she said you weren’t interested, but I was interested, and she says I’m very good.”

Moving aside the oak lid that covered the cistern, Moth drew a bucket of water out and carried it with her back to the house. “I was awful at it,” said Moth. While true, her main reason for quitting was simply it was too hard to keep at it and take care of Grandpa.

“Look, see?” Ama took her bow, and after a few trembling attempts to notch an arrow, managed a good pull and was able to squarely hit the ground ten feet away.

“Amazing!”

Ama ran to get her arrow and bounced after Moth into the kitchen. She filled a pot with the water, preparing a tub by the fire and checked the temperature, setting out towels and fresh clothes, soap and brush and a comb, making sure it was all set up perfectly.

Clem shivered in the mild spring wind, coming in from his garden with a furrowed brow. “Oh, thank you Moth. This cold cuts right through me.”

“The soap is there, and there’s another pot of hot water simmering if you want to heat it up more. I put your reading glasses and book there, too.”

“My noon is set.” He said, taking off his slippers. “Norwin will be around later, so you don’t need to be in the house until evening, unless you wish to.”

Moth yanked on her shoes and clattered out the door, shouting goodbye as Ama scrambled after her and tried not to drop her bow.

“Slow down,” gasped Ama, hitching up her skirts in one hand. “I’m going to fall down, stop!”

Moth slowed her run and took the bow from Ama’s hand so she could keep up better. “I don’t often get away from the house, I don’t have all day to snail my way to the Ofere.”

Once they reached the crest of the slow rolling hill, they could see for miles the wheat fields and clumps of trees, dots of farmhouses, and the mass of unrolled sky that hung just out of reach. The only thing that rose up higher than their hill, was Tiding Range, a stretch of seven mountains far in the distance where the ferryman lived.

Or so Moth was told.

People travelled there to Hiren to see the historical site on top of Tiding Range and titter at the superstition of Korraban’s history, or - which was far worse – scream and howl in what they called worship, calling themselves cawlers.

As tedious as they were to deal with, they did provide an income for many farmers, who sold them embroidered handkerchiefs or shawls.

However, in recent years, even they were becoming fewer and fewer. For those who mocked, it was almost more embarrassing to be seen traveling to the site than to profess belief in a ferryman. For those who worshipped, they had moved on to other more popular cults.

All this Moth knew from Grandpa Clem, who had begun to confide more to her the events of the world, as he gleaned it through the farmers who came to him for advice.

Ever since he had confessed seeing him, Moth had looked at that blue, flat-topped mountain range with more somber feelings.

“Moth?” Ama urged, tugging on her arm.

Breaking her gaze, Moth made a slower way down the hills and towards the large creek that cut its way through the fields, exposing a steep bank of limestone.

They followed it, hopping along the rocks. Ama said, “Oh, Mothy, look,” and she dug around under some rocks and pulled out a length of snakeskin; it looked new, and had a strong savory aroma from being baked on a rock. “For your box.”

Moth’s ‘box’ now took up most of her room. She took the skin and looked at the pattern on it, then folded it up and placing it in her bag.

“What is it?”

“Just a grass snake, I think.”

The creek eventually trickled out and stopped, but they continued on through tall grass and swathes of heather, until the plantlife thinned; they could see where rainwater had removed the topsoil, and they were standing on rock where only a few tufts of grass managed to cling.

The area of rock continued for an acres. In the center was a sinkhole that was only 10 feet wide yet was a twenty-foot drop into water. The water at the bottom was black, and seemed still, but you could hear the distant roar of how fast the hidden groundwater was, as the innocent eye of the sinkhole stared back up at Moth and Ama’s serious faces.

Most called it the Plate, and was marked on the maps as such, but anyone older than sixty called it the Ofere. This was where the harvest offerings were given; it was said the groundwater funneled into a hidden river that was like a vein pumped up all the way to Mount Cenning in Tiding Range.

Sitting down with her legs over the side, Moth opened her bag and brought out a small bottle full of herbs. It was corked and sealed with wax.

She hummed the offering song as she dropped in in the water.

“The best I give to you, the finest of my house, the sweetest of my land,” Moth and Ama sang, and they mumbled the rest – they could never remember the other lines though they had heard it at a thousand harvests.

The basket did not make a splash; it was lost in the velvet water at once.

Moth stared after it and sighed, throwing herself back and kicking her legs on the side of the sinkhole. She wondered if the water would accept it.

“Should I have brought something?” asked Ama, tugging on one of her braids, looking like a guest who had forgot a housewarming present. “Should I bring an offering?”

“That wasn’t an offering, it was a gift,” said Moth, rubbing at her forehead.

“Oh. Hm. What’s the difference?”

Moth gestured in the air. “If I pay you rent every month, that’s something I owe you, right? That’s an offering. If I give you a new hat because I saw one in town and thought you’d like it, that’s a gift – I don’t owe you it, I just want to get it for you.” She sat back up and stared into the water. “The thing is, a landlord will always accept your rent but someone might not always accept your gift. Grandpa was saying you have to really want to give something to the Ferryman for him to accept it.”

“But you do want to give him gifts.”

“I’m not sure if I do. I don’t know Ama, I just want him to be alive and get better. Maybe I’m selfishly sending him gifts? I feel silly. I sent him herbs that help with…” Moth put her head in her hands and laughed tiredly, “They help with sore throats.”

Ama was quiet, and Moth felt she might have shared too much. Ama was eight and preoccupied with her bow, with chores, and with the new litter of puppies. Moth began, forcing a bright tone, “But Grandpa says he’s confident the Ferryman will recover.” She smiled at Ama, but saw Ama staring anxiously behind her, and Moth looked to see three girls walking over.

She recognized Patri Tine, and her two friends, Quin and Charlotte.

Patri moved and looked like doe, and bit like one too. Moth was only a year younger than her, but she was already several inches taller, so Moth quickly pulled away from the sinkhole and said, “Good morning.”

“Why are you at the Plate?” asked Patri.

“Enjoying the day.”

Quin, who was so white she looked transparent, stared out from under her mop of uncombed hair, “Was she giving offerings?”

“Gifts, actually,” said Moth, gathering up her bag and taking Ama’s hand.

Patri looked at Moth. Her face never emoted much – rather, she looked as if she were lost all the time, as if she were frightened, which was jarring when she said things like, “I’ve thought about pushing your Grandpa into the sinkhole when it’s harvest time.”

Moth felt Ama grip her hand. Moth smiled. “Not a very good offering, though, as he’s so old.”

Spinning one of her beautiful brown curls between her fingers, Patri said, “Dad says your Grandpa never goes up with them to the councilor to get help about the fog, and he says your Grandpa stops other farmers from even trying. Your dad has stopped going up with them to the market to help, too, hasn’t he?”

“You can ask them about it,” said Moth, sidling around Patri, “We need to get home.”

Quin stepped over to block her. Moth glanced at Charlotte, who was half hidden behind Patri and looked sick – she would not be a problem, but Quin fought like a weasel.

“Listen,” began Moth, turning to Patri, “Do you want this to be a fight? Japh will hear about it, you know.”

Patri stopped twirling her curl, and considered that, when Ama launched herself out of Moth’s grip and headbutted Quin in the stomach - everything devolved from there.

Moth tried to pull Ama away, but Patri bit her wrist. Quin yanked Ama’s hair and Charlotte was crying.

Patri pinned Moth to the ground and clawed at her arms, which she was using to cover her face. Moth was not good at fighting; she had been raised mostly

separated from her siblings, but Ama had not – she swung her bow and busted open the skin on Patri’s forehead, and she shrieked, got up, and joined Quin in grabbing Ama.

“Stop it!” Moth yelled, yanking back Patri’s collar.

Patri kicked Moth, and she tripped on a rock and began to fall.

She could see up, nothing but sky, and could hear the slow hungry rush of the Ofere below her, she felt it looking at her fall into its mouth, the ground end below her feet, and – a jolt.

Charlotte was holding onto her apron, and Patri and Quin rushed to hold Charlotte and pull Moth back onto solid ground. Ama stood frozen, mouth open and hand raised.

Moth trembled. She tried to catch her breath but her lungs didn’t want to move. Quin, Charlotte, and Patri sat listlessly, panting and pale.

Pushing herself up, Moth put her bag around her shoulder, gathered up Ama’s arrows that had spilled from her quiver, pushed the bow into her hand, and guided her away from the Ofere.

After they were further away, the other girls stood up and went home.

Ama wiped blood from where Quin had scratched her cheek, but just smeared a streak of mud over it. She began to cry, and snot oozed from her nose. “I want Mama.”

“Yes, I’m sorry baby, we’re going home,” said Moth, choking down her own tremors. She put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“You’re so stupid, why did you even go to the Plate!” Sobbed Ama, smacking her arm.

“I’m sorry.”

They fell quiet. In the distance, they could hear dinner bells ringing, calling in farmers from the field. The shadows were long stripes over the hills, brindling their path, and the grass felt cold at their ankles.

“You fought really good,” said Moth.

Ama sniffed, glaring at her shoes.

“Quin’s three years older than you, but you held up. And thanks for hitting Patri for me.”

Shrugging her shoulder, Ama tried not to grin.

*

Moth walked Ama to her house, but didn’t go in.

The evening was soft and blue when she walked the last mile home to Grandpa Clem’s house, and the sweet trill of a meadowlark was the only sound she heard as it sang the last light of the sun away.

Moth went through the kitchen door and took off her boots.

She washed her clawed up arms in the sink, gritting her teeth as she rubbed soap into Patri’s bite mark, and wrapped it with a rag, unrolling her sleeves to cover the signs of her skirmish.

Tiptoeing through the dark house, she saw the light on in Grandpa’s parlor, where he often sat to read in the evening, and she found him asleep in his chair, a book slipping out of his hands.

Moth went upstairs to her room.

Everywhere on the walls were bundles of the herbs and flowers she had grown in her corner of the garden, or the hundreds of leaves and wild plants she had collected and hung around on the walls, complete with labels and notes she had pinned up with them. They all had a name.

She pulled the snakeskin from her bag and placed it in her box of snake-stuff, like bones and fangs and other scraps of skins. Then, got ready for bed.

When everything was in its place, she sat on her bed and tried not to think about the prickling sensation that ran up her spine when she felt herself falling. She felt she should cry, but she had put it aside for Ama, and now she couldn’t find the feeling again – all she found was a dull sensation in her chest.

She did not want to tell Grandpa about what happened, and she didn’t know why. She knew Ama would keep the secret, she could trust her with that, despite Priscilla’s best efforts.

In the end, she fell asleep hoping the ferryman got her gift.