The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 59:

Okatto

By morning, the boots were gone.

The campfire had long gone out, with the bones of the doves charred and split at the bottom.

Aggo was awake nearby, grazing in the early morning light, and whickered when he saw her awake, coming over nuzzle her.

Moth rubbed the heavy sleep from her eyes, looking towards Quin’s camp.

There was neither light nor smoke to show that Quin was still in the copse. When Moth had kicked her fire over and rode Aggo to Quin’s camp, there wasn’t a trace that anyone had been there at all – she couldn’t even smell a campfire.

Losing track of Quin was like losing track of a centipede – though happy it was gone she dreaded where it might reappear. Constantly squinting into the deep, moving dappled shade for a white reindeer, Moth went to the stream and washed as best she could.

She sighed, knowing she was not as impressive as the first day she had left the House of Spring, and she felt sorry for all the hard work Agate had lost. Her outfit had gotten caked with dust and mud. She dug through her bags, and found a package marked ‘First Appearance.’

There was a letter attached, and Moth pulled it open, watching as a length of notes unfurled in her hand, detailing why each aspect of the outfit was chosen and how it correlated to traditions – new or old – that were interwoven through Hiren.

Moth had no motivation to read it. She unwrapped the package.

The outfit was in deep blue, purple, and green tones. Magpie colors. And with it was pounds of tin-gold jewelry – brooch chains, three torcs, stacked cuffs, and a crescent tiara.

A wedding tiara.

This one was even more beautiful than the one she had been offered in. Moth sat staring at it for a while, and then slowly picked up Agate’s letter and skimmed through it until she read:

Tin tiara: offered by a tinsmith from Okatto named Ano Copekivi, over nine hundred years ago. Note the ammonite swirl engraving and traditional crescent moon shape of the horns. This tin was mixed with gold to add weight and luster.

It is a bridal tiara. Classically, the bride would wear the tiara repeatedly though her life on special occasions. While I recognize this is not done in Hiren currently, I believe you returning as the bride that was offered is important visually.

The Copekivi family-

Moth stopped reading there and traced her finger along the horns of the tiara. There were times for subtlety, but this was not that time.

She spent more than an hour getting ready. She had to undo the ornaments and ribbons in her hairstyle – though it was half undone already - and carefully attaching the two veils that hung from the back, pinning them in place with the jewelry provided. Agate included drawn instructions on how to assemble the headdress and hair jewelry.

Moth only had a muddy reflection of herself in the stream to use as a mirror. She hoped she did it right, she could barely tell – the quality of the fabric and jewelry

would have to make up for any mistakes, as well as distract from the fact that she smelled like horse.

She would have to face Okatto now.

She gathered her things, got Aggo ready, and set off.

There was a light drizzle in the distance, but it was still sunny since the clouds were mercifully passing her by. The light glinted through the droplets, lighting up the water in a sun shower.

Moth smiled humorlessly. It was said in stories and myths, if there was a sunshower, a ferrier was getting married.

In three hours, she would see the farmers who had witnessed her marriage and offering.

It was unbearable to think about, so her mind wandered to comforting thoughts - a real meal, not something salted or pickled in jars offered years ago to the marches. She fantasized of fresh roasted meat dripping over potatoes, fresh salmon soup. In several months she would enjoy a fresh apple off the tree.

Her memories strayed to the apple orchard behind her grandfathers house. Suddenly, her last memory of Clement shot through her.

He had half fallen from his chair, pleading with her to stay, to not throw herself in the ofere.

She couldn’t even see him to say she was sorry.

It sat heavy in her mind for the entire three hours leading to Okatto.

*

The fringes of Hiren gave way from lumber forests to fire-ravaged fields that should’ve been vibrant with barley. Between the patches of burnt ground were meagre strips of earth, planted to the very edge with sprouts cowering in the breeze.

Moth rode around the field, careful not to step on a single sprout, and found the main road. The road stretched between the train station Okatto. The station was ten miles to the north, so Moth rode south to Okatto.

As she went, she saw more and more farmers laboring in the chewed-up fields – the air reeked of recent burns, and ash was dirtying the wind.

The farmers, soot strained and creased with worry, did what they could with their patches of crops, scraping together inches of spared fields to use.

They moved stiffly.

Favoring feet, legs, arms, they all dragged themselves along using their tools like canes, and Moth began to see just how many were fog-spotted.

Six months had eaten through her home, eaten through the tinners.

Eyes began to look up from the fields, noticing such regal colors against the ashy overcast sky. Some were so awestruck they leaned on their spades to watch her as she went by – until, a murmur began to spread, people shouted, and the rumble grew louder until finally someone shouted:

“Mere Hevwed!”

Moth stopped riding.

“She’s alive!”

This exploded across the fields, around the farmers like thunder. They stared, stunned, amazed, and one old woman – her jaw grayed from a fogspot that paralyzed her mouth – covered her face and leaned against her dumbfounded son.

A man – carrying his four-year-old son on his back – rushed up to Moth. She recognized him instantly as a family friend – Mr. Larris, who sold Vade’s magpie shawls to tourists. He had been at Moth’s offering.

“Mere,” he exclaimed, trembling, his eyes trailing from the veils to the jewelry to Aggo. “Mere – you’re… alive. You’re here.”

“I’m home,” she said, and grabbed his work-rough hands with joy. “I’ve seen him.”

His eyes went to her ring, and a delirious amazement lit up his face. “Lady Correb,” he said, and he bowed deeply over her hand, tears in his eyes. “Welcome back.”

Farmers flung down their tools and ran from the fields to Moth.

“She is alive!” screamed someone, and another shouted, “How did you survive? It’s been six months!”

Moth, overwhelmed, half tried to answer each person but as soon as she opened her mouth another question was demanded of her.

“That’s not Mere Hevwed!”

That statement caused a ripple. A young, lanky man shoved his way to the front of the crowd, pointing angrily at her. “Mere Hevwed died. How many shamans have to pass through here claiming to be her before you realize she’s dead!” He turned furiously to her; his eyes red-rimmed. “Move on before we run you out of Okatto.”

“Those fools looked nothing like Mere,” retorted an older man. He wore tin in his hair. “That’s Mere – she looks every inch a Hevwed. Even her hand has a fog spot.”

This caused more exclamations, and the disbelieving young man was shoved out of the way. “Have you seen him? Seen the ferryman?” pleaded a woman. She held up a fog-spotted hand. “Please, what do I do?”

Several more clamored around Moth, making Aggo whicker and toss his head. The farmers held up their fog-touched hands to Moth. “Where has Correb been?” they demanded, some angrily, some tearfully. A woman held up her baby, who was wailing and waving around a fogged arm.

“Mere,” said Mr. Larris quietly. She looked over at him, and he showed her his four-year-old son. Both his feet were grayed from the fog. “What can we do? What has our ferryman said?”

Moth stood up on the stirrups of her horse to look over the arguing, frantic, fog-touched people.

A person in a blue dress surrounded by people Description automatically generated

This caused a hush, as her jewelry clinked and caught the light from parting clouds.

“I have news from the Marches,” Moth announced.

The hush turned into reverent silence. No one dared speak as they turned their faces up towards her.

Moth put a hand over her chest, to calm herself, though she felt her heart pounding in terror underneath her palm. “I have met Lord Correb, he has entrusted me to help you, he has given me advice and directions to spare us from the fog. Please, tell everyone you know, all the families of Hiren, to gather here tomorrow morning, and I will tell you all I have been told by our ferryman.”

A whistle split the air.

Moth and the farmers whipped their heads over to find mounted sentries pounding over from the town, puffing on whistles and waving angrily.

Without waiting another moment, the crowd disbanded, heading back to the fields with helpless looks at Moth.

“Break up, break up,” said a crisp lieutenant with long graying dreadlocks. “Milady, are you alright? Where are your attendants?”

It took Moth a moment to realize he was speaking to her. No sentry had ever spoken so respectfully to her before, and she said, stuttering, “I…I – they’re not bothering me.”

“You’ll forgive them I hope. Anyone comes through here in a lovely outfit and these tinners come begging,” he said. “Have you no attendants? No servants?”

Moth shook her head mutely.

The lieutenant snapped his fingers at a sentry, who jumped forward and took the reins of Aggo. “This lad will show you to the Pehku Inn. Please be cautious milady, travelling without companions is quite dangerous – I do insist you are

escorted there, I wouldn’t want you to be hounded again and it reflect poorly on Okatto’s sentries.”

Moth did not want to cause any unnecessary trouble. She was here to help the farmers, save their lives, not kill them by stirring up a tin cry. She followed the eager sentry to Okatto, but shouted over her shoulder to the farmers who were still watching after her desperately, “Tomorrow morning!”

Some nodded or waved to acknowledge her, others were almost afraid to look up from their work.

Moth faced forward and set her eyes on Okatto.

The town had always seemed so large in Moth’s mind, when she recalled it as a child – but after living in Magden it had shrunk. The houses were a mix of stone and log, not one over two stories tall, with gravel roads and footpaths, and roundpole fences to block off gardens and boundary lines.

Near the edge of the town was the massive stone outpost of the agricultural sentries, which had since had an additional stone expansion of barracks. It was a hive of ash-stained sentry activity – gambling and drinking. When sentries weren’t on duty, no lieutenant cared what they did, and since the pleasures of the countryside was much reduced to the pleasures of the city, the sentries tried to make their own fun – to the frustration of Okatto.

Moth watched them. She tried not to feel too angry, as not a single one of them was responsible for any of this – but as a whole, they had a great deal to answer for.

“Help you with your luggage?”

Moth saw the sentry had led her to Pehku Inn, and was now standing eagerly to attendance.

“My luggage,” repeated Moth, half listening as she watched the outpost.

“A fine lady like you shouldn’t do it by herself,” he said, trying to quickly fix his rumbled lapels. “You’ll be staying at the Pehku Inn? Only decent inn here in such a backwater ditch, milady, I’m sorry. Oh, I can go ahead and arrange it all – no trouble.”

Moth rubbed her face. She felt so tired, so overwhelmed, and it was only midday. A bath and a meal was all she wanted. She nodded.

The young eager sentry held out his hand to Moth and helped her dismount. His palm was so sweaty Moth almost slipped out of his grip. He bowed over her hand, and then shouted, “You, boy! See to this horse.”

A sulky blonde boy hurried out from the inn to lead Aggo to the stables – Moth snatched the bag of sunstones from him saddle – and the sentry hefted the luggage off Aggo and led Moth into the inn’s foyer.

Within moments the sentry had set up a room for her with the coins she provided, commanded the staff to carry her luggage upstairs, and then directed her to the stairway that led up to her room.

“If you need anything, milady,” said the sentry, waiting at her elbow, “I am available. Just ask for Keet.”

Wanting to go to the room and crawl into a bed and close its curtains, Moth said weakly, “You have been very helpful, Mr. Keet. Allow me to give you something as thanks.”

“Ma’am, that’s not necessary,” he said, holding out a hand.

Moth fished in her hip pouch and pulled out two halrungs and laid it flat on his palm. He pocketed it eagerly and ran outside to the gamblers.

Moth entered her room. It was perhaps the most private room of the inn, on the third story corner overlooking the fields.

Feeling stifled, Moth opened the window to breath in fresh air, then collapsed into a chair, covering her face.

She felt empty, felt nothing but a dull pain like heartbreak.

Sitting in the chair for nearly an hour, Moth would’ve stayed there until sunset, but for a tentative knock on the door.

“Milady?” called a voice. “I’ve been sent to attend to you.”

Moth dragged herself up and unlocked the door. A small, fourteen-year-old girl with blond braids stood there – she looked very related to the sulky youth who was attending to her horse – and she said shrilly, “I brought your lunch.”

It was roasted mushrooms, pea sprout salad, fresh grilled perch, and a slice of rhubard sweet cheese pie. As well as a mighty pot of tea.

“Oh,” said Moth, feeling better already. “Thank you so much.”

The maid hastily put in on a table, wiping sweat from her neck.

“While I eat, can you prepare a bath?” asked Moth, already pouring herself some tea and cramming food into her mouth. Her veils kept falling in the way and she tore off her headdress impatiently.

“Yes milady,” said the maid, and then added, hesitantly, “Lady…Hevwed?”

Moth paused over her food. She felt grave a sshe said it. “Lady Korraban.”

The maid’s pink face drained of color. She gave a stumbling curtsy and fled into the bathroom to prepare the tub, talking nervously to herself while she did.

The cold breeze and food helped revive Moth, and she was done with her meal by the time the timid maid had finished the bath. Moth stood up by the wardrobe, the maid helping her undress her many layered clothing, folding them hastily and putting them away.

“Bride!” screeched a voice, and Moth and the maid jumped.

An excited magpie sat on the windowsill, jittering on its feet, watching Moth with one eye and then the other. “Bride!”

“Hello,” exclaimed Moth. “Do you have a message?”

To her surprise, the magpie shook its head. Several other magpies joined it on the windowsill, and then flew into the room and perched around her to greet her loudly.

The maid shrieked and ran from the room, waving her hands uselessly over her head. “I can’t do this!” she wailed, slamming the door behind her.

The magpies and Moth stared after her, and then Moth said, “have you just come to say hello?”

“Welcome home,” they cried, jumping up and down. “Moth!”

Now tears were in Moth’s eyes, and she kissed a few of them and scratched some heads. She wasn’t sure, but she felt they were the same magpies she used to see by the maghouses of Clement’s house. “Are you here to help?”

They bobbed their heads eagerly, proudly. “Lord Correb asked.”

Moth gave a tearful laugh and said, “I need as much help as I can get. Thank you.”

Satisfied with their greeting, and their reunion, the magpies winged out of the room.

Encouraged, Moth locked her door, finished undressing, and soaked in the tub.

*

It was evening and Moth had spent the whole day inside. She did not want to go out before the people again, she wanted to prepare herself for tomorrow. She sat down at a desk and wrote out what she’d say, which helped her feel prepared.

The room was getting dark, so she closed her window and started a fire in the fireplace, lighting the candles that were provided.

The room was quiet, with only the crackle of the fireplace and the scritch of her pen nib against her journal paper.

She stopped writing. She heard something – a soft jingle. She turned around in her chair.

The doorknob of her room rattled. Someone was, very carefully, trying to open her door without being noticed.

The hair on her neck stood up. Moth called out creakily, “Who is it?”

The doorknob stopped moving. Then, after a moment, there was a scraping noise in the lock.

“I asked who it is!” shouted Moth, frightened. She looked around and grabbed up the fire poker, wondering if she should scream.

Before she could make up her mind, there was heavy footsteps, someone saying in alarm, “I wasn’t–” and then a thud.

Moth stared blankly, still holding aloft her fire poker.

“Mere? Are you alright?” asked a voice through the door.

Moth knew that voice.

She flung open the door, and saw her eldest sibling, her brother Nehem, standing outside.

He was even bigger than her father, he filled up the hallway. In one hand, he held up from the ground a young man – the same young man who had called her a shaman impersonating Mere Hevwed.

“Nehem?” exclaimed the young man, horrified as he dangled in the air. The young man had a lockpick and a jar full of strange, murky liquid.

Nehem looked down at him angrily. “What are you playing at with my sister?”

The man looked boggle-eyed at Moth. “Nehem, she’s an imposter!”

Nehem didn’t argue. He flung the man down the steps. The man slammed in the wall of the landing, breaking his jar of liquid, and scrambled for his life out of the Inn.

Nehem paused there for a moment, and then, almost shyly, he turned to look at Moth.

“I’m not supposed to be around you – dad told me.” He stopped for a moment, and scooped her up into a hug, saying in a strained voice, “Mere, I thought you had died.”

Moth hugged him back, as tightly as she could. “I thought I would, I thought I’d drown.” She wiped away tears and said, “But Nehem what are you doing at the inn?”

“It’s Sunday. I’ve taken over dad’s job of delivering our produce here. I saw you – when you first arrived, but I didn’t speak to you because – because of what was decided.” He set her down, and looked at the ring on her finger. “I stayed because I noticed how many people were standing around the inn, waiting for you to come out. I don’t know what they want, maybe for you to save them from the fog and sentries, or to rob you, to start a tin cry – I don’t know, but I was worried, so I delayed going back. When it got dark I saw someone go up to your room. Mere, are you here alone?”

Moth nodded, still feeling jittery.

“I’m going to sleep on the floor then.”

“But–”

Nehem shook his head, frustrated. “I understand why – why you can’t be a Hevwed anymore. I know what dad said to do – but he didn’t say to leave you unprotected. I don’t know who else to trust, Mere. I barely understand what’s happened – but I won’t leave you while there’s so much danger.”

Moth was too fearful and too relieved to see her wall-shaped brother to argue.

They went inside the room. Nehem dragged the couch in front of the door and laid down on it, his feet sticking over the edge. He didn’t take off his shoes or get a blanket, instead laying half alert with the fire poker.

“Just how many people did you see waiting around outside the inn?” Moth asked, worried.

Nehem hesitated, but answered, “About two dozen. You told them to be there by morning – some aren’t going home tonight. They’re waiting for you.”

Moth sat heavily on her bed, her emotions and thoughts swirled wildly. The room grew darker and darker. Nehem seemed just as overflowing with thoughts as she was and said nothing for a long time as the room grew cold with the silence.

Quietly, she asked him, “Do you want to know about the marches? About our ferryman?”

She briefly saw his eyes widen.

“No,” he answered, his voice heavy. “I don’t think I could…bear it. I don’t know what I would do with it.”