The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 33:

Seven – Empty

Beyond the entryway, it was dark. The meagre glow from the sky cut a hazy stripe of light in from the door, showing Moth’s shadow in ahead of her – with a nervous twitch she went inside.

    Her footsteps filled the stifling darkness. Though it was her only source of light, Moth shut the door behind her – she felt too vulnerable with it open, as if something would sneak up behind her.

It took an agonizing few minutes, but her eyes adjusted to the dark, revealing to her left massive tall windows; they were so dirty light could barely eke through, but by it Moth could see a suspended galaxy of dust hovering in the beams of foggy light.

She took more steps deeper into the manor house, every sound she made was so loud, her own heartbeat sounded like rain on a metal roof. Minute by minute, her eyes acclimated to the shadows, and more of the room was revealed to her.

The ceiling towered far above her – the walls were dense with paneling and trim and carvings; where there was a blank square of wall, it was moss green and decorated with floral patterns.

The floor, all polished wood, was laid out with a long rug that was woven with a progression of a magpie in motion. Moth followed the length of the rug, and as she went her footsteps stirred up clouds of dust.

Across the foyer was a short staircase that went up to a sheltered landing, set with painted pillars, and had a door that went into the wall. Moth tilted her head back and saw a balcony overlooking the foyer, and four chandeliers with a spiral pattern – like an ammonite.

Moth clutched onto the heavy railings and went up the staircase. and tried to open the door – at first she thought it was locked, but she realized it had sunk into place. With a vicious tug, it scraped open on bent hinges. Judging by the scrapes on the frame of the door, others had struggled with the door as well.

Moth went up a shallow, enclosed hallway up onto the second story.

She wandered down the second story hallway. There were paneled doors leading into new rooms. She opened one and found a beautiful, small guest bedroom; it was filled to the ceiling with clothes.

The clothes were hung and draped on hooks and ropes – whole masses of them were hung from the rafters and laid out on a bed. Several wardrobes were against the walls, stuffed to breaking with dresses and robes, blouses and trousers, children’s clothes and jackets, varying in quality from work clothes to palace-worthy embroidery.

And each garment had a label tied to it – some had not been marked yet, other listed a date, a name, and location.

Moth didn’t dare move around, fearing she’d knock a pile of clothes over, when a labelled jacket in the corner caught her eye. The jacket was enormous, jet black with red and green embroidery of trees and birds – the label read:

Fellered, Magden

Anthony Scride

June 578

It was from eleven years ago, but more than that, Moth recognized the last name. Was that Amanda’s brother, or father? Moth marveled. It seemed made-up to remember eating lunch with Amanda at the wash house.

Moth left the room and went and stood at the balcony, around the tarnished chandeliers, at the once-impressive foyer. She leaned over the railing and down at the foyer. Above her was a huge skylight that was darkened and dirtied with ivy. What light that trickled through was blue, yellow, and green, with stained glass.

Absently, Moth touched her face to make sure she was still there. Looking down into the deep blue shadowed foyer, and feeling lightheaded under the airless atmosphere, Moth had never felt more like she was in a dream.

Below her, she heard a door creak open and close.

Moth tensed up and – she didn’t know why – crouched to hide behind the railing. Gritted her teeth and trying to find a spark of courage, Moth tremblingly rose up to peer over the railing.

From her hidden viewpoint, she saw a gray-haired woman enter.

The woman wore an enormous chatelain with chains like shackles, burdened with many boxes and tools, which clacked with every short, quick step she took. The woman went to a pile of luggage in the corner – collecting cobwebs – and quickly wiped them clean, took out a little journal, and began counting the luggage and writing it down.

Heart pounding, Moth watched the woman’s gray head. She took deep breaths to work up her courage, and finally called down to her.

“Hello?”

The woman didn’t bother to turn around, but called in reply, “Have you already finished the jackets? Come give me the notes.”

Moth didn’t have the courage to continue to shout in that old, hollowed mansion. She glanced over her shoulder and decided to come down the stairs, self-conscious with every step she took in her borrowed shoes.

She came into the foyer, where the old woman still stood in the shadowed corner counting luggage.

Moth didn’t want to scare her by coming up behind her as a stranger, so stood at a distance in the light of the window and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m…I’m the offering.”

“You have what?” asked the woman absently, turning to look.

She dropped her pencil and journal.

“Good god, you’re alive,” she croaked.

Heart beating fast again, Moth said urgently, “Yes, I survived the trip through the ofere. Did you know about it?”

Speechless, the woman cautiously came forward to see Moth better, out of the shadows and into the light with Moth.

The woman looked terribly wrong.

Her eyes were like flat black glass, with a flickering light behind them. Her flesh was grayed and papery, with deep grooves surrounding her eyes, surrounding and segmenting her neck, and the joints of her hands.

A gasp froze in Moth’s throat, and she ran.

“Wait!” the woman called.

Moth went through a door – green – and down a long hallway – wood and glass. She heard nothing but her breath – she had no thoughts but those a caged animal might have – run, run, get out, escape.

Another door – blue this time. She was still in the manor but had no clue how she’d gotten there, the dream wouldn’t end. She believed if she just found and entered the right door, she would wake up in her home.

This door led down, down, down though stone and rock, she heard water, she ran, slipping on the moist steps, entering an underground, shallow lake.

Another one of those people – Insect? Doll? – was there at the lake. She was not old like the other one. She started at the sound and sight of Moth, shocked by her appearance.

“Who…are you alive?” gasped the creature, reaching out a hand.

Moth cried out and ran to the lake – maybe it would take her back out through the ofere, she could go back to Hiren.

“No!” screamed the woman. She tackled Moth to the ground.

Moth’s head slammed onto the stone ground, stunned.

“The water will kill you!” the woman exclaimed, holding her tightly so she could not get up again. “Who are you? Why are you alive?”

Moth began trembling violently, and the woman clutched her tighter, and through desperate gasps of air, Moth said, “Mere Hevwed, from…from Hiren.”

The woman leaned back at this, looking down into her face. “Hevwed?” she said, breathless.

Moth at first recoiled from the hideous crinkled papery skin, the flat glass eyes, but she suddenly was struck by the woman’s features - freckles, widows peak. So familiar.

“I’m…Lander Hevwed,” said the woman, quietly. “I died in Magden about two years ago. You paid for my parents to attend my funeral.”

Moth stopped trembling. She, using Lander’s shoulder for support, sat up slowly from the ground just to stare into her cousins face, and they both said nothing.

Footsteps echoed down the long hallway, and the older woman burst out into the lake, fear creasing every wrinkled on her face until she saw Moth. “Oh god, oh thank god!” she exclaimed, leaning against the wall and covering her face.

“Agate,” said Lander, standing up and helping Moth to her feet, “this is my cousin, Mere Hevwed.”

Still covering her face for a moment’s privacy, Agate took deep gasps and then straightened herself, adjusted her chatelain, and said with feeble composure; “A pleasure, Miss Hevwed. I’m called Agate, I am the housekeeper of the house of the dead.”

Moth, swallowing hard and hugging herself for comfort, gave a jerky bow.

“What are you doing in the house of the dead?” Agate asked.

“I–” Moth struggled to answer, her voice small and fragile. She wanted to lay down, she felt feverish and detached from reality, but as she looked around, she saw an icon of a magpie over the tunnel. She lifted her head and said quietly, “I’m here to see the ferryman. I was offered by Hiren as his bride.”

Lander and Agate looked at each other, and then back at Moth; at her once-beautiful wedding gown, with its shredded hem. Lander put her hands on her hips and looked up at the ceiling, and Agate covered her mouth with a hand, deep in thought, every line on her forehead crinkling.

Moth clenched her fists and said, as firmly as she could, “I need to see the ferryman, where is he?”

“He is gone. He’ll be back in seven days.” Agate tapped her foot, still thinking, as her chatelain clunked against her side. Finally, she said urgently to Moth, “I will prepare you a room, but you should not stay in this house, there are too many things here that isn’t safe for a living person. You’ll have to sleep in the gatehouse.”

“Seven days?” repeated Moth. She felt relieved – she did not want to meet him like this, she would have time to prepare.

“He left weeks ago, but he will be returning this next Monday. But please, let’s leave, even this water is not safe for you,” The woman reached for Moth’s arm to help her out, but Moth flinched at the sight of her fingers – like insect husks. The

woman pulled back her arm, self-consciously looking down at her own hands, and simply gestured for Moth to follow her.

Moth did, hazily, with Lander following behind her. Lander did not say anything as they went through a blur of mansions and doors, but kept her eyes either down, or on Moth.

Within minutes, they were back at the abandoned foyer, and then out into the open air.

The light that had seemed so dim and skimpy before felt like a glorious summer day to Moth – she could breathe again, she could see, it was fresh and clear, her courage returning to her.

Though in that light, the women looked even more lifeless. Moth, trailing behind Agate, noticed the stiff movements of her arms and legs.

“Are you guiles?” Moth asked them, after a moment.

Agate seemed pleased, and said proudly, “Yes. We are.”

Moth knew every myth and legends about the ferryman, from cold nights in winter where Clement would spin out marvelous stories about the home of the ferryman, the House of Springs, and the undead guests who lived there. Some stories, they were servants who worked tirelessly for Lord Correb, granted with ‘temporary bodies for their passed-on souls’. Other stories they were guests who had been given a brief, borrowed moment of time before they passed through the last gate to the afterlife – a moment to settle any regrets.

Distracted by these recollections, Moth nearly walked into Agate, who had stopped abruptly and was staring towards the gate of the gatehouse.

“Why is it open?” the woman demanded.

Moth looked towards the massive gate that had not been locked or chained when she arrived. It hung open several feet. “I opened it to get in.”

“Would you please close it? Right now,” said Agate, her expression a restrained panic.

Moth, feeling her urgency, hurried forward and closed the gate. It had a large latch and she swung it shut.

“Guiles can’t open or close – or even touch – that gate,” said Agate. “Milord closes it when he leaves, to protect us from what lives in the woods – horrid monsters that cannot cross the tin in that gate.”

“I won’t leave it open again,” assured Moth quickly.

Lander stared into the woods, and then turned and eyed the property. “I’ll take a quick look,” she said, and left both of them to comb the property for anything that might’ve slipped in

Agate calmed down, looking tired, and showed Moth into the gatehouse.

The gatehouse flanked the gate on either side and spanned over it. It had large windows to overlook both the woods and the mansion.

The inside of the gatehouse, though sparse stone and some wood shelves, was recently cleaned. In the corner was a wooden table, with a lantern and a couple of books, that looked like someone had used.

“Some of our guiles work as guards on this property, and often come in here to observe the forest. One of the rooms is fitted for sleeping,” said Agate.

She led Moth up a rickety, splintering staircase that went up two stories, but she stopped on the first story and showed her into a room. It had a comfortable bed and a stove, with shelves laden with food canisters.

Moth realized, looking at a carton of eggs sitting on the shelf, how hungry she was. Agate followed her gaze and gasped, hurrying over to the stove to grab away the food.

“Miss Mere, did you eat any food by the offering pool?” she asked.

Moth tensed, glancing down at her feet. “I took these shoes so I could walk up here. I didn’t take any food though.”

“You didn’t eat anything at all?”

“No.”

Relieved, Agate began stuffing the food in a sack, . “If you eat offered food it’ll make you deathly sick – unless it’s from your region. What region did you say you were from?”

“Hiren.”

Agate pressed her mouth together. She reached for a book pouch on her belt and pulled out a small ledger full of her tiny scrawl. “Hiren has not had bountiful offerings last year, or the year before, and nothing this year…besides you.” Furrowing her brow, she said, “Well, I’m sure we have something left from the years before, I’ll scrounge the kitchens. I’m very sorry, I wish I had something more to give you.”

Moth felt embarrassed on behalf of Hiren, and said, “It’s not your fault. Hiren has had lean years because of the burns, even my garden was taken.”

“Garden?” asked Agate. For once, her tired face brightened. “If you would like something to do while you wait for the ferryman to return, please consider turning your attention to Lord Correb’s greenhouse.”

*

Agate left to scrape together food from the storage house, and while Moth waited she tidied her new room.

The bed had several heavy blankets, one of which Moth was sure must’ve been made from someone in Hiren.

The comforting ritual of making the bed – which was unused but dusty – helped her calm her mind. She went to the massive window that overlooked the forest and groped in the dim light for a latch until it swung open in a gasp of dust.

She put the blankets out the window and shook them, keeping her eyes on the forest while she did, wondering how long ago it was when the last person had walked up through the gates.

Grandpa Clem had told her, when she was a child, that the ferryman often had living guests. There were other doorways to enter his home, secret pathways, able to be found by those who looked – guests would travel through to the other side and find themselves at the House of Springs.

Am I the first in seventy-five years? Moth wondered.

Even though hours had passed since she had gotten there, it barely looked brighter than early morning – everything was in a pre-dawn blue haze, and a heavy mist blanketed the forest.

The slow-moving mist, like a lazy river, oozed over the treetops and made everything move like it was underwater.

Moth was about to drag in the blanket when something in the woods caught her eye. Something round and white, far away. She squinted, leaning out of the windowsill to see it clearer.

As she watched, it rose into the air on a long, dark, trunk-like shape, high above the forest canopy, to look at the gatehouse better. In another moment, a fog bank obscured it from view, and it was gone.

What was that? She wondered, backing away from the window and fastening is closed. She placed the blankets on the bed, the hair on her neck prickling, and she kept glancing over her shoulder out the window to see if it had returned to watch her – but it had not.

A noise downstairs made her jump, but she could hear it was the gatehouse door groaning open.

“Mere?” called Lander.

“I’m up in the bedroom,” Moth called through the door.

Lander appeared shortly at the door. She gave Moth a friendly smile – it was lopsided, like Tully – and said, “You know, when we were both in Magden, my mother wrote me to visit you, so I would have some family in Magden.”

Moth nodded, but her eyes searched Lander for any sign of her fiery death; there was nothing to suggest she’d even been near a fire. “My mother wrote to visit you. I–” she felt heavy, remembering the letter. “I’m sorry I never did.”

Lander shrugged. “I never bothered to try and visit either. My mom didn’t want me to be without family in a strange place, and now I’m not, eh?”

The gatehouse door opened below again, and soon Agate was bustling in the room with a bag of food. She began stocking the shelves.

“Couldn’t find a lot I’m afraid,” said Agate. A small sack of flour – which was exciting to Moth – a wheel of nettle cheese, and several jars of cured meat and preservatives. A bag of nuts, a bag of dried fruit, and two eggs. “One of our hens was offered from Hiren. She is very old, though, and does not produce a lot. I know there must be more somewhere - I’ll ask Dueluck, our cook.”

“Thank you,” said Moth, already opening the sack of flour.

“I’m staying here as well,” said Lander, looking out the window. “I don’t want her here by herself.”

Agate agreed wholeheartedly. “Keep the windows latched, they’re protected by tin too.”

*

After Agate left and Lander set up her own bed in another room, Moth stood over the stove and made a loaf of skillet bread. It was loaded with dried fruit and nuts, and the smell of cooking bread calmed Moth down – she could almost forget she was on the other side of the water, the only living person in the marches.

She had changed into a nightgown Agate had brought her. There were several changes of clothes in the wardrobe brought as well that she had hung up, ready for tomorrow.

Lander poked her head around the door, also wearing her night clothes. “Is it ready?”

Moth nodded and pulled the skillet off the stove. She should wait, but her stomach growled, and she took a fork and ripped two large pieces off the bread for them both.

Lander sliced cheese and placed them on the bread, watching it melt with the steam.

There wasn’t a lot of food from Hiren, and Moth knew she should conserve it and not give it to Lander – who was unaware of the food situation – but it felt so unnatural to not share a meal with someone. Especially family.

They sat on the rug in front of the fire and ate their meal. Moth kept glancing at Lander and seeing different features of family members.

“I’m glad I have family in this strange place,” said Moth, half to herself.

Lander nodded. She stared far-off into the fire. “Can I ask – do you know – how my family is doing?”

Moth struggled to know how to answer. She mulled over her words, and said at last, “I don’t know how they’re doing; I never met them. I do know they were able to travel to Magden for your burial. You were…you were buried in Magden, in the soldier’s graveyard.”

Turning her head slightly, but not looking from the fire, Lander said, “They couldn’t afford to travel to my funeral, how could they have afforded a soldier’s grave?”

“You were buried with honors; your squadron paid for it, because of…because of how you died.”

Lander looked up, the muscles in her face taut. “Do you know anything about the people in the house? The ones in the burning house; did they live?”

“Yes. Yes, all three lived.”

Lander pressed her mouth together. She leaned her head back and gave a deep sigh, her body untensing. Moth did not say anything, to give her a moment with her thoughts. Rubbing her face and giving a crooked grin, Lander said, “One on the ferry in exchange for three – I call that a good deal.”

“Yes,” said Moth, her eyes looking towards the Hiren blanket spread on her bed. “An excellent deal.”