The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 6:

Prescribing Burns

Three days after her twenty-second birthday in spring, a letter arrived for Moth from Tully.

It was early in the morning, and Moth sat on the front step of the house and watched the sun rise, her eyes looked towards the south, towards Tiding Range.

“Mere?”

Moth looked up to see the solid shape of her father coming over the hill and up the pathway. His breath made a misted halo over his head, as he shrugged his jacket tighter about his shoulders. He was older – gray had crept into his eyebrows and beard, and into his warm eyes, and he seemed a little smaller now then Moth remembered him.

“Hello, Dad.”

Norwin trudged up to her, reaching out his hand for hers. She gave it to him and he kissed it – she could feel the softness of his whiskers – and he smiled at her. “You’re got an early start.”

“I like to see the sun get up.”

He straightened and watched it climb over the edge of the field, touching everything in pale pink. “How are you?”

Moth forced a smile. “Things aren’t what I wish, but there it is.”

Nodding, Norwin kept looking towards the horizon. “That’s life in Hiren, eh? Just a little left of what we’d wish it’d be. Thanks for doing the laundry, is it in the foyer?”

Moth opened the door and showed him into the house. Inside were laundry bags of cleaned and folded clothes. “You came up here for the laundry? Japh usually gets it.”

“He’s off today to see Patri,” he said, glancing at Moth. “Your mama doesn’t like Patri, but that’s not discouraged Japh much.”

“She’s a bit spoiled, but…well, Japh seems to have liked her for a few years now.”

“Hm. Well, your mama asked – if I saw you – to tell you to stop by the house whenever you like. Which is her way of saying she feels like she never sees you.”

“She saw me at my birthday.”

“You were barely at your birthday,” he said, brushing one of her braids off her shoulder. “I got the mail; one’s for you.”

Startled, Moth took the letter from her father. Seeing Tully’s name on it made her hand tremble.

Nodding towards the backroom, Norwin said, “I should restock your firewood. I’ll take the laundry back when I’m done.”

After he left, Moth ran to the living room and lit a candle, clumsily unfolded the letter to read the sharp, printed words of Tully’s reply.

Dear Mothball

Please come, please get on the train the moment you get this letter and please come. The house has felt chilled and sharp ever since Aunt Rena died, I could use – rather I need – the company. Mom and Salvia feel it so deeply. We are all awful

company for each other. Have I convinced you yet to sojourn in our paradise? That was a miserable advertisement.

What you ask is no burden. I know how hard you work, but if only you keep me laughing while I wash is all the rent I need from you and your cute face. Can Ama come too? No I suppose not. She must be furious that I might take you from her, so tell her I’m sorry (but won’t repent.)

Depending on how many bags of laundry you work through would be your daily pay, and each bag is a halrung. That might not seem like much, but it adds up in a day if you do the job fast.

I love you please come soon

Desperately looking forward to some company who isn’t crying

Tully (your eleventh cousin nince removed.)

Moth choked a laugh, her eyes stinging. She mulled over how she’d tell her parents, how she’d travel on the train. She had the money, she’d been saving up scraps of it since she had fixed on this idea.

The sun was full up now, and soon she heard her father plod his way through the house. She followed him into the foyer, saying, “Can I walk with you to the house?”

He paused as he grabbed the laundry bags. “I’m very persuasive, am I? Or,” he straightened and held open the front door for her, “perhaps Tully is?”

They went in the cold of the morning across the field. The trail between the two houses was starting to get overgrown, as Grandpa Clem got older and felt less inclined to leave the house if the weather was chilly.

The light that flowed all around was the same white blue as thin milk, and under it everything was drenched in ultramarine, even the chest of the robins that throbbed out the morning song.

Norwin held her hand as they walked. “What’s on your mind, Mere?”

“I want to go.”

He nodded, and kept his steady pace. “To where?”

“I asked Tully if I could help with the washing. It’s the only thing I feel I can do now – Dad, I need a job, we need the money, I can’t just sit and watch others work.”

Leaning his head back to watch his breath float away overhead, Moth’s father did not say much for a long minute. “Tully and Salvia will have to help you with the little things, like Ama does now – but you are quick at laundry, though it takes a toll on your back.”

“It takes a toll on Tully’s back too, and Aunt Violet.”

“I’m not disagreeing, I’m just thinking out loud. So, Tully has agreed to this, and she knows what it’ll entail; they have the room, now that Rena’s gone, and they might need the help to make up the slack. If you don’t have the money, I can sell something for a train ticket, and you’ll need someone to go with you – Opal is headed up there, you can ride with her at the end of the month.”

“Mrs. Tunhofe is going to Magden?” said Moth, and then realized what he said. “I can go?”

“Mere, you’re twenty-two. I’ll always be your father, but you’ve grown into someone who’s decisions I can trust.” He then cocked his head. “Vade, on the other hand, will give it her all to dissuade you. Try and take in account what she says, but don’t let her change your mind if you have a conviction, alright?”

Moth didn’t know what to say. She leaned her head on her father’s shoulder and they walked the rest of the way to the house.

*

That same day, after a long and detailed argument from Vade – and then Ursula, Ira, Japh, and Nehem – a letter was sent to Tully. Weeks passed, and Moth kept her eye

on the end of the month; each morning she woke up, a flutter of excitement for the day inside her chest.

“I hope they got the letter,” said Moth to herself. She wouldn’t want to surprise them. She sat in her room, her luggage opened, and she pushed through her clothes to decide what to pack.

A shadow fell over her shoulder. Moth looked up and she saw Ama slinking into the room to grab her boots without being heard.

“Are you still mad?” asked Moth.

Ama bared her teeth and left.

“Ama,” said Moth, hurrying to the top of the stairs. “Ama, please.”

“You’re an idiot,” Ama shouted up the stairs before exploding from the house and running out into a field.

Grandpa Clem stood in the foyer, looking after Ama’s shrinking shape in the field, and then looked up at Moth.

Moth heaved a sigh and sat at the top of the stairs. “I don’t want her to be mad at me on the last few days we have together – I don’t even know how long I’ll be there. I may not see her for a year.”

“Let her be mad, let her feel what she wants. Sometimes, just doing what you think is right will hurt someone’s feelings,” said Clem.

Moth leaned against the railing, looking down at his balding head, with the liver spots and scars covered in a thought of gray hair. “Are your feelings hurt?”

He reached up through the balustrade and took her hand. “I’m going to miss you like you stole my lungs, Moth. I’m not like Ama – I’m glad my heart is hurt by you going. It means I loved.” He took a steadying breath and smiled at her. “Go finish packing, alright?”

*

It was the last day of march.

Moth got up before the sun rose. She tried to make sure not to wake Ama, who’s head was buried under the covers and her back was to the room.

“I’m going Ama,” Moth whispered, touching her shoulder. Only the top of her head poked out. Her coils from her childhood were gone; she had chopped them to a half-inch length so she would not have to spend time on it. Bending down, Moth kissed Ama’s forehead, and went over to the window to get dressed in the dim light.

After she shrugged on her dress, she looked out the window, at the view she had grown up with, seeing over the back garden – now fully blocked off since the fog burst, whose ground was twice annually scorched by the soldiers and the soil turned over. Not even weeds were allowed to grow.

Faintly, through the still air, she heard a horse trotting down the long trail to her home. She hurried downstairs to the foyer, past where her luggage sat waiting, and stood outside.

She watched the horse and wagon clatter up the trail and quiver to a stop in front of the door.

Mrs. Tunhofe waved from the wagon, wrapped in a ratty blanket and clutching a carpet bag on her lap. Rodin sat in the box seat, guiding the old heavy workhorse, who’s hot breath blasted around his mouth.

Rodin jumped down to put Moth’s luggage in the back of the wagon and help her in. “There you are, Mere. Settle in and get as comfortable as you can, it’s going to be a long ride to the station, eh?”

Moth sat opposite of Mrs. Tunhofe and tried not to shiver.

Mrs. Tunhofe unfolded an edge of her blanket, saying with half closed eyes, “Don’t freeze to death on politeness. Hop in.”

Moth felt embarrassed at the idea of cuddling with Mrs. Tunhofe, but it was cold, so she swapped seats and climbed under the heavy, enormous blanket. “How is Camb?” asked Moth, sitting stiffly.

“He’s a slender thing, and so smart,” said Mrs. Tunhofe, eyes brightening at the mention of her grandchild. “Not at all like Rodin was – Rodin was all stomping around in boots and a head full of nails.”

“It’s true,” said Rodin happily. “I wasn’t much for learning.”

“And sweeter than nectar. He gets that from your pa, I know,” said Mrs. Tunhofe, laughing. “Norwin was such a sensitive lad.”

Moth smiled. Her father as a child was not something she often got to hear about.

“Camb’s like him. The sweetness skipped a generation with Priscilla.” Mrs. Tunhofe opened her carpet bag and pulled out a bottle of hot coffee wrapped in a sweater to keep it warm. She fished out two cups and poured one for Moth. “Priscilla would fight the wind if it spoilt her plans.”

“That she would,” said Rodin enthusiastically. “She doesn’t have a single give up in her bones.”

Moth clutched the watery, fragrant hot coffee in her hands and tried not to spill it as the wagon rattled over the ruts and jags of the not-often used back road. She sipped the bittersweet drink, hot enough just to burn the tip of her tongue.

Mrs. Tunhofe was so close Moth could smell the tobacco on her clothes. She slurped her coffee and said, “Clem was a sweet one too – though I heard he got sweet with age, he was a bit of a snot growing up, so my ma told me. That’s why he was always running with Win. She said, those two were hellhounds together.”

Moth choked on her coffee. “Grandpa?”

“He does like to paint it he was always being bullied by Win, I know. She was kind though, I have a few memories of her helping my Pa when it was calving time, but she never lost her reckless nature, which is–” Mrs. Tunhofe stopped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk of it, I do ramble.”

“It’s alright, she died long before I was born, but I like to hear about her.”

Mrs. Tunhofe sipped on her coffee, staring off. “She lived like she couldn’t get hurt, I wonder if she ever felt pain. She rode off with her horse directly into the eye of a winter storm to save her sister from where she was snowed-in, but neither girls nor horse survived. The ferry was full that night. And poor Clem, left with two children. He shaped up a lot after that, quit drinking and all.”

Moth stared at her. “He drank?”

“Nasty habit of it. More than once my pa had to help him home.”

Clamping her mouth together, Moth looked behind the wagon at the long thin road they had cut through the grass. She wondered how she was learning more about her Grandpa now as she left, then in all the years she lived in his house.

“With all that it’s amazing your pa and aunt came out so well.”

“I never met Aunt Albara, since she’s all the way in Tanwuce region, though I think Clem was saying her son moved to Hiren just recently.”

Rodin glanced over his shoulder at his mother, who curled her lip.

“Guyrede,” Mrs. Tunhofe said. “His name’s Guyrede, and Vade and I have had quite a few chats about him. He moved to Hiren because he’s been stationed in the outpost here; he’s one of the guards who’s enforcing the contamination lines.”

Shocked, Moth couldn’t imagine Clem’s grandson – or even someone related to him at all – siding with Lord Ede. “Well,” Moth said, finishing her coffee and handing back the cup, “he probably has no idea about our side of things, he only knows what he’s been told by his captain.”

“If he gets your parents’ letters, he won’t be ignorant of our side for long.” Mrs. Tunhofe, in a frustrated mood, fell silent and pulled out her pipe to smoke.

Moth leaned back to watch the sky overhead; the morning had ripened, and the sky was blue and stamped here and there with clouds. It would be hours before they were anywhere near the station, but at least Rodin had been kind enough to line their bench seat with blankets.

Soon, they clattered off their overgrown path, onto a wide stretch of main road, rolled flat as a table by a thousand carts and horses. The wagon stopped jittering as badly, and Moth was able to relax into the blanket and cushions.

Her eyes skimmed over the low rolling farmlands. There were burnt stretches of fields that were partitioned off with charred stone markers, placed every ten yards. Some were fresh, and the stench of burnt grass choked the air.

Rodin grunted, and Moth followed his gaze towards the north-east; gray smoke stood up in the sky, like a pillar of charcoal, thick and barely moved by the wind.

The stench got stronger. Moth’s eyes watered, and she covered her mouth and nose with the back of her sleeve, squinting as they rounded a hill to see the prescribed burn.

“That’s the Tine’s farm,” said Rodin. He tugged his neckerchief over his lower face, glaring through the scraps of ash blown on the wind. “When did this happen?”

“Stop,” barked Mrs. Tunhofe. Rodin tugged his horse and they rolled to a jerky halt.

Faintly, they heard an angry voice.

Beyond the next hill, they could see Mr. Tine. He was screaming at three guards – they had torn off their coats and were covered in soot.

“Balor!” shouted Rodin, jumping down from the wagon and hurrying over. “Balor what is going on?”

Balor Tine wiped sweat and ash from his forehead, smearing in onto his bald head. He heaved for breath, cursing, his eyes reddened from the ash. “They burnt it all, Rodin. It’s ruined, everything’s gone!”

One of the guards was gasping for air. He fumbled to open his canteen and splash water on his face. Choking, he said, “The wind changed! How the hell were we supposed to predict this? The KCAC will repay you for the damages.”

Balor balled his fists. “You leeches will pay me for the seed I planted, but I want the price of the produce. I want my time back!”

“We do not negotiate market prices. Agricultural sentries are–”

“You are the dirt guard! Barely out of training, assigned to a backwater post far from the city because your own barracks don’t want you!” Veins popped up along Balor’s skull, and he stepped forward.

Rodin grabbed his shoulder. “Balor, you’ll lose more than your crop,” he said. “Think of Patri and Feldar, they can’t lose their father.”

Balor clutched a hand over his mouth and dug his nails into his cheek. “Rodin I’m done. It’s over. Five lean years – our farm was depending on this crop.”

Mrs. Tunhofe heaved herself down from the wagon and pressed a canteen of water into Balor’s hand, saying, “Sit down and think. You’re no fool, and your babes are smart – you’ll manage.”

Moth sat uncertainly in the wagon, overwhelmed by the smoke and the smell.

She got down and walked away from them, eyes transfixed on the fields. More than forty acres of land was burned up; the hills looked like nubs of coal. As she stood there, more guards rode over on horses and assessed the damage, noting the size of the burn in their journal.

One of them was slumped over on her mount, covered in soot and staring vacantly at the pillar of smoke.

Walking up to that sentry, Moth offered her a canteen.

The woman eyed Moth suspiciously, but snatched the canteen and knocked her head back, gulping down the water until it spilled from her mouth, leaving clean trails down her dirty face.

“Thanks,” the guard said, handing back the half-empty canteen. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Up close, Moth could see how ratty her uniform of red and blue was, even underneath the soot – it was patched together with crude, boxy stitches; her cuff and hem had grease and grass stains from months ago. Looking over, Moth could see that the other sentries were dressed as shabbily.

Moth cleared her throat and corked the canteen. “All of you should get some water. Inhaling all that smoke is dangerous.”

“Nice idea girl, but we can’t leave yet or our captain will scorch our ass,” said the woman, picking dried skin from her lips.

Moth removed her apron and handed it to the woman, who glanced at the other sentries before she grabbed it to clean her face. Moth asked, “What happened? I heard the wind changed?”

“The burn got out of control. Some idiot didn’t water the boundary enough to keep the fire from getting to the next fields over; we only had about 8 acres to burn.”

“Mere!”

Moth looked back to see Mrs. Tunhofe, waving from the wagon.

Saying goodbye to the sentry, climbed on the wagob as Rodin hefted himself into the box seat and urged his horse into a walk.

Mr. Tine was talking with his neighbors, who had rushed from their farms to offer help. Moth wondered if Patri or Feldar had gotten the news yet of their farm.

“What did the dirt guard have to say?” asked Mrs. Tunhofe.

Moth scrunched her brow. “It really isn’t helpful to call them that.”

Shrugging, Mrs. Tunhofe said, “There’s worse I could call them.”

“Ey, girl!”

Moth looked around to see the sentry goad her horse into a gallop to catch up with their cart.

“Your apron,” she said. She tossed it to Moth – it was smeared black and gray. “Ah, sorry about that.”

Moth expected her to turn and be on her way, but the sentry patted her pockets and cursed, before fishing out a single earring and tossing it to her. “I don’t got money on me, but maybe you can swap this for something.”

The sentry turned and rode back to the burn site.

Moth looked down at the single earring. It was tarnished silver, with a round, milky opal. “How’s Mr. Tine?” Moth asked, not looking up.

“Devastated. I shouldn’t wonder if he’ll have to move. God, it’s a shame,” Mrs. Tunhofe threw her head back and closed her eyes. “It’s good property, excellent soil, great drainage. And it’ll be sold for a wink to the KCAC.”

“The sentry said someone didn’t properly wet the boundary line.”

“Hm.”

Moth’s hand curled over the earring. She pinned it to her dirty apron, rolled it up, and packed it deep in her carpet bag.

They were still hours away from the train station.