The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 62:

Poor Loom

Moth, Nehem, and Lt. Grotte kept the silence until they were far away from the lingering farmers and sentries. When they were fully out of sight, Moth slumped in her saddle and clutched her still-pounding heart, her body shuddering with the thought of what could’ve happened.

Nehem stopped leading the horse and held onto her hand to calm her, though Moth could feel how sweaty his palm was. Swallowing and drinking some water, Moth said helplessly to Lt. Grotte, “Thank you. That all could’ve been a massacre. Oh god it was so close to–” but the idea of what it could’ve happened to her home closed her throat and she couldn’t speak.

Lt. Grotte leaned back in her saddle to scowl at Moth. “What were any of you thinking? Hell, there’s been three tin cries since December, and you think your sudden meeting is going to be fine?”

“Three!” Moth exclaimed. “Where?”

“Aldur again, and two in Lad.” Lt. Grotte eyed Moth, and her expression softened. “You know, I heard people saying you had died. Felt awful for Norwin, but then I didn’t hear anything more about it.”

Moth didn’t know how to explain it to a sentry who wasn’t even from Hiren. She looked at Nehem, who said awkwardly, “She got married and moved away.”

“Oh! It’s a euphemism for getting married?” burst out Lt. Grotte, laughing heartily and winking at Moth. “Looks like a rich man too – must be to get a body

like yours to keep him warm. Korraban seems like an old name too, is he royalty? Why are you back here then, starting tin cries and willing to live at my hovel?”

That was simple for Moth to answer. “My…husband is influential, but he can’t travel. I’m coming here to help Hiren anyway I can. Though my staying at Poor Loom with you might make some farmers angry, I think the idea was good to keep the peace. Sentries won’t think I’m plotting right under your nose.”

“Aye. And if you are, it’ll be worse for you in the end,” said Lt. Grotte, eyeing her somberly. Well, Mrs. Korraban, it’s a long way to my place – come ride with me and let you brother have that fancy horse of yours.”

Disarmed, Moth climbed up in front of Lt. Grotte as Nehem rode Aggo. It was considerate of Lt. Grotte – it was a few miles before they reached Poor Loom.

Moth was amazed by the change she saw. Last year it was all sun scorched, dry fields.

Now, surrounding the pine grove, the fields were lush and thriving.

Lt. Grotte pointed to her fields, showing Moth the thriving food that was growing all around. “Your father came again to help with the planting, showing me how to start better this time. So did that other brother of yours – looks upset to be alive, loves bugs.”

“Ira.”

“That’s him. Never met someone so smart.”

Moth felt a tinge of anger that Lt. Grotte’s fields looked so lush – with only one major patch of a burn spot she had to avoid – while all the farms of the tinners were wasting away under their burns. She had to remind herself Lt. Grotte wasn’t causing the fog.

They passed by the fields and entered the tall, vibrant pine grove.

The shade was so deep it felt like winter – yet all around in the pine mulch masses of lily-of-the-valley and tumbleweed burst up in sheets of white.

Standing in the center of the grove was Poor Loom, the house itself, an ancient log mansion that was as old as the pine trees that surrounded it.

The sod roof of Poor Loom was alive with clumps of wildflowers, dappled in the light from the canopy. Each slope of the roof was like a patchwork quilt of greens, yellow, whites, and pale pink.

But time and neglect had touched the mansion at last - the roof was dipping in places and in desperate need of replacement.

Lt. Grotte cursed quietly. Moth tilted her head to look up at her and Lt. Grotte explained, “The room I was going to give you has a broken window and some bats. I forgot.”

Moth was already wrung out from the morning, but said, “I can clean it.”

“We’ll face it tomorrow, until then you can sleep over the stove.”

They dismounted and climbed the front steps of the porch. Lt. Grotte opened the porch gate and showed them into the house.

The last time Moth had been inside, was after a long days work exhausted form the heat, and it had been so dark inside compared to the bright light of that summer she hadn’t been able to see much.

Now she could see the painted ceiling beams, the dense carved wood trim, and the painted tiles of the giant stove that took up most the wall next to the stairs – the whole place was, at its structure, expertly crafted hundreds of years ago, generation by generation.

It should have been beautiful - but it was not.

Someone, over the years, had buried and torn up the beauty.

Reindeer skulls hung everywhere, from ropes or nails or wire, resting on shelves or rafters, most of them stained in a faded blue, others with symbols painted on them in red. There were several reindeer calf skulls, and they were the most ornately painted.

There were people painted or carved into the details of the house, but someone had come along decades later to scrape away their faces, blotting them out of the house’s memory. Though, some figures were spared from this damnation – their faces left unharmed, and alone, amongst their companions, still watching the inhabitants of the house.

Still hanging on the wall were old tools, used for farming, carving, or tanning, but some of the tools Moth did not recognize – she had never seen anything like it, on any farm, in her entire life.

There was, however, a tool she did recognize – dozens of magpie traps. Constructed from old embroidery hoops and spare wire, the sight of them filled her with anger –they were stained with old blood.

“And here you go, this is your bed for the night,” said Lt. Grotte, breaking Moth from her troubled inspection of Poor Loom.

The large tile stove, about three feet high, had a platform to sleep on covered with pillows and blankets. It was still warm from the radiant heat of last night’s fire.

“You don’t sleep here?” Moth asked. Usually, a stove bed was thought the most comfortable bed in the house during colder months.

“I prefer the chair,” said Lt. Grotte, gesturing to a seat by the fire. It was carved wood – with figures who had been defaced – but padded. The poor chair, not used to such a burden as Lt. Grotte, was beginning to sag at its joints. She said, “Nehem, I can drag out a couch for you from the backroom.”

Nehem had just finished bringing in Moth’s luggage, and he glanced at her, uncertain.

Lt. Grotte saw his hesitation and was shocked. “Are you thinking of leaving? Listen, I don’t know what sort of tinner shaman meeting you were having before I arrived, but I could see how many people in that crowd wanted to grab Mere. Don’t know what sort of public figure you’re raising yourself up to be, but you need

protection – I’m not here until after work. I don’t want to come home and find you…” Lt. Grotte glared uneasily around the room at the skulls, “sacrificed. That’d be bad for tinner-sentry relations.”

Nehem was unsettled and kept glancing out the window, then he’d look down at his tin-capped shoes. Finally he said urgently to Moth, “I think I should stay.”

Moth was conflicted. Lt. Grotte did not look like she was readyt o house them if Nehem left. But the ferryman had warned her how sh’e dbe perceived if she clung to her family.

“I think so too,” Moth said at last. She had to hope just one family member would be alright.

“Good. Maybe you do have some sense,” grunted Lt. Grotte. She stoked up a fire in the stove and said, “I’ll start dinner. You both look a bit dead, so just sist back and rest, don’t have anymore meetings.”

Moth was exhausted and nodded gratefully. She climbed up onto the stove and could feel the heat begin to seep through the tiles and blankets – immediately she was in a half doze, faintly hearing Nehem dragging a couch into the room and making a space for himself in the corner.

Soon the aroma of what Lt. Grotte was making – fish stew – began to fill the room. Sweet cream and spring onions. Lt. Grotte went outside to get some more wood, lighting a cigarette for herself as she did, but when she opened the door she choked, “What in – god, what the hell! Where did they all come from?”

Moth burst out of her sleep and ran to Lt. Grotte, asking, “Farmers? Did they follow us?”

Lt. Grotte just stood in the door, dumbfounded, and raised her arm so Moth could see.

The porch and grove were covered in magpies.

“Oh!” exclaimed Moth, hurrying out and holding out a hand. She recognized the one who had spoken to her at the inn – he had a notch in his beak. “Hello, what are you doing?”

They chirruped and squeaked at her, and one managed a crudely spoken, “Watching.” They weren’t speaking as well as at the inn. Certainly not as well as when they were in the marches.

“Are you going to live here now? To keep an eye on me – to help?” Moth asked eagerly, and they burst out in melodious chirruping to confirm her words.

Moth suddenly remembered Lt. Grotte and looked towards her. Her cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she took it out slowly and patted some of the ash off it. “Well… I don’t like this. This shaman stuff puts me on edge.”

Moth didn’t bother explaining. “Do you have maghouses here?”

“Maghouses?”

“They’re red and look like a big birdhouse.”

Squinting at her, then at the birds, Lt. Grotte slowly pointed off into the grove. “There’s three. Don’t know why there would be, there was never a magpie in this grove – ah, before.”

Moth happily went off with pails of water to refill the water trays of the maghouses, as the birds themselves immediately set to making homes for themselves in a grove that – for decades – they had never been safe in.