The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 45:

Worth an Answer

After a few days rest at the mansion, Moth returned to the gatehouse – Lander joined her, undaunted by her experience with the tin sword, or the recent infestation of a welkworm.

    Moth, however, felt nervous returning – though the broken windows had been patched up with wood, and the magpie window had been sealed shut again with tin bars, there was still a lingering smell of invasion.

    Agate was horrified.

    “The gatehouse?” she asked faintly. “The lady of the mansion…won’t even sleep in the mansion?”

    The guest room – though far more luxurious and convenient than the gatehouse – did not feel like a place she could call her own. The old out of the way outpost, up a flight of stairs in a crevice of the gatehouse, was not anyone’s; Moth had already begun to hang up her sketches.

    “I’d really prefer the gatehouse.”

    “You’re not a gatekeeper!”

    “I’m not a guest either,” said Moth carefully, trying not to get too frustrated with Agate. “So, I shouldn’t sleep in a guest room if I’m a lady.”

    “Then you should sleep–” began Agate, and faltered. Her eyes glanced towards the ferryman’s tower. Snapping her head away, she said brusquely, “I will ask Lord Correb.”

    Agate returned an hour later, deflated.

    “He said either the guest room or the gatehouse, he did not care.”

    A small victory, but Moth was relieved to return to her old room. Agate was taking Moth’s role of bride more seriously than either Moth or Correb.

    Perhaps the guiles don’t know it’s just a title alone, Moth realized. It would look strange, then, for her to live so apart from Correb, but Moth could only shrug it off and focus on more important things, like enduring a month before her return to Hiren. She would keep busy with gardening.

Moth had worried about working in the greenhouse while Lord Correb was trying to rest, but she did not need to worry – she did not see him there, or anywhere else, for several days.

“Told you – he keeps to his tower,” said Lander. “He’s gone most days as well, off ferrying souls. Can’t imagine he gets much rest.”

This encouraged her to keep working in the greenhouse, knowing she could work alone, and so decided that over the next month she would focus on the water feature that took up a sizable chunk of the south side of the greenhouse. Juho had said in his journals that the water feature was Correb’s favorite part of the greenhouse.

I came up here to help Hiren – to help Lord Correb, Moth thought ruefully, standing on the edge of the deep tiled pool, overgrown with reeds and scum. This help seems so piteously small.

Moth started with the easiest thing – ripping out the rose vines that had spread into the water. They writhed angrily the entire time. When she cut off a length of them and threw it aside, it would slither across the floor and try to strangle her ankles – she was forced to stoke up the fireplace and burn each cutting. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot of vines growing into the pool, but it still took her the entire day.

After that she was stumped. She had never had a water garden before and didn’t know how to tend one.

She approached Agate. “Do you have a book about water gardens in the library, by any chance?”

“What don’t we have in that blasted library?” Agate groaned. “Every so-called writer gives an offering of every thought that crosses their brain. An abundant offering. We have more journals of stranger’s lives than I know what to do with, though Lord Correb reads them all so I can’t throw them out. You said water gardening? I’ll fetch it for you, milady.”

Before she could clack off, Moth added, “And do you know if there’s a way to drain the pool in the greenhouse?”

Agate riffled through the keys on her chatelain and handed Moth a clunky brass one. “Give this to Oliver, he’ll do it for you.”

“Oliver?”

“He tends to the stables. All the animals, really. He’s can’t talk so don’t be offended when he doesn’t answer you.”

Moth held on tightly to the key, asked a guile for directions, and rounded the mansion to find the stables.

It was sprawling and half overgrown. Only a portion of it was cleared of that invasive ivy to allow passage into the stables.

Moth leaned through the dark entryway, the smell of animals a comfortingly familiar one to her.

In the lowlight, an animal whickered – Moth went further into the stables and saw one of the beautiful black-and white horses that had been offered – the rest were out on the grass – and she approached the stall cautiously.

He was a stunning gelding, with bright intelligent eyes, and white markings over them that looked like bushy eyebrows. When Moth approached, he neighed gently and came up to be pet.

Moth felt a pang of guilt, remembering how one of the other horses had pulled out of her hand and run into the woods.

Buckets clattered in the corner. Moth spun around, surprised to find a human in the stables with her.

A man had just finished milking a glossy dairy cow and let it out of the stall to join a dozen others out in the pasture. He was a gangly man with a big hands and feet – though he knew Moth was there, he didn’t acknowledge her as he poured the milk into pitchers.

“Oliver?” Moth asked.

He looked up and nodded.

Moth held up the key. “Agate said you could show me how to drain the pool?”

He wiped his hands on his apron, hung it up, and showed Moth out of the stable. He took long, loping strides, and Moth had to jog to keep up with him.

“Those horses – the new black and white ones – there’s only three, right?” asked Moth, and Oliver nodded. “A fourth one didn’t show up to the mansion, maybe grazing around the outside of the fences?” Moth inquired hopefully, and sighed when Oliver shook his head.

She didn’t know what else to say about it, but Oliver waved to get her attention, and made a gesture of him shielding his eyes from the sun to look around. “Y…you’ll keep an eye out for it?” Moth asked, and he nodded. Feeling better, she said, “Thank you so much.”

They continued across the property, onto one side of the mansion – the opposite side of the entrance. The ground level was lower, showing a deep foundation of stone to the mansion, and in the foundation was an enormous, stubborn

iron fence. Water flowed out from under the fence, under the mansion, leading distantly to a decrepit hedge maze.

On either side of the stream, set in the fence, were gates.

Oliver used the key to unlock one and swing it open, the hinges groaning angrily at having been disturbed from years of disuse.

It led into the cool, dripping underbelly of the mansion, where all the water pipes snaked down from the rooms, kitchens, and baths in a disorganized web of copper.

Oliver brought her on the path alongside the stream. The stream came in under another fence on the opposite side of the mansion – but Moth barely noticed as Oliver stopped in and faced a three-foot wide pipe with a valve like a wagon wheel.

Oliver looked at her and waited.

“Oh, yes – please drain the pool,” said Moth, and he nodded and heaved on the valve.

The valve was crusted over, and difficult to budge. Oliver panted with effort, and Moth could see he had no tongue. With a final pull, a rush of water rang loudly through the pipes, boasting of his success.

“How many hours do you think it’ll take to drain the pool?”

Oliver held up three fingers.

“Thank you.” Moth shook his hand before they both parted to return to their work. Oliver locked the door behind them when they emerged from under the mansion and went inside to return the key to Agate.

Moth rounded the greenhouse and opened the door - a dreadful gurgling burst out. A small vortex whirled around on one end of the pool, ripping up lily pads.

Not the plants. Moth flopped down on her stomach and plucked water lilies out of the water, moving them to small bowls of fresh water where she hoped they would regrow their roots.

“I’m doing this backwards,” Moth muttered, rushing more and more plucked lily pads to bowls, cups, and pitchers – whatever was stored by previous gardeners in the cabinets and shelves. She didn’t want the pool to be completely bald when she refilled it – it would be a sad, dull view for Lord Correb while he rested on his couch.

Feeling she had rescued enough lily pads, Moth scavenged around for other beautiful plants that grew in the pool – many of which she did not know the names of but were stunning to behold. Everything else was shaggy grayish reeds, and three inches of scum and mold.

It was panicked work, but Moth managed to rescue bouquets of plants from the vortex, storing them in water or laying them out to encourage root regrowth.

Agate came clacking in while Moth was resting, bearing a pile of books. “I assumed you didn’t want the ones in old cauldish,” she said, and Moth nodded.

It was several days of reading and weeding. Moth felt she was beginning to see what a beautiful feature it could be, once she cleaned it and replanted – she was relieved when the lily pads began to regrow their roots.

Though the books provided her with knowledge, she wished she had precise directions on how to approach that specific water feature – she had no interest in making up a new plan, so she read through the gardeners’ journals again, desperate for new information.

Agate dutifully provided her with pots of tea, setting it by the tile stove to keep it warm, and quietly leaving to let her study.

Moth could find nothing she needed in any of the journals – they all referred to a water feature plan by ‘Nisse’, a far previous gardener whose journal was in old cauldish. Light was getting dim, and Moth was growing tired.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen the floor of that pool.”

Moth started out of her chair.

Correb stood nearby at the edge of the pool. looking down into the black mud that lay thickly at the bottom.

Moth hadn’t heard him enter.

Turning from the pool, he dragged himself to his couch and collapsed onto the cushions with strained breaths, arranging his wings and superfluous legs until he was almost comfortable.

“I’d hoped to refill it before you returned,” said Moth.

“I like to see its progress.”

Moth set aside her books, rubbing her tired eyes, and sipped on her cup of tea. She wanted to return to her room, but was self-conscious about leaving the moment Lord Correb arrived, when he had so kindly said he would enjoy the company.

“Have you been…ferrying souls?” Moth fumbled out, a complete blank for conversation.

Cracking open an eye, Lord Correb looked at her. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No! No, I–” she began, when she caught his expression and realized, to her surprise, it was a joke.

“I ferry for three days, and rest for another three. Today begins the rest cycle. I am looking forward to these three days – it’s been some time since I’ve had company during them.” He set the kettle on for himself. His hand skimmed by the books Moth left on the table, and he lifted the cover of one. “Have you been researching pondlife?”

Still reeling from his joke – she hadn’t ever been warned ferriers might have a sense of humor – she managed to say, “Yes.” She sipped more tea to recover herself. “And I’ve been rereading the gardener’s journals. I don’t know anything about water gardening, and neither did Juho.”

“Nisse was the one who developed it most. She was the one who expanded the pool and tiled it in, introduced the water irises, vleikos, and bush weeping willows,” said Lord Correb, his eyes on the empty pool.

“I have her journal, but I can’t read it.”

Concerned, the ferryman grabbed up the journal. “Has it been damaged?”

“I can’t read it because it’s in old cauldish,” said Moth.

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

Moth stared at him and then down at her cup. “Lord Correb, don’t you need your rest?”

“I don’t sleep. I lay here, awake, and the garden helps me recover my strength. Though occasionally I am in too tired a state to move or keep my eyes open – but more often, I am alone with far too many thoughts. Will you let me read to you?”

“Yes, please,” said Moth, relieved.

Tiredness faded from her. She pulled her chair closer to the ferryman’s couch, poured herself another cup of tea, and listened eagerly as he took the journal. The book looked absurdly small in his talons.

“Would you like me to skim it until I find sections about the water feature – or shall I read it through?”

“Read it through.”

The ferryman opened the journal.

“This journal was begun in 241 - season unknown - by Nisse Calops. I freshly came to the House of Springs, having died by snakebite in my garden at the age of eighty-nine, while weeding my phlox. Daughter thought me full of regrets and so gave me a water burial to spite me.”

The ferryman paused to take his kettle off the stove and make himself a pot of tea, allowing Moth to rummage through her belongings to find her own journal.

Anything she needed to know from Nisse would have to be written down, since she couldn’t reread it.

“She arrived in May,” added the ferryman, before he continued.

It began with much of Nisse’s initial impression of a greenhouse left in abysmal condition by the previous gardener – though sometimes Moth had troubled understanding what the ferryman said, due to his thick, guttural accent, and she felt it would be unbelievably disrespectful to ask him to repeat himself. She followed along as best she could and began to get used to the way he spoke.

After two hours of reading, Moth’s eyelids began to droop, and her journal slipped from her hand.

Nisse was long-winded about her experiences with the hundreds of useless guiles she encountered, her countless nitpicks about the way the library was organized. Moth thought it strange she never mentioned Correb, until he read:

“Since Lord Correb is often in the greenhouse after dark, I thought I should begin planting more night-blooming flowers.” He paused, and said, “Mere, you are growing tired. Should I stop here?”

Stifling a yawn and sitting up, Moth nodded. “Thank you for reading to me. I hoped it would be more helpful, but not yet.”

The ferryman smiled, the stitches crinkling the flesh of his cheek. “Nisse didn’t like giving out information easily. She’d been that way ever since she was a child.”

Moth chuckled, but a thought irritated her mind. She looked down at her journal and then risked peeking at the ferryman, as he reclined on his couch.

“Lord Correb?” she began, and when she tilted his head, waiting, she said, “Several days ago, you said I wasn’t a stranger to you.”

“I did.”

“How…how do you know me?”

The ferryman thought for a moment, and said, “What birds are my familiars?”

Moth sat back down on her chair, confused. “Magpies.”

“Who in Hiren knows this?”

“Well, everyone.”

“So everyone knows magpies are mine – my messengers, my friends, a creature granted greater consciousness than other animals, greater skill in speaking, thinking, and power. So – how many in Hiren build them homes?”

    It took Moth a minute to consider. “Maybe a third build them mag houses.”

    “And of that third, those that have mag houses – how many see to it there is water for them, to recover from their journeys, or food to bolster them, or trinkets to please them? How many aid the magpies?”

“…I suppose, if I had to guess, only a fifth.”

“Only about one of fourteen families in Hiren help my magpies,” said the ferryman. He gestured to a vining rose, and it wriggled up and opened a window of the greenhouse – shortly, a dozen magpies winged in and chattered on the upper balcony.

The ferryman admired his birds. “They have an exhausting job, surveying Korraban for me, being my eyes – they are opposed by martinets, cawlers, shamans, and many others who kill them and use their blood for their drinks. My magpies have a beautiful ability to eat cruel spirts who slip into homes, and to untangle curses – they protect farms and families.” He looked at Moth. “Do you think they would forget those who treat them kindly? You see how they love beautiful trinkets. They love beautiful-hearted people as well. When they meet someone, they collect every shining snippet of information about them and bring it to me. They know you – so I do as well. They call you Moth.”

Moth stared in amazement at the magpies, who chittered and chirped and played with each other in and out of the foliage of the greenhouse.

“Just because I kept up the mag houses?” Moth marveled out loud.

The ferryman laughed. A strange gargling sound in his distorted throat. “They love easily.”

Clenching her hands together, Moth was touched by the magpies’ attention. “What did they tell you about me?” she asked, wondering what a bird would find worth mentioning.

At her words, the ferryman grew somber.

“That you have been looking for me for a long time.”

The words rang in her ears, stinging her. She looked away.

“I am sorry,” murmured Correb. “Before my illness, someone like you, someone sincere who wanted to know me – we would’ve met much earlier, I would’ve invited you to a feast here, and you would’ve received answers to your questions and searching. I am sorry you had to wait so long.”

Moth said something – she wasn’t sure what – and gathered up her books.

“Shall we read again tomorrow?” he asked.

She nodded and hurried from the greenhouse.

The moment she was out of sight, contorted emotions bubbled up from her gut and burned her throat.

What is wrong with me, she thought angrily, tripping over broken, concealed statues in the ivy.

Further away waited the gatehouse – she wanted to crawl into the privacy of her room, but her legs shuddered beneath her, too hard to walk. She stumbled behind a row of overgrown statues, forming a private veil of ivy, and sat down quickly to catch her strength.

Moth couldn’t tell if she was horribly angry or sad – she turned over his words in her head. She couldn’t explain to herself why it felt like he had scoured her, had dragged his talons over a sore heart – the heart of a fifteen-year-old Moth, who had

often called out to a silent Tiding Range and wondered why she wasn’t worth an answer.