The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 34:

Six – Green joy

Moth dreamt that night.

Grandpa Clement had thrown himself into the Ofere to find her and had drowned, and she felt she was drowning too, that her clothes were soaked with the water of the sinkhole.

She gasped awake, drenched in sweat. She threw off her covers to get air, and sat on the side of her bed with her hands clutching her knees.

It was well before dawn, with only clouded moonlight to see by. Moth grasped in the dark to find a pitcher of water and drank deeply from it, but she still felt hot. She stumbled to the window, wanting to unlatch it and let in a breeze. When she pulled back the curtains, she saw a creature watching her.

It was the same, long creature as before; white, oval face raised high above the canopy of the woods on a long dark trunk – or neck – and watching the gatehouse. When it saw the flash of Moth moving the curtains, it withdrew back into the woods.

Moth snapped the curtains over the foggy glass and dove back under the blankets, trembling. She thought she should call for Lander, but wondered if she had seen anything at all – and when she drifted off into a doze and woke up two hours later, when the obscured clouded sun was already over the horizon, she felt it had been a dream.

*

Moth dressed and tugged on her borrowed shoes, lacing them tightly, and glanced over at her wardrobe. Inside, next to the clothes lent to her by Agate, hung her Hiren wedding dress – the soft peach color lit up by the first light from the window.

Turning from it, Moth left her room and stood on the old wooden balcony. She passed by the door that led into Lander’s room, headed to the rickety old steps that led down.

She paused on the landing and looked up. There was a second flight of steps that rose high up the wall to a door.

The second flight of steps was more splintered and rotted then the first. The door was so high up Moth felt woozy to even look at, but still she wondered what was up there.

She assumed it must go to the bridge that spanned the two gatehouses and covered the top of the gate.

Holding onto the railing, she pressed her foot tentatively onto the first step – it groaned under her weight, and when she tried to lift herself onto it, it began to splinter under her, almost snapping in two.

Moth snatched her foot back. She was the only living guest at the house of springs, and she intended to stay that way – she gave one last, curious glance at the door and left the gatehouse.

The mist was low over the ocean of ivy, and the hem of her dress grew heavy with the dew on the leaves, leaving a trail of unsettled water behind her like a snail trail. She crossed the garden and faced the mansion, her eyes looking around for Agate.

Agate had told her to meet her at the greenhouse that morning, so they could see what needed to be done – but searching the front of the mansion, Moth could not see Agate.

I must be too early, she thought. It was hard to know what time of day it was on the mountain. Where is the greenhouse?

She looked to the right of the mansion, seeing a building overtaken by the ivy, and saw glints of glass sparkling between the gaps of the leaves. She crossed the abandoned garden to get to it, climbing over the swallowed-up statues, and got to the mass of ivy.

She yanked on the vines and found panes of glass. There was an area of ivy that jutted out, and Moth thought it might be an overhang for a door.

The vines that hung down from it was like a crocheted veil. Moth pushed at it and was able to slip behind to find a glass door. It was dark inside, and she could not see through the dirty glass.

Grasping the handle, she eased the door open and entered the greenhouse.

The greenhouse was all metal and glass. Each pane was covered in dense film of dust, inside and out – little light could penetrate the lush canopy of ivy that engulfed the glass house in its strangling mouth.

It was impossible to see in the darkness, but a few shafts of light guided her through like stepping stones. Going deeper inside, Moth found a rough-hewn table; on it was a jar of matches and a candle in a silver holder – she lit it to carry with her.

In the sudden increase of light, Moth realized she was standing next to a chaise longue, but it was four times the size of a normal one – it was crudely made, not at all like all the other furniture she had seen in the beautiful mansion – this one was sturdy but cobbled together from different pieces of wood and cushions. It was so long she couldn’t see the end of it in the dark.

Her own small candle was weak against the hazy atmosphere, but there were oil maps and more candles strewn around on tables and countertops. She took her candle and went through lighting them - the dark greenhouse, one flame at a time, became visible to her.

Massive though it seemed from the outside, once inside Moth could see how crowded it was with horribly overgrown plants that had gone to seed. A thorny vining rose species – Moth had no idea what it could be – had overtaken most of the other plants and stolen the valuable, limited soil resource, and more limited light. A beautiful section of stained glass – one strip depicting orange nasturtiums – was barely visible; where the ivy choked the light on the outside, the rose had stolen the rest from the inside and left little for any other plant.

She stepped over woody tendrils of the rose that had spilled over onto the tile floor. As she went, she examined small pots to see if anything remained. Occasionally, looking in, she would find a hidden sprout or bud; their leaves trembled, shocked by the light.

As she got further in, she saw wooden cabinets in the center of the room. Their doors had been firmly closed and latched, but the persistent tendrils of the rose had wrapped around the cabinets and eaten into the graining of the wood.

Moth tried to tug the cabinet open, but the thorns were so tightly imbedded in the wood it was like it had nailed itself in. Moth looked around and found tools on a bench. She pulled out a handsaw and ripped at the vining rose with its serrated edge, able to tug it away and free the cabinet.

She set down the candle and unlatched the doors, leaning down to look in.

Inside were rows and rows of jars filled with seeds, each labelled with their names. In another cabinet were journals. The newest ones had the name ‘Juho’ written inside the cover, and the other journals were from generations of gardeners who had tended to that same greenhouse. The oldest ones – with cracked leather binding turning to dust – were written in old cauldish.

They were safe in the cabinet, at least until the vines managed to split open the wood entirely and eat everything inside.

If something isn’t done for this place, this is going to be lost, Moth thought, picking up a jar of seeds.

She read the label. ‘Ochre Cyclamen.’ She had never seen a species of yellow cyclamen before, and marveled that something so precious could be wrapped up in such a small seed.

Looking back at the journals, she traced their spines and pulled out Juho’s journal. The stirring of the paper caused the rose vines to twitch. Moth gave them a

nervous glance. She curled the book in her arms to keep it safe as she read by the candlelight.

It was mainly notes on the progression of the greenhouse – it was apparently in an unkempt state when Juho had begun to tend it ten years ago – but interluded in his studies and discoveries were diary-like entries.

Correb favors the water feature – note to expand it, perhaps move away the roses to allow for a broader pool. I’ll see what Onir can do for my idea of a waterfall; I’m sure the pipes would not be complicated. Anything to bring him some relief.

The familiar clink of the chatelain startled Moth.

Agate called from the other end of the greenhouse, lost in the dark, “Is that you, Miss Mere?”

“Yes, by the cabinets; follow the light.”

Agate clinked through the greenhouse and emerged from the haze on the outer rim of Moth’s light. The rose vines writhed lazily and stretched out towards Agate, and she irritably kicked them away.

“Well, what do you think of this sorry state?” Agate asked, gesturing at the violent roses and the pitch darkness.

“It’s sad,” said Moth. “I can see it must have been lovely, before the vining rose began to eat its way through here.”

“The main problem is this perpetual twilight caused by that awful ivy,” Agate titled her head back to look up at the ceiling; though it was glass, it provided as much light as the roof of a cave. “I don’t know much about gardening myself, but if I did this would be first place on my list to fix up; it is the favorite place of Milord Correb.”

Moth’s fingers curled around the journal.

Agate watched her. “As you can see, it’s a large task. Intimidated?”

“Very…but perhaps Lander will help me, if she has time.”

“I’ll send as many guiles to help you with whatever you like,” said Agate. She had a small smile on her face, but it turned stony when she looked down at Moth’s hands and saw the journal. “Is…may I see that?”

Moth handed her the book.

Agate flipped through it, a deep line creasing her forehead. “Any other’s by Juho?”

Moth handed her the other one.

“So that’s where these ended up – Juho never brought them to the library. They’re about to be eaten up by this place.”

“I’ll bring them to the gatehouse so I can read them,” said Moth. “It’s full of information about tending to the greenhouse.”

“These…never got entered into the library records. I need to show them to the librarian so he can make a log of them, then you can have them tomorrow.”

“All of them?”

“No, just these last two journals. All these old ones I know are in the records – why don’t you take those to the gatehouse.”

Moth did not understand the irritated expression on Agate’s face, so she quietly agreed and gathered up the other journals from the cabinets. The rose vines curled at the sound of the journal beings moved.

*

Moth set about identifying what she could of the plants. Agate gave her an empty journal, and Moth made notes and sketches of how she wanted to start cleaning up the greenhouse.

First on her list was getting some sunshine restored into the place.

Bent over her journal by the light of her lamp, she heard laughter out the front door and turned her face up to see Lander – with eight other guiles – fling open the door to the greenhouse.

“Mere, hello – Agate told us you need help getting off this ivy.”

The other guiles standing nearby gave small waves or nodded their heads, but all of them were eying Moth with curious, black glass eyes – Moth was still getting used to guiles, the dead, having the same fire-lit glass eyes and wrinkled, discolored skin that gathered at the joints. They seemed to be trying to get used to her, as well.

“So you’re alive?” said one of the guiles, a lanky man with long auburn braids. “Why are you here?”

“Did…has Agate, not mentioned?” asked Moth.

“She said we have a living human guest who is waiting for an audience with Correb – so why are you gardening?” asked the man, scratching at his scraggly beard.

There was no mention of her marital status. Lander was clenching her mouth closed and looking down as well. Is Agate having it be kept a secret? Or probably just waiting for Correb to confirm or deny it.

Moth said to them, “I’m here to talk to Correb about my region of Hiren. Since I’m waiting around for a few days, Miss Agate asked for my help with the greenhouse.”

“Hm,” said the man, looking at the ivy, then he nudged Lander, “Well, where do we start.”

Lander handed out hacksaws and began hewing apart the thick trunks of the ivy outside the greenhouse, and the other guiles followed suit.

Moth stood inside the greenhouse and watched as slowly, slowly, the ivy canopy peeled off. Trickles of light oozed through and lit up the inside – Moth was able to blow out the lamps and candles.

It was still an overcast, watery light, but by contrast to the dark before it was blinding; leaves of plants began to unfurl and turn towards the sunny glow, stretching themselves as far as they could to reach it.

The rose vine did not seem to enjoy the extra light. Moth, able to see clearly now, went through with leather gloves and tore it out of every pot it had invaded, every bed of earth it had taken over. She was careful as she went, finding the occasional struggling flower that had endured years of neglect in the twilight.

Hours passed like this – Moth inside, weeding, and Lander with her crew of guiles restoring light to the greenhouse.

It was evening when Moth, exhausted, stepped outside and staggered to sit down on the lawn where she could catch a breeze. All but a few tendrils of the ivy were gone, and the guiles were winding down, exhausted.

Moth watched with terrified interest – they did not sweat or flush, their hair did not get damp and cling to their face, but the way they moved became jagged and irregular, like a dislocated doll.

The man with ginger braids said, “Lander, I’m done. This arm is out.” He swung his shoulder, and they could see how his wrist and elbow was locked up.

“We should stop here,” agreed Lander, one of her hands curled and locked up. “We need food and a bath.”

They all slid to a seated position to rest and rub at their bent or locked joints.

Agate and some others came out of the house, carrying trays of food for the workers, handing out pitchers of water to everyone.

Agate made her way to Moth and gave her a bowl of soup, saying, “I’m very sorry this is all we have from Hiren for you to eat. Dueluck is looking through his records to find where we put the food offering from your region but we’ve had little success so far.”

Moth took the soup. It was thin and had fragments of barley floating in it, and some canned meat. Still, she was hungry and she choked it down and drank the water that was given to her.

The food that the guiles ate was fragrant and delicious; they had steaming lamb hand pies with peach relish, along with a bowl of fresh fruit. Moth eyed a plum longingly as she finished her soup.

Lander, stretching her curled hand, came over and said to Moth, “We made a lot of progress today.”

Moth nodded, admiring the exposed greenhouse.

It was two stories tall and was made of green metal. Large sections of it were stained glass in peach and yellow tones – it was all layered in film of dirt, but Moth looked forward to seeing it after the glass was polished.

“You did amazing work, thank-” began Moth, when she noticed Lander’s leg was bent at the knee in the wrong direction. “Oh, god,” she finished weakly.

Lander hastily sat down and rubbed at her knee to get it to bend right. “Sorry, sorry. These bodies are so fragile, in some ways.”

Averting her eyes, Moth asked, “Why is it doing that?”

“Well, these bodies aren’t real – not like yours,” said Lander, popping her knee back into place, and testing it a few times with a kick. “When my soul arrived here through the water, I was put into an effigy – a fake body. It took me a few days to grow into it – for it to look like me.”

“So if you overwork it…?”

“Yeah, it starts to seize up. It’s great though – I don’t get tired like I did when I was alive, I’m never too hot or too cold, things don’t hinder me. But if I don’t eat offered food, or bathe in the water inside the mansion, my body starts to…” Lander hesitated, gesturing in the air to find the words. “Well, it starts to conform to look like how I did when I died – all burnt – and then my soul rejects the fake body.”

“I’m sorry to bring it up,” said Moth.

Lander rubbed her knee and grinned. “Ma always said I’d die young – too reckless. I showed her.”

*

That evening, exhausted from work but her mind racing, Moth tried to read the older journals Agate had let her have. The most recent one was written a hundred and fifty years ago.

The language of the books was so archaic Moth could not understand half of what they said. Some, like the signpost she had encountered on the ivy road, was written in old cauldish and she could understand almost none of it.

Frustrated, Moth set the journals aside. She would need a translator, or a dictionary, to read the books. She wished she had read more of Juho’s book before Agate had decided she needed to log them.