The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 24:

Correb’s Blessing

After breakfast, Mrs, Tunhofe hitched Kakara – her old nag – up to a cart, packed a large lunch, and set out down the road with Moth next to her on the box seat.

Moth borrowed a wide hat from Rodin, and a sturdy apron from Priscilla, and Mrs. Tunhofe had given her an empty journal and a pencil. She felt ready.

“First farm I’m heading towards is South-East, past Ren’s Corner, to a family called Halig. They’re out of the way, they don’t farm large-scale, keep to themselves and their own – you’ll find there’s a lot of farmers who sit on the edge of the region and don’t talk to anyone, much.”

Moth wrote down the date, the location, and the name of the family.

It was indeed out of the way, as they drove for over four hours through a warm spring day, with no clouds for cover, but a merciful breeze pushing behind them further to the edge of Hiren.

Tiding Range loomed closer and closer, trees clustered thicker together as farms disappeared, the ground rocky and uncultured, and the prairie grass high enough to annoy Kakara. She whinnied, plodding through the dense undergrowth.

Moth had never been this close to Tiding Range before. It had scared her as a child – made her anxious as an adult - and it was too far a distance to comfortably travel to just for fun; on top of which, she was concerned she’d meet a worshipper, bloody and violent on the mountain.

The air was fresh and cold by the range, and the trees stretched high into the sky, and high up the mountain, covering it like a moss covers a rock. In the distance, Moth heard streams trickling down – even the sound of it quenched her throat.

Finally a large stream, so clear it glowed, cut across the field. There was a small, moss-coated clapper bridge built over the flow.

“Hevwed bridge,” said Mrs. Tunhofe, nudging Moth with her elbow. “It’s old and I don’t want to risk Kakara; we’re going to have to go on foot.”

They climbed down and tied Kakara to a tree - where she could get water, grass, and shade – and Mrs. Tunhofe said, “Could I borrow your arm, Mere? This bridge does make me nervous – no offence to yours.”

The bridge had no handrail or posts to grab onto, and the large slabs of stone had gotten slick with the morning dew. Moth held tight onto Mrs. Tunhofe – as much to support her as to support herself – and together they eased over the stone slabs and onto solid ground.

There was a steep incline of grassy ground, and Mrs. Tunhofe pointed behind a copse of trees further up – a trail of smoke uncoiled into the air. “Right there’s the Halig family.” Hitching up her skirt, Mrs. Tunhofe plodded up the steep hill, saying, “They likely saw us coming miles ago.”

Moth had met a Tiding farmer when she was small – he had come to talk to Clem. His accent had been so thick and strange, with such old turns of phrases and mannerisms, that she couldn’t understand what he had said.

The fast-moving citizens of Magden found Hiren antiquated – but Tiding Range farmers were primordial. Grandpa Clem had told Moth some of the first people in the kingdom of Coewylle had been created on, and wandered down from, Tiding Range – but a handful of them never left the mountain.

The area felt big, and untamed, and steep – Moth wondered what it would have been like to wake up for the first time, a living human, on an empty mountain. She couldn’t decide if it felt lonely, or lovely, to be born on a new and vacant earth.

As she looked around and considered that, she saw a figure standing at the top of the hill. A young boy, maybe nine, watched them from the copse of trees, and waited for them without a saying anything, or even acknowledging them with a wave.

Mrs. Tunhofe took off her bag and removed a sack of peaches. She gave it to the boy and said, “Halig.”

He took the bag and ran up the mountain, jumping and moving like a goat, unused to anything less than an incline his whole life, and vanished behind the trees.

“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Moth.

“Now how would I have gotten a message to them?” asked Mrs. Tunhofe. “No, I’m dropping in, and hoping they’ll see us.”

“Is that alright?” Moth’s stomach churned, and she eyed the forest line.

“I’ve not been long off the mountain, I know the protocol. I may not have met the Halig’s personally, but I’ve been in a few Tiding kitchens – they know my name.”

Moth squinted at Mrs. Tunhofe. “You’re not from the mountain.”

“My dad was. He married my mom, who was from the fields of Hiren, and moved off the mountain. He never adjusted – walked with a slant his whole life.”

They reached the top of the hill, where there was a shelf of crooked ground before it continued to climb. Behind the copse of trees was a long wood house – it was one story tall, but wide, with a porch that wrapped fully around. It stood on raised stilts – each stilt the trunk of a tree – to keep it level against the unlevel ground, and a small trickled of water ran below it.

Nine people stood on the porch watching them. The boy stood next to an old woman, who held the bag of peaches – she puffed on a pipe and nodded to the others, and the rest of them departed from the porch, either into the forest or the house, and she was left standing with two young boys and a lanky man – he seemed to be her son.

The old woman was anciently old – old as any tree around, her face had no smooth patch left on it, and her eyes were weak where time had crept in and grayed it out. She leaned on her two grandsons for help. All of their clothes were simple cuts secured with belts or ropes, but tenderly embroidered over years of quiet, long winters.

Mrs. Tunhofe paused at a distance, and stuffed her pipe, lit it, and began smoking. She got out a smaller pipe and packed it, and handed it to Moth, saying, “Take this – if you don’t like the flavor just don’t inhale, but let it smoke.”

Moth hastily grabbed the long, skinny pipe with a small bowl and put it in her mouth. It had a chicory, applewood scent – Moth liked the smell of it, but didn’t enjoy the smoke in her mouth, so she just let it raise from the bowl.

Now that they were lit, they proceeded towards the house.

“Why are we smoking?”

“It’s peaceful.” Mrs. Tunhofe exhaled a large puff of smoke that drifted into the air. “Also, keeps off bugs and eavesdropping spirits.”

Moth glanced at Mrs. Tunhofe. Much like Priscilla, she had not often heard her talking about the ferryman or his domain of spirits – though, Mrs. Tunhofe was private about her opinions.

They crossed the field, coming up towards the house. Moth’s hip was growing sore, walking on a slope, and she was looking forward to how level the house looked.

The older woman gestured to them to walk up, and when they climbed the steps onto the porch Moth noticed how large they were.

The old women, though stooped with a bad back, was almost six feet tall. Her son, who was middle-aged, was six and a half feet tall and his two sons that stood with him – though both under nine years old, with plump faces and large eyes – came up to Moth’s chin.

The house entrance towered over Moth; the top frame of the door just skimmed the man’s head – he bowed his head to keep his hat from getting knocked off when he entered the house.

Inside, there was barely any furniture, but piles of animal skin and a few pillows to lounge on, and a table that was low to the ground, with a roughhewn, stone chimney in the center. A small meal but impressive meal was set up – a rack of goat ribs, some sides of wild greens and mushrooms, flatbread, and various sauces in rough-made dishes.

Moth knelt on the animal pelts next to Mrs. Tunhofe, who spread out comfortably and continued to smoke her pipe. The older woman sat across from them, with her son, and the two boys pulled apart the goat ribs for them and handed them the meat. They ate a small amount – the meat was tough, but flavorful, and Moth had to chew and chew on it to get it soft enough to swallow.

“Why’d Tiding call you up?” asked the woman, when they had eaten a while in silence. Her voice was low and guttural, with thick bent towards g’s and d’s.

Moth had a hard time understanding what she said, but wrote down the conversation as best she could, glancing occasionally at Mrs. Tunhofe and marveling at her ability to hear through the accent.

“The fog,” answered Mrs. Tunhofe. “Has it got on Tiding?”

Mrs. Halig nodded after a thoughtful pause. “Sarig, a cut of Blide. At the roots, not much higher; it can’t get through rock.”

“Has it got your property?”

“Aye.” The woman glanced at Moth, and then back towards Mrs. Tunhofe. “You?”

“Aye,” said Mrs. Tunhofe. “We’re trying to understand it; to map it out. Can you show us where it hit your land?”

The woman stood – the two boys helping her and guiding her – and she gestured for them to follow her. They stuck to her heels as she led them through a side door, out onto the porch, and down a shallow flight of steps onto the mountain and into the woods.

As they walked, Moth looked around, sniffing the air. “Have you burned it? I don’t smell anything.”

The old woman gave them a harsh look. “We don’t touch at firecraft, it ain’t holy – no loose fire on Tiding.”

“You’ve heard of the agricultural sentries?” asked Mrs. Tunhofe, and Mrs. Halig nodded. “They mandated bi-annual burnings on areas touched with fog.”

“They don’t climb,” said Mrs. Halig. “Though…with Vori they tried a forced fire on their ledge. We had a word and they not been up again.”

Moth had heard of Tiding farmers domesticated hornets, kept like guard dogs.

Mrs. Halig led them to a clearing in the forest where a mass of ferns were growing, with baskets nearby to harvest the fiddleheads. In the corner of the clearing was a patch of dark earth surrounded by rocks.

Mrs. Halig leaned heavy on her grandsons and hobbled to the corner to point down at the earth. “We don’t burn it, we asked the ferryman for help and he answered us.”

Moth and Mrs. Tunhofe looked over the blockade of stones down at the earth, and saw it was not earth that was such a dark color – but rather, a velvety dark lichen, that glinted blue and green in the light, like the sheen on a black feather.

“Correb’s Blessing. It eats death out of the soil, you can grow food again. If you try and eat out of fog touched ground, the food will make you ill.” Mrs. Halig face softened, and she gave a huge smile, showing what teeth she had left. “He is kind to us.”

Moth could barely breath as she stared down at the lichen – the mapmoss – and clutched her journal to her chest. “How long until it will heal the ground?”

“A year.”

*

They did not visit much longer with Mrs. Halig, but thanked her for her hospitality and descended down the mountain, with the same young boy watching them from the shadows until they were almost back to the bridge.

“You’re head’s so full its tipping,” said Mrs. Tunhofe, breaking Moth from her revery.

Moth opened her journal and looked down at the notes she had made. “I know so little about Hiren, and yet it’s all I ever learned about. How do Tiding Farmers survive so alone up there? I don’t know anything about them – I barely understand them and that makes me feel…negligent.”

“Negligent?” Mrs. Tunhofe wheezed out some smoke. “Mere, you aren’t their landlord.”

Moth stuttered. “That’s not what I meant! I mean they’re my neighbors and I never bothered to meet them.”

“They don’t like being met, much - the nicest you can be to some folks is to leave them be – though, I don’t think they’d mind being understood, from a distance.”

It was quicker down the mountain than up, and they soon came upon the bridge that crossed the stream – Kakara was lazily chewing grass on the other side, and she whickered when she saw them.

Moth held onto Mrs. Tunhofe and helped her across the bridge.

Mrs. Tunhofe steadied herself when she got on the other side, smoothed down her apron, and untied Kakara. She glanced over her shoulder and said, “You’ve dropped your yellow, Mere.”

Moth looked behind her. The yellow ribbon in her hair had come loose and fallen on the bridge – it was the yellow ribbon she had purchased in Magden. She hurried across the bridge and grabbed it up, trying it to her wrist with double knots.

As she knelt on the bridge, she saw something on the edge of the slab. It was a soft groove, so worn down by water and wind and rain, it was barely more than a scratch. Moth touched the groove with her fingers, and though it couldn’t be read any longer, it could be felt: H. H.

Below her the water, cold as January, trickled and glinted in the sun, and the shadows of minnows vanished a soon as you saw them, and Moth wondered.