The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 52:

A Friend

Moth could not sleep. She found no rest on her bed or pillows, and eventually sat by the fire with a blanket around her shoulders and – much like Correb – spent hours staring into the fire, finding meagre solace in the warmth and light.

In the grand destiny of Hiren through the ages, watched since time began by Correb, Moth could not understand why she was there in the House of Springs asked to make these decisions.

The thought of the fog ending did not silence her fears. The thought of rescuing her family did not silence her fears. She wanted her fears to quiet and her courage to rise up, but it would not – even as the sun lifted behind the clouds and a new overcast day began in the marches, and the thought of bale hooks spun in her mind, she knew with increasing distress that there was only one thing left she could do.

She would have to go to Hiren afraid.

She would have to do all that was asked of her, while terrified to her soul, and there was no way around it – only through it – and so with an exhausted and heart she got dressed.

Moth decided to wait for Correb to give him her answer, and so crossed the great expanse of ivy and entered the greenhouse.

The moment she stepped inside, she could smell it – burnt flesh.

Panicked, Moth bolted around the trees, slipping on the water-slick tiles around the pool, and grabbed onto a table to steady herself.

Correb was laying in the pool.

Steam rose off him, and that’s when Moth smelled burning feathers. She anxiously searched his form, but could see nothing visually wrong with him.

Correb saw her and raised his head. He said solemnly; “I see you have not slept.”

Moth, calming her beating heart, shakily sat in front of him by the pool, sorted out her skirts. Up close, she was shocked to see, deep in the gaps of his feathers, there was a faint ember glow. “Are you…on fire?” she whispered.

Correb submerged a wing into the water, and the water almost boiled with the heat coming out from between his feathers. “They are burning in Hiren again. Too many of the sentries are sick with a recent flu outbreak – not enough people, and the fires got out of hand once more.”

Lily pads curled up and died from the scalding water.

“It is hard for humans to understand that Korraban is my body.”

Moth didn’t understand either. She had been told it, ever since she was small, but the idea was still incomprehensible to her. She asked, looking down at her hands, “You said the fog is caused by something like a parasite. Does it hurt you as well?”

He titled his head, trying to meet her averted gaze. “You have been burdened with too much despair this week.”

“Tell me, please.”

For a moment he seemed as if he wouldn’t answer her question, but eventually he said, slowly, “Worse than my curse, and worse than my prescribed burns, is the pain of the fog. A pain as though my lungs are full of sharpened thistles.”

Smoothing an invisible wrinkled from her skirt, so she could do something with her nervous hands, Moth said, “It’s not just Hiren - you’d be benefited as well if the fog was gone.”

“Benefitted or not, as a ferrier my needs are irrelevant – I should not be brought into your choice.”

“I’m going to Hiren as your wife,” said Moth. She forced herself to meet his eyes and said forcefully, “I am frightened. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to be hurt or mocked, and I know – I know I won’t do a good job being your ambassador, and I don’t know at all if I’ll be able to convince even one person to bury stones, but…but I can’t do nothing, when I have this small chance.”

Correb fell silent.

“I dared to hope you’d still say yes. It has been so long since I’ve had anyone who could help me – they are either dead and live here under my care, or suffer under oppression and imprisonment. I believe the Gardener has heard my distress and sent you to me as a friend.” His voice strained with emotion, as he said that, and he smiled at her. “Moth, I cannot express my gratitude.”

Friend, Moth thought, surprised and warmed by the declaration. It occurred to her how rare it was that, in seventy-five years of the ferryman’s absence, she got to be a friend to him – something that wasn’t uncommon a century ago, now was nearly extinct. “It’s an honor to be a friend to you, Lord Correb,” said Moth, returning his smile. “If you still intend to send me to Hiren by the end of the week, I’ll start packing my clothes.”

Correb gestured to a nearby magpie and gave instructions to it in another language. It winged out on the errand. “I will send you out in four days, the end of the week, as agreed. But I do not want you to pack.”

It was only a few minutes until the tink tink tink of a chatelaine was heard coming down the hall, with Agate following behind it.

“Lord and Lady Correb,” said Agate, giving a deep curtsy, though her anxious lined brow grew more wrinkled as she waited for why she was called.

“In four days Lady Correb will be returning to Hiren as my ambassador and wife,” said Correb.

Agate nodded, looking both amazed and fearfully at Moth.

“I cannot be sure how long Lady Mere will be there, but perhaps as long as a year. She will go in and out before the people – it is possible she will meet everyone from destitute farmers to counts and will need to dress appropriately for a wide variety of occasions, such as ceremonial or riding uniforms. Can you choose and find these garments? I trust your judgement.”

Agate’s eyes brightened at the task. “Of course, milord.”

“And if we’ve nothing here in the mansion that suits, I will send you to my storehouse.”

Agate curtsied again and immediately set off on her task.

Moth felt nervous. Her entire wardrobe being chosen by Agate made her squirm uncomfortably, and she said hastily to Correb, “The clothes I have right now are very nice.”

“Do not underestimate the importance of a garment that honors who you’re speaking with. Agate has been in the court of the king; she understands the power of textiles.”

Moth was exactly afraid of being dressed as if she were going to the king’s court. She looked desperately after Agate.

When she glanced back at Correb, she found him intently staring at her fogged hand, and she self-consciously drew it closer to herself.

“Do you dislike the poultice?” he asked. At her blank look, he said, “Do you find it troublesome to make?”

“Poultice?” asked Moth, bewildered.

Realizing she didn’t understand, Correb asked – bewildering her further – “In the last year, did Hiren ever receive a strange woman, named Vanamo? An herbalist?”

“Not that I know.”

“You would know if she had, she must have failed to reach you. She had the recipe for a poultice that helped fogged limbs, making them mobile again.”

Moth gaped at him, and then looked down at her hand.

“I assumed she reached Hiren with it, and you simply chose not to use the recipe. I’m should’ve asked you sooner, but I’ve been preoccupied.” The ferryman took one of his smaller feathers and plucked it out, and held it up for Moth to see.

He breathed on it.

Moth watched, not believing her own eyes, as the vane of the feather curled and writhed, and the rachis softened and bent, and half the feather became something she’d seen before.

Mapmoss.

“If you crush this lichen into a poultice, and wrap it around your hand, you’ll regain use of it,” said the ferryman. “It will not heal you, but it will help and ease the stiffness.”

Moth accepted the feather from him, holding it as though it were made of glass.

“It may be to your benefit she never reached Hiren,” Correb said thoughtfully. “If you bring the recipe for the poultice, it may aid you in convincing the farmers.”