The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 39:

One – Never to Tell

Moth could not sleep that night. She sat in her bed watching the dark sky rotate by, until the sun – always behind a thick cloud – began to rise and color the gray clouds with a pink silver.

Was that why he hadn’t been seen in seventy-five years? Moth’s mind was full, and so overcrowded with thoughts, she couldn’t hold onto one before jumping to another. Is Juho lying?

Getting out of bed and crouching by the stove, Moth took the journal apart to see the thread that bound the pages. Everything about the journal was old, worn, faded, and stained, except for the new white binding thread – Agate must have taken the pages apart carefully and removed whole sections of the journal, and then rebound it.

Moth put her shawl around her shoulders, tied on her borrowed shoes, and left the gatehouse. Outside, some magpies were beginning to chirp and make noise in preparation for the dawn, with just enough glow on the horizon to see by.

She walked across the property, the chilly morning air stung her face, and her breath formed a gentle fog that floated away like dandelion fluff.

Soon, she was at the greenhouse; the pure morning light lit up the cleaned glass, and it glowed like a gemstone. Moth went to the exterior door and entered though the back.

Close to that back door was the chaise longue. Three times the size it should normally be, crudely, hastily cobbled together; the wood and cushion had large gouges on it, and it dipped in the middle where a massive weight was used to resting.

Dizzily, Moth sat on it. She lay against the backrest – she barely took up any room.

Oh, she thought, queasily. Something is very wrong with the ferryman.

Exhausted, and overburdened. Moth fell asleep, only waking several hours later when the sun glinted through the glass onto her face.

Sore and disoriented, Moth stood up and habitually checked on the seedlings, making sure they were coming along, before she squared her shoulders and went into the mansion.

She decided to talk with Agate. There was no point in pretending. She did not feel betrayed by Agate – rather, she did not know Agate at all, she only wanted to know the truth.

Early in the morning Agate was usually doing chores in the empty mansion – where it once was a guest house for the living, it now only functioned as a storage house for offerings. She listened for any noise, and heard her upstairs, in the bathroom that had Lander asleep in the tub.

Taking deep breaths, Moth went up the stairs.

In the bathroom, Agate was writing down information in her journal and chatting absently to Lander.

“A lot of wool clothes this year. Must be the sheep are twinning – or perhaps someone in Magden popularized it and it’s in demand,” Agate was saying, tapping her pencil and jotting down the number of wool coats she had taken stock of. She glanced up, surprised at Moth, and said, “Oh, good morning, Miss Mere.”

“Can she hear you? Hear us?” Moth asked, nervously.

“No, but her soul can feel when someone’s nearby. It’s comforting.”

Clearing her throat, Moth said, “Agate, I…want to talk to you about the journals.”

Not looking up, Agate nodded, “Still finding them useful?”

“Juho left a message hidden in one of them.”

Agate froze, her fingers curling around her pencil.

“Your name is Lara Agate, you’re from the House of Coe.”

Slowly, deliberately, her thin, wrinkled hands opened the satchel at her hip and placed away her journal. She leaned back in her chair and faced Moth, her eyes cold. “What did Juho accuse me of?”

Moth thought through her words very carefully. “That you would alter his journals.”

“I did.”

Her face was set, and she was unapologetic. “Why?” Moth demanded.

“The journals left by the greenhouse gardeners are meant to be read; they are there for the next one who comes along. His journals were full of other people’s business, gossip, and slander.” Her face tightening further, Agate said, “If you entrusted him with a secret, and he put it in his journal to be read by others, that is a hideous betrayal of trust.”

“Like the ferryman’s secret?” asked Moth, softly.

Nodding, rubbing at her throat, Agate said, “Yes. Like Lord Correb. Listen, Miss Mere – I am sorry I had to lie and alter the journals, but you must understand, I don’t regret that I did it. The secrets Correb wishes to keep are his business, and you are a guest.”

“I understand that,” said Moth. “But you know I’ve been offered as a bride.”

“Was I the one to tell you?” asked Agate. She meant it genuinely, searching Moth’s face for direction. “Had you come a week earlier, he would’ve been able to tell you himself. Tomorrow, you’ll meet.”

Moth considered that. She extended her hand, and Agate took it. “Thank you for the truth. I didn’t come here to accuse you – I’m sorry I read about you in Juho’s journals.”

“What did you read about me, besides my name?” asked Agate.

Moth shifted her feet, wishing she could edit his words. “He said he was your gardener. He said you were cruel to your servants.”

“How brief, but it is true,” said Agate, and seeing Moth’s expression, she said, “Why do you think I’m in the House of Springs? All of us guiles, we end up here for different reasons. I’m only grateful my husband gave me a water burial, so I could have a chance at facing who I’d become before I passed through the gates forever.”

Moth had nothing else to say. She stood there for a moment to look at Lander in the water.

Far below them, at the entrance of the mansion, one of the front doors swung open with a rebounding clang.

“Good gracious,” exclaimed Agate, standing up. “Why are they storming about.”

“Agate!” a voice shouted below. “Agate it’s here! At the gate – it won’t leave.”

“What are you talking about?” shouted Agate, storming from the bathroom and jogging downstairs. Moth followed her, alarmed by the guiles tone.

It was the guile with ginger braids who Lander had brought to help remove the vines from the greenhouse. A younger man called him Vincent.

He stood in the middle of the foyer, eyes wide and his jaw set tightly. “The welkworm is at the gate watching us. We shouted at it to go but it won’t – god it looks like it wants to eat us.”

“Has it tried to touch the gate?” asked Agate, hurrying from the house and down the ivy path.

“No, it looks like it knows not to.” Vince said, and then demanded, “Agate can’t we use fire?”

“No loose fire! How many times have we told you?”

Moth ran after them; along the groove they were making in the ivy. Agate looked at her with a clenched jaw and asked, “Your shawl scared it away last time – nothing in the forest likes magpie colors – would you shoo it again?”

Mouth dry, and her heart already thumping loudly, Moth nodded.

They rounded the stone wall that once blocked in the garden and could see clear to the gate.

That old, stolen face was watching, the shadow of the gatehouse heavy over it, and when the welkworm saw them coming towards the gate, it twisted itself into the darkness of the forest.

Moth still could not see anything but its head; how it moved, she wasn’t sure. It seemed to be like a snake.

“You saw it, you know I’m not imagining it,” said Vincent, wiping sweat from his upper lip and squinting angrily into the woods. “It was so excited when we came up to the gate – to jab it with spears – it kept huffing, trying to taste us. It wasn’t afraid of us at all, just hungry. The spears did nothing.”

Agate grunted. “Well, it can’t look all it likes but it can’t touch tin. Still, I don’t like it prowling around looking for guiles. Mere, would you scare it away if it comes by again?”

“Yes, of course, but won’t it realize this shawl isn’t really a threat?”

“Welkworms are not smart, so let’s hope it’s stupider than most.”

*

Moth chose to spend the rest of her day in the gatehouse foyer, to scare off the welkworm if it returned.

She brought down Juho’s journals from the shelves in her room to reread them – with the light of his secret message, and the understanding of Correb’s distortion, it gave new meaning to large sections of his book.

‘No wonder he secludes himself – he is not well’, made her pause, and look for more. She found a brief paragraph:

He lays on his seat, by the windows that face the forest, next to the water feature, and he rests. We exchange no words. I keep working and he closes his eyes - as a ferryman, he does not sleep.

I do not know why he finds the greenhouse more comforting than his own tower, but he is not in my way so I’m not annoyed by his presence. He likes to be there at night, when most of the guiles are sleeping and won’t pass by and see him.

Recently, he seems too ill to make it to the greenhouse. I have not seen him in his usual spot in weeks.

He has returned to the greenhouse. I do not need to ask anything to know he has had a worse spell.

Moth was not sure whether the ferryman’s sickness was his distortion, or if he was both sick and distorted. She assumed it was the latter.

Does it change anything? She wondered, looking down at her hands. Even if I knew he was monstrous, I still had no choice, I still had to go through the water.

She did not understand the numbing fear that came over her. She paced around her room, one hand holding the book, the other hand clutching her hot, churning stomach. She had a feeling like she was never going to see her family again.

Sick and anxious, she got a pencil and wrote in her own journal a letter to them.

I may never see you again. The Ferryman is sick – but he is alive. He has been severely distorted by a curse and does not want to be seen by anyone.

She could think of nothing else to write. Someone needed to know – she understood that Correb kept it secret, but if she died, no living person would know – if anyone should know, it was Clem. She ripped the little note out of the journal.

Moth hurried to the window of her room. Magpies often gathered on little awning that faced the forest. She opened the window and leaned out, spotting a few hopping around on the edge.

“Hello?” Moth asked, and they cawed back at her. “Would one of you send this out for me?”

One of them hopped forward, tilting its head. “Come in, it’s getting dark?” it asked.

“Yes, yes, to my mother Vade,” said Moth, desperate. She lifted her scrap of paper. “Would you send this letter to her, I–”

The magpie jumped back from her, glaring at the paper.

“No haunting,” it cawed.

Lowering her hand, Moth asked, “What?”

All three magpies said in a raspy chorus, “No haunting.”

“I can’t send written things?” Moth whispered.

They nodded their heads.

Crumpling the note, Moth flung in into the stove, where it curled into ash.

Moth lay on her bed, exhausted. There was nothing to do but wait for him; tomorrow, he would be back.

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

She turned to the wall. If she went to bed early and slept longer, it would be the next day sooner; but she didn’t know when he would be returning the next day. It could be the first minute of the next day, or the last.

There was a ruckus from the magpies outside, and Moth jumped from her bed, up to the window.

The welkworm was outside.

Its head was just above the canopy of the trees, it’s sleepy old face looking at her window. How tall was it? How long was its neck? Moth slammed the windows closed and fumbled to secure the tin bars – the creature flared its nostrils and withdrew into the forest.

Heart pounding, Moth looked up at the magpies who had flown off their perch and were circling overhead.

Moth was getting sick and light-headed, and she realized she hadn’t eaten the entire day, and very little yesterday; she forced herself up and went to the stove.

She was startled when she found that her shelves had been restocked – there was a note.

Found a closet of goods from Hiren. All non-perishable, of course, so I sent it up by Agate to have her laden you with something decent. - Dueluck

There was more flour, as well as a small, cured ham, a few tins of herbal tea, jars of jam, honey, and clotted cream.

The clotted cream was from last year, but it was unopened. It looked good – Moth prayed desperately, and when she opened it discovered it was fine.

“Oh, thank god,” she said, on the verge of tears.

She had bread dough already rising on the shelf and quickly made herself a small loaf, placing it in the oven. She hovered over it, afraid to burn it, and could smell the scent of cooked bread beginning to fill her room.

It seemed forever – she made tea while she waited, and changed into her nightgown as the sky dimmed – but at last it was done. She cut the loaf open, the steam rising and heating up her face, and she lathered it recklessly with clotted cream and honey, stuffing it hungrily into her mouth, the honey and melted cream dripping down her wrist and onto her sleeves.

Chasing down mouthfuls with clover tea, Moth felt tears rush to her eyes, filled with intense gratitude for Hiren – she could think clearly again, she could remember why she was there on the other side of the water, why she was going to face Correb tomorrow to plead with him.

Help Hiren.

Exhausted and stuffed full of food, Moth cleaned up her cramped cooking area and climbed into bed. She was going to bed early, and she would get up before the sun rose, to be ready.

It took her a while to relax. as she considered exactly what she would say to the ferryman – but eventually, at last, she fell asleep.