The Ferryman - Book 1

Arc 5 – Poor Loom

Lady Korraban

Chapter 57:

Out of the Marches

The earth was soft and cool. Moth turned over tiredly, feeling around for a blanket to pull over her head, but grabbed up a handful of dirt.

    Though bleary eyes she stared at the dirt, squinting against buttery light that trickled down from a window. Moth sat up with great difficulty, as though she’d been buried under snow, her shoulders and back aching. She felt warm and comfortable under the window ligh, and leaned against Aggo, who was sleeping soundly by her side; he was so relaxed he lay on the ground, breathing gently.

She sat there peacefully, as a gelatinous ocean of sleepiness drained from her head. It felt like waking up from wine, it was sticky and reluctant to go, but moment by moment Moth got alarming sobriety.

She tried to leap up, but every bone hurt and popped. Making noises like Clement when he got out of a chair, Moth winced and used the wall to support herself.

The wall was a rough cave wall, but it continued around to a stone one with an old – but intact – slate roof. It was a story tall and had a small round window.

She was in an ancient springhouse, long dried up and abandoned.

Moth inched towards the entrance – half closed over with a rotted wooden door, kept upright and together by overgrown saplings and bushes.

Taking her knife, she cut and pushed through the growth, causing the door to twist way on leftover plantlife hinges. The ground dropped out below her, and she gasped and clung to the crumbling frame to keep from falling down a steep grassy hill.

The old springhouse was built in the foot of a mountain, rising up dramatically behind the little stone hut.

Moth re-entered the spring house, looking for the secret door she had gone through. She pressed on the wall and tried to see how they had passed through onto earth from the marches, but there was nothing.

She hadn’t thought she would fall asleep passing between worlds, but she supposed if that’s what happened through the water, it must be what happened through the doors.

This felt so much worse than the gentle water sleep she had experienced in the ofere – every inch of her was stiff and aching.

As she moved around to stretch and get comfortable, Aggo slowly awoke from his deep dreams. His tail and ears twitched, he whinnied, and soon he opened his eyes and lifted his head.

He seemed as sore as Moth. He struggled to his feet like he was just foaled – his legs trembled and filled the whole spring house with his awkward canter, until he got his feet under him and bolted stiffly out of the door.

“Aggo!” Moth shouted, stumbling after him, but she found him not far off – easy to see in the wide-open grasslands – eating the tender grass and drinking from a stream that washed down the mountain.

Moth marveled at the swollen stream, full to the brim with water. The ground beneath her shoes was moist ang springy, the earth was full of a deep rain, and all the grass was plump.

Hearing Aggo drink made Moth realized she was terribly thirsty. She limped after him to drink the sweet mountain water, clear and bright over the rocks.

She felt so exhausted from her forced slumber she wanted to lay down and sleep, but she splashed water on her face and admired the beautiful green fields that spread all around her. Lapwings sang in the tall grass, and larks swooped towards

far-off woods – there was a lake Moth didn’t recognize a distance away, a thin glittering line, and the sky was full of slow-moving mountainous clouds, lazy giants that intermittently blocked the sun.

It was a perfect day.

It was spring.

Moth gaped. She stared in disbelief at the crocuses and the lapwings and the slow but persistent warm breeze that combed the grass.

It had been October when she was offered. She had been at the House of Spring for little more than a month – the ferryman had instructed her to bury the sunstones before the worst of winter.

But it was spring.

Moth fumbled for the map. She didn’t even know where she was.

The map of the tunnels through Tural Tie showed where the doorways were, but then ended – there were corresponding numbers, which partnered with another map that showed where they led into Korraban.

The door the ferryman had marked for her was supposed to lead to a place on the edge of the Cride’s property, but she knew she wasn’t there.

She searched the map or Tural Tie for where she had gone off. If she had gone one path too far, and taken the wrong door, then she was in Lad.

Lad was a region in Korraban County that bordered Urimass County. It was to the east of Tiding Range, which meant she was sitting at the foot of the seventh mountain, Hathart.

It was only one region over from Hiren, and at least a day’s ride to get there, and two days ride to get to the Hevwed home.

Moth shakily folded the map and put it away. She let Aggo graze and drink, and felt how hungry she was – there was a lunch packed in a knapsack strapped to the saddle, and Moth took it off and opened it hopefully, but recoiled at the smell.

There were rotted apples, which had soaked onto a bread loaf and wedge of cheese, so the entire bag was coated in dense gray mold. Moth threw aside the knapsack.

She scrounged through the grass and found some wild violets to nibble on, which only made her hungrier. She looked up at the lapwings and sighed; if Ama were there she could shoot one down.

Moth mounted Aggo and urged him around the foot of Hathart, back to the springhouse. She felt nervous with so many sunstones clacking around her, in a strange region she’d never been.

There were fallen stones around the back of the springhouse where it was built onto the rockface. She took the ratty satchels full of sunstones off Aggo –pocketed a large handful of the gems – and hid them beneath the rocks.

Nervously, she left the satchels behind and rode Aggo away. She was fearful to leave them, but it was worse to carry so many valuables around.

It was a perfect day to ride, with a nice breeze and a gentle sun and heavy clouds, but Moth only felt sick every time she remembered it was not the right season – she couldn’t even ride back through to the pathway to find the right door, reluctant as she wouldn’t been to see that horse again.

The wide grasslands spread before her, dimpled here and there with ponds full of rushes and frogs, Moth rode on through Lad with Hathart to her right serving as her only waypoint.

Moth rounded an outcropping and yanked Aggo to a halt.

Spread before her was a massive field of white. The grasses and a few thin saplings had been hardened and grayed by a fog burst – an old fog burst, judging by the way it had crumbled down to nearly dust. Between the stubs of the grass, mapmoss had begun to grow.

Moth clutched her hand to herself and scanned the horizon. Not far off, she could see another disfigured field. Patting Aggo’s neck, she led him around the fogged spot and continued through the grass.

It was hours before the grasslands became dotted with distant farmhouses. Cows and sheep milled around, raising cautious heads to watch her pass by, keeping their calves and ewes behind them.

The grazing pastures gave way to patches of farms, and then Moth could spot a distant town, with their own sentry outpost. The town Moth knew – though she’s never been – as Sootaket. She recognized it because of the imposing sawmill built over the river, sitting next to a sprawling pine forest.

Some woodcutters stood nearby at the mill’s bridge, having their lunch.

If she took the main road through the nearby town, she would meet with a sentry outpost who would want to search her possessions. Sootaket was near enough to a train station to make them feel justified in searching her for petrified goods, but she didn’t want them to see the map – nor the feather, half turned to mapmoss, and the collection of sunstones she’d kept.

The area was too exposed to let her try to get around the road to sneak past the sentries.

With these thoughts in mind, Moth turned her eyes back to the pine woods. If she remembered rightly from her geography lessons with Clement – he owned dozens of maps – beyond that was a dense, uninhabited thorn forest; but it led to Hiren, bypassing sentry outposts. The route would be painful, and half a day longer than she wanted, but it was better than having her sunstones confiscated.

Moth straightened her hat and rode towards the bridge. The mighty wheel spun slow and high in the air, the splash of it creating a light mist that covered the bridge. Moth could see the wet, shadowy reflections of the men in the soaked bridge.

The woodcutters glanced up from their lunch at the sound of hooves, and saw Moth – they all leapt to their feet, pressing their backs to the railing of the bridge and gawking at her.

Moth cleared her throat and pointed towards the woods. “Does this path lead to Hiren?”

One took off his hat and croaked, “Yes ma’am. There’s a loggers trail clean through, but it stops at Picky Forest. The old trail is so overgrown no one goes through there anymore – except for a family of shamans.”

Moth nodded, resigning herself to the thorny ride. But her thoughts began to melt when she smelled the meat bun he clutched in his hand. “Who made those?”

Confused, the woodcutter looked down at the meat bun and back at her. “My son. He…” he was nervous and glanced at his friends who gave him no help and avoided his pleading gaze, “he’s a deft hand at baking, has been since he was on my knee, really. Only fifteen and all. Uh…freckles.”

Moth nodded, barely listening. “May I buy your lunch from you? I haven’t eaten in- ah, in a while.” Moth fumbled in her waist bag and pulled out a coin – Agate had provided her with money.

The man recoiled from the coin as if it were fanged. “No! No, just take it please, ma’am.” He handed her a red napkin tied around a fragrant set of meat buns and backed away.

“Let me pay,” insisted Moth, but it terrified the woodcutter so much he got off the bridge.

“Just put a good word in for my boy, that’ll be payment enough,” he said, bowing his head.

Befuddled, Moth bowed her head as well and thanked him, riding across the bridge, feeling the transfixed gazes of the woodcutters on her neck.

“Ma’am?” called one.

She looked back. It was a skinny man, the oldest there, and he too removed his hat and asked in a strained voice, “Are you a sanoket?”

It was not a word Moth had heard in a while.

A sanoket was a friend of a ferrier –a living person that had spoken with their ferrier, had traveled to their world, and dined in their house. Someone who acted as a go-between for common folk and the marches. Someone who gave news of the spirit world. An ambassador.

It had, by Moth’s time in Korraban, become a dead profession.

She saw the way the old man searched her face, looking for signs of a liar. “Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes gravely. “I’ve come from the House of Springs, form the home of our ferryman.”

“Oh.” The old woodcutter twisted his hat between his hands. “Please…is there any news from the marches?”

The men stood waiting, holding their breaths.

“Yes,” said Moth. “Lord Correb’s alive.”

She urged Aggo into a canter, across the bridge and to the pine forest, not wanting to draw any more attention and have sentries sent to seize her.

She was too hungry to wait any longer, so she ate as she rode, the spiced grease dribbling down her chin – she had to mop it up quickly with Aggo’s mane so it wouldn’t drip on her outfit.

The logging trail was broad and clear, splitting through the forest and allowing abundant light through the canopy. In the distance came the sound of woodcutters working, sawing down trees – high over the treetops, campfire smoke snaked into the sky, bringing a comforting domestic smell of burning pine sap.

Moth rose Aggo on the side of the road, as frequently horses and carts dragged logs down the trail.

The reaction from these woodcutters was much the same as the men on the bridge – a double-take, then avoiding eye contact and hurrying away, uncertain whether to speak to her or leave her be. Most removed their hats, though, and a few waved.

Moth did not feel she cut an intimidating figure, but atop Aggo, and wearing Agate’s chosen travelling outfit, she looked otherworldly in a logging town.

It was a long ride through the woods, and Moth wanted to be far away from people by the time it was dark, and was relieved when – like the woodcutters had promised – the trail led clear through the pine wood, emerging atop a short rocky cliff with an old path leading down into a dense forest.

Aggo easily climbed down the slender path, and Moth more and more began to realize what an excellent horse he was, as he was cautious but never intimidated by a challenge. Within moments they were down in the forest.

The trees were mostly honey thorns. The trunks were covered with two-inch spikes, but fortunately their branches grew high and out of the way, so it was only a matter of navigating between their trunks to find a way through.

There was a remnant of a logger’s trail, and Aggo eagerly took to it to keep his flank from getting shredded.

It was slow work going through the forest. Moth did not think they progressed more than a mile before it began to get dark – she was forced to stop at a small clearing, barely more than nook in the logger’s trail, but big enough for Aggo to graze.

Moth began to pick up sticks for a fire, but then remembered – she didn’t have a flint. Neither she nor Agate thought to pack one. They expected a three-hour journey at most, with the intended pathway being so near the Cride’s farm.

Searching through her travel bag, she found some coats – long ones embroidered and adorned with trim – and used them as blankets.

After Aggo finished grazing he laid down, flattening a patch of grass, and Moth tied him to a tree as a precaution and sat down against his flank.

There was a rustle overhead and Moth glanced up. A magpie.

“Hello!” exclaimed Moth.

The bird chittered and flew away.

Moth had to remember that, prior to the House of Spring, she had never encountered a talking magpie – besides the occasional one who mimicked a sound.

The branches moved again, and the magpie skittered back. It seemed to be side-eying her, so Moth tried again. She waved to it and tried again, “Hello, do you know Lord Correb?”

The bird hopped away but stopped when it saw the glint of her ring. It flitted down closer to her.

Moth covered her ring. “Don’t think about nabbing this. Do you know him or not?”

The magpie tilted its head.

Examining its blank face, Moth prodded, “Well?”

Slowly, scratchily, it said, “Yes.”

Her heart trilled. She leaned forward excitedly, asking, “You understand me out here? Why?”

“Bride,” it cawed.

Moth looked at her ring and back at the bird. “Will you deliver a message to Lord Correb for me?”

“Yes.” The magpie looked annoyed even as he agreed.

“Can you tell him I made a mistake. I went through the wrong door and…and now its spring. What should I do?”

Inhaling, the bird said, in her voice, “I made a mistake. I went through the wrong door and now it’s spring. What should I do?”

Hearing her mistake echoed back at her made her hot with embarrassment. “Yes. That’s it, thank you.”

The magpie took off.

Sighing, Moth leaned up against Aggo and tried to rest, knowing she would have an uncomfortable night’s sleep.