The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 37:

Three – Gatehouse Firmament

Moth only spent a half a day in the greenhouse.

It was difficult to focus; she kept looking up from her work to scan the gently swaying tree line, every shadow looking like the stolen face of that monster, the welkworm.

Though she had a growing pile of twitching, angry rose vines, it was barely a dent in the wild plantlife – she chose to focus on the area about the unnaturally large chaise longue, revealing more of the beautiful nasturtium stained glass windows, making a little space of peace.

It was small progress, and there hours left in the day, but Moth took of her gardening apron and returned to the gatehouse. She was exhausted from a restless night of watching out her window, expecting it to be watching her again in the night.

She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, the wind fluttering both the fringe and the ivy around her feet. Every day here felt the same, like the cold first day of spring. The earth was black and chilly, and nothing but ivy grew – yet Moth was sure there was life underneath, dormant and ready, yet not even a green sprout stuck up.

At least the greenhouse was changing. Several sprouts, now allowed sunlight and space, were stretched up and growing before her eyes.

“Mere!”

Moth looked up and saw Lander headed towards the gatehouse, waving to her. She jogged over to Moth and smacked her shoulder, saying, “What are you up to?”

“I’m going to make some lunch and take a bath.”

Lander held up a lantern. “Before you take a bath, do you want to go to the attic with me?”

Moth’s eyes rose to the third story of the gatehouse. While the first two stories were solid stone, the ‘bridge’ that spanned the two towers was made of logs and planks, and had damaged walkways and splintered floors. The roof over the second tower – the one Moth did not live in; no one did – was notably damaged.

“You mean up those horrible stairs?” Moth demanded. The first set of stairs was bad enough to get to her room, but the second was as sturdy as climbing up a spiderweb.

“If you hug the wall it’s not so dangerous.” Lander shrugged. “There’s some weapons left up there, and I want to bring them down to see what condition they’re in – too many things are scattered around in different rooms, and we should document them better.” Lander strode through the ivy, and Moth struggled to keep up with her. “This place is falling apart without people minding it, and too many useful things get lost in cracks. Less and less people come to the House of Springs, but I guess I shouldn’t be shocked, no one’s seen him in so long.”

Moth nodded, saying half to herself, “It must have been fascinating to meet him in person. What was he like?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him either.”

“What?” Moth grabbed onto Lander’s sleeve to slow her down. “You haven’t seen him?”

Lander shook her head, her braids bobbing with the motion. “No. I talked with him though. He’s always locked away in his nest.” She pointed to a lofty stone tower that stood behind the two conjoined mansions. “Agate says he’s sick and doesn’t

have the strength to be bothered. When I first came, I stood outside his door, and we had a short talk – that was it though.”

Moth rubbed her neck. “You haven’t even seen a glimpse of him?”

“I don’t want to bother him if he’s not well. Almost none of the guiles have met him in person, besides Agate and Dueluck and maybe four others,” said Lander.

They went into the gatehouse, Moth troubled by this information. Lander did not seem to mind she’d never seen the owner of everything they lived in, of the one who’d fetched her soul from the water to bring her to the House of Spring.

Lander crossed the gatehouse and bounced up the first flight of stairs. She peered up the second flight of stairs, holding up her lantern, and then looked over her shoulder down at Moth.

“You coming?” she asked.

Her reckless grin made Moth think of Ama. She couldn’t say no. She hastened after Lander, stood at the bottom of the second flight of stairs – the first step bore a large crack from when Moth had tried to go up a few days ago.

Lander stepped over it to the third step and hugged the wall. She extended a hand and helped Moth over the broken step, and together they eased up the staircase.

There was a stack of windows that ran up the three-story wall, letting in light. It allowed an uninterrupted view of the estate; the higher they got, the more of the ivy-strangled property they could see. Moth felt lightheaded and clutched harder onto Lander, who laughed and began jiggling Moth’s hand, saying, “Worried you’ll fall?”

“Stop!” cried Moth.

In the next moment, they were on the third story landing. It was in better condition than the stairs, and Moth sat with her back to the dusty stone wall and gasped for breath. Lander leaned on the groaning railing and admired the view of the forest.

Next to them was a narrow, tall door, the wood of it so warped the door buckled. Lander tried the handle, but it was jammed; she rammed her shoulder into it – it groaned and burst open, showering down dirt.

Lander took her lantern, thrusting it into the dark attic, sending up angular shadows. Moth stood close behind, her nose touching Lander’s shirt, and crept into the attic.

The floor, all wooden planks, was giving way in some places; inverted beams of light rose up in the dark. Moth could hear rats scurrying in the gaps below the floorboards. She looked down and could see support beams underfoot; they were in the arch that spanned over the gate, connecting the two gatehouses.

There were enough gaps that she could see the ivy far below, as a draft ruffled the hem of her skirt.

As her eyes adjusted, Moth could see a gently glowing light – blue and green – and she turned to see a massive, circular stained glass window that faced the forest.

It was blocked by a heavy shutter, made of tin-mixed metal and wood. Carefully crossing the gaps of planks, Moth unlatched the massive metal pin that locked the shutter and eased it open on old hinges to let in the light – all in heavenly magpie colors – flood the attic.

The heavy carved rafters, like suspended pews, bore hundreds of empty magpie nests – some still had stolen, sparkling trinkets hidden beneath down, some with the remnants of hatched eggs, some with dusty, petrified chicks curled up, still waiting for their mothers. Generations, and generations of magpie nests –which were older than anyone alive in Hiren.

None of them were being used by magpies now.

Moth didn’t want to say anything – the stillness, the distant whistle of the wind, was reverent, and she quietly walked below the abandoned nests and wondered what caused this mass abandonment.

Lander must have felt the same, as she moved as quietly as she could to look through the ruined storage of the attic, setting aside stacks of crates with gentle precision. There were boxes of what might have been clothes or bed sheets, torn to shreds by mice, and crates of journals that had been eaten through.

Her head shot up and she glanced over at Moth with a grin, pointing. Moth crept up beside her to see. There was a chewed-up tapestry that was draped over a rafter; Lander pulled it to the side to reveal a weapon rack.

Three spears, three swords, and a broken bow.

Lander passed Moth the lantern, and she gathered the spears to look at them better in the light. They were in good condition, though in need of cleaning, and Lander said, her voice hushed, “I might keep a few in the gatehouse, just for my own peace of mind.”

Turning and squinting in the dark, Lander reached for one of the swords but stopped to look at the other one and said, “Look at this beauty, left up here to dull.”

Moth looked over her shoulder, trying to see in the weak light. The sword was ornate, with a twirling handle and a thin, gently curved blade. Moth felt like she had seen something similar, hanging in the hall of Mrs. Halig’s house.

Lander picked it up.

Her body stiffened, each limb rigid and locked in place.

“Lander?” Moth whispered. As she watched, she saw the subtle glint of yellow on the sword – tin.

Lander wobbled on her feet and toppled to the ground. She was unconscious, but her eyes were stretched open, and the deep orange light of her eyes were dimming.

“Lander!” Moth screamed, but Lander didn’t respond. Moth pulled the sword from Lander’s hand and flung it across the floor, towards the window. She shook Lander, but she wouldn’t wake up; she tried to drag her upright, but her body was rigid and didn’t want to bend.

Even if she managed to drag her to the landing, there was no hope of getting her down the stairs safely.

“I’m so sorry,” gasped Moth, standing up. “I swear I’ll come back.”

Moth ran through the attic and down the stairs, her feet barely touching the splintered steps. She burst from the gatehouse and tore her way through the ivy to the mansion.

“Agate!” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the high empty walls. “Agate, help, it’s Lander!”

There was no one in the old mansion. Moth ran through it and flung open the door that connected the two mansions.

“Agate!”

Through several doors and hallways, there was a table set with food, and a large man with huge arms was setting down a roast lamb. He nearly dropped the plate when he saw Moth stagger into the dining hall.

“Who–” he began, squinting, but Moth gasped, “It’s Lander – in the attic!”

He grabbed Moth by the shoulder and demanded, “What happened?”

Heaving for breath, Moth said, “Lander touched a tin sword. She’s unconscious and her body has seized up, she’s in the attic of the gatehouse.”

The man set down the food and shouted for two nearby guiles. He then said to Moth, “We’ll go get Lander. You can wait here. If you need Agate, she’s in the library.”

Moth stumbled onto a chair, cold sweat soaking through her collar. She watched the guiles run from the mansion, and closed her eyes to catch her breath, praying desperately that Lander was going to be alright.

She can’t die¸ Moth reminded herself. She’s already dead, she can’t die.

This strange thought comforted her, and she stood up to find Agate, and as she looked around she realized she was in mansion where the guiles lived.

Moth jumped back from the massive table laden with food. The roast lamb was still sizzling, the meat fragrant with cinnamon, and around it was several pies with golden crusts full of molten blueberry filling, which was beginning to seep from the corner. There was a pitcher of iced ale, and a small barrel of mulberry wine ready to be tapped, and a smattering of trays burdened with fruit and nuts.

Seats were tucked under the table and plates set for dinner, ready to feed about sixty people.

At the end of the massive dining hall, was a fireplace that took up most of the wall; scattered around it were chairs and a low table covered in playing cards. A kantele, its strings lovingly tuned, its wood glistening with use, stood upright next to a chair. Moth could see her faint reflection in the wood, and felt a pang for home, to hear her father singing as he hitched the oxen and worked, to hear Priscilla on her own kantele – much smaller with only five strings – to hear the music that she had been so accustomed to, that she didn’t realize how much was a part of her life until there wasn’t anything but silence.

Pulling herself away from the instrument, Moth headed out of the entrance door and out into a cozy foyer, all in rich dark oak wood with a wide staircase that wrapped around and rose through several levels – there wasn’t a speck of dust on any step or windowsill, the carpets were freshly cleaned. Several jackets were on a row of pegs, and pairs of shoes were tucked under them – with a few knocked over or scattered further away in someone’s haste.

It all looked recently used.

How alive these ghost are, Moth thought. Faintly upstairs, she could hear people walking around, chatting to each other.

Feeling uninvited, Moth hurried through the foyer, avoiding the stairs that led up to the living quarters and rooms, and looked around for the library to find Agate.

There, around the boxy staircase, was a long hall with elaborate tile floor that led to double doors. The tiles had a fish motif – fish with human faces – swimming towards the door, carrying Moth along in the current of the tilework. As she reached the door, she heard distantly the sound of trickling water.

She withdrew her hand sharply. She remembered rushing through this door the first day she had arrived, being so terrified of Agate she had fled deeper in to the mansion.

A door behind her banged open, smashing into the wall, and Moth whirled around to see the man – and the two guiles he had recruited to help him – carrying Lander’s rigid body down the hallway.

“Open the door,” commanded the large man.

Moth fumbled with the handle and swung the door open.

The tile ended abruptly, and transitioned to hard, smoothed stone steps that led down. Moth flattened herself against the wall so they could rush by her with Lander.

Moth hastened down the steep, cold steps, down below the mansion into the top of the mountain.

Down she went, for some time, until she emerged from the hallway into an underground cave. The tile on the floor returned, but it was old and worn away so little of the fish remained – just scraps of their faces peering forward.

The tile floor reached out to form a patio that stopped at an underground basin. The water was dark blue, with flashes of green, but as Moth approached the edge, she could see how shallow and clear it was, barely five feet deep. The stone below was green granite, and the color glinted up through the water.

There were steps leading down into the water, and the guiles placed Lander beneath the surface. She immediately sank to the bottom – she was not buoyant at all – and lay underneath, the air escaping from her lungs until she was full of water.

The guiles sighed and stood on the edge of the tile patio, watching her. The man nodded to the other two, saying, “Tell Agate and Matti that Lander was poisoned by tin.” They hurried up the stairs.

“Will she be alright?” Moth asked.

The man rubbed his temple. “I didn’t see the sword she touched. Was it mostly tin or more diluted?”

“I don’t know,” said Moth, nervously. “It had a yellow tint to it, that’s how I knew it was tin.”

The man nodded thoughtfully, then realized and turned to her, “I’m Dueluck, by the way. I’m in charge of all the food offerings. I know about you – Mere, right? – I’m still piling together what I can find from Hiren for you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Moth stared past him at Lander.

“You might want to stand back from the water,” added the man, and Moth stumbled quickly backwards, clutching onto a wall railing. He chuckled and said,

“There’s a lot here that’s not good for a living person. Well, just the food and water, I suppose, but those are both dangerous enough.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway and Agate appeared, face tense and plowed with worry lines.

“Good god she is in bad condition,” said Agate, peering down into the water. “Poor Lander. How did it happen?”

“There was a tin sword in the attic of the gatehouse,” said Moth. She held onto Agate’s arm. “Agate, will she be alright?”

Squinting down into the water, Agate sighed. “She’ll be fine – heavens, she can’t die a second time. She’ll need a new effigy; it’s been ruined by that horrible tin.”

Moth stared at Lander. She lay beneath the water, fractures running up her crooked arms – she looked like a puppet a child smashed. Her body was coming apart at the seams. “Where…how do you get her a new effigy?”

Rubbing her face, as if to iron out her stress-wrinkles, Agate said, “The ferryman grows them on a different mountain.”

“Lander will lie there until he returns?” whispered Moth, her voice creaking.

Agate went to a corner of the tile patio and got a bucket, which she dipped into the water. “We’ll fill a tub upstairs with the bathhouse water, and Lander will rest in there until Lord Correb can fetch her a new effigy.”

Dueluck stood and got two buckets of water to carry upstairs. “She’ll only be waiting a few more days, Mere, and she’ll be asleep for all of it. The water is like that – it’s gentle.”