The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 31:

The Offering

Each day on the mountain strengthened Moth’s resolve to be Hiren’s offering.

High up in the clear air, overlooking the unending burnt valleys, Moth had a view of Hiren that revealed just how eaten her home had become. Each day she saw a flame down in the far-off fields, spitting up coils of smoke, blanketing her inheritance in gray death.

Some nights she couldn’t sleep with how the guilt rotted at her, thinking of her family.

How could I leave them like that? Moth mourned to herself. I didn’t even say goodbye.

She wondered if they would be at the ofere – would they allow it to happen? Would they try and stop her? She could not think of Ama; the look of betrayal her mind imagined carving up her little sister’s face, the pain and confusion.

Moth wrote a letter, trying to put together her thoughts and her desperation to her parents, to Ama, to all of them – but what could she say that would help?

Ultimately, she wrote to them

I’m sorry I left without telling you why, I’m sorry if you were afraid for me, but I’m safe where I am.

I love you all – so very much it hurts to write about it, and sometimes when I think about where I’m going I tremble at the idea that I will not have you around to

hold me together, to remind me of who I am when it’s hard, but it is that love that gives me the strength to do this, to go through the Ofere to the home of our ferryman.

Please know I do this out of love – not out of fear for Hiren, not out of hopelessness or despair. It is love for Hiren, which is in my heart the same as love for you.

When I go through and come out the other side, I will not forget you, I will send you word of my safety, somehow.

Please know this is my decision – perhaps the most important one I will ever make.

Love,

Moth

Moth sent the letter by one of the Halig children, who brought it and left it on the doorstep of the Cride’s home. As the days passed and no one came up the mountain looking for her, Moth was confident her location was secret.

It was hard living on the mountain. The comforts of a more civilized farmhouse were denied her. There was no flour or water pumps; the seedcakes they ate were like rocks, and the water had to be drawn from streams by hand.

No oxen or plows – all the earth was broken by shovel and sweat.

Even the fire was limited and kept to the bare minimum. When it was dark out, they did not allow lanterns or candles – ‘loose fire’ they called it, unholy on Tiding – and all the children slept on the animal pelts in the main entrance, where Moth slept as well, sharing a pelt with four other children under the age of eight.

Moth met some other Tiding Farmers – the Kukula and Vori families – who came out from their side of the mountain, all because they had had dreams of a stranger on Tiding.

“She’s a Hevwed,” said Mr. Kukula, the moment he met her. “Can’t say I’m thrown over. She’ll make a solid offering, it’s fitting and all.”

Mr. Vori explained to Moth, “Hess Hevwed built that bridge down there – one of the first on the mountain, seven hundred years ago. He made a way for others to go up or down the mountain, he merged two places together. You can do the same for Hiren.”

Though this encouragement solidified her soul, Moth often woke up in the middle of night sweating with the panic that overcame her – the realization of what it could mean if it was all fake, if the ferryman did not exist, and the water was the only thing that was real, and deep, and cold.

But Autumn came in with a sudden chill, and the moon waxed until it was full, and it was the day of the Offering.

Mrs. Halig’s daughters washed Moth, combed, perfumed, and braided her hair; they trimmed her nails and they oiled and honeyed her skin, and one of their children came up from the Cride’s with a package for Moth, of a new dress and jewelry to wear. Asto, Mrs. Halig’s daughter, brought it in to help her put it on.

Moth took the package and opened it, unfolding a dress.

It was astounding. Made of pale peach, so light it was transparent; it had mutltiple layers to the skirt and bodice for modesty, but the sleeves could be seen through, like coral glass.

Heavy lace – ‘pie’ lace, made to look like feathers – made of the came peach color, made heavy the deep hem and cuffs of the dress. Small beads of tin, glinting dully, were interwoven into that traditional Hiren lace.

Along with it was a deep ultramarine jacket – it was so small, all it did was cover her upper arms and shoulders, leaving the embroidered bodice of the dress exposed. The sleeves had buttons up the whole way, so it could fit over the voluminous sleeves of the dress. Along with it was a blue apron, tied at the waist,

with three panels hanging down, each one embroidered in a darker blue a scene of the heavens, the forest, and the water.

As for jewelry, there was slippers made of scrolled tin, and a tin tiara that covered the top of the head and had two horns scooped up, resembling a crescent moon.

It was an old, traditional Hiren wedding dress.

Moth had not seen one so old-fashioned in her entire life – only an illustration in a book Ursula owned. She had seen the tin shoes worn before at a wedding, and some dresses in Hiren still had the apron and jacket, though it was not considered modern; most brides did not want something so dowdy as an apron on her wedding day.

Moth had never seen anything so beautiful, and at first she just stared at it to admire the color of the peach in the light, but it dawned on her and she said quietly to Asto, “Why is it a wedding dress?”

“The Cride’s said you were an offering to the Ferryman,” said Asto, helping Moth take off her ratted, grimy clothes that she had worn nearly for a month straight since she got to the mountain. “They seemed to understand that meant a wedding.”

Moth felt cold. She lifted her hands so Asto could carefully place the dress over her; it floated over her body like a sunlit cloud, the silk so gentle and clean it made Moth acutely aware of how many scars and bruises she had on her legs from living on the mountain.

Though it was a wedding dress, she knew it was meant to have bright embroidery on the apron panels; dark embroidery on a dark background was usually reserved for a funeral.

“Where…who made it?” Moth asked.

“From Hiren, Mrs. Cride told me. All the farmers worked together to make it; someone gave up their ancestor’s crescent tiara, as it was old and not made anymore.

Same with the tin shoes. Apparently, they did not want a bridal offering to be shabby.”

“And the farmers sewed the dress?” Moth asked, gently touching the sleeves, delicate as a spiderweb.

“Its impressive work; with only a month to prepare it.” Asto laced and buttoned up the perfectly fitted bodice.

Moth knew the only person in Hiren who had her size and measurements was her mother and Priscilla. They must have helped – their hands must have laid out the pattern and pinned it to the fragile fabric.

The apron was tied around her waist, and the jacket carefully slipped on over the sleeves and buttoned, and when at last she was dressed Asto secured the tiara to her braids with pins, and placed the tin shoes on the ground.

Moth carefully put her feet in the velvet-lined tin slippers, and turned to Asto, her mouth trembling. “I’m ready to go to the Ofere.”

A cart was hitched to a donkey wearing a wreath of cyclamen flowers on his neck. Mr. Kukula drove the cart over to the Halig’s and waved to Moth, gesturing to the back of the cart – it had been piled with unbleached wool blankets, and Moth climbed onto the pile and sat with her feet hanging over the back, watching the other Tiding Farmers come out in their carts to follow Mr. Kukula down the mountain.

Realizing where they were going, Moth said, “Are we crossing over that old clapper bridge?”

“On a day like today, we should,” said Kukula. “It’ll hold.”

Moth gripped the side of the cart and watched the donkey – with no hesitation – clop gently over the bridge, pulling the cart behind him.

The cart rattled over the stones, and the stones held their form placidly, unaltered in their purpose since they were laid in the creek.

Looking over the edge, Moth could see only a glint of water in the deepest groove of the creek bed. A few dried minnows were submerged in the clay.

Moth looked up to see the bridge receding away, and the other Tiding farmers cross the bridge, each of their small, colorful carts flitting over as effortlessly as butterflies.

The sky deepened into a heavy shade of blue, and against this backdrop the full harvest moon of autumn was as bright and solid as a silver plate, its rim lit up with the remaining sunlight that was draining in the west.

The hills around her, that rose and fell as slowly as a lazy sea, smelled of smoke, their crest scorched away down to earth, while whole swathes of orchards were burnt to charcoal. The ground had produced nothing that year.

The sight and smell of it all filled Moth with a heat, and she adjusted her tiara set her face towards where they were going; north, to the Ofere, the massive form of

the mountain range pulled away behind them yet still taking up the entire southern view.

The sky glowed down to a black violet as they rose up over a hill. They looked down for a mile towards the Ofere and saw a crowd of lowland farmers.

All the farmers were waiting there, all their lanterns lit.

There were no musicians, or a floor cleared for dancers – no one brought barrels of wine and spiced cider, or laid out blankets full of food to celebrate a bountiful harvest overflowing with good things. Rather, it was silent.

Despite this, it was the most farmers Moth had ever seen at an Offering –Moth knew them, and had known her whole life, each family she could name, each face she recognized. It was Hiren – Hiren had come to send her off, and as she rode down in the cart, they looked up towards her and began to sing the offering song, the one she had heard her whole life.

“The best I give to you,” they sang, and it was not joyous.

“The finest of my house,” they lifted their lanterns high and sang it all, each note, to Moth.

“The sweetest of my land.”

The cart pulled her all the way down to the Ofere.

The water was darker than night, and quiet – because of the drought, it was far away down in the sinkhole.

The farmers, dressed as if for a wedding and expressions set for a funeral, had scattered flowers, and stood waiting. Moth searched the faces for her family, she knew they must be there, watching, but she could not see far into the dark.

Mrs. Halig waited at the sinkhole, and extended an old, withered hand to Moth.

Moth took it, struggling to breath.

“Will you marry the ferryman and save us?” she asked.

“Yes.”

And Moth turned her back on Mrs. Halig and looked into the mouth of the water, and Mrs. Halig’s hand gently pushed against her, and she fell, and fell, and fell, into the Ofere.