The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 29:

What The Water Will Take

The drought swallowed up the water, and the farmers found in the bottom of ponds and streams their gifts given to the ferryman.

Unsure who they belonged to, the farmers piled them next to the Ofere for people to collect and bring home – no one dared to resend the gifts.

Though they found gift after gift, no one found a single offering - all the offerings had been accepted by the ofere, when it was sent on the first full moon of autumn. Anything given out of that time was rejected.

Moth and Ama, late in the evening, stood by the Ofere and stared at the piles of clay-caked packages and jars, amassed in heaps far away from the edge of the sinkhole.

The farmers, slinking in after work, collected whatever they had gifted; they were ashamed their gifts had been rejected, but they could not afford to waste food as crops withered around them.

Rummaging through the piles, Moth and Ama looked for anything her family might have gifted to the ferryman. She was not sure if she’d be able to recognize something from them, as any label they might have put on it had been washed away or stained with dirt, leaving behind faint letters on the packages and bottles.

“I think this was from Mrs. Tunhofe,” said Ama, lifting a package. “It’s wrapped in the same fabric she made her blouse from.”

“Open it,” said Moth, sweating and tired, sat down and watched the sun sink in hot, violent colors behind a hill. She poked around bottles and jars, looking for a jam preserve her mother might have given.

Ama opened the package to make sure it was from Mrs. Tunhofe and found a waterproof sack of flour. “We should keep this.”

“I wonder why she gave it as a gift and not as an offering,” said Moth, rubbing her eyes to refocus her vision. “Was it recent, or from years ago?”

“I can’t tell – but Moth it’s starting to get dark and I think we found everything, let’s get back home.”

Moth nodded. “Put the flour with the others, I think I see a jam jar.”

Ama hurried to the cart that Kakara was hitched to, lugging the flour on her shoulder.

Each jar, lovingly wrapped and sealed, Moth moved aside carefully. A lump forming in her throat as she held them, the labels faint with the names of whoever had thought – in their overflow – to give to the ferryman.

Clenching her teeth, Moth recognized a scrap of green gingham her mother often used for her offerings and picked up a jar of apple jam. Nearby, a small bottle sealed with wax rolled out, and Moth knelt to look closer.

It was a very old little bottle, and inside was powdered herbs. The label on the outside was worn away to nothing, and Moth, feeling sick, forced the cork open and upturned the powder, with a little note inside coming out and uncurling.

To Lord Korraban

This is good for colds and other small ailments. I hope it finds you well, but if not, I hope this will help.

Mere Hevwed of Hiren

Ama came back from the cart, saying, “Is that Mom’s apple jam? I’m going to eat it when we get home.”

Moth clenched the little bottle in her hand, trembling, and flung it into the grass. “What did we do wrong?” she demanded, tears in her eyes. “What did I do wrong? It’s just a gift! They’re all just gifts from people who are…who are concerned about him. Is that so wrong, that they had to be rejected? How long have they been rejected – that bottle is from so long ago.”

Ama stood awkwardly, one arm half bent at her side. “Well, uh–”

“Look at this!” yelled Moth, holding jars up, “These were made for him! These were made by Hiren, out of love, out of respect, and he wants to reject it. Why?” Moth clenched her jaw and began to sob. “What did we do wrong?”

“Oh god don’t cry,” said Ama, her face flushing as she looked around. “I can fix it, I’ll bring it all back to the families they belong to Moth, it’ll be okay.”

Choking on her tears, Moth curled up and buried her face in her arms. She was so tired, she hadn’t slept in days. There would be no offering that year, she had heard from the farmers – there was nothing to offer, nothing to give out of Hiren. All the fields, or what was left, gave up nothing to the farmers. There was no rain, there was no autumn offering.

There had always been an offering – Moth had never in her life heard of a time there was nothing from the fields to give.

Ama tugged on her arm, trembling, “Moth please get up, we need to go home.”

“I want an answer,” said Moth, wiping her face on her apron.

“Okay, come get in the cart,” said Ama, tugging her up and pushing her to the cart. She realized what Moth had said and asked, confused, “An answer? From me?”

Moth climbed into the cart and took the reins, and Ama sat next to her on the box seat. “I want an answer from the ferryman. I need to know what’s happening, I

can’t take this any longer, Ama, the farms are wasting away, and the ferryman has sent no rain – where is he?”

Ama crossed her arms and looked at Moth sideways. “Moth, you need to sleep.”

Moth shook her head, urging Kakara forward.

They rattled down the road, a path she knew well, the path from her home to the Ofere – but she had never seen it like that before, burnt by fire and sun, no water anywhere, even the evening shadows were hot and parched, withering the withered grass to nothing. Where it should be green and bright, full and fertile with crops, there were patches of gray ash and burnt yellow, the fields rattling their dry stalks in the dusty breeze.

“Hiren is dying,” said Moth, hot tears in her eyes. “I need an answer, Ama. I will not let this happen.”

*

Moth brought Kakara and Ama to the Tunhofe’s home, and helped Priscilla anxiously take account of how much food they had, if it was enough for the winter. She returned by to the Hevwed home, and by the time she drew near it was midnight.

She was exhausted and her soul felt sick inside her. She hovered in front of the home but could not bear to be seen, to be heard or looked at – she needed to be alone longer, and she felt she could not be alone even in a house of sleeping people.

Turning down the overgrown path, Moth hurried to Clem’s old house, almost running the whole mile deep into the dead wheat fields so she could see it, so she could breathe.

The old house of her childhood emerged from behind the hill. Moth picked up her feet to run down the hill towards it but stumbled when she saw a light in the window.

She froze, staring at the glowing light, but took a deep breath and crept towards the house, craning her neck to see through a high windowpane.

Clem sat in a chair in his old study, a lantern on a table, and stared into the flickering light.

Moth wanted to leave him alone, but she wanted his comfort. She wanted to crawl under his chair and look out at the world from behind his legs, safe in his shadow, safe from harm because he always knew what to do.

Moth opened the front door and hurried through the house into the study, pausing in the doorframe as he snapped his head up, looking into her face, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted.

“Grandpa,” said Moth. She fell to her knees by his chair, holding onto his arm. “Grandpa help me. I’m so angry at the ferryman, I’m scared, I feel helpless.”

“Oh baby,” said Clem, clutching onto her small hands, leaning his head against hers. “I don’t know what to do either, I’m so sorry.”

She knew that would be his answer, but it felt like the floor fell away into a dark and cold river. Her tears dried up, and Moth clutched tighter to his arm.

“Someone has to go find him. Someone has to demand an answer from him; they need to go up the mountain.”

“Moth–”

“I know. I know that’s not where his home really is, I know that, but we have to try, Grandpa, there’s nothing else to do.”

“Moth, you cannot get through to his home by going to the top of the mountain, or I would have gone when I was twenty,” muttered Clem.

“What about the water?”

Clem opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Someone can get to his home through the sinkhole,” said Moth, trembling. “I’ll go. I’ll go find him, I’m not afraid, I’ll go in the water.”

Clem withdrew his hand from her, alarmed. “Moth, don’t talk like that.”

“I would rather drown then watch and do nothing while Hiren gets burnt to ash. I can’t let that happen!”

“You’ll just be like one of those rejected gifts,” said Clem, grabbing her shoulders. “Stop it, Moth.”

“I’ll be the offering. The offerings get accepted. Hiren can send me in place of crops for the fall offering.”

Clem stared at her in horror. “Have you gone mad?”

“Tell me it wouldn’t work.”

“We don’t send living things in the water.”

“We’ve sent animals before!”

“We don’t send living people–”

Moth stood up. “Does the ferryman exist?”

Clem trembled, looking up at her. “God, you’re going to do this.”

“Either he exists, or he doesn’t. Either he will help us or he won’t. Either Hiren will be saved or it’ll be destroyed. I’m going to do this.” Moth paused at the door, shivering. “I love you.”

“Meremoth don’t go, stay right there, talk to your father!” pleaded Clem, trying to heft himself out of his chair but too weak to stand. “He’ll be here in a half hour to walk me home – just wait for him and let him talk sense into you.”

“Goodbye. I love you; I’ll miss you,” Moth said, and she ran from the house, back to the Hevwed home.

She went into the barn and got Nest, their pale gelding, and rode him into the eye of the night.