The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 36:

Four – Living Offerings

Every day that passed, Moth felt an increased nervousness at the thought that soon, very soon, the ferryman would return and find an unexpected guest in his house.

She busied herself in the greenhouse. The day before, while she read and re-read Juho’s journals, Agate and a crew of guiles had gone through and cleaned every inch of glass in the greenhouse; the inside glowed, magnifying the meagre light of the mountaintop.

With the instructions of Juho’s journals, Moth decided not to rearrange his original layout, but restore it – she liked the idea of rearranging it entirely to her ideas, but it seemed foolish to start a large project when she wasn’t even sure if she could stay. There was always the possibility that the Ferryman would not allow her to stay – that he would be offended by Hiren’s offering.

She uprooted and repotted, watered and drained, and pulled out seeds to start growing new plants – but all the while, repeated in her mind, were the words of Mrs. Halig:

What will you say to the ferryman when you stand face to face with him?

Moth had no answer. ‘Help Hiren’ was the only response she could think of; she hoped that when she did look him in his eyes, she would have more eloquent words to say to him.

Sometimes while she worked, she would hear the voices of guiles drifting on the air, from the other mansion. She had blurred memories of the second mansion, from her first day there, running through its corridors in a blind panic.

Mainly she remembered the water that would’ve killed her, and it had not made her eager to explore. Even their offered food could hurt her.

But the second mansion was where the guiles lived – though ‘lived’ seemed the wrong word for the dead. Lander, if she wasn’t at the gatehouse, was with the others at the mansion. Moth felt isolated from them, though she had met a few who had come to help with the greenhouse, there were at least fifty she had not met.

Listening to their indistinct voices on the breeze, Moth continued to repot.

The whole place needed to be aired out, and it was a warmer day than usual, so Moth looked around for the dormer windows she could open to let in the wind. She could see they were on the second story, where the verdigrised metal balcony wrapped around the greenhouse; on one end of the balcony was an ornately twisted metal ladder.

Moth climbed the ladder and walked the length of the old balcony; it clanged with each step she took, but it was a friendly sound, and she could look over the work she had done in the greenhouse – she could see the dirt in the beds, now purged of the vining rose.

Looking up and out, she had a crystal-clear view of the property, the rolling estate on the flat-topped mountain, that dipped down and down and down with an endless forest that disappeared into cloudbanks. She stood over the world, above the sky.

Eagerly, she found the heavy-duty latch of the window. Though it had been cleaned, no one had opened it: its grooves were caked in dirt. Moth pried at it with her fingernail until she could clasp onto it and unlatch it. She flung open the window and let the wind in, and it dived by her and stirred up ages of dust.

Moth hurried along opening each window until it was full of wind, shaking awake the plants – who had been shocked enough by new light – and swept the air clear.

At least Moth felt the greenhouse was getting clean.

She sat on the edge of the balcony and let her feet dangle down, resting her arms on the railing and plotting out in her head where she should start next.

The warmth and the wind relaxed her. She closed her eyes as the breeze ruffled her dress. This could be a lovely place to rest in¸ she thought, her eyes turning to the oversized chaise longue.

The voices of the guiles nearby were clearer now, drifting in and out, and she knew if she wasn’t careful she would fall asleep, when the voices of the guiles got louder and louder – Moth raised her head.

She stood and looked out the greenhouse and saw two dozen guiles hurrying down towards the gate.

Moth climbed down and ran outside, tugging her feet through the swan ivy.

Above the gate, a swarm of magpies were gathered, perching on the curling filigrees and cawing loudly for attention.

“Living offerings.”

“Gather the offerings.”

“From Fellered.”

Agate was standing, hands on her hip, staring with sunken eyes up at the magpies.

“Miss Agate?” Moth asked, hurrying towards her, touching her elbow. “What is happening?”

Agate glanced at Moth but then did a double take. “Of course – of course, you could help.”

“I’d be glad to help, if I can.”

Agate gave quick instructions to nearby guiles, who ran to the mansion. She turned back to Moth and said, her small hands fluttering as she explained, “Fellered

had sent their offerings early – they should know better. Their offerings are mostly living – chickens, turkeys, pigs, and such, but none of us can touch the tin gate.”

“Yes! I can open it – do you want me to stay here at the gate?”

“If you’d be willing, I would prefer if you came down with us to get the offerings. Normally Lord Correb is with us. Everything in the forest is afraid of him, they’re only afraid of someone alive – they see us guiles only as easy prey.” Agate smiled morosely. “Already dead, it makes us easy to digest.”

Guiles were lined up with carts, hitched to what few beasts of burden they had in the stables and barn – the rest were pulled by hand.

Two dozen guiles stood to attention by the gate, waiting with their carts, and Agate walked up and down the guiles giving instructions to stay on the ivy, to not wander off, to stay in a group - and do not use fire, despite the dark and the temptation, do not have loose fire on the mountain.

“Lanterns alone,” Agate instructed Lander, who was to stay behind with a group of guiles to guard to mansion. “No torches, unless absolutely necessary.”

Lander stood to attention and gave a curt nod. “Yes ma’am.”

“Make sure it’s us,” added Agate. “Ask anyone who comes up to the gate a few questions before you let them in.”

After the guiles walked out onto the road, Moth closed the massive gate behind them all. The guiles stood well away from the gate and fences, twitching as it swung shut with a chattering bang.

None of the guiles would be able to reenter the property without Moth opening the door for them. The weight of it made Moth alert.

Moth went with Agate and the other guiles down the ivy road, leading the way of a procession of carts – if it was going to be caged animals, they might need to make more than one trip.

The sky was dipping into evening, but it was still bright enough to let them see their way through the tunnel of forest. Magpies scattered and regrouped, chattering to themselves in the branches – they looked up at the oncoming night, or down at the guiles making their way through the forest.

“Living,” they chided, urging them on.

They walked along slowly, their carts thumping against broken pieces of carriages hidden in the ivy. Everyone was on high alert, eyes glued to the yawning dark on the edge of the road, where the ivy stopped.

“Have you found the journals useful?” asked Agate. She kept toying with her chatelain, and her voice was high, her eyes flitting around to each shadow in the gaps of the branches.

Moth watched her. She was getting used to the abnormal way guiles looked, their folds and ridges of dried skin. “Juho really understand plants. And…well, did you read his journals when you logged them into the library?”

Agate stiffened. “I know his opinions about me, if that’s your question.”

“No, no, its just that his journal ends abruptly,” Moth said. “What happened to him?”

Agate opened her mouth, but hesitated. “Well, I suppose you know too much for a vague answer to satisfy you.” Rubbing her nose bridge, Agate began, “Juho’s father, Aberand, was a wicked man. Violent, cruel creature, not fit to be on the earth. Well, he died and had a water burial, but Milord Correb would not allow him with us here in the mansion because of his violent nature, so he was sent to Mount Welclose, to the House of Drowning.”

Moth remembered Juho’s writing. She shivered. “Juho saw his father there, didn’t he?”

Agate nodded. “He said he wanted to see his father punished for all things he’d done to him and his mother – he wanted to see Aberand suffer. He put it as his

one request to our Ferryman, and Milord agreed. Lord Correb showed Juho his father in the House of Drowning.”

Moth had felt the engulfing cold of the ofere surround her – for just a moment, until she was put in that strange offering sleep and carried through. But that second alone, when she fell below the water and was awake for it, was the most frightening minute of her life. Worse than the fog.

Moth could only imagine that the house of drowning was like - never being lifted from the water. Moth said nothing and waited for Agate to collect her thoughts.

At last, Agate continued, “Juho changed after that. He felt possessed by the image of his father under the water. He left the mansion one morning and walked the long way to Welclose, to his father, and freed him.”

Moth stared.

“For all his hatred, something deep in Juho believed if his father was liberated from his punishment, he would become good. That did not happen – his father immediately trapped Juho in his own cell of drowning. Juho was trapped there for a day before Milord was able to rescue him. He was never the same afterwards. He spent his final few months in the mansion keeping to himself. Then, one morning, his days were up and Milord ferried him across.”

“What happened to Aberand?”

“Only Lord Correb knows,” said Agate weakly.

Moth wrapped her magpie shawl closer about her shoulders, a feeble comfort from the story, and her mind was full of Juho and the pain he must have endured - trapped in a punishment meant for his father.

The procession made its way down, despite Moth’s mind being miles away, and at last they arrived at the entrance of the Offering Pool.

Moth expected to hear animals chittering in alarm, but it was silent.

The offering pool was stirring and swelling with water. It was much higher than before – the cabinet that had lain on its side on the shore was submerged up to its arched crown. All the old offerings were being drunk up by the water, and much of the rotten fruit had been washed away – but there were no animals.

“Where are the offerings?” asked Moth.

“Should be along any moment now, now that the sun has set.”

Standing ready, the procession of guiles – and Moth – watched the water flowing down towards the pool, straining their eyes for the first offering.

“On your right,” shouted a guile, and they could see, coming around the bend, dozens of cages.

Guiles waded into the water. They had long poles with hooks, and they latched the cages and brought them near the shore for others to grab and stack on the carts.

Moth waded into the water and fished out a cage of rabbits. They were all hunkered down, asleep – none of the animals seemed alarmed or were fearful, much like Moth’s own trip through Hiren’s ofere.

How gentle, she thought, handing the cages to a guile, who loaded it up on a cart.

Already drenched, Moth hung her shawl on a branch and went out further into the rushing pool with a hooked pole, and helped drag the cages inwards for others to grab – a cage of turkeys, a cage with two lambs inside, another cage of rabbits. One she pulled out was a cage with a lovely cat inside, gray fur and striped in a marbled pattern. When she gave it to a guile, Agate hastily grabbed the cage and began fawning over the sleeping creature.

Shivering with the cold, Moth worked harder to bring her body temperature up. The cold did not seem to bother the guiles – rather, they didn’t notice it at all.

The water was swelling, and they backed up a few feet to get firmer footing on the stones beneath.

Moth could see, submerged under the water further upstream, something white and black. It was not in a cage, so she handed off her hook and kicked off from the rock, swimming closer to the large shapes below.

There was a swirl of hair in the water.

Moth reached below and felt a long head, and as she touched it, it woke up from the stupor placed on it, and it thrashed and rose out of the water with a whinny.

Four black and white horses burst out of the swollen stream, snorting and kicking towards the land.

Moth grabbed onto one and was pulled ashore. Guiles sprinted over to calm the horses, offering them snacks and throwing ropes over their necks and tying them up to trees.

“Horses! It has been a while. What a generous offering,” said Agate, clutching her box of cat.

Ae guiles pulled back the leg of a horse, reading the shoe. “It’s from Dannel Wuce.”

“Oh I should’ve known. A generous man.”

The first dozen carts were packed to the brim with subdued, waking animals, waiting on the ivy road. The rest of the carts were being filled up. All the caged offerings were done, and now only the occasional gift floated down, some new leather luggage, a few coats, several candelabras – if they loaded up the horses, and a few people carried the rest, it could all be brought back in one trip.

“How do we know there’ll be no more cages sent in a few hours?” Moth asked.

“We don’t – there are always a few people who offer some things later. I really wish they’d respect the directions given by Lord Correb – offer on your moon, in season, and all in a row with one another. I don’t mind the occasional offerings getting lost, but when its alive and we don’t know it’s there…” Agate looked down at the sleeping cat. “Well, fishing dead offerings out of the water is no task to enjoy.”

Moth took another look at the water, searching for anything else beneath the surface, or down the bend – but it was quiet. She hoped Fellered had finished. She took her shawl from the branch to wrap around her damp shoulders and left the offering pool.

One of the horses whickered at Moth. It was ladened with several cages of chickens. The horse, a gelding, was good-tempered; it consented to a hastily made rope bridle, and Moth said to the guile who tended to it, “Can I lead this one?”

He had been planning to lead two by himself and was happy to hand it over to Moth.

The procession of guiles followed the ivy road back to the mansion, going slowly so they wouldn’t wake up the animals, half of which were still under the strange slumber of the offering water.

Moth lingered near the back of the procession. She glanced up at the magpies who flittered quietly in the leaves overhead, then turned her attention to the dark and deep woods just within reach – she redoubled her grip on the reigns of the horse.

Magpies shrieked.

Moth spun to look. They spiraled up from the trees and into the air.

Up the road, in the dark, a guile screamed – all of them stopped walking and clumped together, keeping on the ivy.

Agate’s up front, Moth realized, terrified. She forced herself forward. She ran up the ivy road. “Agate?” she shouted, and in the dark she found a trembling guile.

He’d been carrying the luggage and had dropped it, but could not move. Moth grabbed him, but he stared wide-eyed towards the woods, and she followed his hollow gaze.

There was a face in the woods – a face that was several feet high. It was the enormous head of an old woman, its chin resting on the ground.

Several magpies flew around it, flapping their wings and screaming to shoo it away, but it ignored them.

It blearily licked its lips and blinked a Moth. It breathed heavily, the breath rustling the ivy. Then it said, “Who…”

Its eyes were bloodshot and half closed, and her wrinkled lips flapped as she huffed out words with infantile difficulty, spit drippling over cracked lips. “Who’s there?”

Moth still held onto the horse, for support, but he bucked and whinnied at the sight and smell of the creature. Moth was too stunned to do anything – the horse pulled out of her grip and ran into the forest.

She could do nothing but stare at the enormous, shriveled face – it took up all her vision.

It’s soft mouth flopped open, and it flared its lips to taste the air. “H…ello. Who’s there?” it stretched forward, out onto the ivy, Moth didn’t know how it was moving, it was obscured by the darkness.

The monster was not bothered at all by the ivy. Catching a whiff of the guiles, she began huffing for breath, her sagging jowls quivering with excitement, when it jerked to a stop at the sight of Moth.

It stared stupidly at the large white spots on her shawl. Moth couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She planted her feet and moved her shawl; the monster followed the spots with red-rimmed eyes.

Moth took a shaky step forward, her arms outstretched with her large magpie colors, towards the creature.

Blinking slowly and gasping, the head tilted one way, then the other, and withdrew into the forest. There was slithering noise as it disappeared, leaving a trail of flattened ivy behind it.

Moth sunk to her knees, struggling for air.

*

No guiles were harmed – all of them made it safely back to the mansion and brought the animals into the stables and pens.

Moth latched the gate firmly after everyone had passed through, Agate standing attentively nearby to make sure it was secured.

“It had a human face,” Moth muttered, rubbing her throat.

Agate nodded, looking as ill as Moth felt. “It took someone’s soul. That monster – a welkworm – must have found a wandering soul. It’s been eating at her for a long while, but I’ve never heard of one that big before.”

“What do we do?”

“We wait for the ferryman. The welkworm can be on the ivy because of its soul but it still can’t touch the tin of the gate – I don’t care if there’s another living offering, no one is going out into the forest again until Lord Correb returns. I fear to think how monstrous the welkworm could become if it got more than one soul.”

Moth leaned against the fence to see into the woods. “Is there no way to fight against it? Lure it up to the gate and shoot arrows at it?”

“Only tin hurts anything on the other side of the water,” said Agate, standing well away from the gate. “Any weapon to hurt it couldn’t be used by guiles.”